John Connolly - The Killing Kind

She stuck her tongue out at him.

“You're early,” I said.

“You sound disappointed. I disturb a conversation on football or monster trucks?”

“Stereotyping,” I replied. “And you a psychologist.”

We talked for a time, then crossed the street to Anago at the Lenox and spoke about nothing and everything for a couple of hours over venison and beef and oven roast salmon. Then, when the coffee arrived and while the other three sipped Armagnacs, I told them about Grace Peltier, Jack Mercier, and the death of Yossi Epstein.

“And you think these old guys are right, that Grace Peltier didn't kill herself?” asked Angel when I had finished.

“Things just don't fit. Mercier could probably put pressure on the investigation through Augusta, but that would draw attention to himself and he doesn't want that.”

“Which is why he hired you,” said Angel. “To stir things up.”

“Maybe,” I replied, but I felt that there was more to it than that, although I couldn't say what.

“So what do you think happened to Grace?” asked Rachel.

“Speculating, I'd say that Marcy Becker might have been the other person in the car with Grace for most of her trip north. But Marcy Becker is missing, and she left in enough of a hurry to forget a pack of cigarettes that was probably sitting on the dashboard in front of her.”

“And maybe left her bag of coke as well,” said Angel.

“That's possible, but I don't think so. The coke looks like a plant, a way of making Grace appear a little less clean than she was. Drugs, pressure of study, takes her own life with a gun that seems to have popped up out of nowhere.”

“What was the piece?” he asked.

“Smith amp; Wesson Saturday night special.”

Angel shrugged. “Not hard to lay your hands on one of those, you know who to ask.”

“But I don't think Grace Peltier would have known who to ask. According to her father, she didn't even like guns.”

“Do you think Marcy Becker could have killed her?” asked Rachel.

I toyed with my water glass. “Again, it's possible, but they were friends and it hardly seems likely that this girl could frame a pretty good imitation of a suicide. If I had to guess-and Lord knows, I've done enough of that already-I'd say that Marcy Becker might have seen something, possibly whoever killed her friend, while she was away from the car for some reason. And if I can figure out that Grace wasn't alone in the car for most of her journey, then someone else can figure it out too.”

“Which means you got to find Marcy Becker,” said Louis.

“And talk to Carter Paragon, whose secretary says that Grace never showed for their meeting.”

“And how does Epstein's death fit into all this?”

“I don't know, except that he and Mercier shared legal advisers and Mercier obviously knew Epstein well enough to bring him out to his house and hang a picture of him on his wall.”

Finally, I told them about Al Z and Harvey Ragle, and Mr. Pudd and the woman who had accompanied him to my house.

“You telling us he poisoned you with his business card?” said Angel incredulously.

Even I was embarrassed by the possibility, but I nodded. “I got the sense that he had come to see me because that was what was expected of him, not because he thought that I'd actually back off,” I explained. “The card was part of that, a means of goading me to take action, just like letting me see that I was being watched.”

Louis looked at me from over the top of his glass. “Man wanted to take a look at you,” he said quietly. “See what he was up against.”

“I waved my gun at him,” I replied. “He went away.”

Louis's eyebrow rose a notch. “Told you you'd be glad of that gun someday.”

But he didn't smile when he said it, and I didn't smile either.

Rachel and I walked back to her apartment after dinner, holding hands but not speaking, content simply to be close to each other. We talked no further of Grace Peltier or the case. When we were inside her bedroom I slipped off my shoes and lay on her bed, watching her move through the soft yellow glow of her nightlight. Then she stood before me and removed a small wrapped package from the larger Neiman Marcus bag.

“Is that for me?” I asked.

“Kind of,” she replied.

She tore open the package to reveal a tiny white lace bra and panties, an even more delicate suspender belt, and a pair of sheer silk stockings.

“I don't think they'll fit me,” I said. “In fact, I'm not even sure that they'll fit you.”

Rachel pouted, unzipped her skirt, and let it fall to the ground, then slowly began to unbutton her shirt. “Don't you even want me to try?” she whispered.

Call me weak, but stronger men than I would have buckled under that kind of pressure.

“Okay,” I said hoarsely as the blood left my head and headed south for the winter.

Later that night I lay beside her in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the city beyond the window. I thought she was asleep, but after a time she brushed her head against my chest and I felt her eyes upon me.

“Penny for them,” she said.

“I'm holding out for more.”

“Penny and a kiss.” She placed her lips softly against mine. “It's Grace Peltier, isn't it?”

“Her, the Fellowship, Pudd,” I replied. “It's everything.”

I turned to her and found the whites of her eyes.

“I think I'm afraid, Rachel.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Afraid of what I might do, of what I might have to do.”

Her hand reached out to me, a white ghost moving through the void of the night. It traced the sockets of my eyes, the bones at my cheeks, following the lineaments of the skull beneath the skin.

“Afraid of what I've done in the past,” I concluded.

“You are a good man, Charlie Parker,” she whispered. “I wouldn't be with you if I didn't believe that.”

“I've done bad things. I don't want to do them any longer.”

“You did what you had to do.”

I gripped her hand tightly and felt her palm rest itself against my temple, the fingers lightly brushing my hair.

“I did more than that,” I answered.

It seemed that I was floating in a black place, with endless night above and below me, and only her hand was stopping me from falling. She understood, for her body moved closer against me and her legs wrapped around mine as if to tell me that if I was to fall, then we would fall together. Her chin burrowed into my neck and she was quiet for a time. In the silence, I could feel the weight of her thoughts.

“You don't know that the Fellowship was responsible for her death, or for anyone else's,” she said at last.

“No, I don't,” I admitted. “But I sense that Mr. Pudd is a violent man, and maybe something worse. I could feel it when he was close, when he touched me.”

“And violence begets violence,” whispered Rachel.

nodded. “I haven't fired a gun in almost a year, Rachel, not even on a range. I hadn't even held one in my hand until yesterday. But I have a sense that, if I involve myself further in this, I may be forced to use it.”

“Then walk away. Give Jack Mercier his money back and let someone else deal with it.” But even as she said it, I knew that she didn't mean it; that in a way, I was testing myself through her and she understood that.

“You know I can't do that. Marcy Becker could be in trouble, and I think someone murdered Grace Peltier and tried to cover it up. I can't let that slide.”

She moved in even closer to me, and her hand moved across the cheek and my lips. “I know you'll do what's right, and I think you'll try to avoid violence if you can.”

“And if I can't?”

But she didn't respond. After all, there was only one answer.