William Bernhardt - Dark Eye

“The kid was a jerk.”

“Oh, well, in that case, you should’ve just killed him.”

“Chief-”

“They’ve been threatening to sue the department, something that would decimate our already strained budget, not to mention create some incredibly bad press.”

“If there’s anything I can do-”

“But there isn’t. You created a big shitpile and left me to clean it up.”

I had to take a step back. O’Bannon was way angrier than I had anticipated. I’d never seen him like this, and I’d known him even longer than I’d been on the force. His left eye was twitching, for God’s sake, and the little purple veins on the bulb of his nose were throbbing.

“Of course, I’ve had to deal with the IA boys, who were all over us, calling for an investigation, policy changes. The usual bull. I tried to point out that you were not exactly acting ex cathedra when the incident occurred-although apparently in your drunken stupor you thought you were-but that didn’t placate them. They’re demanding prompt action, which is just IA code for ‘throw us a scapegoat.’ ”

“And I’m the scapegoat.”

“What’d you want me to do, pin it on the kid you creamed?”

“So you just fired me. While I was seeking medical attention.”

“Technically, I didn’t fire you. Internal Affairs did.”

“Bastards.”

“IA wanted to go the whole dishonorable-discharge route-put a permanent stain on your record that would guarantee you couldn’t get hired as a security guard at Piggly Wiggly. But I told them you were dealing with personal problems and had a chemical dependency and a lot of other crap, so they just fired you and left it at that.”

“Thanks so much.”

“Don’t thank me. I didn’t do it for you. I did it for your dad. He earned my loyalty.”

I can’t pretend that one didn’t kick me in the teeth pretty hard. My father was a cop. He and O’Bannon had been peers. I think they were even partners for a while.

“Chief-please. Listen to me.”

He pushed my hands away. “Pulaski, we’ve got nothing to say.”

“I need to work right now.”

“They’re hiring at McDonald’s.”

I gestured toward the coffin. “Looks like you’ve got a weirdie on your hands. Some kind of psycho?”

“God, I hope so. Maybe if we have a real case to work, IA will ease up on my former behaviorist’s drunken brawls.”

“You’re going to need someone with expertise.”

“I’ve promoted Granger to homicide detective.”

“Granger couldn’t detect his ass with both hands.”

O’Bannon leaned right into my face. “But you know what? When I get back to the office tonight, he’ll be sober.”

They found Helen. Just as he’d planned.

He was experiencing so many emotions at once, it took a moment to sort through them, to catalog them in his brain. There was a calm, yes, definitely a peace that came from knowing it had begun. His actions had begun to concatenate. He had taken the prophet’s nebulous meliorisms and converted them into a concrete plan of action. There was no chance of turning back, losing faith, rethinking the agenda. It was done, and because it was done, nothing would ever be the same.

But he couldn’t deny that he also felt a certain disappointment. Did anyone appreciate what he had conceived? Of course not. Who could appreciate how dramatically their lives would soon be changed, irrevocably? What had begun with Helen would soon affect every soul on this earthly plane. Helen, thy beauty is to me / Like those Nicean banks of yore…

He continued observing the busy proceedings in the ballroom; his security uniform gave him an entrance pass to anywhere he wanted to go. So much energy, but so little of any importance being accomplished. They would not be among those who understood, these poor functionaries charged with an impossible task. Not a one of them.

Except perhaps…

He watched the woman, the tall one, the one most of the others studiously avoided. What had she done to make herself such a pariah? he wondered. He sensed that he himself might be more welcome than she was at the moment. And yet there was something special about her, something he sensed, something he felt in his heart.

He watched as she approached the remains of dear Helen. The others had obsessed over her shaved head-still did, in fact. He could well imagine what they were thinking. Obsessive-compulsive, perhaps. Organized nonsocial, the shrinks would proclaim. Woman-hater, the chief was probably grumping. Fools. Children.

But not the tall one. Her eyes had already moved to the torn earlobes. Then the damaged fingernails. She knew instinctively what was important. What was telling.

She was strikingly attractive-tall, slender, athletic. Her face seemed drawn, strained, but her features were sound. And she had hair the color of his totem.

But there was more than that. Her eyes.

They were not the same. One was darker than the other. The left was a smoky gray, but the right was pure ebon.

He closed his eyes. Now all my hours are trances; / And all my nightly dreams / Are where thy dark eye glances…

Her presence here was no accident. She had been sent to him.

She was part of the plan.

Could it be she who would share his dream? That he might work in solitude no longer?

No, Ginny, I am not being unfaithful. But it’s hard to be alone always. So hard…

He opened his eyes and peered all the more intently at the woman. She was older than his usual; she could not be an offering. But why not a colleague? Poe had taken a young girl for his bride, but he had chosen an older woman for his companion, his true soul mate. Maria Clemm had been with him longer than his child wife, and in the end, she had been far more important to him.

He gazed longingly at her eyes again, wondering at their importance. And this time, he saw more than just their color. There was pain in those eyes. She had been hurt, this one. Scarred. She was still reeling. Trying to find her place in a world that had turned against her.

She needed him.

His shift was over. One quick stop at the dentist’s office, and then he could return his attentions to the new offering. Darling Annabel. But all the while he walked and later drove, he thought about the woman he had seen in the gallery, the one with the hair of the raven. How could he reach out to her? How could he make contact? A blessing such as this could not be ignored.

I tried to give the IOP classes a chance. I really did. I played Dr. Coutant’s game. But it didn’t take long to realize that this wasn’t going to be helpful.

As I predicted, it was mostly a big group therapy session run by two former users, neither of whom was remotely qualified to lead a big group therapy session. They’d probe with their little questions, trying to get people to talk. I was willfully noncooperative. I couldn’t relate to anything anyone was saying, most of which was incredibly stupid. As a trained psychologist, I resented seeing these nudniks turn therapy into Ted Mack’s Original Amateur Hour.

Okay, so I was the only one in the group with a college degree. I wasn’t going to be snotty about it. I’ve never had any trouble mixing with people from all walks of life. And I remembered Dr. Coutant saying that intellectuals rarely did well in these programs. Does that mean they’re only successful with dunderheads? People who buy into anything anyone tells them? At any rate, I had a hard time relating to the travails of guys working on the loading dock making eight bucks an hour who got hooked on street drugs mostly out of boredom because it wasn’t football season and there was nothing on television. And I detested hearing people whine about their personal problems, most of which didn’t amount to a hill of beans.