Cody McFadyen - Abandoned

“And did you?” I asked. “Did you ever find that same sound again?”

He shook his head, wistful. “Close,” he said. “Very close, sometimes. But never the same.”

It took another ten minutes to complete the interview, and I was glad when it was done. I’d gotten what I wanted. Now I’d get to walk out of that place, while Bill—he of the belly and the horn-rims and the big false smile—would not. He’d die in a cage. Not enough by far, but it would have to do.

“Come on,” he said to me, as I was turning to leave. “Tell me something about myself.”

I frowned. “Sorry?”

He shrugged. “You’ve read everything about me, heard everything. I’ve answered all your questions, filled out all your forms. So? You’re the expert. What can you tell me about me?”

I saw the real desire in his eyes. I’d seen it before in the eyes of these men. It was one of those injections of humanity, a shade of gray where you’d prefer just black and white. Their own misery was their biggest secret. Why? they wanted to know. Why am I the way I am?

I wanted to hurt him with my words. To say something so insightful that it would shatter him. The problem was, there was nothing revelatory about Bill Keats.

“You were excited by having sex with your mother but were deeply ashamed of that. Your wife reminds you of your sister, which is why you married her and why you probably never slept with her. Your victims reminded you of your mother, which is why you killed them.” I paused, the last thing I was to say sliding in place like a puzzle piece. “You overeat because you disgust yourself and are only comfortable seeing something disgusting in the mirror.”

It was the last thing that cut him the deepest. I saw it in his whole body. The way he cowered for a moment, but only a moment. His hands clenched into two fists. They returned to their relaxed state on their stomach perch, and the benign smile found its way back to his mouth, but the effect was ruined.

“Good-bye, Mr. Keats,” I said. He didn’t speak again.

I stand here now, in the hospital, watching this unknown woman on the gurney. I don’t know her, not really, but I do know the man who had her. I’ve seen his kind again and again. I know his eyes without ever having seen his face. And it bothers me.

It bothers me that I have a better idea of who he is than of who she is.

“Well, this is a fine kettle,” Callie exclaims.

Sam is on his cell phone a few yards away.

“Changing your plane tickets?” I ask her, nodding toward him.

She makes a face. “Work call, honey-love. Lord knows how that’s going to end up.”

Callie calls everyone “honey-love,” often to their great annoyance. Sam flips his phone shut and comes back over to us. His face is serious.

“That was Hickman,” he says to Callie. “There’s a situation.”

“I thought Hickman was running things,” Callie protests. “What was he going to do about this ‘situation’ when we were in Bora-Bora?”

“Well, we’re not in Bora-Bora, honey. I called him, he didn’t call me.” He glances around, taking in Alan, James, Tommy, and me. “Are you really telling me you think we’re hopping the next plane?”

She pouts, which elicits a roll of the eyes from James, who is watching. “That’s hardly the point, Samuel.”

He takes her hands in his and brings them to his lips. “It’s just a hostage scenario, Calpurnia. It’ll keep me busy until you sort this out.”

She searches his eyes. “And if this doesn’t sort out? If it turns into something that requires canceling the honeymoon altogether?”

He smiles. “We knew we were marrying each other’s jobs too. This is who we are.”

She purses her lips. “Fine. Go play guns with the boys. But don’t get shot, and I expect a honeymoon-level performance tonight, regardless of circumstance.”

“That’s never a problem,” he growls.

“Okay, then, Husband. Off you go.”

He kisses her on the lips, hard. “Bye, Wife.” He trots off down the hallway.

Callie flaps her hands in her face, pantomiming the need to cool herself off. “Goodness! That man knows how to get my furnace burning.”

“Cool your jets, Jezebel,” I say, smiling.

James exhales in a noisy, exasperated sigh. I turn to him with an inquiring look on my face. “You have something to add?”

“Why are we here? Just because some woman shows up at Callie’s wedding screaming doesn’t make it our concern.”

“Your compassion is touching, as always,” Alan says.

James ignores him. “Our mandate doesn’t cover us picking up random cases.”

“It’s not random,” I say.

James frowns. “How’s that?”

I pull the note from my pocket and show it to them. I tell them about the text message.

“Great,” Alan mutters, handing it back to me. “Follow the line of inquiry. Another one who likes to play games.”

“Think about it, James. She was dropped off at a wedding filled with FBI and other law enforcement personnel. Do you really think that was a coincidence? She’s a message.”

He shrugs. “Even so. We don’t mobilize for every threatening letter that appears in the mail either.”

“She’s not a letter, honey-love,” Callie says. “She’s a person.”

He waves a hand dismissively. “Different form, same intent. My point stands.”

“I can argue its possibility as a direct threat against us, as well as the obvious kidnapping,” I say. “That would put it under our purview.”

“Semantics.”

I smile. “Ah, but I’m the boss, which isn’t just semantics, James. If I want to make the argument, I will.”

A sucking-lemons sour expression appears on his face and stays there. “What’s going to be the deciding factor on you making that argument?” he asks.

“What she has to say.” I talk seriously now, pushing all banter aside. “Think about it, James. We’ve seen this kind of thing before. Combine that with the note and ask yourself: What do you think the chances are that she was his first? Or that, if she was, she’ll be his last?”

The sour expression is replaced by something more contemplative. I’ve gotten his wheels turning. “Fine,” he mutters, walking away.

“He’s our rock, in his own way,” Callie says, looking at James.

“How do you figure?” I ask.

“He’s uncaring and unthinking. As constant as the wind.”

“Good point.”

Tommy approaches. “Sorry to interrupt, but I was thinking about going to pick up Bonnie. This isn’t really my show.”

“You’ll take her home?”

“And feed her,” he says, smiling.

I grab his tuxedo lapels and pull him down to me. I plant a kiss on his lips. “That’d be really great.”

“Okay, then.” He extricates himself from my grasp and leans over to give Callie an unexpected kiss on the cheek.

“What was that for?” she asks, startled.

“Congratulations,” he says. “I wanted to be the first to say it. And don’t forget.”

“Forget what?”

He jerks a thumb toward the room where they’re working on our Jane Doe. “That that’s not what you should remember about today.”

He smiles and saunters off. I watch him go, wistful and a little horny. Gallantry in men can have that effect on me.

“Nice guy,” Callie says.

“Yes, he is.”

I know he’ll go and get Bonnie and take her home and cook her something delicious. They’ll probably watch TV together or play a board game. Or perhaps they’ll both read, enjoying each other’s proximity.

I’d forgotten what it was like to have a partner in life. Tommy’s been there all along, it’s not like his support is a new thing, but it hits me now at an oblique angle. Life is about inertia. The necessities of the day to day pull us along, against our will or otherwise. The alarm clock wakes us, the child needs to be dressed and fed. We have to down enough coffee to be awake and alert, and we need to look presentable (more so if you’re a woman), all the while checking the watch or the clock on the wall. If it all moves perfectly, we fulfill these obligations with time to spare.