“I raced up two at a time,” he says. “The noise was coming from the bedroom. Over the phone I could hear Charlotte screaming that he was trying to get in. I found him pushing against the bathroom door. She’d locked herself inside, and the crashing was him kicking the lock open. They were pushing back and forth on the door.”
“Did you get a look at him?”
“It was dark,” he says. “I yelled at him to stop. For a second, he just stood there, and then I saw something shiny in his hand. He rushed at me and shot his arm out. He sliced my forearm pretty good, but I got ahold of him and wouldn’t let him do it again.”
He tells me this in a boyishly calm voice.
“For a couple of seconds we kind of wrestled-it seemed like forever. I could smell the guy’s breath, feel his spit on my face. Then Charlotte came out of the bathroom and threatened to shoot him.”
In her nightstand I keep a loaded.38 revolver, an older all-steel model so she can manage the recoil, fitted with red-dot laser grips. The laser activates as soon as she picks the revolver up, and the bullets hit wherever the dot falls.
“I could see the red dot on the wall next to us, and he must have seen it, too. One second he’s trying to gut me, and the next he goes slack. I misjudged it, though. I thought he was giving up. Instead he kneed me and took off through the door.”
“Are you all right?”
“My arm is bandaged up, but they gave me something for the pain. I’ve had worse.”
“You said Charlotte was hurt? Did he do anything to her?”
“The door hit her in the face when he kicked it, but she’s okay. She was a real trouper. She probably saved my life.”
“I want to talk to her,” I say.
“Hold on.”
In the background I can hear voices, some close and some far away. A portable radio squawks. The phone changes hands and a woman speaks. Not Charlotte.
“March, is that you?”
Theresa Cavallo. “What are you doing there?”
“Gina called me after it happened, so I figured I should come over. Charlotte’s giving a statement, but I’ll put her on when she’s done. She’s holding up well under the circumstances. She says her only regret is not shooting the guy.”
“She’s really okay?” I ask, hardly believing it.
“I promise. And you owe Carter a debt of gratitude.”
“It sounds like I do.”
“Not just for rushing over,” she says. “Thanks to him, you might just have a break in your case.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m holding it in my hot little hands.” She rattles what sounds like an evidence bag over the line. “The knife,” she says, her voice electric. “He dropped it on the floor.”
I take a deep breath.
“There’s Carter’s blood on the blade, but they’ve lifted some good prints off the handle. They’re gonna take the hilt apart and see if there’s any other blood or trace evidence.”
“You’re saying the guy who broke into my house is the same one who killed Simone Walker? How would he even know where I live?”
“I don’t know. The same way he knows your email address? Obviously I can’t say for certain it’s the same man, but I told the detective to make sure Dr. Green gets a look at the knife to see if it matches.”
“No,” I say. “Have Bridger do it.”
“Whatever. That’s your problem. The point is. .” She pauses. “Never mind. Here’s your wife.”
“Roland?”
At the sound of Charlotte’s voice, a wave of relief goes through me. My mouth twists into a painful smile.
“Are you okay, baby? Are you sure you’re all right?”
“It was horrible,” she says. “I had the gun and couldn’t use it. He could’ve killed me, Roland, and I couldn’t pull the trigger. I feel ashamed. Terry says it was probably him, the man you’re after. I couldn’t even give them a good description.”
“Don’t worry about any of that,” I say. “None of it matters. You’re safe and that’s everything. You stood up for yourself and I’m proud of you.” My throat catches. “I’m so sorry. I’m so terribly sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I should have been there. I’m never there.”
“Roland, no-”
“I shouldn’t be here. It was pointless. And he could’ve hurt you without me there to stop him. I’m so, so sorry, baby.”
She shushes me with a whisper. “Just come home.”
“I will. I’ll go to the airport and get a flight.”
“No,” she says. “There’s no rush. I’m fine. Everyone’s here. Just come home.”
If everything is really connected and there are no coincidences, if that’s more than just a platitude I’ve repeated over the years, then how do I explain a drive like this, the second in my life, both of them westward over the long swampy stretch of Interstate 10 that crosses the Atchafalaya? How do I account for such a repetition? Absent again when I’m needed most, forced again to trace the seemingly endless road of shame, only this time alone.
Between them, Charlotte and Carter could only sketch the barest outline of a suspect. Caucasian, male. To obscure his face, he wore the kind of white germ mask that pinches shut over the bridge of the nose. Despite the prints on the knife handle, Carter thinks he wore latex gloves. The whole time he spent in the house, the man never uttered a word.
Around nine I reach Lafayette and decide to give Bascombe a call.
“You wanna tell me what you’re doing in Louisiana in the first place?”
“No,” I say, but I tell him anyway, starting with my trip to Huntsville. The deeper I get into the story, the quieter his breathing grows, to the point that I have to take it on faith that he’s still at the other end of the line. “Lieutenant?”
“You’re aware that Eugene Fontenot is under investigation, right? What am I saying, of course you are. You were sitting right there in the same briefing as me. I’m glad you don’t let details like that prevent you from doing whatever you want and going wherever you want.”
“The lead about Fauk is solid.” Even I’m not convinced by the tone of my voice.
“Good work,” he says. “Meanwhile, you wanna explain why the perp in your open homicide is making house calls?”
“I wish I knew. Either he expected to find me there or-”
“He wanted to send a message.”
“Like they say in the action movies, this time it’s personal. Maybe Fauk wasn’t happy with my prison visit. Maybe he found out and sent an errand boy to my place.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I don’t know. I want Bridger to compare the knife to the one used on Simone Walker.”
“Sure,” he says. “Let’s alienate Dr. Green for no good reason.”
“I’ll give you one. She tipped Lauterbach off about the supposed connection between his case and mine. That right there is enough for me.”
He thinks it over. “I’ll make the call. When should I expect you?”
“Three hours or so. But I won’t be coming straight to the office.”
“Understood. I’m treating the attack on Charlotte as part of the Walker case, and assigning Aguilar to work it for the time being. I don’t have to tell you this guy cooked his goose. He can’t go after one of us without reaping the whirlwind.”
“Ten-four.”
The lieutenant’s pep talk doesn’t reassure me much, but it gets me thinking. I exit the interstate and drive around until I find a Starbucks. I raise the flap on my briefcase, withdraw the laptop, and log on to the wireless network. My email inbox is flooded with the usual junk, but at the bottom of the list, sent at 7:00 a.m. sharp, there’s a new message from Simone Walker.
HI DETECTIVE,
FOR AN OLDER WOMAN, YOUR WIFES SO HOT.
YOU SHOULD WATCH HER THO. WHEN I DROPPED
IN THERE WAS A YOUNGER MAN.;-)
I CUT HIM FOR YOU THO. SEE YOU SOON.
LOVE, SIMONE