Desolate Angel (12 page)

An angel. My angel.

The men who lived in this bleak world also sensed this power in her. They cowered in the corners of their cells, ashamed of themselves with rare self-awareness, afraid of something they did not understand. Those who saw me behind her cast me glances of fear before their eyes slid to gaze upon Maggie, then looked away again.

I knew then, beyond all certainty, that though there was evil in the world, and far, far too much of it, it did not have the power of the light we held within ourselves. Which meant that I had a chance, that I had a future—and that Maggie had given more than one man hope that day.

Chapter 13

I could not shake what I had felt within the prison—to realize that in each of us there incubated both a portal to Hell and a window to Heaven frightened me. For I now suspected that my death had saved me from being claimed by evil, inch by inch, excuse by excuse, one miserable day after another.

I left Maggie and returned to my family, drawn to them by a need I did not quite understand. Though I had been steadily disengaging myself from them, and though I had seen Connie’s future and not begrudged her new life, I found that I now needed to know, with absolute certainty, that my sons did not harbor some dark spot deep within them that might one day bloom into the malignant core I had sensed deep inside many of the inmates I’d passed.

I was beginning to fear that we were all were born with that potential darkness but that, thankfully, it withered and died in the light of the love we received from others. I thought, too, that perhaps a speck of that darkness had survived inside me, had been fed by bitterness, alcohol, and self-loathing until it had gained hold in my final decade, feeding itself on my anger and disappointments, growing ever larger until the day, mercifully, that I died.

Had I loved my boys enough to vanquish that nascent spitefulness forever? No, I had not. But maybe Connie had.

I waited just inside the kitchen, listening to the sounds of conversation and laughter in the dining room next door, admiring the feeling of safety that Connie’s kitchen exuded. Dinner was almost over and their talk was relaxed and meandering, fueled by the presence of the man I had seen with Connie earlier. He asked my boys simple questions, then gave them room to answer, not interrupting, or giving advice, simply listening and asking more questions when they were done. Under this gentle probing, my boys opened up and I learned more about them than I had ever known when I was alive. Sean did well in math, not so well in vocabulary, and wanted to be a shortstop rather than an outfielder. Michael was going to be in the school play, in a leading role yet, and was not the least bit embarrassed by it.

I felt a deep gratitude toward this man who had stepped forward to love my sons and a relief that they could turn to him for guidance.

Dinner over, the boys jostled through the kitchen door together, all elbows and shoving, each trying to be the first to claim dessert. Sean, my youngest, won the battle, his smaller size giving him the advantage as he ducked around a corner while holding his larger brother at bay. He reached the refrigerator first and used the door of it to block Michael from gaining access. The largest bowl of pudding firmly in one hand and a can of whipped cream in the other, he cast his brother a triumphant smirk—and I was filled with a sudden, overwhelming love for these still unformed young men. They were so innocent in their vendettas. I prayed the world would be kind to them both.

“So, are you banging that Courtney chick yet?” Sean asked Michael, failing miserably in his attempt to sound older.

“Shut up,” Michael said immediately, pushing his brother aside as he reached for his share of dessert. “Say something like that about her again and I’ll shove your face in the toilet.”

Sean froze, surprised by his brother’s fury. Michael looked just as shocked.

“Sorry, man,” Sean mumbled.

And then I think it hit us all simultaneously—Michael truly liked the girl Sean was teasing him about. I could tell he was both confused and pleased at this realization, and that Sean was envious, but respectful, of his brother.

As for me, I felt elation: my oldest son was approaching love, and approaching it willingly. I would not need to worry about him. Nor about my youngest, either. He loved his brother and I saw it plainly then. That I had shared in this moment elated me. I was connected to my sons in a way I had never achieved while alive. And yet, even as I felt the love that bound us, I knew I had to let them go. They were going to be all right. It was time to let them all go.

“What did I miss? Besides the whipped cream?” Connie’s voice cut through the silence and the boys looked up, faces wreathed in smiles. She saw their delight. “What’s going on?” she asked.

They were silent.

“Okay,” she said slowly, “perhaps you can answer this: would either one of you like to go out to a movie? Cal says it’s on him.”

They stared at one another, unsure of how to handle this sudden turn of events: a movie, on a school night, in the middle of winter?

“With popcorn and Cokes?” asked Sean suspiciously.

“And Raisinets?” his brother added. Michael always pushed his luck.

“Why not?” Connie said. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

The boys glanced at one another and the signal was given. They slurped down their pudding like starving wolves, racing to be the first to finish, horrifying their mother but amusing the man named Cal, who had joined them in the kitchen to be a part of their laughter.

“I guess they said yes,” he said good-naturedly as the boys tossed their empty bowls into the sink then raced to the back porch for their jackets.

“I guess so,” Connie agreed. “I’ll be right out.” She gave him a long kiss before he followed my boys out the door, though she’d see him in less than a minute.

I was happy for her.

But Connie lingered behind in the suddenly quiet kitchen, her eyes focused on a small photo taped to the refrigerator door. It was a snapshot of me, taken long ago, when my hair was full and my face still unlined. As I stared at the man I used to be, I noticed the calendar beneath my photo, with the day’s date circled. I realized why Connie needed to lose herself in a movie on this day of all days: today would have been our twenty-second wedding anniversary.

I was not completely forgotten after all.

Chapter 14

Maggie wasted no time after visiting the prison. I found her on the top floor of headquarters, presenting her case to Commander Gonzales while Danny seethed at her side. She explained that there were detailed similarities between the Alissa Hayes case and the murder of Vicky Meeks, and said she was there to ask that Bobby Daniels be released and the Hayes case reopened.

I could tell the commander was appalled at what he was hearing—and that my old partner was starting to get his back up in that self-righteous way of drunks. I prayed he would not go there, though I knew my hopes were futile. Danny always went there.

I had not seen the commander since my death. I was curious to know what sort of man he’d seem to be now that I could pick up on so much more than I had been able to while alive. Gonzales had always intrigued me. We’d been in the academy together, but by the end of our first decade on the force, he had lapped me several times since, by anyone’s reckoning, zooming up through the ranks like a god among mortals. He was a smooth operator, adept at the ass kissing required for a career in the administrative ranks. He was also a favorite of newscasters seeking sound bites since he was the picture of confident good looks—trim, with immaculate taste in clothing and a dignified demeanor. And he was Hispanic to boot, which was always good for one angle or another.

But was he as together inside, in the places where no one could see?

As I concentrated on him, Gonzales gave off absolutely nothing. No anger, no curiosity, not even concern. Of course: he was, above all, a politician, skilled at being what others wanted him to be. I expected nothing, so Gonzales gave me nothing back. He was a mirror reflecting blankness. It was fascinating.

The discussion soon deteriorated into an argument, thanks to Danny. “Fahey and I worked our asses off on that case,” he said, interrupting Maggie’s presentation. “We went by the book and I stand by our conclusions.”

Maggie was disgusted at Danny’s opposition. She had made the mistake of thinking his earlier acquiescence meant he would not oppose her attempt to reopen the Alissa Hayes case. Clearly, she was not experienced in the erratic ways of drunks. But I knew better. Danny was capable of overlooking the most monumental factors, then taking a stance on the most mundane of details once you were inches from the finish line.

“Give me the tie-ins,” Gonzales demanded, ignoring Danny completely. I knew that was a bad sign. But Danny was too far gone to notice.

“Me and Fahey did a damn good job on that case,” he insisted.

Gonzales stared at him coolly. “You and Fahey never did a damn good job on any case,” he said flatly.

Danny had the good sense to shut up.

Maggie was ready. She buried Danny under a mountain of irrefutable logic that tied the two cases together: the identical bruising, the ligature marks, the neat sets of parallel knife cuts ritualistically inflicted, their physical similarity, the lapidary dust found at both crime scenes, the fact that they’d been students at the same college, plus a dozen other similarities she had discovered since comparing the two cases more closely.

None of her information elicited an emotional response from Gonzales. It was not until the end that I felt a flicker of involvement from him, and when it came, it was based on pure self-interest.

“We have no leads in the Vicky Meeks murder,” Maggie explained. “None whatsoever. None of her friends can give us the slightest clue as to her private life. And there were no personal objects found at the dump site this time—”

“Which means the murders may not be related,” Danny interrupted.

Both Gonzales and Maggie ignored him.

“The Meeks investigation is a closed door,” Maggie told Gonzales. “All we really have to go on is what happened to Alissa Hayes. Her file has a dozen unexamined leads that might bring us to the killer of them both.”

Gonzales, still thinking it over, gazed at Maggie.

“Sir, if we don’t catch this guy soon,” Maggie said, “he’ll kill again. Vicky Meeks had wounds that indicated a sense of urgency missing in the Alissa Hayes case. I think he’s killed in between these two and his compulsion is getting worse. We just haven’t found all of his victims.”

“According to you, Clarice,” Danny mumbled.

“Shut up, Bonaventura,” Gonzales snapped. “If you didn’t have less than a year to go before retirement, I’d have kicked you to the curb long ago.”

Maggie pretended not to hear. I felt a flash of gratitude toward her on behalf of my old partner.

“Reopen the Hayes case,” Gonzales instructed Maggie. “You’ll be the lead. I’ll call the DA and let him know what we’re doing.”

“That scumbag Daniels will be out in three days,” Danny complained.

“He’ll be out by tonight if I have anything to do with it,” Gonzales said. I knew then that he’d been convinced the second Maggie opened her mouth that Danny and I had screwed up royally. He’d been working out a recovery plan the entire time Maggie talked: Danny and I would take the fall, Maggie would be positioned as the heroine in the press—and he would be able to cover his ass.

“You’re out, too, by the way,” Gonzales added, glancing at Danny.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Danny asked.

“It means you’re on desk duty indefinitely. And let me have your firearms while you’re at it.”

“What?” Danny reached reflexively for his piece.

Maggie’s hand inched toward her Glock.

“Give me both your firearms, Bonaventura,” Gonzales said more loudly.

“Why?” Danny asked. “Nothing’s been proven. I want my union rep.”