Cody McFadyen - Shadow Man

"Maybe," I murmur back. "Maybe not."

My phone rings, startling me out of my conversation with a ghost. I answer it.

"Hi, honey-love," Callie says. "Little development I wanted to apprise you of."

My heart clenches. What now?

"Tell me," I say.

"Dr. Hillstead's office was bugged."

I frown. "Huh?"

"The things Jack Jr. said in that letter, honey-love: Didn't you wonder how he knew them?"

Silence. I'm startled and dumbfounded. No, I realize. I hadn't wondered. "Good grief, Callie. It never occurred to me. Jesus." I am reeling.

"How is that possible?"

"Don't feel bad. With everything else that happened, it didn't occur to me, either. You can thank James for thinking of it." She pauses.

"Dear God, did I really just say 'thank' and 'James' in the same sentence?" I can hear her mock-shudder through the phone.

"Details, Callie," I say. The words come out tight and impatient. I'm not interested in humor right now and I'm too tired to apologize for it.

"He had two audio bugs planted in Dr. Hillstead's office--functional but not high end." She's letting me know that they aren't distinctive as gadgets go and probably not traceable. "Both were remote activated. They transmitted wirelessly to a miniature recorder placed in a maintenance closet. All he'd have to know is when your appointments with Dr. Hillstead were, honey-love. He could activate the bugs and pick up the recordings later."

A sense of violation surges through me, a powerful jolt of electricity. He'd been listening? Listening to me talk about Matt and Alexa? Listening to me be weak ? My rage is so overwhelming I feel like I want to swoon, or vomit.

Then, as fast as it came, it goes. No more violation, no more rage, just exhausted desolation. My tide has gone out, my beach is dry and lonely.

"I gotta go, Callie," I mumble.

"Are you all right, honey-love?"

"Thanks for telling me, Callie. Now I have to go."

I hang up and marvel at my own emptiness. It is exquisite, in its way. Perfect.

"At least we'll always have Paris," I murmur, and feel a cackle building.

I realize that Bonnie has finished eating and that she is looking at me. Watching me. It startles me, shakes me down to my bones. Jesus, I think. And it comes to me that this is the first thing I need to realize, once and for all. I am not alone. She is here, and she sees me. My days of sitting in the dark, staring off at nothing and talking to myself--those days have to end.

No one needs a crazy mommy.

We're in my bedroom, on my bed, looking at each other.

"How's this, honey? Will it do?"

She gazes around, runs her hand over the bedspread, and then smiles, nodding her head. I smile back.

"Good. Now, I thought you would probably want to sleep in here with me--but if you don't, I'll understand."

She grabs my hand and shakes her head like a bobble-head doll. A definite yes.

"Cool. I do need to talk to you about some things, Bonnie. Is that okay with you?"

A nod.

Some people might disapprove of this approach. Getting down to business so soon with her. I don't agree. I'm going by feel here, and something tells me to be honest with this child, nothing less.

"First thing is, sometimes when I sleep--well, most of the time--I have nightmares. Sometimes they really scare me, and I wake up screaming. I hope that doesn't happen with you sleeping in here, but it's not really under my control. I don't want you to be scared if it does."

She studies my face. I watch as her eyes slide over to the picture on my nightstand. It's a framed photo of me, Matt, and Alexa, all smiles and with no idea that death was in the future. She gazes at it for a moment, then looks back at me, raising her eyebrows. It takes me a moment to understand. "Yes. The nightmares I have are about what happened to them."

She closes her eyes. She lifts her hand up and pats her chest. Then opens her eyes and looks at me.

"You too, huh? Okay, honey. How about we make a deal--neither one of us gets scared if the other one wakes up screaming."

She smiles at this. It strikes me, for just a moment, how surreal this is. I am not talking to a ten-year-old about clothing or music or a day at the park. I'm making a pact with her about screaming in the night.

"The next thing . . . it's a little harder for me. I'm deciding whether or not I'm going to keep doing my job. My job is to catch bad people, people who do things like what was done to your mom. And I might just be too sad to keep doing that. You understand?"

Her nod is somber. Oh yeah, she understands.

"I haven't decided yet. If I don't, then you and I can decide what to do next. If I do . . . well, I won't be able to keep you with me all the time. I'll have to have someone watch you when I'm working. I can promise you this: If I do that, I'll make sure you like whoever you're with. Does that sound all right?"

A careful nod. I'm getting the hang of this. Yes, that nod says-- but with reservation.

"This is the last thing, babe. I think it's the most important, so listen to me carefully, okay?" I take her hand and make certain that I am looking right at her when I say what I say next. "If you want to stay with me, then you will. I won't leave you. Not ever. That's a promise."

Her face shows the first real emotion I've seen since I found her in that bed at the hospital. It crumples, overtaken by grief. Tears spill out onto her cheeks. I grab her and hug her to me, rocking her, as she weeps in silence. I hold her and whisper into her hair, and think of Annie and Alexa and the First Rule of Mom.

It takes a while, but she stops crying. She continues to hold on to me, her head against my chest. The sniffles die away and she pulls back, wiping her face with her hands. She cocks her head and looks at me. Really looks. I see her eyes roam over my scars. I start as her hand comes up to my face. With tremendous tenderness, she traces the scars with a finger. Starting with the ones on my forehead, running feather touches over my cheekbone. Her eyes tear up, and she rests a palm against my cheek. Then she is back in my arms. This time, she is the one hugging me. Strangely, I don't feel like weeping as she does this. I have a brief glimpse of peace. A place of comfort. Some warmth enters into that part of me that froze at the hospital today.

I pull back and grin at her. "We're some pair, huh?"

Her smile in return is genuine. I know it's only momentary. I know that her true grief, when it hits her, is going to be a tidal wave. It's still nice to see her smile.

"Listen, part of what I told you? About deciding whether or not I'm going to keep doing my job? There's something I need to do tonight. Do you want to come with me?"

She nods. Oh yeah. I give her another smile, a chuck on the chin.

"Well, let's go, then."

I drive to a gun range in the San Fernando Valley. I give it a once-over before getting out of the car, trying to work up my nerve. The building is all function, with peeling paint on the exterior walls and windows that have probably never been washed. Like a gun, I think. A gun can be scratched and battered, have lost its shine. All that matters, though, is the basic truth: Will it still fire a bullet? This worn-out building is no different. Some very serious gun owners come here. By serious, I don't mean enthusiasts. I mean men (and women) who have spent their lives using guns to kill people or keep the peace.

People like me. I look over at Bonnie, give her a lopsided smile.

"Ready?" I ask.

She nods.

"Let's go, then."

I know the owner. He's an ex-Marine sniper, with eyes that are warm up front but cold in the back. He sees me and his voice booms out:

"Smoky! Haven't seen you in a while!"

I smile at him, gesture at the scars. "Had some bad luck, Jazz."