Cody McFadyen: Shadow Man

I clench my teeth, call on that Irish stubbornness, and push through the doors.

They close in slow silence behind me, and I'm trapped for a minute between the marble floor and the high ceiling above. I feel exposed, a rabbit caught in an open field.

I move through the metal detectors of security and present my badge. The guard on duty is alert, with hard, roaming eyes. They flicker a little when he sees the scars.

"Going to say hi to the guys in Death Central and the Assistant Director," I tell him, feeling (for some reason) like I have to tell him something. He gives me a polite smile that says he really doesn't care. I feel even more foolish and exposed and head to the elevator lobby, cursing myself under my breath. I end up in an elevator with someone I don't know, who manages to make me feel even more uncomfortable (if that were possible) by doing a bad job of hiding his sideways glances at my face. I do my best to ignore it, and when we get to my floor, I leave the elevator perhaps a little faster than normal. My heart is pounding.

"Get a grip on yourself, Barrett," I growl. "What do you expect, looking like the hunchback of Notre Dame? Get it together."

Talking to myself works most of the time, and this is no exception. I feel better. I head down the hallway and now I'm in front of the door to what used to be my office. Fear rises again, replacing the nonchalance I had mustered. There are parallels here, I think. I've gone through that door without thinking about it more times than I can count. More times than I've picked up my gun. But I feel a similar fear here, in a more minor key.

The life I have left, I realize, is beyond that door. The people who make up that life. Will they accept me? Or are they going to see a broken piece in a monster mask, glad-hand me, and send me on my way?

Am I going to feel eyes full of pity burning holes in my back?

I can picture this scenario with a clarity that appalls me. I feel panicked. I shoot a nervous glance down the hall. The elevator door is still open. All I have to do is turn on my heel and run. Run and just keep running. Run and run and run and run and run. Fill those flats with sweat and buy a pack of Marlboros and go home and smoke and cackle in the dark. Weep for no reason, stare at my scars, and wonder about the kindness of strangers. This appeals to me with a strength that makes me shiver. I want a cigarette. I want the security of my loneliness and my pain. I want to be left alone so I can just keep losing my mind and--

--and then I hear Matt.

He's laughing.

It's that soft laugh I always loved, a cool breeze of kindness and clarity. Riiiiiight, babe . . . hightailing it away from danger. That's so you. This had been one of his gifts. The ability to chide without ridicule.

"Maybe it's me now," I murmur.

I'm trying to sound defiant, but the quivering chin and sweaty palms make it hard to pull off.

I can feel him smile, gentle and smug and not really there. Damn it.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah . . ." I mutter to the ghost as I reach out and turn the knob.

I push him away in my mind, and I open the door.

I STARE INSIDEfor a moment without entering. My terror is pure and clean and nausea-producing. It occurs to me that this is the core of what I hate the most about my life since the "big bad" happened. The constant uncertainty. One of the qualities I always liked about myself was my decisiveness. It was always simple--decide and do. Now it's: what if what if what if, no yes no maybe, stop go, what if what if what if . . . and, behind it all, I'm afraid. . . .

God, I am afraid. All the time. I wake up afraid, I walk around afraid, I go to sleep afraid. I am a victim. I hate it, I cannot escape it, and I miss the effortless certainty of invulnerability that used to be me. I also know, however much I heal, that that certainty will never return. Never.

"Get a grip, Barrett," I say.

This is the other thing I do now: I wander, without ever going anywhere.

"So change it," I murmur to myself.

Oh yeah--and I talk out loud all the time.

"You one cwazy wabbit, Barrett," I whisper.

One deep breath and I move through the door.

It's not a big office. Just the four of us, desks and computer stations, a small acting conference room, phones. Corkboards covered with photos of death. It looks no different now than when I was here six months ago. But the way I feel, I might as well be walking on the moon. Then I see them. Callie and Alan, backs to me, talking to each other as they point at one of the corkboards. James is there, focused with his usual cold intensity on a file that lays open on the desk in front of him. It's Alan who turns and sees me first. He sees me, and his eyes open wide, his mouth drops, and I am bracing myself for a look of revulsion. He laughs out loud.

"Smoky!"

It is a voice filled with joy, and in that moment, I am saved.

D AMN, HONEY-LOVE,you won't have to dress up for Halloween anymore." This is Callie. What she says is shocking, crass, and unfeeling. It fills me with an easy joy. If she'd done anything else, I probably would have burst into tears.

Callie is a tall, skinny, leggy redhead. She looks like a supermodel. She's one of those beautiful people; staring at her too long is like looking into the sun. She's in her late thirties, has a master's in forensics with a minor in criminology, is brilliant, and lacks any social veneer at all. Most people find her intimidating. Many decide, on first blush, that she's uncaring, maybe even cruel. This couldn't be further from the truth. She is loyal to an extreme, and her integrity and character couldn't be tortured out of her. She is blunt, forever truthful, brutal in her observations, and refuses to play games, political, PR, or otherwise. She would also put herself in front of a bullet for anyone she calls a friend.

One of Callie's most admirable features is the one that's easiest to miss--her simplicity. The face she shows to the world is the only one she has. She doesn't believe in self-importance and has no patience with those who do. This is probably the crux of what confuses those who judge her harshly: If you can't take her poking fun at you, she's not going to lose any sleep over your discomfort. Lighten up or get left behind, because--as she likes to say--"If you can't laugh at yourself, you're of no use to me."

It was Callie who found me in the aftermath of Joseph Sands. I was naked and bleeding, screaming and covered with vomit. She was dressed to kill, as always, but she didn't hesitate to gather me in her arms and hold me while she waited for the ambulance. One of the last things I remember before I passed out was the sight of her beautiful tailored suit, ruined by my blood and tears.

"Callie . . ."

This reproval comes from Alan, quiet, serious, to the point. Alan's way. Alan is a huge, scary-looking African-American. He's not just big, he is gargantuan. He is a mountain with legs. His scowl has caused more than one suspect in an interrogation room to wet himself. The irony, of course, is that Alan is one of the kindest, gentlest people I have ever known. He has a tremendous patience I have always admired and aspire to, and he brings this to our cases. He never tires of going through the evidence, of examining the smallest thing. Nothing bores him when he is tracking a killer. And his eye for detail has broken more than one case. Alan is the oldest of us, in his mid-forties, and he brought ten years of experience as a Los Angeles homicide detective with him when he joined the FBI.

A new voice. "What are you doing here?" If displeasure was a musical instrument, this would be a symphony.

It's said without preamble or apology; blunt, like Callie, but without her humor. This comes from James. We call him Damien behind his back, after the character in The Omen, the son of Satan. He's the youngest of us all, only twenty-eight, and he's one of the most irritating, unlikable people I've ever known. He grates on you, sets your teeth on edge, and infuriates. If I ever want to piss someone off, James is the gas to throw on the fire.