Лорел Гамильтон - A Stroke Of Midnight

I dialed Gillett’s number by heart, though his number had changed over the years. I’d always had to memorize it for fear of someone caring enough to look through any address book I might have. I could have saved my worry; Doyle’s reaction had shown plainly that no one had been paying me that close attention. It was a little sad, and a little frustrating. So much wasted effort in hiding from people who weren’t even looking.

I waited for Gillette’s cell phone to ring. I’d promised him that if anyone else ever died in circumstances similar to my father’s, I’d let him know. These weren’t really that similar, but a promise is a promise. I felt half silly and half excited, as if somehow just being able to make this one call would change things. I was over thirty, but part of me was still seventeen and wanted justice. I should have known better by now.

He answered, “Gillett.”

“Hey,” I said.

“Merry?”

“Yes.”

“Are you all right?”

Over the years he’d become protective of me. As if he felt some debt to my dead father to keep me well. If he only knew, but I hadn’t shared all the attempts on my life. The endless duels that made me flee faerie for years and let everyone think I was gone for good.

This was the first time I had spoken to him since I’d resurfaced. “A little worse for wear, but I’m fine.”

“I thought they’d killed you, too, three years ago. Why didn’t you call?”

“Because if you’d spoken my real name near a darkened window the Queen of Air and Darkness would have known. The sound of our conversation would have traveled back to her. It would have endangered you. It would have endangered anyone.”

He sighed over the phone. “And now you’re ‘princess’ again, and looking for a husband. But you didn’t call up just to chat, did you?”

“Have you heard something?”

“A rumor that the reporters left the faerie mound, but are now all gathered in the parking lot. The press conference is over, so why are that many national and international media types hanging around in the middle of a cornfield in Illinois?”

I told him the broad outline of the problem.

“I can be there with a team in less than…”

“No, no team. I’ve already got a few police coming with a forensic unit. You can come, but you can’t bring dozens of agents with you. This happened inside the sithen, not on federal land this time.”

“We could help you.”

“Maybe, or maybe there would just be more humans to get injured. We’ve got a dead reporter, that’s bad enough. We can’t afford to have an FBI agent get killed by one of us.”

“We’ve talked about this for years, Merry. Don’t cut me out now.”

“My father’s murder is sixteen years old; it is secondary here, Raymond. The priority is the new deaths. Hearing your voice now, I’m not sure that would be the case for you.”

“You don’t trust me.” He sounded hurt.

“I’m in line to the throne now, Raymond. The good of the court outweighs personal vengeance.”

“And what would your father say to hear that from you, his daughter?”

“He’d say that I had grown wise. He’d agree with me.” I was wishing I hadn’t called him. I realized that Special Agent Raymond Gillett was part of a child’s wish. I couldn’t afford that kind of wishing, not anymore.

I was suddenly tired, and my arm ached from shoulder to wrist. I turned and leaned against the desk, half sitting on it. It forced Galen farther away from me, and that was fine. He kept his hand playing lightly on the edge of my thigh, moving the skirt back and forth as he petted me. It was comforting, and I needed the comfort.

Doyle was looking at me, and something in his eyes softened his face. I had to look away from the kindness I saw there. I wasn’t sure why such a look from him made my throat grow tight.

“Don’t come, Gillett. I’m sorry I called.”

“Merry, don’t do this, not after almost twenty years.”

“When we’ve solved this one, if I’m still alive and still have the carte blanche in this area, I’ll call you, and we can talk about you coming down. But only if it’s about my father’s death.”

“You don’t think the FBI might be helpful on a double homicide?”

“I don’t know what we’ve got here, Gillett. If we need something fancier than the local lab can handle, I’ll let you know.”

“And maybe I’ll answer the phone, and maybe I won’t.”

“As you like,” I said, and I struggled not to let my voice show how tight my throat felt, how hot my eyes were. “But think on this, Gillett. Did you start all this with a seventeen-year-old child because you felt sorry for me, or because you were angry that the queen cut you out of the investigation? Was it pity that moved you, a desire for justice, or simply anger? You’d show her. You’d solve the case without the queen’s help. You’d use Essus’s daughter to help you.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Then why are you angry with me now? I shouldn’t have called you, but I gave you a promise. A child’s promise to call you if ever a similar murder happened. It isn’t similar in detail, but whoever did it has similar magic at their call. If we solve this, it may get us closer to finding my father’s murderer. I thought you’d like to know.”

“Merry, I’m sorry, it’s…”

“That the murder has been eating at you all these years?” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“I’ll call you if anything pertinent comes up.”

“Call me if you need better forensics than the locals can give you. I can get you DNA results that they can only dream of.”

I had to smile. “I’ll be sure to let Major Walters know that the FBI has such confidence in the locals.”

He gave a dry little laugh. “I’m sorry if I made this harder for you. I tend to get a little obsessed.”

“Good-bye, Gillett.”

“Bye, Merry.”

I hung up and leaned heavier on the desk. Galen held me against him, careful of my hurt arm. “Why didn’t you let Gillett come down?”

I raised my face and looked at him. I searched that open face for some hint that he understood what had just happened. His eyes were green and wide and innocent.

I wanted to cry, needed to cry. I’d called Gillett because the murders had raised ghosts for me. Not real ones, but those emotional pains that you think are gone for good until they just rise again to haunt you, no matter how deep you bury them.

Doyle came to me. “I watch you grow more worthy of being queen every day, Meredith, every minute.” He touched my good arm lightly, as if not sure I wanted to be touched at that moment.

My breath came out in a sharp cry, and I threw myself against his body. He held me, his arms fierce and almost painful. He held me while I cried because he understood some of what it had cost me to let go of childish things.

Barinthus came up to us and put his arms around us both, hugging us to him. I glanced up, and found tears running down his face. “You are more your father’s daughter in this moment than you have ever been.”

Galen hugged us from the other side, so that we were warm and close. But I realized in that moment that Galen, like Gillett, was a child’s wish. They held me, and I wept. Crying didn’t cover it. I wept the last of my childhood away. I was thirty-three years old; it seemed a little late to be letting go of childish things, but some wounds cut us so deep that they stop us. Stop us from letting go, from growing up, from seeing the truth.

I let them all hold me while I cried, through Barinthus cried, too. I let them hold me, but part of me knew that Galen, and only Galen, didn’t understand what was happening. He’d been my closest confidant among the guards. My friend, my first crush, but he’d asked, why didn’t I let Gillett come?