Cody McFadyen - The Face of Death

"Thanks," he says, and then hangs up. "Sarah Langstrom is getting released tomorrow," he tells me. I tap my purse with a finger, thinking, uneasy.

"Elaina talked to me yesterday," I say. "I think she wants Sarah to come live with you guys."

A sad smile crosses his lips. The shrug is infinitesimal.

"Yeah. She talked to me about it. I exploded, said no way. Really put my foot down."

"And?"

"And we'll be taking Sarah." He looks out the windshield, his eyes finding the gray clouds that just won't go away. "I can't say no to her, Smoky. I was never very good at it. Post-cancer, I can't seem to do it at all."

"Can I ask you something, Alan?"

"Always."

"Did you ever decide? About whether you're going to leave the job, I mean."

He doesn't answer right away. Keeps gazing out the windshield, gathering his words carefully, like a wheat farmer gathering his bushels by hand.

"You ever watch any of those cold case real crime shows?"

"Sure. Of course."

"Me too. You know what always strikes me about those shows?

That so many of the cops they interview about old cases are young and retired. I mean, it's rare to see a really old guy who's still on the job."

"I hadn't thought about it until now." And I hadn't. But as I do, I realize he's right.

He turns to me. "You know why? Because working homicides is dangerous, Smoky. I'm not talking about physical danger. I'm talking about spiritual danger." Waves a hand. "Mental danger if you don't believe in the soul. Whatever. The point is, you look in that direction too long, you run a risk of never recovering from what you see." He hits a fist into his palm, lightly. "I mean, ever . I've seen some shit, Smoky . . ." He shakes his head. "Saw a half-eaten baby, once. Mommy took a bad hit of acid and got hungry. That's the case that made me an alcoholic."

I start at this. "I didn't know," I say.

He shrugs. "Before my Bureau days. You know what got me to quit drinking?" He looks away. "Elaina. I got soused one night and came home at three A.M. She told me I needed to stop. I--" He grimaces. Sighs. "I grabbed her by the arm, told her to mind her own business, and then I passed out on the couch. Woke up the next morning to the smell of bacon. Elaina was cooking breakfast, taking care of me like she always did, as though nothing had happened. But something had happened. She was wearing this sleeveless comfort-shirt she liked, and she had a bunch of bruises on her arm. Bruises from where I'd grabbed her." He rests for a moment, gathering another few bushels. I wait, mesmerized. "That mom who ate her baby came around, of course. When she realized what she'd done, she . . . shrieked. I'm talking about a sound a human being shouldn't be able to make, Smoky. Like a monkey that'd been set on fire. She shrieked and once she started, she never stopped. Well, that's how I felt when I saw those bruises on that lovely woman's arm. I felt like shrieking. You understand?"

"Yes."

He turns to look at me.

"I quit the booze and I bounced back. Because of Elaina. There have been some other bad times, and I've always bounced back. Because of Elaina, always because of Elaina. She's . . . she's my most precious thing." He coughs once, a little self-conscious. "When she got sick last year, and that psycho targeted her, I was afraid, Smoky. Afraid of getting to a place where I needed her but she was gone. If that happened, I'd never make it back. It's all a balancing act, you know? Knowing how far I can go out, how much I can see, and still make it back to her. One day I'm going to say it's enough, and I hope I know when it's right." He smiles at me. It's a real smile, but it's too complex to be called "happy." "The answer to your question is that for now I'm here, but one day I won't be and I don't know when that day will come."

We pass through security, and are moving through reception when a fit, vibrant, thirtyish-looking blond woman with a bright smile places herself in front of us. She holds out a hand for me to shake. She almost crackles with confidence and energy.

"Agent Barrett? Kirby Mitchell."

I start, and then realize that it must be past five-thirty by now. I had forgotten.

Ah, yes, the killer, I want to say. Pleased to meet you--but should I end that with a question mark? Time will tell, I guess. Instead, I smile and shake her hand and give her a once-over. Kirby in person is a match for her phone voice. She's attractive and slender, perhaps five foot seven, with blond hair that may or may not belong to her, twinkling blue eyes, and a perpetual smile composed of over-bright teeth. She has the look of someone who spent her early twenties as a fun-loving beach bunny, hanging out with surfers, drinking beer next to bonfires, sleeping with guys as blond as she is and who smelled of seawater and surf wax and maybe a little bit of the Mary Jane. The kind of girl who was always ready to slip on a cocktail dress at five on a Friday. It would have been black and short and she would have danced till the place closed down. I had had friends like her, wildness in a bottle.

Except that she's a bodyguard, and per Tommy, an ex-killer. The disparity of these things both intrigues and concerns me.

"Pleased to meet you," I manage.

I introduce her to Alan.

She grins and punches him on the arm, playful. "Big guy! Do you find that a help or a hindrance? Doing your job, I mean?"

"Help, mostly," he replies, bemused. He rubs his arm where she hit him, a look of surprise on his face. "Hey, that hurt."

"Don't be a baby," Kirby says. She winks at me.

"We're heading to our offices," I say.

"Lead the way, FBI people."

The offices are empty. Everyone is occupied, doing the things I sent them off to do. Callie is processing the Langstrom home. James is probably dealing with Michael Kingsley's computer. It's been a day of sprinting, and it's not over yet.

Kirby continues to jabber away, and I watch her as we go through the offices. I realize that as she speaks, her eyes are roaming. Taking in the surroundings. They pause the longest on the whiteboard, and then move on, missing nothing.

I've seen eyes like hers before, on leopards or lions or the human versions thereof. They flicker like candles, seeming casual but seeing everything.

We all go into my office and sit down.

"So now that we're all friends," Kirby says, still perky, "let's talk about how I work. I'm very good, you should know that. I've never lost a client, and I don't plan to--knock on wood!" She raps my desk with a knuckle, grins. "I'm trained in surveillance, hand-to-hand combat, and I can use, gosh, just about anything when it comes to weapons."

She counts off on her fingers. "Knives, handguns, most automatic weapons. I'm okay as a sniper as long as it's not past four hundred yards. The usual." Another one of those twinkle-eyed smiles. " 'Mess with the best, die like the rest,' silly, I know, but I just love that saying, don't you?"

"Uh, sure," I reply.

"I have one rule." She waggles a finger at me, a good-natured warning. "No leaving me out of the loop. I have to know everything to do my job. If you fudge on that, and I find out, then I'll have to quit. I'm not trying to be a meanie-beanie, that's just the way it has to be."

"I understand," I say.

Meanie-beanie?

"Okay." She continues talking, a juggernaut of words. Kirby is like a freight train. Hop on board or get rolled over, the choice is yours.

"Now, I know you're probably looking at me and thinking, 'Who is this airhead?' Tommy's an honest kind of guy--cute too"--she winks at me, conspiratorial--"so I'm sure he felt he just had to mention that I maybe, allegedly, might have killed some people in the past for the military-industrial complex. And you're looking at that, and then you're looking at this ." She indicates the whole of herself with a sweeping gesture. "And you're thinking, maybe she's a wack-a-doodle, am I right?"