Say Goodbye (14 page)

NINETEEN

“Among the remarkable phenomena occurring in spiders ranks the peculiar behavior associated with mating. These courtship maneuvers are usually started by the male and continued by him, though in some cases the female may also take part after she has reached a certain pitch of excitement.”

FROM
How to Know the Spiders,
THIRD EDITION, BY B. J. KASTON,
1978

KIMBERLY GOT HOME LATE. HOUSE WAS DARK, EXCEPT for the usual light in the hallway, and the small pool of illumination on the kitchen desk where Mac had piled her mail and phone messages. No happy face tonight. Instead, the top sticky note displayed a crude drawing of branching lines ending in small ovals. It took her a moment, then she got it: an olive branch.

The picture made her smile even as she felt a sting of tears.

Her husband was such a better person than she was. How had she gotten so lucky?

She should go to him. Tell him she was sorry and ask for his forgiveness. Then again, was it really appropriate to apologize for pursuing a case she had no intention of giving up?

She paced the kitchen, keyed up in that way she always got when starting a new investigation, brain churning, adrenaline pumping. Delilah Rose equaled Ginny Jones. And Ginny Jones equaled…? Victim, accomplice, something worse?

She opened the refrigerator, reached for a beer. Caught herself, sighed, and put it back.

Into the living room now, staring at the darkened shadows of the leather couch, Mac’s recliner, their way-too-big TV. When she was a little girl, she used to practice creeping through the house at night. Not Mandy. No, her older sister was scared of the dark, slept in a room with two nightlights and a lamp blazing at all times. But Kimberly saw nighttime as an adventure. Could she tiptoe from her bedroom on the second story, all the way down to the front door of their four-bedroom Colonial without making a sound?

She would imagine she was stalking bad men. Or, she was outsmarting an intruder who had already entered her house. Nighttime brought monsters and for as long as Kimberly could remember, she wanted to fight them.

Most of the time, her insomniac father caught her in the act.

“Kimberly,” he would say, “what are you doing out of bed?”

And she, embarrassed about being caught, and not wanting to admit to her Super Cop father that she was stalking shadows, would say, “I just wanted a drink of water.”

He would watch her for a while. Silence had always been her father’s best weapon and he had wielded it masterfully. Eventually, he would go into the kitchen and return with a glass of water.

“Third step from the top,” he informed her. “It squeaks.”

And the next night, she would get a little farther into the shadows.

After her father moved out, she roamed the house at will. Her mother slept soundly, and until she was fourteen and discovered boys, Mandy had no use for midnight excursions. Just Kimberly would make the rounds, night after night. Keeping her mother and sister safe. Because Super Cop was gone now and she was all the protection against monsters her family had left.

Until the day she went off to college, and Mandy and her mother had been murdered.

Fuck it. Kimberly went to the bedroom.

Mac appeared to be sleeping, one arm flung up over his head, the other curved over his stomach.

She left him alone. Crossed into the bathroom, where she brushed her teeth, scrubbed her face, combed out her hair. She shed her clothes, found her pajamas, opening lots of drawers and the closet doors along the way. Back to the kitchen for a glass of water, setting it down firmly on the nightstand.

Tossing back the covers. Jumping into bed.

Mac grunted.

“Oh,” she declared brightly. “You’re awake!”

Mac peeled open one eye, then covered it again with his arm.

She thumped his shoulder lightly. “Faker.”

“Am not.”

“Pulleeeze. I’ve seen this act before.”

He didn’t protest anymore, but opened both eyes. For a moment, they regarded each other warily.

“I liked your drawing,” she said softly.

“I’m not a very good artist.”

“Good enough.”

“I don’t like it when we fight,” he said abruptly.

“Me, neither.”

“And I don’t like worrying about you. And I don’t like waking up some mornings, realizing we’re about to be parents and we’ve never even had a puppy. How do we know if we can feed this thing, or bathe it, or keep it alive? You know what I realized for the first time yesterday?”

She shook her head.

“We don’t have a ficus tree. Kimberly, how are we going to be good parents, when our current lifestyle doesn’t even allow for plants?”

“I guess we won’t feed the baby Miracle-Gro.”

He sat up, the covers falling to his waist. With his dark hair sleep-rumpled, his lean face intent, he looked sexy, serious, the man she fell in love with all those years ago. The man who had proposed to her, buck naked, the night before she was to make a ransom drop and the situation was dangerous enough they both knew she wouldn’t wear the ring.

He had let her go the next morning, to do what she needed to do, and she had loved him for that.

She reached over now, touched his face gently. “I saw Delilah Rose,” she said, because there was no other way to do it. “It turns out she’s actually Ginny Jones, kidnapped, she claims, two years ago, and forced into a life of prostitution to stay alive. She alleges her kidnapper killed her mother and is systematically picking off other hookers one by one. She provided no details, physical description, or corroborative information, but Sal believes he has enough to pursue a case. And I’m going to help him. At least until we get enough to put together a full task force.”

“You won’t quit even then,” Mac said.

“I don’t know. Once the baby comes, I’ll have to.”

“You’ll work it from your hospital bed, that’s what you’ll do.”

Her hand fell away. She studied the sheets. “You’re right,” she said shortly. “I’m not a quitter. Not in my marriage, and not in my job.”

He didn’t say anything right away. She sensed she should look at him, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. She had no problem chasing down an informant on a secluded road late at night, or looking for a hunter’s severed head. But here, in her own house, sitting cross-legged in bed next to her husband, feeling the tension between them, she was afraid.

“Kimberly,” Mac said quietly, “I’ve been offered a promotion. Special agent in charge of the Regional Drug Enforcement Office in Savannah.”

She glanced at him, dumbfounded. “But Savannah…” Savannah was way to the southeast, on the South Carolina border, closer to Hilton Head than Atlanta. The city was large enough to command a respectable GBI presence. A solid RDEO, an excellent promotion. And much too far away to work while living in Roswell.

“Aren’t you going to say congratulations?”

“Congratulations,” she said dutifully.

He wasn’t fooled. “I didn’t say anything right away because I didn’t know what to say. But I’ve been asking around. It’s a great assignment. It would mean a lot for my career.”

She couldn’t speak anymore. She went back to studying the linen.

Beside her, Mac sighed. “You’re not the only one who loves your job, Kimberly,” he said finally. “And you’re not the only one who’s good at it. It just so happens that in the past twelve months, I’ve helped uncover one of the largest meth labs in the state, plus broken up an entire network of dealers. I am making a difference, too, and I like it.”

“I know.”

“The FBI has some regional offices. They’re small, but maybe Savannah could use an extra agent. We could rent a house in the area, try things out. Last time we visited, we both remarked on how charming the place was. Close to the beaches, Hilton Head. It wouldn’t be a bad place to raise a child.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Or,” he forged ahead, “maybe, with the baby coming, now would be a good opportunity to take some time off, maybe a leave of absence. See what we think.”

“I’d stay home, you would work?”

“If you haven’t tried it, Kimberly, how do you know you won’t like it?”

She needed to find her voice. She couldn’t. She felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. One day, they’d been sailing along and now…Now everything was up for grabs. His job, her job, the baby. She couldn’t find an anchor.

“Did you give an answer?” she heard herself whisper.

“You know I wouldn’t do that without talking to you first.”

“And this is our official conversation?”

“I guess so.”

She nodded, picked up the edge of the sheet, twisted it. “Do I have to answer tonight?” she asked.

“No. But probably I need to give them an answer within a week.”

“All right.”

“All right we can move?” he asked hopefully, but she could tell by his gentle voice that he was teasing.

“All right, we can talk about it for another week.”

“Okay.” His voice grew serious again. “But you know, Kimberly, for us to talk, you’re going to have to actually spend some time at home.”

“Sure,” she said, but they could both tell her heart wasn’t in it.

He sighed again, leaned over, turned out the light.

They hunkered down into bed, her body spooned into his, his hand on her stomach. The happy couple, the two about to become three. A joyous event in the lives of two people who loved each other.

She remained wide-eyed long after her husband had returned to sleep.

One a.m., she crawled back out of bed, into the kitchen. She dialed the number from memory, but got voice mail. She left a message she wasn’t sure she’d ever left in her life.

“Dad,” she said. “I need help.”

TWENTY

“The spider is well adapted to living indoors with humans.”

FROM
Brown Recluse Spider,
BY MICHAEL F. POTTER, URBAN ENTOMOLOGIST, UNIVERSITY OF KENTUCKY COLLEGE OF AGRICULTURE

RITA WAS AWAKE. DID THAT SAVE HER LIFE IN THE end? She would never know.

It was dark out. New moon, so perfect there wasn’t even enough light to form shadows across the far wall. Damn nights were long enough without even a light show for entertainment.

And then she heard it. Scuffling in her yard, followed by the creak of her back door opening.

“Joseph,” she whispered, flat on her back in her old double bed, gnarled hands clutching the edge of the covers. “That you, Joseph?”

But of course it wasn’t Joseph. Since when did ghosts make a sound?

She worked on her breathing, slow and steady, as she heard more noise downstairs. The sucking pop of the refrigerator door opening. The whine of an old drawer grudgingly giving way. And footsteps. Lots of footsteps, light and quick, crossing the kitchen, heading up the stairs.

Breathing again, slow and steady. By gawd, she would not be scared in her own home. By gawd, she would not be spooked from her own bed.

And then the boy appeared at the foot of her bed. He looked her straight in the eye, both hands tucked behind his back.

She returned his look just as steadily, her right hand creeping beneath the sheet.

“Scott,” she said evenly. “Thought we talked about this.”

The boy said nothing.

“Rules are rules, son. A proper guest knocks on the door. A proper guest waits to be invited. A proper guest does
not
sneak into an old lady’s home in the middle of the night, scaring her nearly half to death!”

The boy still didn’t say a word.

Rita sat up. She knew she must look a sight. Thin gray hair sticking out like twigs, wool cap askew on the top of her head. She wore her customary green plaid flannel and yellow-stained long johns. She dressed for warmth and comfort, not to entertain impertinent young men.

The boy still didn’t move or speak. So she kept her gaze upon him. She let him know she wasn’t as frail as she looked.

“Show me your hands, Scott.”

Nothing.

“Boy, I’m only going to ask you one more time.
Show me your hands!
”

For the first time, he trembled. Once, twice, three times. Then abruptly, he jerked his hands out from behind his back. He showed her his palms, and declared in a voice nearly shrill with panic, “I just need a place to stay. One night. I won’t be a problem. I swear!”

Rita took advantage of his uncertainty, throwing back the covers and swinging her legs out of bed. Her bones ached when she stood, but she felt better. Stronger. In control.

“Where do you live, Scott?”

He thinned his lips mutinously.

“Do you have parents I should call? Someone who worries about you?”

“I could sleep right here,” he whispered. “On the floor. I don’t need much. Honest.”

“Nonsense, child. No guest of mine is sleeping on the floor. You fixin’ to spend the night, we might as well do it right. Come on, I’ll take you to Joseph’s room.”

She set off in her shuffling gait, passing by the foot of the bed, brushing the boy’s shoulder. He fell back, assuming the submissive. Encouraged, she led him down the hall, to her brother’s room, where dusty football trophies still lined one dresser, and the quilt had been hand-sewn by her grandmother from pieces of their baby blankets. As the oldest son, Joseph had been given the quilt to pass along to his children one day. Instead, he had perished in the same war that had cost Rita her husband. Stepped on a land mine in France. There hadn’t been enough body parts left for a proper funeral. Her parents had buried his dog tags, her father retreating to Joseph’s room, where he had stayed for months on end.

Her sister Beatrice should’ve taken the quilt, but it had remained in Joseph’s room, where from time to time, each of them would visit, trying to say goodbye to Joseph in his or her own way.

Rita drew back the old quilt now. She smoothed back the flannel sheets, cold and musty from disuse. She drew the young boy forward and helped him onto the bed.

He was passive now, nearly limp to the touch, his slight frame collapsing into the bed. She brushed a lock of dark hair from his forehead, and he flinched.

“Rita,” he whispered. “I’m tired.”

And the way he said the word, she understood. He wasn’t tired, he was
tired,
a condition of the mind as well as the body. A state of the soul.

She pulled the covers up, tucking them beneath his chin.

“Stay as long as you need, child,” she said and meant it.

Then she shuffled back into her bedroom, where she felt along the far wall until she found the kitchen knife the boy had let drop to the floor. She picked it up, and placed it in the nightstand beside her.

Then she reached beneath the covers, finding her father’s old Colt .45. She’d cleaned it yesterday; armed it last night. A beautiful piece of machinery, old, but still capable of getting the job done.

Now she clutched it in her hand as she made her way painfully down the stairs, left hand gripping the railing tight.

In the kitchen, the unlocked back door banged lightly in the wind. She opened it wide, peering into her backyard, cursing once more the lack of moon. She saw shadows above and below. Not a wink of light from a neighbor’s house, nor the glowing eyes of a tomcat.

So she shut her eyes and focused on the feel of the night instead. She and her brothers used to do this when they were young. Camp out in the backyard, pretending they were in the wilds of the Amazon.
Don’t look with your eyes,
their father would tell them in his hushed baritone.
Look with your mind, seek with your hearts.

It always made her wonder if Joseph should’ve shut his eyes that night he’d gone on patrol. Maybe, if he hadn’t been looking, maybe, if he’d been
feelin’
, that land mine never would’ve gotten him.

And then she did sense it. Strong. Cold. Powerful enough to make her recoil.

Something was out there in the night. Hungry. Hunting. Hating.

Rita scrambled back inside her kitchen. Got the door shut, found the bolt lock. But for the first time in ages, she was aware of just how rickety her old house had become. Back door with a big glass window perfect for shattering and a brittle wood frame easy enough to pry apart with a crowbar.

I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down….

She was trembling now, tasting the fear like bile in the back of her throat. The gun felt too heavy in her hand, her arm too weak. She could barely walk half the time, how was she supposed to lift this sucker, let alone take aim….

Then, in the next instant, her own cowardliness shamed her. She was not a fool. She was a survivor, last of her family line. This was her home. By God, she would take a stand.

She went from room to room. Checking all nooks and crannies, inspecting all locks. Perhaps in the morning, when she was fresher, she could rearrange some of the furniture. And she had some wood outside. She could hack it into sticks, use them to reinforce the windows.

And bells. From the Christmas decorations. Hang ’em here and there as her very own security system.

Yes, sirree, she had some tricks up her sleeve yet.

That made her feel better, so she shuffled to the stairs, starting the laborious process of pulling herself back up.

When she finally made it to her bed, she collapsed on top of the covers and slept like the dead. First few hours of sleep she’d had in weeks.

When she woke up, her bedroom door was open, and her own gun was placed neatly on the pillow beside her.

The boy was gone.

She wondered if she would see him again.