“Morning,” I said.
“I know you’re not going to tell me where this trial is, but I’m gonna ask anyway.” She grabbed a sweatshirt from the wall hook and flipped the silk scarf I’d bought her on my last trip to India around her neck. “Where’s the trial, Patrick?”
Because of her sable hair and free spirit, I’d taken to calling her Raven at times-part of the reason she’d chosen that image for her tattoo-and now I said, “I can’t tell you about the trial, Raven. You know that my work life and my family life have to stay-”
“Separate. I know. Just thought I’d ask.”
She stepped around some of the moving boxes and poured herself a cup of coffee.
Neither of us knew who her biological father was and she didn’t have any close relatives, so after her mother died, the two of us had grieved together, struggled together, and finally grown to love each other in a way that made me feel like her real dad.
I looked at my watch. With my FBI clearance I could go directly to the gate at the airport, so security wouldn’t be a problem, but traffic might be. “Listen, I need to-”
“This one’s different, though, isn’t it?” She was staring at her coffee and twirling a spoon through it, though I didn’t recall her adding anything to the mug.
I thought I might know where she was going with her question but hoped I was wrong. “What do you mean?”
“Like when you were preparing for it and stuff.” She didn’t look up from the coffee cup. “I watched you. I could tell. It’s…”
She might have paused to search for the right word, but as brilliant as she was, I doubted it. I suspected she was waiting to let me fill in the blank-probably with the word personal-but instead I simply said, “Yes. This one is different.”
A slight pause. She picked up the cup and walked past me toward her room. “C’mon. Help me with my necklace. I can never get that stupid clasp to work.”
Getting to the airport would be tight, but I could tell that something more important than just the necklace was on her mind. I decided to give myself a couple more minutes.
By the time I’d reached her room she’d already set her coffee on the dresser and was digging through her jewelry box. “Who is it? This guy, this trial? At least tell me his name.”
“Tessa, you know I can’t talk about my-”
“Just his name.”
“He’s a killer, Tessa, that’s all you need to know. I was the one who caught him, a long time ago. Before I ever met your mother.”
“So what did he do to his victims?”
“He killed them.”
“He did more than that or it wouldn’t bother you this much.”
“Tessa-”
“C’mon. You’re always doing this, you bring something up and then you won’t finish talking about it.”
I blinked. “I didn’t bring it up, you did.”
She pulled out the black tourmaline necklace I’d given to her last October for her birthday. “Stop being argumentative.” She handed me the necklace, took a seat on the bed, and watched me in the bedroom mirror.
“I’m not being argumentative.” I draped the necklace around her neck. Tried to snap the clasp shut.
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“I say you are being argumentative.”
“Well, I say I’m-”
She smiled and gave me a slight eyebrow raise.
“Look.” Teenagers shouldn’t be allowed to do that. There should be a rule. “We’ll talk about this later.”
“Now you’re avoiding my question.”
I was still working on the clasp. She was right, it was tricky.
“Tessa, you hate hearing about dead bodies. Blood, any of that stuff. Which, by the way”-I pointed to the posters of her favorite band, Death Nail 13, and the framed picture of Edgar Allan Poe, his dark, troubled eyes staring at me from across the room-“what’s the deal with these bands and Poe, anyhow? I mean, all he writes about is death and the macabre.”
“Just one of my winsome incongruities, part of what makes me so adorable.”
Winsome incongruities.
Great.
“You listen to death metal and sleep with a teddy bear.”
“You’re trying to change the subject, and it won’t work. Just summarize for me. Broad strokes.”
I finished with the necklace. Tried to think of an appropriate way to describe to a seventeen-year-old girl what Basque had done, and finally just ended up saying, “This man, he did a lot of bad things.”
“Oh, really? A killer who did bad things? What an anomaly.” She was still watching me in her mirror. “I never would have guessed that.” Then after a moment, when I didn’t respond, her voice became thinner, more serious. An edge of apprehension. “How bad?”
A pause.
“Silence of the Lambs bad,” I said at last.
She looked at me through her mirror. “Are you scared of him?”
“Look, could we just drop it? I need to get to the airport-”
“Well, are you?” She turned from the mirror and looked me directly in the eye.
Admitting that I was scared of anyone didn’t seem like the valiant- FBI-agent-thing to do, but I figured she’d be able to tell if I wasn’t being straight with her. I took a small breath. “What he did to those women… He made me question things-about how much evil we’re capable of, what each of us is…”
She gazed at me steadily for a moment, and I could see her in satiable curiosity wrestling with her squeamishness about death.
“So,” she said at last. “You are scared of him.”
I gave her the truth. “Yes.”
She was quiet for a long time. “Good,” she said finally. “I’m glad.”
I wasn’t sure what to say.
A shadowy moment settled around us, and even though I really needed to get going, I didn’t want to leave her alone with thoughts of murderers and death.
“Good luck on your exams.”
“They don’t start till Monday.”
“Gotcha. And you’re sleeping over at Dora’s tonight, right?” When she nodded, I added, “Don’t keep Dr. Bender up all night.”
“Right.”
When I travel, Tessa often stays with my parents, who live about fifteen minutes away on the outskirts of Denver. This week my father was on a fishing trip in Wisconsin with my brother Sean, but my mother was still here. “Call Martha if there are any problems.”
“I will.” She grabbed a gray canvas floppy hat from her bedpost and slapped it on her head. The hat looked like it’d been run over half a dozen times by a pickup.
“When you get back home in the morning, do a little packing, OK?”
She groaned with her eyeballs. “I don’t get why we have to take so much stuff. We’re only leaving for the summer, it’s not like-”
“Just do some packing, OK?”
“Whatever.”
“Which is really your way of saying, ‘I love you and I’d be glad to do that for you, Patrick.’ Right?”
A tiny smile. “Possibly.”
We left her bedroom and on my way through the house, I grabbed my suitcase and computer bag from my room and then met her by the front door. “All right. I should be back by noon tomorrow.
We can grab lunch together.” I set down my bags, gave her a small hug. “I have to go.”
“Wait.” She held me at arm’s length. “Is there a chance he’ll be released?”
“There’s always a chance.”
She gave me a solemn, unsettling look. “If he scares you… I mean… there’s… Just do a good job, OK?”
All I can do is tell the truth.
“OK,” I said.
Then I kissed her on the forehead, picked up my bags, and left for Chicago.
6
The Cook County Criminal CourthouseThe corner of West 26th and South California Avenue Chicago, Illinois11:52 a.m. Central Time
With the number of death penalty protestors and counter-protestors surrounding the courthouse, South California Avenue had been closed off, so Dr. Calvin Werjonic and I parked a block away. We stepped out of his car, and I shielded my eyes from the pelting rain.
Despite the storm, snipers were in place all around the courthouse.
Because of the possibility that Sebastian Taylor might show up, Ralph had coordinated efforts with the Chicago Police Department and the U.S. Marshals Service to provide coverage. But even with their help, I wasn’t sure we’d be able to locate Taylor. He was one of the most elusive and dangerous men I’d ever met, and I didn’t know too many people who were good enough to stop him.