Cody McFadyen: Shadow Man

I have learned to need only one truth over the years, and it provides all the order I require: Caught is caught and caught is good. Period. Alan's cell phone rings. "Yeah," he says. His eyes close, and I am fearful, but they open again, and I can see his relief. "Thanks, Leo. I appreciate you calling me." He hangs up. "She's not awake yet, but they've upgraded her condition from critical to stable. Still in ICU, but the surgeon told Leo specifically that death wasn't on the table anymore, unless something really unexpected happens."

"Callie'll pull through. She's too damn stubborn," I say. James says nothing, and silence rules again. We keep driving.

"Here it is," Jenny murmurs.

The home is old and just a little shabby. The yard's uncared for but not quite dead. The whole place has the same feel: on its way out but not yet gone. We get out of the car and walk up to the door. It opens before we can knock. Patricia Connolly looks old, and tired. As tired as she looks, her eyes are awake.

With fear.

"You must be the police," she says.

"Yes, ma'am," I respond. "As well as members of the FBI." I show her my credentials and introduce myself and the others. "Can we come in, Mrs. Connolly?"

Her brows knit together as she looks at me. "You can as long as you don't call me Mrs. Connolly."

I hide my puzzlement. "Certainly, ma'am. What would you prefer I call you?"

"Ms. Connolly. Connolly is my name, not my late husband's. May he burn in hell." She opens the door wide for us to enter. "Come on inside."

The interior of the house is clean and neat, but devoid of personality. As though it is cared for only through force of habit. It feels twodimensional. Patricia Connolly ushers us into her living room, indicating for us to take seats. "Do any of you want anything?" she asks. "I only have water and coffee, but you're welcome to either."

I look around at my crew, who all shake their heads in the negative.

"No thank you, Ms. Connolly. We're fine."

She nods, looking down at her hands. "Well, then, why don't you tell me why you're here."

She continues to look at her hands as she says this, unable to meet my eyes. I decide to follow my instincts. "Why don't you tell me why I'm here, Ms. Connolly?"

Her head snaps up, and I see I was right. Her eyes glint with guilt. Not ready to talk yet, though. "I have no idea."

"You're lying, " I say. I'm startled at the harshness of my own voice. Alan's face registers surprise.

I can't help it. I'm done fucking around. I am filled to the brim, and the anger inside me is overflowing. I lean forward, catching her eye. I stab a finger at her. "We're here about your son, Ms. Connolly. We're here about a mother, a friend of mine, raped and gutted like a deer. About her daughter, tied to her mother's corpse for three days." My voice is rising. "We're here about a man who tortures women. About an agent, another friend of mine, laying in the hospital, maybe crippled for life. We're--"

She jumps up, hands against her head. "Stop it!" she screeches. Her hands drop to her sides. Her head falls forward. "Just . . . stop it." As suddenly as she has reacted, she deflates. It's like watching an air balloon sink to earth. She sits back down. Patricia sighs, a long exhalation that seems to signal the letting go of something older than this moment. "You think you know what you're here about," she says, looking at me, "but you don't. You think you're here about those poor women." She looks at Don Rawlings. "Or about that poor young lady from twenty-some years ago. They are part of it. But you're here about something a lot older than both of those things."

I could interrupt her, tell her about the cow flesh in the jar and Jack Jr., but something tells me to let her speak at her own pace.

"It's funny how you miss the most important things in people sometimes. Even in people you love. Doesn't seem fair. If a man is cruel inside, someone who's going to turn into a wife beater or worse, there should be something you can see that would tell you that. Don't you think?"

"I've thought the same thing many times, ma'am," I reply. "Doing what I do."

"I suppose you would," she says as she regards me. "Then you also know that's not how it works. Not at all. In fact, many times it's just the opposite. The ugliest people can be the most decent. The charmer can be a killer." She shrugs. "Appearance is no index, no index at all.

"Of course, when you're young, you don't worry about things like that. I met my husband Keith when I was eighteen years old. He was twenty-five and he was one of the most handsome men I had ever seen. And that's no exaggeration. Six feet tall, dark hair, face of an actor. When he took his shirt off . . . well, let's just say he had the body to go with the face." She smiles. A sad smile. "When he showed an interest in me, I was bowled over from the word go . Like many young people, I was convinced my life was boring. He was handsome and exciting. Just what the doctor ordered." She pauses her narrative, looking at all of us. "This was down in Texas, by the way. I'm not native to California." Her eyes look faraway. "Texas. Flat and hot and boring.

"Keith pursued me, though it wasn't a marathon pursuit. More of a sprint. I made him run just far enough to let him know I wasn't completely pliable. I didn't know it at the time, but he saw through me like I was made from glass. He always knew he had me. He just put up with it, went through the motions, because it amused him. He could have grabbed me and told me to come with him right away, and I would have said yes. He knew it, but he took me on the requisite few dates anyway.

"He was good at what he did. Good at pretending not to be a monster. He was a perfect gentleman and as romantic as anything I'd ever seen in the movies or read in the books. Kind, romantic, handsome--I thought I had found my perfect man. The one every young woman is certain they deserve and are destined to find." Her voice and smile are both bitter.

"Now, you have to understand, my home life was difficult. My daddy had a short temper. It's not as if he beat on my mother every day, or even every week. But it happened every month. I'd been watching him backhand her or punch her for as long as I could remember. He never laid a hand on me, but in later years I understood that this wasn't because he didn't want to hit me. It was because he knew if he touched me, it would be for a reason other than violence." She raises her eyebrows. "You understand?"

Unfortunately, I do. "Yes," I say.

"I think Keith understood too. I'm sure of it. One night, just a month after he met me, he asked me to marry him."

She sighs, remembering. "He picked the perfect night to do it. There was a full moon, the air was cool without being cold. Beautiful. He brought me a rose and told me he was going to California. He wanted me to come with him, to marry him. He said he knew I needed to get away from my daddy, and he loved me, and this was our chance. Of course I said yes."

She closes her eyes and is silent for a span of moments. I get the idea she is remembering that as the point where she took a wrong turn and plunged into darkness, forever.

"We left four days later, in secret. I didn't say good-bye to my parents. I packed up what little I had and snuck off in the middle of the night. I never saw either of them again.

"That was an exciting time. I felt free. Like life had gone my way. I had a handsome man who wanted to marry me, I'd escaped the dead end that I'd been born to, I was young and headed toward the future."

Her voice drops to a monotone. "It took us five days to get to California. We got married two days later. And the night of our honeymoon is when I found out that the future I had headed into was a place made in hell."