It started to rain again as I made my way to the van. The wind was cold. Annalise was as still as before. I loaded the old man’s gear into the back of the van and drove away.
EPILOGUE
I hit Redial on Annalise’s cell and told the tweedy-sounding guy who answered what was going on. He seemed pissed that I’d called, but to hell with him. After I disconnected the call, I had an itch to call all the hospitals in the area to ask about my mother. It made no sense at all, but the urge was there.
I drove home. It took four hours, but another society investigator was already waiting for me there. I told him and his recorder everything that happened and showed him the stuff I’d taken from Zahn. He seemed impressed for about three seconds, then called up his poker face again.
When I asked about Annalise, he told me not to worry, they had someone who would be able to find her. I was about to tell him to look in the back of the van, because the search was over, but maybe he meant something I didn’t understand.
After that, he left. I half expected him to offer me a ride to a safe house or something, but he didn’t. I didn’t ask.
I didn’t deserve to be safe.
I reported my credit cards stolen and called Harvey. I told him I could work my usual shift after the holiday, and he didn’t even ask about my mom. Maybe he heard something in my voice and thought better of it.
The fires and violence in Washaway made the national news, of course, but it took a while for the authorities to settle on a story they liked. While they were hashing it out, the remaining pets died. As I’d expected, killing the predator hadn’t saved them. Whatever the sapphire dog did to their brains had cut their lives short. None of them survived to the end of the week.
Maybe that should have made me feel better about what I’d done in the food bank, but it didn’t.
The state cops, the FBI, Homeland Security, and news crews from every part of the world descended on Washaway. The feds quashed talk of a terrorist attack, but it took a while before they decided to blame it all on international drug violence and the brave local citizens who were killed in the crossfire. Hanging those accusations on Yin and Zahn was a stretch for some folks, but no one had a better explanation. As for Kripke and Solorov, they were inconveniently alive and spent a fortune on lawyers trying to stay out of prison.
Two full shifts of 911 dispatchers lost their jobs for small-talking when they should have been raising alarm bells. Steve Cardinal was singled out for special scorn—they even played a couple of his friendly calls to the state police on the TV. It was unfair to him, but he was past caring.
But I didn’t follow any of this from the comfort of my apartment. By Christmas morning, the cops had found my name and brought me in.
I disappeared from the world.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This was not an easy book to write, and I’m tremendously grateful to the people who helped me put it together: Betsy Mitchell, Caitlin Blasdell, Liza Dawson, Beth Pearson, Margaret Wimberger, and many, many others. Thank you all.
Read on for an excerpt from the next
Twenty Palaces novel
by Harry Connolly
COMING SOON
FROM DEL REY BOOKS
It was August in Seattle, when the city enjoyed actual sunshine and temperatures in the eighties. I’d spent the day working, which made for a nice change. I’d just finished a forty-hour temp landscaping job; dirt and dried sweat made my face and arms itch. I hated the feeling, but even worse was that I didn’t have anything lined up for next week.
As I walked up the alley to home, I passed a pair of older women standing beside a scraggly vegetable garden. One kept saying she was sweltering,
When they noticed me, they fell silent. The unsympathetic one took her friend’s hand and led her toward the back door, keeping a wary eye on me. That didn’t bother me, either.
I stumped up the stairs to my apartment, above my aunt’s garage. It was too late to call the temp agency tonight; I’d have to try them early Monday morning. Not that I had much hope. It was hard for an ex-con to find work, especially an ex-con with my name.
I’m Raymond Lilly and I’ve lost track of the number of people I’ve killed.
My ancient garage-sale answering machine was blinking. I played the messages. Two were from reporters, one from a journalist-blogger, and one from a writer. They offered me the chance to tell my side of what had happened in Washaway last Christmas. Except for the writer’s, I recognized all the voices—they’d called many times over the last few weeks, sometimes several times a day.
I absentmindedly rubbed the tattoos on the backs of my hands. They looked like artless jailhouse squiggles, but in reality they were magic spells, and I’d be behind bars without them. None of the survivors in Washaway could pick me out of a lineup, and none of the fingerprint or DNA evidence I’d left behind pointed to me anymore. I was on the twisted path.
I erased the messages. There was no point in calling them back. None of them understood the meaning of the words “fuck off.”
The sounds of their voices had triggered a low buzzing anger that made me feel slightly out of control. I showered, then dropped my work clothes into the bottom of the tub, scrubbed them clean, and hung them from the curtain rod. I felt much better after that.
I wiped steam from the bathroom window and looked out. My aunt had not hung a paper angel in her kitchen window. That meant I could order in a sandwich for dinner. I put on my sleeping clothes: a T-shirt and a pair of cut-off sweatpants. I could eat alone, in silence, without someone asking how I was sleeping, how I was eating, and wouldn’t things be better if I went to talk to someone?
I wouldn’t have to say “Thank you, but I can’t” a half dozen times. My aunt was right; I’d probably sleep better if I could talk about the nightmares—and what I’d done to bring them on—but I’d be bedding down in a padded room.
I opened my door to dispel the steam, even though an unlocked door felt like a gun at my back. I went to my bathroom mirror and looked carefully. Damn. I was wasting away.
