until they learned the truth.
For months after Katie’s death, Shaun had woken up with a void inside him that had ached like nothing else he had ever known. On the good days, he was lifted by memories. On the bad ones, he was trapped in a loop of images that started from the time he picked her up that night and ended at the last moment he saw her. Everything now seemed unimportant. He came back to New York and met his old friends and went to the old hangouts, but it was such a different life to the one he had with Katie, it was surreal. His life with her was stripped down to how they felt about each other, how they made each other laugh, how they lay on his bed wrapped around each other for hours, just talking or watching movies. It wasn’t about who your friends were, where you went, what you owned, who you were sleeping with, who had the latest cell phone, who had the fastest car. Sometimes he was so overwhelmed at the thought of never being that happy again, he almost couldn’t breathe. He turned off the stereo and went to his closet. From the top shelf, he pulled out a small, chunky round tin. A thin layer of wax coated the bottom of it and a short black wick twisted from the centre. It was Katie’s favourite candle – Fresh Linen. He took a lighter from his drawer and lit it. He could only burn it for a few minutes at a time, it was so low. He couldn’t bear the thought it would ever burn out completely.
Everyone else would remember the anniversary of Katie’s funeral three weeks from now. But this night, one year ago, was the night he nearly had sex with her for the first time. But then they had fought. And then she had run away from him. And then she was killed. He lay down on his bed, closed his eyes and, for half an hour, let the tears run down his face onto the pillow. Then he sat up and grabbed his cell phone and scrolled through his photos. Katie at school. Katie on the beach. Katie in his room. Delete. Delete. Delete.
FIVE
Joe sat at his desk, pressing his fingers against his forehead, pretending to read a report that had started to blur a few minutes earlier. His phone rang. It was Reuben Maller from the FBI, Eastern District – the office that covered the whole east coast. They got on well since their first case together. The last one they worked was Donald Riggs.
‘Can you talk?’ said Maller.
‘Go ahead,’ said Joe.
‘How are you all doing?’
‘Who?’ said Joe. ‘You mean here? Manhattan North?’
‘You, Anna… Shaun. How are you holding up?’
Joe paused. ‘We’re good… why? What’s going on?’
Maller let out a breath. ‘OK,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Off the record, I got some news from the Bureau in Texas. On Duke Rawlins.’
Joe stopped breathing.
‘Before you say anything, Joe, it’s sketchy, I don’t have a lot of details. And you do not know this.’
Joe fought the nausea rising in his stomach. ‘Tell me,’ he managed.
‘Duke Rawlins’ home town, Stinger’s Creek? Geoff Riggs – Donald Riggs’ father – said he had a visit last week from Rawlins. Geoff Riggs is in really bad shape, Joe. No-one knows the last time he was sober. He walks through town, railing about things, not making a lot of sense. Last week, he said to some young kid in the liquor store that Rawlins was out at his cabin the week before. The kid was freaked out and called the cops. They went to speak with Riggs. I have it written here verbatim. Geoff Riggs said, real calm: “Sure, I had a visit from Dukey. He was wanting to say Hi, catch up. Been years. Wanted to take a look around Donnie’s bedroom. I said, ‘Knock yourself out, buddy’. Not a lot in there since y’all turned it upsideways last year. So Dukey comes out, then he go on out to the shed out back where I keep my tools and I say, ‘Sure you can, Dukey. You’re a good boy.’ He seemed kinda aggritated. Had some sort of bug in his bonnet. Anyways, last I saw of little Dukey.”’
‘That’s it?’ said Joe.
‘Yep.’
‘Geoff Riggs didn’t call the cops, nothing?’
‘No – this guy’s brain is so fried. That statement I just read to you took two hours to extract from him. My guess is Rawlins is taking advantage of the relaxed surveillance.’
‘The no surveillance,’ said Joe.
‘Yeah,’ said Maller. ‘It’s been a year – he hadn’t shown anywhere anyone expected him to. And his visit to Geoff Riggs is only part one of the story. The second part is that a few days later, the custodian of the Stinger’s Creek cemetery was doing his rounds and when he got to Donald Riggs’ grave… well, there was another one opened up right beside it.’
Joe paused. ‘Someone was dug up?’
‘No. Someone had just dug a grave. It was empty. It was thoroughly searched and there was nothing or no-one in it.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Joe.
‘What we have got to remember is everyone out there knows what Rawlins and Riggs did. And on the one hand, you’ve got people baying for blood. On the other, some of the officers from the sheriff’s department who went to investigate this, spoke to a group of stoners who were all, “Man, Duke Rawlins is, like, sick.” In a good way. So it could have been an angry relative of a victim, it could have been a teenage prank.’
‘Maller, why don’t we cut the crap, here? You know what this is. Alcoholic witness or not. It’s not a coincidence – we hear Rawlins shows up, pays a visit to a tool shed and within days a grave is opened up next to his old buddy. Come on.’
‘Yeah,’ said Maller. ‘It’s just I know what this man has done to you. I mean, that’s why I called you on this… yeah, I don’t think this one’s a false alarm.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘I have to ask,’ said Maller, ‘has he tried to get in touch with you?’
Joe did not hesitate. ‘No.’
Anna Lucchesi sat at her dressing table in her bathrobe, her hair pulled back with a black jersey headband, her face pale, her eyes shadowed. She opened a packet of cleansing wipes and started wiping down her makeup products, getting rid of dust and dried-in foundation and caked powder. She grouped them together and lined them up, ready for the following morning. A photo beside the bed showed her as she used to be, her hair dark and glossy, her cheeks healthy, her eyes alive.
The notice board at Manhattan North was covered with badges from police departments all over the country and around the world. Joe stood in front of it, thinking about Duke Rawlins. Every evil thing Rawlins had done had settled close to the surface and deep down inside. He didn’t know what would end it, but every day a new scenario took him away from where he was supposed to be.
‘Joe? That’s your freakin’ phone,’ yelled Martinez.
Joe grabbed the receiver.
‘Joe? It’s Bobby Nicotero. From the 1st.’ Bobby’s father was Victor Nicotero – Old Nic – a retired cop and close friend of Joe’s.
‘Jesus, Bobby. What’s up?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘How’s Old Nic?’
‘You tell me.’
Joe paused.
Bobby’s laugh was off. ‘I was going to ask you the same thing. How is my father?’
‘Well… last time I saw him was at that barbecue, couple weeks back. You had to be somewhere with the kids, I think. He was good, taking it easy, enjoying writing.’
‘Writing what?’
‘Oh,’ said Joe. ‘He’s working on a book.’
‘Yeah, well, I’ve been busy…’
‘Yeah – your old man’s writing his memoirs.’
