Greg Iles - Dead Sleep

As we walk on, she seems to withdraw into her own thoughts. Then out of the blue she says, “I don’t want to offend you or anything, but I heard during the interview with Laveau, you told her you got raped once. Is that true?”

I feel a flash of temper, knowing the story is probably making the rounds of the field office, but it’s hard to be angry at Wendy, whose curiosity seems part of an eternal quest for self-improvement. “It’s true.”

“I really admire you for speaking up like that, knowing those guys could hear you on the wire.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Does it feel like a long time ago?”

“No.”

She nods. “That’s what I figured.”

“Have you ever had trouble like that?”

“Not that bad. A baseball player got really pushy with me in college once, in the backseat of his car. I waited until he exposed himself, and then I made him regret it.”

“Good for you.”

“Yeah. But something like this, where they snatch you off the street, someone who’s all prepared with a rape kit-”

“We don’t know the victims are being raped,” I remind her.

“Well, right, except for the woman taken from Dorignac’s.”

A wave of heat comes into my cheeks.

“I shouldn’t assume anything about the others from that,” Wendy goes on. “We don’t know for sure the UNSUB took her.”

Her words stop me dead on the walkway. “The woman taken from Dorignac’s grocery was raped?”

Wendy looks confused. “Well, they found semen inside her. She could have just had sex, of course, but I think the opinion of the pathologist was that she was raped.”

As I stand speechless in the wind, a drop of rain touches my face. I had thought the police took DNA samples from the suspects to compare to skin found under the Dorignac’s woman’s fingernails. But they had more than that. And kept it from me. Turning left, I see a gray line of raindrops advancing across the river with the wind, dimpling the waves like soldiers marching over from the Algiers shore.

“I just put my foot in my mouth, didn’t I?” says Wendy. “They didn’t tell you.”

“They didn’t tell me.”

“I guess they didn’t want you to suffer any more than you had to, with your sister and all.”

My rising anger is dwarfed by hurt at John’s betrayal. How could he hold this back from me? But then come images of Jane suffering terror and rape -

“God, I’m in trouble,” Wendy says. But instead of asking me to keep quiet, she says, “They should have told you.”

I turn and continue along the levee despite the rain, which is light and will probably pass quickly, if my memories of New Orleans are accurate.

“You know it’s raining,” says Wendy.

“Yes.”

The tourists and joggers are moving a little faster, but the fishermen stand their ground, knowing the odds favor a quick blowover.

A clattering racket behind us startles Wendy, but it’s only the streetcar. In a few seconds it trundles past us and stops opposite Jackson Square. To our right is the burnt-orange roof of the Cafe du Monde, and the smell of coffee and frying beignets wafts over the levee, making my mouth water and my stomach ache.

“Pavlov’s dog,” I say quietly.

“Can we talk about something personal for a second?” Wendy asks in a hesitant voice.

“I thought we were.”

“This is different.”

I know what’s coming. “Sure,” I tell her, dreading the questions to follow.

“I think John has a thing for you.”

“He does,” I reply.

“And you have a thing for him?”

“Yes.”

As a tall man in a sock cap approaches, she tenses and waits for him to pass. After he does, she looks back over her shoulder until he’s well away.

“Well, I know you know I like him. John knows, too, I think. I mean, he’d have to be blind, I guess. When I feel something for somebody, I’m not very subtle about it.”

“Nobody is, when they really feel something.”

“I guess I’m just not what he’s looking for,” she says, her voice remarkably free of self-pity. “I mean, I know he likes me and everything, but… you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean. It’s never easy.”

She shrugs. “The weird thing is, I’m not jealous of you. If it was another woman from the office, I probably would be.” She kicks a small rock lying on the bricks. “Who am I kidding? I know I would be. I’d be comparing myself to her and asking why I fell short. But you’re different.”

Ahead on our right, there’s a guitarist playing blues on a bench. A woman stands behind him, holding an umbrella over his head to protect the instrument from the rain. A knot of people listens with appreciation.

“Probably not as different as you think,” I tell her. “I’m just a woman.”

“No, you are. So many women I know – professional women – they’re struggling for respect all the time. They’re so conscious of how they’re being treated, constantly looking for respect, that they’re only using seventy percent of their brains for their job. Sometimes I feel like that. But you just go about your business like you never even think about it. You just expect respect, and you get it.”

“I’m older than you are. Got a lot more miles on me.”

“That’s it,” she says. “Not the age, but the miles. The fact that you’ve been all over the world, covered wars and stuff. Seen combat. I’ve never seen John or the SAC act the way they act around you – with another woman, I mean. Not even with female ASACs.”

“You’ll get there. It’s not any great watershed moment, though. One day you just realize you’re part of the game instead of a spectator. You’re on the inside, and there’s no getting back out again, even if you want to.”

“I’ll be glad when that day comes.”

“Don’t be in too much of a hurry.”

“I think about Robin Ahrens sometimes. She was the first female FBI agent to be killed in the line of duty. It happened in eighty-five. They were trying to arrest an armored car thief, and things got confused. She was shot by a male agent who mistook her for a bad guy.”

“You’re curious about what action is like, aren’t you?”

“I guess so. I mean, being on the SWAT team and all. You wonder about the real thing.”

“Robin’s story is a textbook lesson. Combat is total confusion from the first shot. Combat vets all say the same thing. Remember your training, and don’t try to be a hero. That’s pretty much the bible, right there.”

“I just want to do my job,” Wendy says. “Not mess up some stupid way and get someone hurt or killed.”

“You won’t. Your love life is more complicated than your job ever will be.”

She laughs ruefully. “You’re probably right about that. Well, anyway, I know why John is attracted to you, and it’s okay. You guys don’t have to hide from me or anything.”

I wonder if I could ever summon the selfless goodness that seems to flow from this girl. Probably not. I touch her forearm. “Thanks, Wendy. And I haven’t slept with him yet, if you’re wondering.”

“I wasn’t asking that,” she says quickly. Then she bites her lip. “Though maybe I was wondering. A little.”

We both laugh, and suddenly the day does not seem quite so gray, or the rain so cold. I wave to the guitarist as we pass him, and then we’re at the artillery park and Jackson Square. Just across Decatur wait the tourist carriages, their horses standing wearily in the rain, with a Lucky Dog man lifting wieners from his steaming cart nearby. On St. Ann, the card tables of tarot readers line the cement, and sidewalk artists advertise their services with portraits of Barbra, the Duke, the Beatles, and Jerry Garcia.