Shadow Man

I ride through the moonlight that reminds me of blood all the way home. I'm pulling into the driveway when my cell phone rings.

"It's James."

I sit straight up. There is something in his voice I've never heard before. "James? What is it?"

His voice is trembling. "Those--those motherfuckers!"

Jack Jr.

"Tell me what happened, James."

I can hear his breathing over the phone. "I got to my mom's house about twenty minutes ago. I was going up to knock on the door when I noticed an envelope was taped to it. It had my name on it. So I opened it up." He takes a deep breath. "It had a note in it, and--and . . ."

"What?"

"A ring. Rosa's ring."

Rosa was James's sister, the one who had died. The one whose grave he was going to visit tomorrow with his mother. A dark understanding is starting to flutter in the back of my mind. "What did the note say, James?"

"Just one line. Rosa, no longer R.I.P. "

I feel a plummeting sensation in my stomach.

James's voice is desperate. "The ring in that envelope, Smoky? We buried her with it. Do you understand?"

The fluttering is becoming noisier, like bats' wings. I don't respond.

"So I called the cemetery. Got hold of security. And they went out and verified it."

"Verified what, James?" I think I know, but I ask because I hope I'm wrong. The bats' wings are in full roar now.

He takes a deep breath. When he speaks, his voice is breaking. "She's gone, Smoky. Rosa. Those fuckers dug up her grave."

I lay my forehead against the steering wheel. The fluttering is silent now. "Oh, James . . ."

"Do you know how old she was when that scumbag murdered her, Smoky? Twenty. Twenty and she was smart and kind and beautiful and it took him three days to kill her. That's what they told me. Three days. You know how long it took my mother to stop crying about it?" Now he screams. "Never!"

I sit up. My eyes are still closed. I know what it is that I hear in James's voice that is so foreign. Grief. Grief and vulnerability. "I don't know what to say. Are you . . . do you want me to come over? What do you want to do?" My words echo how I feel inside. Helpless. There's a long silence, followed by a ragged sigh. "No. My mother's upstairs, curled up and sobbing and pulling at her hair. I need to go to her, I need to . . ." He trails off. "They're doing what they said they were going to do."

I feel empty. "Yeah." I tell him about Elaina.

"Son of a bitch!" he shouts. I can almost feel him struggling to get himself under control. "Motherfucker." More silence. "I'll handle it. Don't come over. I have a feeling you'll be getting another phone call tonight."

My stomach flutters. He said he was going to make each of us lose something. He still has Leo to go.

"I want this scumbag, Smoky. I want him bad."

I've heard these words, in different ways, two other times today. The thought of hearing them again fills me with both anger and despair. I manage to keep my voice even. "Me too, James. Go help your mom. Call me if you need me."

"I won't need you."

So much for grief and vulnerability.

He hangs up and I sit in my car in my driveway, looking up at the moon. For a minute, just a minute, I'm consumed by one of those selfish, self-absorbed moments only life-or-death leadership positions can bring. These people are my responsibility. I feel that I am failing them, but in this selfish moment, I don't worry about their well-being--I only wish that it wasn't my responsibility.

I grip the steering wheel, and I twist it hard.

"It is your responsibility," I whisper, and the selfishness goes away, replaced by white-hot hate.

So I do something I've done before: I scream inside my car, pounding the steering wheel, under the fucking moon. Smoky therapy.

31

WHEN I GET inside, I dial Leo's cell number. It rings and rings.

"Goddammit, Leo, pick up!" I snarl.

Then he does. His voice sounds tired and dead, and my heart sinks.

"Hello?"

"Leo! Where are you?"

"I'm at the vet with my dog, Smoky."

The normality of this lifts my hopes, for just a moment.

"Someone cut off all his legs. I have to put him down." I stand, gaping. Poleaxed. Then his voice breaks. The clean, poignant break of a china plate hitting brick. "Who would do something like that, Smoky?

I got home and he was there in the living room, trying to . . . trying to . . ." His grief makes him sound like he is gagging, as he finds the words. "Trying to crawl to me. There was blood everywhere, and he was making these awful sounds, like . . . like a baby. Looking at me with those eyes, it was like . . . he looked like he thought he'd done something wrong. Like he was asking me, 'What, what did I do wrong? I'll fix it, just tell me. See? I'm a good dog.' "

Tears track down my cheeks.

"Who would do something like that?"

If he really thought about it, he'd know who. What he's really saying is that no one should exist who could do this. "Jack Jr. and friend, Leo. That's who."

I hear him gasp, and it is filled with agony. "What?"

"They either did it or had someone do it. But it was them."

I sense him putting it all together. "What they said in that e-mail . . ."

"Yeah." Yes, Leo, I think. They do exist, and what they did to your dog, that was nothing to them.

A long, hard silence. I can imagine his thoughts. My dog was tortured because of who I am. Guilt coming home to roost, debilitating and awful. He clears his throat, a miserable sound. "Who else, Smoky?"

So I take a breath and I tell him. About Elaina and James. Omitting the specifics of Elaina's illness. He's quiet when I'm done. I wait him out.

"I'll be fine." It's a short statement, and full of lies. But he's letting me know he understands.

I say the phrase again, the one I'm growing to hate. "Call me if you need me."

"Yeah."

I hang up and stand there for a moment in my kitchen, forehead in one hand. I can't get that picture out of my mind. Those pleading eyes. What did I do wrong . . . ? And the answer is a terrible one, all the more terrible because the dog will die never knowing the truth. Nothing. You did nothing wrong.

"They're really turning up the volume," Callie says.

"Yeah. I wanted you to know. Be careful."

"Both ways on that, honey-love."

"Don't worry."

After hanging up, I go to the kitchen table, sit down, put my head in my hands. This has been the worst day in a long time. I feel beaten up and I feel sad and I feel empty. I also feel alone. Callie had her daughter, Alan had Elaina. Who did I have?

So I cry. It makes me feel silly and weak, but I do it because I can't help it. It goes on long enough that it makes me feel angry, and I wipe my face with my hands, willing the weakness away. "Stop with the pity party already," I growl to myself. "Fact is, this is your own fault. You wouldn't let them come and be with you when you were hurting, so if you want to blame anyone, blame yourself."

I feel anger building, and I go with it. It dries my eyes. Jack Jr. and his buddy were messing with my family. They were reaching into their lives and harming the most intimate parts of them.

"They're dead meat," I say to the empty house. Which makes me smile. Still loony after all these months, giving pep talks to the air. This is it, I realize. The new me. The way it's going to stay. I still have the dragon waking up inside me, and I can still see the dark train and fire my gun. But I'm not built from straight lines and certainty anymore. I bounce and jostle, and parts of me get knocked out of place. I have a new feature: fragility. It is alien, I don't really like it--but it's the truth.