Kill Fee (43 page)

T
wo weeks after he’d killed Michael Parkerson, Malcolm Lind received a visitor to his treatment room in the psychiatric department of the U.S. Naval Consolidated Brig in Charleston, South Carolina.

Visitors had not been infrequent in the weeks since the Killswitch case had broken. The FBI agent, Carla Windermere, had stopped in a couple of times. She’d brought her partner with her, a quiet and unassuming Minnesota state policeman who Windermere claimed had tracked Parkerson like a bloodhound. They’d made conversation, studiously nonchalant, and then sat in silence for a while, and as they were leaving, Windermere had looked him in his eyes and squeezed his hand, tight. “I’m glad you’re still here,” she said.

Lind had thanked her, squeezed her hand back, but sometimes he wasn’t sure he felt the same. The aftermath hadn’t been easy. The military, horrified by Lind’s story, had assigned their best doctors to his case, and from the way they looked at him and whispered among themselves, Lind could tell it was going to take more than a few months of rehab to fix what was wrong with him. Assuming, of course, he was fixable.

And after he was fixed? Lind didn’t know. He was still a murderer. He would always have blood on his hands. Maybe, years down the road, the
military would declare him fit to stand trial. Maybe they’d throw him in with the rest of the criminals and he’d spend the rest of his life behind bars. Lind didn’t know, and, so far, nobody would tell him.

Still, there were good days. A few days after his internment, his mother and stepfather arrived. He’d recognized them instantly; they were older than he remembered, grayer and gaunt, but seeing them brought memories flooding back. They’d approached him shyly, hesitant. He was a murderer, after all.

They worked through it, slowly. His parents moved to an extended-stay motel a half mile from the base. They came every day, stayed as long as they could, and talked about the world news and sports and the weather. For a few hours, at least, Lind could pretend he was normal.

After two weeks in the brig, Lind received a new visitor. He followed the guard to the meeting room, expecting to see his mother again, his stepdad with the newspaper. Instead, he saw Caity Sherman.

She looked even smaller than he remembered, but just as pretty. She stood in the middle of the room, fidgeting, looking around, shifting her weight. She saw him and stopped moving. Studied his face. Didn’t say anything.

“It’s okay,” he tried to tell her. Then he stopped. It wasn’t okay. Nothing was okay. He was a killer, and she barely knew him, and nothing in the world was okay.

They sat at an empty table and looked at each other some more. Finally, she cracked that mischievous smile. “How’s the food in this joint, anyway?”

Lind laughed a little, despite himself. “It’s not bad.”

“Better than my spaghetti?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“You don’t have to put up with me to get it, though.”

“That’s true,” he said. “Thank God.”

She laughed. “There he is.” Then she searched his face again. “Wouldn’t have made you for a Malcolm.”

“Malcolm Lind,” he said. “I guess that’s me.”

“It’s a nice name. Gentle.”

“Gentle,” he said. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

“How is . . . everything? How are the visions?”

He looked away. “They’re giving me drugs. And treatment. They swear they’ll go away over time.”

“You getting any sleep?”

“Some.” He looked at her. “You didn’t have to come here.”

“I wanted to come,” she said.

“Wanted to. What the hell for?”

“I thought you might need a friend,” she said. “I wanted you to know that you have one.”

Lind didn’t say anything. He couldn’t look at her. He exhaled, and it came out ragged, and Caity reached over and squeezed his hand. “Hey,” she said. “Hey. You’re going to be fine.”

Lind let her hold his hand. Relished the warmth of her skin. Kept his eyes closed and tried to steady his breathing. “I hope so,” he told her. “I do.”

A
thousand miles from the Navy brig where Malcolm Lind and Caity Sherman were reuniting, Carla Windermere and Kirk Stevens sat together on their bench in Rice Park and watched Stevens’s children play around the
Peanuts
statues under the blue sky of another beautiful spring day.

“So there it is,” Windermere said, breaking a long, easy silence. “Another case closed for Stevens and Windermere.”

Stevens nodded. “Big three.”

Windermere looked across the park to where Andrea Stevens crouched behind a bronze Charlie Brown, hiding from her brother and the friendly German shepherd he struggled valiantly to restrain.

“Your daughter seems happy,” she said. “All things considered.”

Stevens followed Windermere’s gaze. Watched Triceratops drag JJ toward Charlie Brown, where, straining and slobbering, tail wagging, he mauled Andrea with his sloppy pink tongue. Andrea giggled as she fended off the dog’s advances, and the sound of his daughter’s laughter, innocent and unreserved, triggered something inside Stevens.

“She’s okay,” he said. “The counselor says it’ll take a bit of time before she fully gets over what happened, but she’s a strong girl. She’ll be fine.”

“What about you?” said Windermere. “This stuff with your daughter sap your taste for adventure?”

Stevens shook his head. “I’m not sure yet,” he told her. “Anyway, what do you need me for? You have yourself a good partner.”

“What, Mathers?” She cocked her head at him. “Too young.”

“Too young for what?”

“Not for what you’re thinking, you big goof.”

Stevens frowned. “Sorry,” he said. “The Mathers stuff—I’m sorry. You caught me by surprise with it, that’s all. It shouldn’t have mattered so much.”

She watched him. “No?”

“It was unprofessional. I’m not your husband. Why should I care?”

“Because you do care, Stevens.” Windermere twisted to face him. “And I care, too. You think I didn’t want you to kiss me back in Philadelphia? Get real.”

Stevens blinked. Couldn’t think of an answer.

“I like you, Stevens,” she said. “I don’t know why, but I do. And I already know that you’re moony about me. But you’re married—and, Stevens, I’ll kill you if you ever leave your wife—and I’m not just going to carry a torch for you forever, understand?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I understand. I do.”

“The Mathers thing, I could have handled it better. I’m sorry. But I’m going to date, Stevens. Maybe not often, but it’ll happen. And we’re both going to have to get used to it.”

“Of course,” he said. He paused. “Lesley offered me a promotion.”

“Oh, yeah?” She narrowed her eyes. “What does that mean? You get a real office before I do and I’ll shoot somebody, Stevens.”

“I’d get an office. That’s not all.”

“Oh, good God. What else?”

“Lesley figures we work well together,” Stevens said. “Says I’m some kind of FBI snake charmer. I didn’t bother to argue.” He arched an eyebrow at her. “He wants to make me head of an FBI-BCA liaison squad. Put me in with all the interjurisdictional stuff.”

Windermere stared at him. “So we’d be like partners.”

“Pretty much.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Told him I’d check with you first. I wanted to make sure everything was cool between us.”

“And Mathers.”

“And Mathers,” he said. “Yeah.”

Windermere sighed. “Well, Stevens, I may or may not be having dinner with Mathers tonight. Can you live with that?”

Stevens felt the familiar pangs of jealousy. He pushed them aside. “I can live with it.”

“Then we won’t have a problem.” She grinned at him. “Partner.”

“Partner.”
Stevens shook his head. “I’m gonna have to learn to fly better.”

“Damn right. I can’t have you puking all over me. It’s unseemly.” She looked around the park and straightened. “Here comes Nancy.”

Stevens followed her gaze and saw his wife crossing the park, a couple shopping bags in hand. She walked toward Stevens and Windermere, called something over her shoulder, and Andrea and JJ raced to follow.

Windermere stood as Nancy and the kids approached, and Stevens stood beside her, feeling that same niggling guilt he tended to feel whenever he and Windermere shared some kind of a moment. Andrea and JJ ran past their mother and beelined to the park bench, JJ for his father and Andrea to Windermere, though she stopped a few feet away and lingered, shyly, her eyes on the ground.

“Hey, kiddo,” said Windermere, “how’re you feeling?”

Andrea looked up, bashful as a fifth-grader. “Good,” she said. Then she screwed up her face. “My dad told you about what happened, didn’t he?”

“No shame in getting stressed out about things,” said Windermere. “Happens to the best of us. Even me. You still thinking you want to be a cop?”

Andrea nodded. “Yeah. I mean, I think so.”

“Good girl.” Windermere glanced at Stevens. “Your dad tell you about his promotion?”

“It’s not official yet,” said Stevens. “I haven’t committed to anything.”

Nancy rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“You think your dad could do it?” said Windermere. “FBI stuff, full-time? You think he could keep up with me?”

Andrea looked at Windermere. Then she looked at her father. “I dunno,” she said, “but he’d better try.”

Stevens looked at her. At Nancy. Andrea shook her head. “I’ll be
fine
, Daddy.”

Stevens swapped another glance with Nancy, caught the smile she was struggling to hide. He laughed. “Well, all right, then,” Stevens said. “Guess I’d better tell Lesley I’m in.”

Windermere clapped his back. “Attaboy.”

“Don’t get too excited,” he said. “Now you’re stuck with me.”

“Just at the office, partner. Nancy’s the one who’s gotta live with you.” She grinned at Nancy. “And on that note, I’m outta here. Hot date and all.” She hugged Stevens tight, before he could reply. Hugged Nancy, too,
and waved good-bye to the kids. Scratched behind the dog’s ears, winked at Stevens, and walked off through the park.

Stevens watched her go, feeling somehow, suddenly, adrift. He stared up at the Saint Paul Hotel behind her, replaying those first frantic moments when Spenser Pyatt was shot, replaying everything that had followed. He watched Windermere walk away, headed back to Minneapolis and her dinner date, and when she’d disappeared into the city he turned back to his family. Caught Andrea’s eye, felt Nancy’s hand seek out his hand, warm and familiar, heard JJ laugh as he played with his dog. Knew, all at once, he was exactly where he wanted to be. “Okay,” he said, pulling Nancy closer. “Let’s go home.”

For a complete list of this author’s books click here or visit www.penguin.com/laukkanenchecklist

Thanks to Stacia Decker and Neil Nyren, for whose guidance, encouragement, and wisdom I remain especially grateful.

Thanks to the fine people at Putnam, in particular Katie Grinch, Ivan Held, Sara Minnich, Alexis Welby, and Chris Nelson, and to every unsung copyeditor, proofreader, and fact-checker who’s ever saved me from disaster.

Thanks, also, to Tom Colgan and the staff at Berkley, who’ve done such wonderful things with the paperback editions of my books.

Thanks to the readers whose enthusiasm propels me forward, and to the booksellers who’ve been my champions.

Thanks to Court Harrington for showing me Lake Norman and his beautiful corner of North Carolina.

Thanks to Kyla McNaughton and Sarah Messenger, for getting me through the storm.

And thanks to my family, with all of my heart.