Cody McFadyen - Shadow Man

Shaken but back as strong as ever. I realize afresh something I've known for a long time: I love this woman. "I will." I turn to Bonnie.

"Let's go, sweetheart."

She shakes her head. No. Pats a hand on Elaina's shoulder, then grips it, possessive. I frown. "Honey, I think we need to leave Elaina and Alan alone tonight."

She shakes her head again, fierce now. No way, Jose.

"It would be fine with me for her to stay, if you don't mind. Bonnie's lovely."

I look at Elaina, dumbfounded. "Are you sure?"

She reaches over, strokes Bonnie's hair. "I'm sure."

"Well . . . okay." Besides, I think to myself, it would take a miracle to pry her away from Elaina right now. "Then I'll go. Bonnie, I'll come see you in the morning, honey."

She nods. I head out the door, turn as I hear small footsteps behind me. Bonnie has gotten off the bed and is looking up at me. She snags my arm, pulls me down to her level. Her face is filled with concern.

"What, honey?"

She pats herself, reaches over and pats me. Does this again, insistent. And again, the concern growing on her face. Then I get it. It makes my face flush, my eyes prick with tears. I'm with you, she's saying. I'm only staying here to help Elaina. But I'm with you. She wants to make sure I understand. Yes, Elaina is Mom. But I'm with you.

I don't speak. Instead, I nod in reply and hug her to me before leaving the room. Downstairs, Alan is standing and staring out the window at the coming dusk.

"She's going to be okay, Alan. She wanted me to tell you to stop blaming yourself and that she needs you. Oh, and you have Bonnie for tonight. She refused to leave Elaina."

This seems to perk him up. "Really?"

"Uh-huh. She's being very protective." I poke him in the chest. "You know I sympathize, Alan. You know I do. But you need to get your ass up there and hug your wife." I smile. "Bonnie's got your back."

"Yeah," he says, after a space of time. "You're right. Thanks."

"No problem. And, Alan? If you need time off tomorrow, take it."

His face is somber. "No fucking way, Smoky. They got what they wanted. I'm after those motherfuckers till they're caught or dead." He smiles, and this time, it's a scary smile. "I think they're going to get more than they bargained for."

"Damn right," I reply.

T HE DRIVE BACKfeels lonely. Keenan and Shantz are where they should be, with Bonnie, so I really am alone. It's dark out, and highways at night have a distinct, isolated feel to them. At times in my life this has been a welcome feeling. This isolation is filled with angry thoughts, sadness, and me gripping the steering wheel, imagining it's Jack Jr.'s neck. The moon shines strong. Somewhere in me, I know it's a beautiful light. Tonight, it reminds me of the times I've seen blood pooled in the moonlight. Black and reflective and final.

I ride through the moonlight that reminds me of blood all the way home. I'm pulling into the driveway when my cell phone rings.

"It's James."

I sit straight up. There is something in his voice I've never heard before. "James? What is it?"

His voice is trembling. "Those--those motherfuckers !"

Jack Jr.

"Tell me what happened, James."

I can hear his breathing over the phone. "I got to my mom's house about twenty minutes ago. I was going up to knock on the door when I noticed an envelope was taped to it. It had my name on it. So I opened it up." He takes a deep breath. "It had a note in it, and--and . . ."

"What?"

"A ring. Rosa's ring."

Rosa was James's sister, the one who had died. The one whose grave he was going to visit tomorrow with his mother. A dark understanding is starting to flutter in the back of my mind. "What did the note say, James?"

"Just one line. Rosa, no longer R.I.P. "

I feel a plummeting sensation in my stomach.

James's voice is desperate. "The ring in that envelope, Smoky? We buried her with it. Do you understand?"

The fluttering is becoming noisier, like bats' wings. I don't respond.

"So I called the cemetery. Got hold of security. And they went out and verified it."

"Verified what, James?" I think I know, but I ask because I hope I'm wrong. The bats' wings are in full roar now.

He takes a deep breath. When he speaks, his voice is breaking. "She's gone, Smoky. Rosa. Those fuckers dug up her grave."

I lay my forehead against the steering wheel. The fluttering is silent now. "Oh, James . . ."

"Do you know how old she was when that scumbag murdered her, Smoky? Twenty. Twenty and she was smart and kind and beautiful and it took him three days to kill her. That's what they told me. Three days. You know how long it took my mother to stop crying about it?" Now he screams. "Never!"

I sit up. My eyes are still closed. I know what it is that I hear in James's voice that is so foreign. Grief. Grief and vulnerability. "I don't know what to say. Are you . . . do you want me to come over? What do you want to do?" My words echo how I feel inside. Helpless. There's a long silence, followed by a ragged sigh. "No. My mother's upstairs, curled up and sobbing and pulling at her hair. I need to go to her, I need to . . ." He trails off. "They're doing what they said they were going to do."

I feel empty. "Yeah." I tell him about Elaina.

" Son of a bitch!" he shouts. I can almost feel him struggling to get himself under control. "Motherfucker." More silence. "I'll handle it. Don't come over. I have a feeling you'll be getting another phone call tonight."

My stomach flutters. He said he was going to make each of us lose something. He still has Leo to go.

"I want this scumbag, Smoky. I want him bad."

I've heard these words, in different ways, two other times today. The thought of hearing them again fills me with both anger and despair. I manage to keep my voice even. "Me too, James. Go help your mom. Call me if you need me."

"I won't need you."

So much for grief and vulnerability.

He hangs up and I sit in my car in my driveway, looking up at the moon. For a minute, just a minute, I'm consumed by one of those selfish, self-absorbed moments only life-or-death leadership positions can bring. These people are my responsibility. I feel that I am failing them, but in this selfish moment, I don't worry about their well-being--I only wish that it wasn't my responsibility.

I grip the steering wheel, and I twist it hard.

"It is your responsibility," I whisper, and the selfishness goes away, replaced by white-hot hate.

So I do something I've done before: I scream inside my car, pounding the steering wheel, under the fucking moon. Smoky therapy.

W HEN I GETinside, I dial Leo's cell number. It rings and rings.

"Goddammit, Leo, pick up!" I snarl.

Then he does. His voice sounds tired and dead, and my heart sinks.

"Hello?"

"Leo! Where are you?"

"I'm at the vet with my dog, Smoky."

The normality of this lifts my hopes, for just a moment.

"Someone cut off all his legs. I have to put him down." I stand, gaping. Poleaxed. Then his voice breaks. The clean, poignant break of a china plate hitting brick. "Who would do something like that, Smoky?

I got home and he was there in the living room, trying to . . . trying to . . ." His grief makes him sound like he is gagging, as he finds the words. "Trying to crawl to me. There was blood everywhere, and he was making these awful sounds, like . . . like a baby. Looking at me with those eyes, it was like . . . he looked like he thought he'd done something wrong. Like he was asking me, 'What, what did I do wrong? I'll fix it, just tell me. See? I'm a good dog.' "

Tears track down my cheeks.