run off it.
“Ken Wade did not kill that girl, Reggie. I'm telling you that now. For the last time.”
There was an or else tone to it that I didn't like, as if it was an order. But Chunk didn't whither under Treanor's pressure. He held his ground.
“Sir,” he said, “you were a detective once yourself.”
“That's right,” Treanor said, and he gave me a look I thought best not to return in kind.
“Okay. Then you know we got to play this lead. We got a dead girl with a known relationship with Wade, Wade's missing, and he's got a known pattern of violent behavior. Put that together, and it starts to look like a damn good suspect profile.”
“The dead girl and her relationship with Wade are circumstantial,” Treanor countered, rather weakly. “As for the violent behavior, I don't hire pussies on this shift.” He looked to me. “No offense, Lily.”
Asshole. “None taken, sir.”
“Look,” Treanor said, “the whole reason this unit is necessary is because those research teams go out to some pretty fucked up places. I'm talking fighting in the streets, robbers, you name it. They need protection. That's why they call guys like Ken Wade. Guys they know can take care of business.”
I couldn't resist. “Of course, that doesn't explain why Dr. Bradley ended up dead. Doesn't seem Wade was taking care of business there.” I waited a beat. “No offense, sir.”
Treanor was not amused. He gave me a hard look and said, “He'll explain himself to me tomorrow morning. After that, I'll order him to contact you. Now, if you don't mind?”
He pointed to the door.
Chapter 7
We went back to the Scar.
There were endless reports to write. There was the initial offense report on Emma Bradley's murder, the chain of custody reports for the body, and a whole slew of forms that would follow Emma Bradley's body to the autopsy. Then we had to transcribe the witness statements we'd taken with our audio recorders. After that, we had to create a file on the Department's Case Management system, where we summarized all the initial leads we'd worked. Finally, we had to write a report explaining the damage to the car we'd been driving.
“Where do you want to pick up tomorrow?” Chunk asked me, after the last of the paperwork was done and we were walking out to the parking lot. It was almost nine o'clock, and night had settled over the Texas Hill Country. A hot breeze rustled the crowns of the nearby oaks and cedars, and the freeway that ran next to the Scar was silent, a dark ribbon stretching off into the hills.
“First thing we need to do is talk to Ken Wade. We'll call the office. Maybe go by his house if he doesn't show. If we can't find him…” I shrugged. I didn't need to say the rest.
“Yeah,” Chunk agreed. “I don't want to think about where that would lead us.”
We reached my car, a five year old Chevy Malibu with a ding in the driver's side door. The hinges creaked when I opened it. A short ways off, at the edge of the parking lot, a cactus wren shook its head and hopped along the top wire of a barbed wire fence. They don't usually come out at night.
“I don't care what Treanor says, Chunk. I got a bad feeling about Wade.”
He rubbed a massive palm across the back of his neck. He was as tired as I was.
I said, “Maybe after we check on Wade, we can try to find that van they were in.”
“You mean go into the GZ?”
“Yeah.”
“You're just full of great ideas, aren't you?”
“Chunk, don't you think it's the only way to follow up on the leads we've got. We might even get lucky and find that journal Myers was telling us about.”
“I gave up on luck a long time ago, Lily.”
I made it home, finally.
Billy, my husband, and I lived with our daughter Connie on two acres north of town, about a mile from the containment wall that circled San Antonio and insured we obeyed the quarantine.
It was good land, quiet, densely wooded with oaks and pecans. In the mornings we'd see white tail deer running across the lawn and fog rising up from Vespers Creek, which ran deep and slow along the eastern edge of our property. As I pulled into our driveway, I could just see the dark outline of the cypress trees along its banks.
Inside, the house was dark and quiet. Connie's toys were all over the living room floor, and Billy had left a sweaty shirt and dirty socks on the arm of the couch again.
“Billy? Connie?” I called out, picking up the shirt and socks and throwing them in the hamper.
“Billy?”
I went to the back door and looked out towards Billy's work shed, trying hard not to notice the coffins, most of which were only half-finished and unpainted. Billy had been a contractor before H2N2 hit San Antonio, but like everybody else, he'd been forced to adjust to the new circumstances. He started bringing in a pretty good chunk of change making coffins for those who could afford to bury their dead in private graveyards. It disturbed me when he first started doing it, and it still did as I looked out over the backyard, calling out their names.
The battery-powered light in Billy's shed was on. The batteries were a costly item down at the distribution center, but necessary to run his woodworking tools.
I opened the screen door and stepped out to the porch. I could hear Connie laughing and it hitched me up inside. It had become a rare sound by the end of that summer.
“Connie?” I yelled out. “Billy?”
The laughing stopped. A moment went by.
“Mommy!” Connie yelled from inside the wood shed, and then she was sprinting out of it, bounding over the coffins, her delighted shrieks of “Mommy! Mommy!” the most wonderful sound I'd ever heard.
She was running for me. Her soft brown hair billowed out behind her. It was getting long now that we'd finally relented and let her grow it out like her best friend Emily. Her complexion was light, her facial features delicate, a girly girl. I loved her eyes, wide open and intelligent. Seeing her run and laugh filled me with a profound sadness that things couldn't be this way all the time.
Only then did I realize that she wasn't wearing her surgical mask. My face went hard. I could feel it set. A switch turned on in my head and the next minute I was yelling, screaming at her to put her mask back on. “God damn it! Put it back on now!” I couldn't stop myself from yelling. It wasn't anger. It was a black cloud of frustration and fear and sadness building behind my eyes.
She stopped in the yard. She looked up at me from the foot of the steps that led up to the porch.
She didn't answer me.
Her face melted into sadness and her eyes clouded over with disappointment. Not anger, or defiance, or even dismissive nonchalance, but simple, gut-wrenching disappointment that tore my heart in two.
I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, my heart was beating fast, and I felt sick.
“Connie, please. Put on your mask.”
She sighed, hung her head. She mounted the stairs and walked past me without a word.
“Connie?” I said, my voice shaking. I watched her as she opened the screen door and went inside.
She let the door slam behind her.
“Honey?” I said, but she couldn't, wouldn't, hear me.
When I turned back to the yard Billy was standing there. Billy, at 6 ft 3 in, was a big man. His shoulders were wide, though his powerful arms hung limply at his sides. His brown hair was short, but full and shiny, the same as Connie's. His face was round and sad.
He wasn't wearing his mask either.
“What was that all about?” he asked.
“She's not wearing her mask, Billy. And neither are you.”
“Yeah,” he said defensively. “So, what's the big deal? We're not in public. It's just us.”
