Fallen (20 page)

“Let’s go back to my place and we’ll look at them. We’ll figure this out.” He squeezed her a little tighter to him. “Now pack your stuff and Angel and let’s go.”

“Pack my stuff?” She frowned.

“I don’t think you’re comfortable staying here alone, are you?” If he had to guess, he’d bet she’d spent the past twenty minutes pacing back and forth, biting her fingernails and checking and rechecking her door and window locks.

Sara blanched. “No. I guess I’ll have to break my lease. Or maybe I can just stay in a hotel for a few days and see how I feel.” She shuddered. “But you’re right, I don’t think I can stay here tonight. And I don’t want those pictures anywhere near me.”

“You can stay with me.” There was no way he was depositing her in a hotel and walking away. She was pale and shaky, her skin clammy. He pictured her bolted into a hotel room, chair pushed against the door, awake all night long, worrying. Afraid. The desire for a pill, just a little something to help it go away, ease her mind, let her sleep and rest, growing stronger and stronger.

He didn’t want her to have to fight that, to be afraid. And it was possible that she actually was in danger, though he didn’t really believe that. More likely the photos had been sent by some incredibly insensitive reporter.

Either way, he wanted her safe, with him.

“Gabriel, I don’t know . . . That’s generous of you to offer, but is it really such a good idea?”

She looked worried, but she was still leaning against him. “Why wouldn’t it be a good idea?” he asked.

“Because . . . I don’t know.”

Because they were attracted to each other. That’s what she was silently saying. He could almost hear it, read it in the plea in her blue eyes as she volleyed the decision over to him.

Hold her or push her away. Irrational or rational. Cruel or compassionate. Both choices were potentially devastating. To both of them.

“There’s no logical reason we can’t go to my place. Where’s the cat food? I’ll get Angel’s stuff together while you pack a bag.” He brushed her hair off of her forehead, just because. Just to feel it, just to touch her. Just to reassure himself that he wasn’t going to regret his decision. To remind himself that casual touching led to caresses which led to kisses which led to sensual pleasure, which led to women clinging to him, begging and pleading and crying for more. Desperate for him, all of him, his mind, his body, his heart, his soul, as they tried to swallow him whole and replace themselves with him.

One step at a time, that’s how it happened, one touch, then another, a gradual, unsuspecting immersion, just like one drink led to another, an occasional glass led to a bottle, once a week led to every day, to every two hours until you never left the stupor and you cared for nothing but the fuzzy abyss and wet slosh of more liquid in your mouth.

Maybe Sara was different.

Maybe he shouldn’t test that irrational theory based on nothing but hope.

Yet when she went to pack her bag and he went to collect the cat accoutrements, he felt only a defiant satisfaction and anticipation for more time with Sara.

January 10, 1850—There was more entertainment in the courtroom today in the case of accused murderer Jonathon Thiroux, as one Molly Faye took the stand. A working girl in the House of Rest for Weary Men, where Anne Donovan was murdered in her sleep, Molly Faye confessed to the room at large that she, like Miss Donovan before her, had entered into an illicit business understanding with the defendant after the death of Miss Donovan.

While this was arguably in poor taste on the part of Mr. Thiroux, it was not a CRIME to move so quickly from one lewd woman to another, but the prosecutor maintains that this illuminates unpleasant aspects of Mr. Thiroux’s character. But before one could even truly form an opinion as to any implications of Miss Faye’s ardent testimony, yet another unfortunate, Sally Swanson, took the stand. Miss Swanson likewise described HER relationship with Mr. Thiroux in such salacious detail that Judge Henry stopped the proceedings and ordered all women and children under the age of eighteen from the courtroom before allowing Miss Swanson to continue.

A dance hall enthusiast, and fond of the sound of her own voice, Miss Swanson spun a tale of devotion and tawdry pleasures of the flesh worthy of the infamous Marquess de Sade, and unfit for description in this newspaper. Yet while most in attendance were either shocked into silence, or simply silent in the raucous, immoral hope of hearing more spill forth from the cherry red lips of Miss Swanson, there was one who could not maintain quiet. Miss Faye, outraged at Miss Swanson’s timeline of her affair with Mr. Thiroux (which invariably overlapped Miss Faye’s own), interrupted most vehemently in protest of Miss Swanson’s “no-good pack o’lies!”

What followed was scarcely to be believed. Miss Swanson calmly stated that Miss Faye was in no uncertain terms a word unprintable in this paper and, frankly, one which is best left on the docks. To which Miss Faye rushed the witness stand and soundly slapped the pretty cheek of her romantic opponent. Such tussling, such pulling and slapping and tearing of hair and cheek and dress, as I have never seen in Judge Henry’s courtroom erupted, and it took three bailiffs a solid two minutes to separate the bawdy hellcats. As the women were being escorted from the bench, Miss Faye wrenched free of her captor and flung herself at the feet of Mr. Thiroux, wrapping arms around his legs and appealing for him to tell the truth, to tell everyone “that he loved her and only her!”

Mr. Jackson has maintained throughout the course of the trial that Mr. Thiroux took knife to flesh and killed Miss Donovan after the “intemperate use of spirits.”

This reporter has to admit that if Mr. Thiroux is constantly subjected to such disgusting displays as what we saw in the courtroom yesterday from both women, then it is not at all shocking the man has descended into the bottle. In fact, if he has such an effect on women as to find them wrapped around his kneecaps on a regular basis, it is simply astonishing that he hasn’t yet taken a knife to his own flesh to remove himself from such ludicrous feminine hysterics.

Sara was looking better. There was color in her cheeks and her back was straight, head high. In fact, Gabriel would almost argue it was the best he’d ever seen her look, calm and animated. As if after seeing the photos, hitting the bottom of the barrel and almost drowning in the dregs of her fear, she had climbed out with a whole new determination to not live her life that way.

Gabriel had thought she would want to be distracted, to ignore the two murder cases for awhile. He had been prepared to suggest a walk to the river, a late lunch, maybe even a movie. But when they’d arrived back at his apartment, Sara had dropped her bag in the living room, put Angel’s cat food away in his pantry, and then sat down on the couch in his office and asked him to outline the physical evidence they had from the Donovan case that had the potential to be tested for DNA.

“Are you sure you want to do this right now?” he asked. He had taken a peek at the crime scene photos she’d received when she was packing. They were gruesome, and it was her mother. She had to be devastated.

But she just nodded firmly. “Yes. I want to do this. I want us to write this book, do everything in our power to either solve the crimes, or at the very least to show the advances in criminal investigation.” She adjusted the straps of her tank top, her hair smoothed back and contained in a twisted ponytail of some kind. “I believe in forensics. I’ve always enjoyed the satisfaction in my job of taking an unknown substance and identifying it. Giving the investigators the facts they need to connect the pieces of the puzzle and convict a criminal. Maybe you and I can’t achieve that here, but we can try, and regardless of the outcome, when we write ‘The End’ and you turn the manuscript in to your editor, I’m going to have gained some sort of personal closure. That’s what I want. To be done. To move forward.”

If it were only that simple. Gabriel had often wondered if closure was a psychological myth. Nothing ended, ever. Things simply faded, hurt less, but stuck to the side of your subconscious forever, altering your thoughts, your essence, your future.

But all he said to Sara was “Okay. Here’s what we have. A lock of John Thiroux’s hair, courtesy of Mrs. Jane Gallier. One fingerprint in the sketch of Anne Donovan’s arm. Blood flakes from the knife found at the crime scene, as well as blood found on the absinthe spoon lying on the floor. That’s it. That’s all we’ve got. And maybe, if we’re incredibly lucky, we can trace Anne Donovan’s child on down to a descendent, though that’s probably wishful thinking. And even if we could find a descendent, who is to say they’ll agree to give us a sample?”

Sara made a face. “I suppose a lot of people would find it disturbing to be approached with something like this.”

It was possible he might offend someone, but Gabriel thought it was time he set aside irrational feelings and aggressively pursued every angle he could. “Dealing with the dead is disturbing to the living.”

He was leaning against his desk, feet crossed, arms over his chest, and he watched Sara, took great pleasure in seeing her fingers pull her ponytail over her shoulder and absently stroke the ends of her hair. Her orange tank top clung to her breasts and Gabriel remembered the way she had felt, pressed against him, every curve of her body clinging to his. It was a good thing the timing had been so incredibly inappropriate, because he was becoming more and more tempted.

“It almost seems as if everything is disturbing to the living.” Sara’s eyes went a little wider and she asked him, voice low, “What do you think is out there? Where do you think the dead go?”

“To heaven.” He could say that without hesitation. He had seen it, lived it, felt it. He had never wanted to leave, had wanted to spend eternity in his palace of light, where visitors found answers, where he felt generous and wise. Then he had come down to earth and had been overwhelmed by suffering and despaired of his ineffectiveness, until he had found his palace again in the bottom of a bottle.

“I hope so,” Sara said quietly. “I hope so.”

But before he could respond, she straightened. “So. Anyway. So we have John Thiroux’s DNA and possibly Anne Donovan’s. We have blood from the weapon and blood that was on the absinthe spoon, which was found on the floor. Presumably both will be Anne’s blood, but possibly the murderer’s. The fingerprint is useless unless we can find prints for John or Anne, and for the same finger that touched the sketch, which is highly unlikely.”

They had John’s fingerprints since they were his own, and he now knew they didn’t match, but Gabriel couldn’t exactly reveal that little fact to her.

“Where are the samples? Have you submitted them to the lab? How did you get them anyway?”

“Everything is already at the lab. I should hear something soon actually. I’m hoping early next week.” He ignored the question about how the items had been acquired. He couldn’t tell her that he had the lock of hair because he was John Thiroux and Jane Gallier had mailed it to him. That it was his hair. Or that he couldn’t really explain why he had kept Jane’s letters, including the hair that had accompanied the one, stuffed in his desk for all these years. Nor could he tell her that he had never engaged in an affair with Jane beyond a few dinner dates and one kiss, despite her words to the contrary. That his demonic appeal altered women’s behavior drastically, made them see and feel what wasn’t there, what wasn’t real.

“It’s a shame the coroner’s report is so inadequate. A lot could have been determined from the blood spatters, a better description of the injuries, a more accurate time of death.”