Cody McFadyen - The Face of Death

Cathy's voice continues, hushed.

"It didn't register, what he was saying, but also, in a way, it did. So I did what any self-respecting detective would do. I begged. I begged like a baby. I--I wet myself."

I hear the shame in her voice and I recognize it.

"He wants you to feel bad about that," I say. "To be ashamed of your fear, like it means something."

Her mouth twists. "I know. Most of the time I get that. It's hard sometimes."

"Yeah."

This seems to calm her a little. She continues.

"Then he showed me something. He told me he was putting it in the drawer of my nightstand. 'A few years from now, someone is going to come knocking, asking questions. When they do you can tell them your story and give them what's in the drawer. Give it to them and tell them: "Symbols are only symbols." ' "

I struggle with my impatience. What? What's in the drawer? And what the hell is that supposed to mean, "Symbols are only symbols"?

"I don't remember most of it. I get flashes, sometimes, big and bright, almost unreal. Like a painting with too much white in it. I remember the sounds more than the pain. Thudding noises, deep vibrations inside my skull. I guess that was him beating on my head with the pipe. I remember tasting blood, and thinking that something really bad was happening, but I wasn't sure what. He whipped my feet so bad I couldn't use them for a month." Gaze back to the kitchen window. "The last thing I remember seeing, ever, was his face. Too much light on it, too bright, that God damn panty-hose stocking mask. Looking down at me and smiling. The next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital and wondering why I couldn't open my eyes."

She goes quiet. We wait her out.

"I came around after a while. Remembered. Realized I was blind."

She stops, remembering. "You know what it was that convinced me he meant what he said? About going after Sarah? About going after me?"

"What?" Callie asks.

"The way he'd told me 'it wasn't personal.' I remembered him saying it, and how he looked and sounded when he did. Matter of fact. Not angry, not rushed, not crazy-looking or rage-filled, or anything . Normal, even smiling, like someone talking about a good book they'd just read." She reaches for her coffee cup, finds it, takes a sip. "So I did what he said. I kept my mouth shut."

"For what it's worth, I think that was a wise call," I say. "The picture we're getting of this guy is of someone who doesn't bluff. If you'd spoken up, he probably would have hurt Sarah, or you, or both."

"I tell myself that a lot," she replies, trying to smile. "Anyway."

Another sip from the cup. "He messed me up good. Fractured my skull, including shattering a line of it so bad they had to carve some of the bone away. He broke my arms and my legs with that pipe, and knocked out most of my teeth. These are implant-retained dentures. What else? Oh yeah--to this day I can't step outside without having a full-blown panic attack."

She stops speaking, waiting for a response. I remember the aftermath of my own attack, and recall how much I hated the aphorisms people trotted out, stock phrases they used because, really, words hadn't been invented that were adequate.

"I don't know what to say," I tell her.

Her smile, this time, is warm and genuine. It catches me off guard.

"Thanks."

She understands that I understand.

"Now, Cathy--what did he give you?"

She points toward the back of the condo. "Bedroom is on the right. It's in the top drawer."

Callie nods to me and gets up, heading to the bedroom. A moment later she returns. Her face is troubled. She sits down and opens her hand, revealing what she has clasped inside. The shiny gold glints in the light. A detective's shield.

"It's mine," Cathy offers. "My shield."

I stare at it.

Symbols are only symbols.

I'm one hundred percent stumped. I look at Callie, raise an eyebrow in query. She shrugs.

"Do you have any idea why he put special significance on this?" I ask Cathy.

"No. I wish I did, but I don't. Believe me, I've spent a lot of time thinking about it."

My frustration rises. Not at Cathy. I'd come here hoping for answers, excited at that possibility. All I had was another puzzle.

"Can you tell me something?" Cathy asks.

"Of course."

"Are you good?" she asks me. "Will you get him?"

This is the voice of the victim, breathy, a little hungry, filled with doubt and hope. I'm unable to decipher the emotions running across her features. Joy, anger, grief, hope, rage, more. A rainbow of light and dark.

I stare at her, taking in the scars at her hairline, my own face in the lenses of the sunglasses, seeing the ugliness he created, but also seeing some of the beauty that he couldn't destroy. A terrible feeling comes over me. Pain and rage and an almost unbearable desire to kill something evil. Callie answers for me.

"We're the best, honey-love. The very best."

Cathy stares at us, and I feel "seen," blind or not.

"Okay," she whispers. Nods. "Okay."

"Cathy, do you want protection?" I ask.

She frowns. "Why?"

"I . . . we're after this guy. At some point, he's bound to know it. Maybe he even wants us to be after him. It might reopen his interest in the past."

"In me, you mean."

"It's possible. I know he promised if you did what he said he'd leave you alone, but he's really not to be trusted."

She pauses, thinking, for the longest time. The moment seems to hang forever. She ends it with a shake of her head.

"No thanks. I sleep with my gun under my pillow. I have a hell of an alarm system." Her grin is humorless. "And I kind of hope he does decide to come pay me a visit. I'd be happy to blow his ass away."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

I glance at Callie, and the unspoken goes between us: We'll get a car parked in front whether she wants it or not.

She takes another sip of coffee. Lukewarm by now, I'm sure. "Do me one favor?"

"Anything," I say, meaning it.

"When this is over, let me know."

I reach over, grip her hand.

"When this is over, I'll have Sarah let you know."

A pause, and then she squeezes my hand, once.

"Okay," she says again.

She pulls her hand away, reaching for strength.

34

I ' M GAZING OUT THE PASSENGER - S I D E W I N D O W; I'D ASKEDCallie to drive so that I could think. We'd discussed the visit with Cathy, tried to pick apart the mystery of the shield and his stupid word game. We'd gotten nowhere.

I feel exhilarated and disconnected and let down, a cocktail of excitement and unreality. I am exhilarated because we are in motion. We're on the hunt, and we know things we didn't know before. I'm let down by the questions that continue to stack up without answers to go along with them.

The unreality hit me on the way to the car. Last night, while reading Sarah's diary, I met Cathy Jones for the first time. She was a new cop, healthy, dedicated, flawed, more good than bad. Human. Meeting her today at her home, seeing her as she's become--it's like knowing the end of a story you haven't read all the way through yet. Like traveling in a time machine.

My phone rings, startling me from my reverie. I glance at the caller ID, see it's Alan.

"What's up?" I answer.

"Something interesting," he rumbles. "Something maybe good for us."

I sit up straighter. "What?"

"Well, I'm standing in front of the Langstrom house. And you know what? It's still the Langstrom house."

I frown, perplexed. "I don't get it."

"I got together with Barry. We were going over the case file--and I have some thoughts on it, by the way--and I just wasn't feeling it. I decided I needed to see the scene. Even if it is ten years later."

"Sure."