Kathleen Creighton - Memory of Murder

“Right here.” Carl took a folded sheet of paper out of his shirt pocket and gave it to Alan. Alan took it and put it in his own pocket.

Alan nodded toward the place where an ambulance was parked next to the curb a little farther down the street. He could see Lindsey sitting in the open back of the ambulance, talking to a paramedic, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. He hadn’t had a chance to talk to her since Carl and the lab and medical crews had arrived, having removed himself from the investigation due to his own personal involvement in the case.

“How is she?” he asked Carl now, keeping his tone carefully impersonal.

Carl, understanding, did the same. “She’s okay. Negative for gun shot residue-looks like a pretty straightforward case of suicide. They’ve been treating her for shock.” He paused, let out a breath. “Small wonder.”

Alan picked up the evidence bag. “You get a chance to read this?”

Carl shook his head. “Just the first part. Wish I could have read more of it. I have an idea once the Feebs take custody of this case, that’s the last anybody’s going to see of that document for a while.” He paused, then added, “Helluva thing, huh?

“Yeah,” Alan said.

“Wonder why he did it-writing everything down like that. You know?”

“He did it for her, ” Alan said heavily. “He hoped she’d never have to read it. But if it ever came out-the truth-he wanted her to understand.”

“How many others do you suppose there are-people like Merrill? My God-back in the fifties and sixties, there was all this paranoia about ‘spies among us’-wild tales, I always thought. Now, turns out it was true.” He shook his head again, in a kind of wonderment. “Didn’t anybody ever think about what happened to all those spies when the country and the cause they worked for suddenly ceased to exist?”

Alan snorted softly. “Well, I guess we know what happened to one of ’em.”

Carl stared at the house, where the people responsible for sorting out tragedies and assigning blame and responsibility for them were still going about their business. “What were they supposed to do? Pack up and go home?” He looked back at Alan. “Except…home wasn’t there anymore. It’s here .”

Alan didn’t say anything, and they stood together in the night, under the floodlights, gazing at the activity all around them. Then Carl said without turning, “They’re probably about done with her. Why don’t you take her home?”

Alan looked at his partner. He felt tired, suddenly, more tired than he’d ever felt in his life, that he could remember. And at the same time, oddly wired, as if there was a low-voltage current running just under his skin.

Carl took the evidence bag with the manila envelope from Alan’s hand. “Go on,” he said. “I got this covered. No need for you to stick around tonight.”

Alan watched him walk back up the driveway toward the house. After a moment he took the folded piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it, read what was written there, then folded it again and put it back in his pocket. Then he straightened up and walked down the driveway, down the sidewalk to where Lindsey was.

Alan unlocked her door for her, then stepped in and took a quick look around before standing aside to let her go in ahead of him. He always did that. Force of habit, Lindsey thought; he probably wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

She walked slowly across the tiled entry and stepped into her living room, which always before had given her a sense of warmth and welcome. Now the room seemed only vaguely familiar to her, like a room in a house she’d maybe visited once or twice. Feeling desperately weary, she turned to look at Alan, who had closed the door behind him and dropped the key onto the table in the entry, and stood now, watching her, hands in his trouser pockets.

“You’re not going to leave me alone, are you?” she asked, smiling a little.

“Not unless you want me to,” he said gravely.

She snorted, and after a moment said, “Well, I’m not about to beg.”

“You don’t have to beg,” he said. “Obviously. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, you’re here-or rather… there . Which is fine, if that’s where you want to be, because like I said, I’m not going to-” As she was rattling on he was moving toward her, and before she could finish he’d gathered her into his arms, and her world once again became a warm and safe place.

He smelled so good…so clean. After a while she expelled a sigh against his shirtfront and murmured, “You must think me terribly needy.”

“I don’t.”

“Hmm…right.” She pushed away from him and looked down at the jacket someone-one of the EMTs, maybe-had given her to put on over her blood-stained clothes. It was way too big and covered the worst of it, even on her pants. She’d washed her hands after they’d tested her for gunshot residue, but she still felt sticky. And the smell…She touched her nose with the back of her hand and gazed around at nothing as she fought back a wave of nausea. “Um…can I get you anything? Some coffee?”

“You don’t need to wait on me,” he said.

She knew, without looking at him, that his eyes would have the softness that had first appealed to her when he’d spoken so gently to her mother. But it wasn’t the kind of softness she wanted now.

“Yes,” she snapped, “I do.” While she talked she was moving again, just…moving, barely knowing where. Then she was in the kitchen, closing the curtains across the glass patio doors, opening cupboards, closing them again.

She felt his hands on her arms, turning her. He pulled out one of the stools beside the counter and sat on it, then drew her onto his lap.

“I need to do…something,” she said.

“Yes, you do,” he said, “but there are better things.”

“Like what? Oh-I guess I should take a shower,” she said, answering her own question.

“That’s one,” Alan said, nodding.

“I knew it-I stink.”

“You don’t.”

“Liar.” She’d stiffened, and was trying to get off his lap, but he only settled her more closely against him, one hand coming to guide her head firmly into the curve of his neck and shoulder.

“You don’t stink,” he said, “but if you did, I wouldn’t care.”

She went still, and for a long time lay against him listening to the sound of his heartbeat and the words he’d spoken. They seemed to rumble around in her head like some sort of distant and continuous thunder. Finally, she lifted her head so she could look at his face, and said, “Wow. That’s…wow.”

She touched his cheek…laid her hand along the side of his face, feeling the prickle of his beard against her palm. His eyes gazed steadily back at her. She stroked her thumb across his lips, and they parted slightly. A shiver ran through her, and, to her wonderment, through him, too.

“I thought you said this was a bad idea,” she whispered.

His lips curved in a wry smile. “It’s growing on me.”

Laughter…pleasure…two things she’d thought she’d never experience again…bubbled deep inside her. She stirred a little and said with a tiny hiccup of laughter, “That’s not all that’s growing.”

A chuckle shook his chest. “I know. What can I say?” He kissed her forehead and drew her head back down onto his shoulder. Then he said huskily, “But this isn’t about sex. I can just hold you all night long, if that’s what you want.”

She slipped off his lap and turned to look at him. “I would be very disappointed if you did that,” she said gravely.

He unfolded himself and rose slowly from the stool. “Why is that?”

“What do you mean, Why? Because I would very much like you to make love to me. But like I said, I won’t b-”