Cody McFadyen - The Face of Death

The tone of her voice changes, friendlier, less crisp. "I'm giving it to you straight, Smoky. Gibbs might have seemed helpful, but that little phrase he dropped on you about 'legally setting aside his rules to comply with privilege'? It's a bear."

I want to argue, but I know it's a waste of time. Ellen is a solver. She thinks in the direction of how could we, not you can't because . If she's saying it, she's saying it because it's so. I sigh, resigned.

"Gotcha. I'll get back to you."

I hang up and dial Callie.

"Overworked Incorporated," she answers. "How can I help you?"

I smile.

"How is it going there?"

"Nothing to brag about yet, but we're taking it slow. We're still processing the front of the house."

I fill her in on the day from where our paths diverged. I begin with Gibbs, continue with Nicholson, and end with Ellen. She's quiet for a moment after I finish, digesting this.

"This has been quite the forty-eight hours, even for you."

"You can say that again."

"Well, call it quits then. Gene and I are here. James is off being dis agreeable somewhere. Bonnie is waiting at Alan and Elaina's. If you're not going to listen to me and get a dog, honey-love, then at least go home and see your daughter."

I smile again. Callie is Callie--she can almost always make me smile.

"Fine," I say. "But call me if you find anything."

"I kind of promise to maybe do that," she quips. "Now go away."

I hang up and sit back, closing my eyes for a moment. Callie's right. It's been an insane few days. Singing, blood-covered sixteenyear-olds. The terrible diary.

And the one that hits home, suddenly. My hands tremble against each other. I bite my lower lip, using the pain to fight back tears. A man killed himself in front of me today, Matt. Looked at me, spoke to me, and then put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. His blood was on my face.

I didn't know Dave Nicholson. It didn't matter. He wasn't in that category that Kirby had talked about. He wasn't "other." He was one of us, all human, and I can't help mourning him.

I hear footsteps on the carpet, and I swipe my hand across my eyes. A knock, and Alan pokes his head in.

"I got your friendly neighborhood killer off to her car."

"How does home sound? At least for a little while?"

He thinks about it. Sighs.

"For a little while, yeah. That's a great idea."

41

I TOLD ALAN I'D MEET HIM AT HIS HOUSE; I HAVE ONE OTHERstop to make.

I drive to the hospital through more rain, and that's fine, because I'm raining inside. It's nothing heavy, just a light but continuous drizzle. This is a part of the job, I reflect. The internal weather. Home and family is sunshine, most of the time. Work is almost always rain. Sometimes it's thunder and lightning, sometimes it's just a drizzle, but it's always rain.

I realized some time ago that I don't love my job. It's not that I dislike it--far from it. But it's not something to love. It's something to do because you have to. Because it's in your blood. Good, bad, or indifferent, you do it because you don't have a choice. Except now you do have a choice, don't you? Maybe there's more sunshine to be found at Quantico, yes?

Even so.

I reach the hospital parking lot and park and resolve, as I race through the rain to the front doors, to be quick. It's almost seven o'clock, and I feel the need for a heavy dose of Elaina and Bonnie. Some sunshine.

When I get to the room, Kirby is there, sitting in a chair outside the door, reading one of those trashy gossip tabloids. She looks up at the sound of my footsteps. Those leopard eyes flash for a moment before she hides them behind a twinkle and a smile.

"Hey, boss-woman," she says.

"Hi, Kirby. How is she?"

"I introduced myself. I had to do some talking, let me tell you. She wanted to be sure I could kill things. I had to convince her, or she wanted me gone. I convinced her."

"Okay."

"Good" or "Great" doesn't seem appropriate.

"That's a fucked-up child, Smoky Barrett," Kirby says. Her voice is soft, cozened perhaps by a hint of regret. It's a new sound, and it makes me consider her in a new light.

Kirby seems to sense this. She smiles and shrugs. "I like her." She turns back to her paper. "Go on in. I need to find out what's happening with Prince William. I'd jump his royal bones in a heartbeat."

This yanks a grin from me. I open the door and enter the room. Sarah's lying in bed, looking through the window. I don't see evidence of any books, and the TV's off. I wonder if this is all she does all day, if she just lies here and stares out at the parking lot. She turns to see me as I come in.

"Hi," she says, and smiles.

"Hi yourself," I reply, smiling back.

Sarah has a good smile. It's not pure like it should be--she's been through too much--but it gives me hope. It shows that she's still herself inside. I pull up a chair next to her bed and sit down.

"So what do you think about Kirby?" I ask.

"She's . . . different."

I grin at this. It's a concise and perfect description.

"Do you like her?"

"Sure, I guess. I like that she's not afraid of anything, and that she chooses to do this kind of thing. You know--dangerous stuff. She told me not to feel guilty if she gets killed."

This is enough to get rid of my grin.

"Yeah. Well, she'll protect you, Sarah. And she'll protect the people who live in the home you're going to tomorrow too."

She frowns. "No foster home. I need to go to the group home. He doesn't kill people there."

That's true, I think. "Do you know why that is, Sarah?"

"Maybe. I think it's because I don't care about anyone at the group home. And I think it's because he knows just living there is bad. I mean, it is--the group home sucks. Girls have been beaten and molested and . . ." She waves a hand. "You get the idea. I think it's enough for him that he knows I'm there because of him."

"I see."

I sit back for a moment, considering. I'm trying to choose my words, which is hard, because I'm really only realizing how I feel about this right now, myself. I love Elaina. And there is Bonnie, who stays at Alan and Elaina's while I am at work. A not-small, very selfish part of me wants to say: Yes! I agree! You need to go to a group home. People die around you!

But then I feel a great stubbornness rise up in me at that. The same stubbornness that kept me from moving out of the home I'd been raped in, that my family had died in.

"You can't give in to fear," I say to her. "And you're going to have to accept help from others. This is different than all the other times, Sarah. We know what he is. We believe he exists. And we're taking steps to protect ourselves and you from him. The man and woman you're going to live with know what we're dealing with, and have chosen to take you in anyway. And you're going to have Kirby to watch over you, don't forget that."

Her eyes are downcast. She's struggling with this.

"I don't know."

"You don't have to know, Sarah," I say, my voice soft. "You're a child. You came to me and asked for my help. Now you're getting it."

She sighs, a long, ragged sigh. Her eyes come back up to meet mine and they look grateful.

"Okay. Are you sure they'll be safe?"

I shake my head. "No. I'm not sure. There's no way to be one hundred percent certain. I thought my family was safe, but they died anyway. The point isn't to have a guarantee. It's to do everything you can, and not let fear run your life." I point toward the door. "I have a pretty lethal bodyguard out there, and she's going to go everywhere you do. And I have a team of the best--the absolute best--hunting for The Stranger. That's all I can offer you."

"So you know, then? For sure, that he's real?"