About The Divorcer (Added Content)

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The Divorcer: A Novel by Tyler Wood (Added Content)

Part One

Chapter 1: A Mutt and a Sphinx

            “I’m thinking about your happiness.” He flashes a practiced smile, places a warm hand on the listener’s shoulder. “I’ve seen this a thousand times. All will be well.”

            It only takes a moment for Cole Cavanaugh to reanimate a dribbling despondent into something resolute. And so it goes again. The resolute, Cole’s client, walks away with firm and free steps. Like a prisoner unshackled for the first time in years, ready to really witness a sunrise, to really breathe.

            Selling futures. People futures. That was Cole’s job. The essence of it, anyway.

            “Send the next one in, Clara.” One in, one out. All different and all the same. All that crap. People at the supposed nadir of their lives, whatever that life was or was meant to be.

            “But maybe he’ll take me back,” the next one pleads.

            “Oh, he’ll take you back, but the other girls, he’ll keep them. You deserve better. You’ve earned better.”

            “My church frowns on divorce,” cries the following. Pedestrian. Always a workaround.

            “Look, I’m not a member of the Cloth, but God doesn’t want you unhappy.”

            He has become an institution of his own to the denizens of Fort Worth, Texas. Not that he pays a great deal of mind to their opinions. He’s been called a necessary evil, plain evil, an emotional war profiteer. Whatever.

            “Isn’t it a valuable institution? Worth preserving?” asks another. The invocation of the word institution snaps him back. He’s been drifting. It can be monotonous at times.

            One in, one out.

            He watches another striding out of his office, scribbles a few notes, sits back in his chair. A look at the clock. It’s one of the only items on his desk. He doesn’t want people wasting time, getting distracted by a picture of him holding a fish or a keepsake from a dearly departed ancestor. Time is the regulating principle, the baseline for his business. He looks again. Almost five. A few minutes until the last consultation of the day. A moment to think. He tries not to. Overrated.

            It was not always so. Fifteen years ago, Cavanaugh was fresh out of Harvard Law, wide-eyed, a champion of the downtrodden. He had a small criminal law practice, defending the innocent, protecting the rights of the proletariat from whatever overweening hand held sway. Bright, attractive, chest pushed out at the ills of society. Why not?

            A woman. That’s why not.

            The woman. Her name was Elise Bennett. Gorgeous, erudite, fun at parties, good with his friends. She walks down the street and guys stumble into oncoming traffic staring at her.

They date. Never an argument, never a disagreement on how many kids, where they’ll live, how big the ring should be. Nada. They get set for the big day. A marriage for the ages, to have and to hold a woman of his own.

The woman.

            Then it comes. He’s feeling proud. All his college buddies are patting him on the back, saying what a lucky boy he is, whispering not quite out of earshot how much they’d like to so on and so forth with her. He doesn’t mind. His thoughts are toward the altar, the launch pad into the perfect life. They walk out, a line of fresh-faced men, wait with nervous anticipation in front of eight hundred well-dressed attendees. Cole’s big brother Craig holds the ring in his sweaty hand, the trumpets blast out their march, and here she comes.

            The dress is majestic. The veil is lifted. Beautiful as ever. She always will be. They come together, the preacher says whatever the preacher says: The Gospel of this, the Book of that. He can’t hear it. Then the perfect moment slows down. He says I do. Did she say I do? It’s starting to get weird. The gears of fate are grinding. She seems scared. Something stonier than mere nerves. A pall gathers over everything, from his shoulders to the balconies and right up into the vaulted ceiling. He clears his throat as moments becomes morass. To react or say anything at all would be an admission of defeat. Doesn’t matter. She never gives him the time.

            Full sprint. Don’t know how much the dress cost but it’s ruined by the time she hits the door. He’s standing there, a frozen figure of fun. The consummate fool. Embarrassed isn’t the word. There is nothing in the lexicon for the utter disaster that is now his life.

Elise Bennett. The greatest thing to ever happen to him, turned Great Destroyer.

            “Your last appointment is here, Mr. Cavanaugh.”

            “Show him right in, Clara.”

            He stands up, flattens his tie, makes the walk to the ten-foot teak double doors specially ordered from Costa Rica. Appearances. They greet. A particularly beleaguered man drags himself in. He’s short and sloppy, more than a bit off the mark. They’re always a shambles, but this guy’s raising the bar. Cole prides himself on his ability to read people from the jump. It’s a superfluous skill in this instance. The little mutt before him is in a world of pain and it doesn’t take a mind reader to figure it.

His suit is expensive, looks maybe like a Huntsman, but it’s as poorly maintained  as the face sticking out the top. He’s probably not a horrible-looking fella, but he’s looking horrible right now. Older than his years. Cavanaugh almost wants to say something nice right off, but decides to stall. The guy’s not a client yet, after all.

“Why don’t we have a seat and you tell me what brought you here?”

            “I’m getting divorced, that’s what. They say you’re the best. The people that know things. That’s how I heard.”

He’s been drinking. Ok. It happens.

            “So you’ve talked to her about it? No going back? Because when I take a client it’s—”

            “That’s the point. We can’t talk about it. Figure if the woman gave a damn, she might react when I mention splitting up. I’ve tried everything. She’s not there. A sphinx. Talking to a brick wall.”

            “Sir, I’ve heard it all before. If you sign these documents we can make our relationship official and—”

            “Just give me the damn papers.”

            “Of course.” While the little man struggles to find the tabs, Cole takes a look at his planner. Finds the name. “Mr. Will Carson. Can I ask what line of work you’re in?”

            “Oil. Like everybody else around here.”

            Oil. Good. Carson, Carson. “Are you related to Grant Carson?”

            “He’s my father. I’m the heir to the throne. A little prince. Yay.”

            Yay indeed, Cole is thinking. Carson means serious cash. Big in crude. Now natural gas. Crumbling marriage or not, get a grip, buddy. Or don’t. Just sign right there.

            “Ok, Mr. Carson. I’m going to get started on this immediately. You came to the right place. Couple more questions, then we can get you out of here. I understand this can be uncomfortable at first—my thought is to get the preliminaries done and dusted.”

            “Go.”

            “Let’s start with your family.”

            “My dad, you’ve obviously heard of. Mom’s Amelia, they still live up in OKC.”

            “Siblings?”

            “Seriously?”

            “Of course. I know it’s burdensome, but—”

            “No. I just figured you knew who my sister was. Alice Carson-Petit. She’s on TV, magazines.”

            “So—she’s an actress?”

            “No. Alice is one of those people who’s famous for being famous. She gets married, people make a show, she gets divorced, she gets a new product line. Her husband recently died. European. It’s all quite disgusting.”

            “Sounds as if it’s a pretty unique situation. She around these parts?”

            “No. Overseas. Hope you’re better at law than pop culture.”

            “I’m a good lawyer because I don’t pay attention to inanities. But let’s move on. Children?”

            It takes Mr. Carson a moment. The reality of what he’s doing seems to sink in. “One. A daughter. She’s eleven. Almost twelve.”

            “Prenuptial agreement?”

            “No. Dammit.”

            “How pissed is your wife?”

            “I don’t know. Who knows anything about her anymore?”

            Cole’s just doing a little poking, trying to gauge how contentious the situation might be, maybe divine any escalations that could be coming down the road. It’s a money thing. Contentious means more money, escalation means even more. He’ll get back to that later. “I’m sorry to bring this up, but it seems you’re a man that cuts to it. How’s your relationship with your daughter?”

            It’s the first time Mr. Carson bends another way. Cole notices a well of moisture in the eyes, a slight slumping of the shoulders. Classic heart-on-sleeve syndrome.

“Rosie. Rose.” He says the name like he’s speaking it in prayer, soft and with reverence. His eyes are looking through Cole and out into the clouds, like he half expects to see God out there giving him a thumbs-up sign past the rest of Fort Worth’s small time downtown high-rises.

            The lawyer writes down the girl’s name and attempts to be unaffected. It’s not that hard. People gushing over children isn’t exactly headline news. But it does surprise Cole, maybe catches him off guard. Carson’s gruff nature and surly countenance don’t signal Dad of the Year, but people are never quite what you expect. Not quite.

            Before it can get too sappy, the attorney stands up and snaps his fingers, a light clap of the hands. Tries to say we’re about done here without really saying it.

Carson notices, looks up at the handsome form of his new legal representative. The lawyer’s almost too perfect. Brown slicked back hair, somehow not oily. Lively, emerald eyes. Brawny through the shoulders but somehow lithe. Defined jawline, but not imposing. Slightly dimpled chin, semi-obscured by a layer of stubble that says I’d like to shave every day but I can’t be bothered to shave. You know, like your average lawyer. Carson can’t help but think he’s meeting with the floor model—the real guy should be cartoonish and spent, wearing suspenders, kept in the back with the hamsters and their wheels. Carson feels another light hand on his shoulder, much like the one when they met. He’s not sure if it’s a perfunctory act of comfort or one of genuine decency. The coming divorce has left him trusting nothing and no one. Including himself.

“One more thing,” Cole says. “Her name?”

            “My wife?”

            “Call her what you will. But yes.”

            “Elise,” Carson says. His mouth can barely form the shape of it; almost like he’s swallowed poison and he’s doing his best to soldier on. “Elise Bennett-Carson.”

            Cole Cavanaugh sits back down. Did he just say Elise Bennett-Whatever? That’s most of the Great Destroyer’s name. Can’t be her. Has to be a coincidence.

It is not a coincidence. For so many reasons, it is not a coincidence.

Chapter 2: Dying of Cancer Grateful

            There’s a time for everything. True enough. At the moment, it’s time to drink. As soon as the meeting with Carson is over, Cole loosens his tie, walks past inquisitive looks from Clara and the rest of his associates without so much as a wave or word.

Down the elevator, thirty-five flights to the lobby. A few stops, one person gets on, one gets off; he tries for stoicism but inside he’s a hurricane. He can’t help but feel the symbolism. The rotation of humanity entering his little space, different from before, same as before, all going down.

The doors open to the lobby, finally. He can’t hear his wingtips striking the shiny marble, can’t hear the cluttered conversations of the herd as they struggle for the doors. It’s Friday. Late afternoon. Young professionals, old professionals, all vying for the title of who can forget about work first. Cole Cavanaugh won’t be forgetting. He texts his brother, the one with the sweaty hands.

Meet me at THE BAR. Emergency.

            He arrives and has a quick hello with the bartender. Her name is Jade and she’s a little too young for him, but he’s a good tipper and a better bullshitter, so there was that time or two. Not recently. She’s professional enough to be distantly polite. Pours him a double of opulent single-malt and offers a furtive smile.

It’s a dark scene. A place for people like him, a refuge of a place, down a rod-iron flight of stairs hidden away in an alley amongst the bustle of downtown Fort Worth. A few quiet conversations are underway when Craig walks in.

Craig sees his little brother and prepares for the worst. Normally he wouldn’t come, not with all the usual crap going on at home, but it must be bad. Cole isn’t exactly the reaching out type.

Craig plops down on the stool to Cole’s left, orders something less expensive, and listens to the facts.

            “You’re joking, right? Dude. So sorry.” A pat on the back is all he can muster while a flood of memories come back. The event. The nonevent. Watching his little brother humiliated in front of grandma and pops and Aunt Liddie. Frigging ten on the kill-me-now scale. His own wife is forced to sit there through the disaster. It makes him grateful, in a sordid way. Hell, every person in there was grateful. There were people dying of cancer who were grateful. Cancer sucks, but public elation turned public rejection? I’ll take the cancer, please. That damn day. He tries not to make eye contact with his brother, makes a face at the preacher, waits for tears, an outpouring of sadness, the emotional outburst that Cole’s never made. Maybe it’ll come now. The text was urgent enough.

Eh. He should know better.

            “Sorry for what?” Cole asks. “Raise your drink. This might be the greatest thing ever. God’s finally doing me a solid! Come on then, man.”

            Their glasses clank and they drink their whiskey clean and fast, same as always. Craig’s not sure what they’re toasting but he goes along with it. “What exactly is your thinking on this? Are you after another chance with Elise? Just want to be sure I’m on the same page.”

            Cole looks at him the same way he did when they were kids and Craig got the better present at Christmas. “What the h—no, shit’s sake. It’s my big opportunity. To ruin her life. The heavens have proclaimed it. I mean, what are the odds? Of all the asshole law firms in all the towns in all the world, he walks into mine.”

            Craig doesn’t get the “Casablanca” thing. Doesn’t really get his brother. Hasn’t for years. It occurs to him that though he’s surprised, he shouldn’t be. The guy has his face on billboards all over town, a big white smile and a big finger pointing to the word DIVORCE!

            “I don’t think—and I’m not quite as learned as you—this is the sort of thing the heavens proclaim. Is it even legal, you know, with your history?” The elder Cavanaugh scratches his thinning hair. “And how did you not know she moved back here?”

            Cole charges right through. Gives his bulky older brother a one-armed hug. Craig looks a lot like him. A little grayer, a bit less maintained. A few extra years and more than a few extra pounds. “I’ve checked the books. There’s nothing that says I can’t represent him. Elise and I never entered into any legal contract. C’mon, you big softie.” Cole’s on a roll but needs a big breath and another sip. “And why would I know she was back here? I’m a big deal, things to do. You get what my schedule’s like. It’s not as if I’ve been looking her up on Facebook.”

            “Just seems weird. Not hearing about her being in the area. The Carsons are some rich-ass people. You move around all those society types.”

            “They do get divorced a lot.”

            “So wouldn’t it be in the tabloids or something?”

            “What’s the difference, bro?” Cole can see his brother is overwhelmed by the news. Craig’s an honest dude with an honest face. In fairness, he’s dumping a lot at his feet at once. Cavanaugh slows down. “Who’s the richest person in the world?”

            “Not sure,” Craig says, raising a finger for another. “I run a plumbing business.”

            “A successful plumbing business. You plumb well.”

            “Some years are better than others.”

            “Whatever. Take a guess. Richest person.”

            “Uh—Bill Gates, those Koch guys. I think there’s a Mexican in there somewhere.”

            “Good enough. Can you tell me the name of one of their wives? I’ll take a girlfriend.”

            “The Gates woman. It’s on the tip of my tongue—can’t remember.”

            “How about the richest woman?”

            “The Queen of England,” Craig says, only half-joking. Whether he was trying, it makes Cole smile.

            “Let’s say it is. What’s the name of the guy married to the Queen?”

            Craig raises his drink. He’s got no answer. His clever little brother’s already thought this through. As usual. But has he? “Ok. But the legal thing. And even if it is, this guy’s not gonna want you involved. He can’t know you used to bone his wife.”

             “Eh. You’re really kinda killing me. I’ll figure it out. Convincing people is a specialty of mine, if you haven’t noticed.”

            Cole’s not wrong about the last part. He is good. The big house and the fancy lifestyle don’t tell lies. But Craig’s almost immune to his charms. A lifetime of practice and all that.

Cole comes back easier, notes that Craig is still reticent to share in his elation. “Okay, whatever you’re feeling—totally get it. This particular situation wasn’t exactly on the Bar Exam. Admitted. You got me. But it’s kosher. And still badass news.” He slams a palm on the polished bar. A little too hard. “Jade. Two more of the same. And one for you. A great day. Drink with me, buddy.”

            Jade can’t help but smile while she pours. Cole’s boyish good looks are more charming (and thus frustrating) attached to this new boyish personality. “What’s going on there, big shot? Win a case or something?”

            Another clank of glasses. “No, but I get to destroy someone. Someone that truly sucks. Isn’t that great?”

            She doesn’t answer. Craig looks uncomfortable. Sad even. Cole doesn’t notice or care. He is too engaged, convincing himself of his own happiness. Then a thought goes through the reluctant older brother—is he glad? Craig’s always played the bigger man, but honestly, what could be bad about Cole wielding the hammer that smashes Elise Bennett’s life to smithereens? Craig likes a little poetic justice as much as the next guy.

            A moderately attractive professional woman sits down on the stool to Cole’s right. Freshly sprayed perfume wafts his way. She’ll say something to me, the lawyer thinks.

            “Another?”

            “We just had one,” Craig says. He’s not one to pull the reins while drinking. His belly is proof enough. But better to walk this minefield sober.

            “Jade. Another. Round for the bar on me.” Cole makes violent circles with a high held arm, as if there are hundreds of patrons in close concert, chomping at the bit. Craig shares an embarrassed gesture with the bartender. There’s maybe four other people in the place.

            Jade can tell Mr. Cavanaugh is in a rarified state but he doesn’t drive and she knows it and she needs the money. The others are half-looking at Cole. It’s not unusual. He’s almost perpetually the unwanted center of attention. Jade’s checking to see if he’s okay. Craig’s checking to see through the bullshit. The new lady is checking to see if there’s a chance.

            The older brother decides to play his role. “You talk to Mom and Dad?”

            “About what?”

            “C’mon, dude. Enough of this show. You need to see her more. Give something.”

            “I was there a week ago. It’s just—depressing. The weakness of it.”

            There’s a lot Craig wants to say, a chewing-out miles long. It’s been coming for months. Maybe even a beating. Am I a coward? He’s my little brother. Eh, we’re adults. And on and on and nothing real ever gets laid bare. He lets out a fragment and sees what happens. “She’s not going away. It’s our little sister.”

            “Is that who she is?” Cole doesn’t want to talk about the anti-ballast of the family right now. Never wants to, in truth. Deflect. Or get near enough to the subject to fool Craig into thinking they dealt with it. The lady on his right is starting to look better. The darkness and the drinks and all. The thought of Elise Bennett-Carson financially and spiritually pummeled. “How old is Della now?” Cole asks.

            “Thirty. Don’t set me up.”

            “I’m not setting you up.”

            “Yes you are. You’re always setting me up. It’s what you do.”

            “How old?”

            “I already—”

            “Yes you did. But I wasn’t setting you up. I was trying to make a point. One I’ve made a thousand ways a thousand times.”

            “So you were setting me up.”

            “I know how old she is. Bet I know more than the lot of you. Her record, chapter and verse. Exactly what’s she’s done. Yeah. You know too, you and your wife, but knowing is where it stops for y’all. I’m the one that’s had to deal with it.”

            “So you’re a hero now?” Craig asks, longing for a reprieve.

            “The hearings. Stacks of files. Hospital records, conversations with cops, haggling with the D.A. Think favors are easy to come by in this town? You all pat yourselves on the back like we did a good thing, but she lays around all day at that house instead of a prison cell because of me. Don’t shoot me the noble face when you’ve never had a real problem in your perfect little life.” It’s starting to get loud. The woman is starting to leave. Cole changes his countenance quickly and apologizes roundly to the bar. She settles back down, wishes she had pride enough not to.

            “She’s our sister,” Craig says again, this time the fragment has a weight. He seems to as well. He’s a bit bigger, straighter in his seat. “And stop being such an asshole. It may work in your creepy circles, but I know who I’m talking to.” The elder stands up and finishes his drink. He thanks Jade with a polite nod. “Be better. Go see your family tomorrow. What else you got to do?”         

            Cole shrugs him off as Craig walks the floor to the exit stairs. Says something under his breath that sounds like dickhead and Craig tries to ignore it like always. This time he can’t. He’s toward his little brother quickly, carried by just enough liquor and quite enough had-it-up-to-here. Pulls him off the stool. Two quick punches. Cole throws one himself but it misses badly, instead connecting with a wooden column. The lawyer laughs, but he won’t be laughing in the morning.

            “I’ll call your damn driver,” Craig says. He walks briskly away and up the stairs in case the cops come in. Damn mess, he says to himself.

He’s taken with regret. Instantly it’s gone. He hears Cole continuing the laughter as he reaches the door to the alley.

Chapter 3: Counselor’s Counsel

            Mid-morning, the next day. Cole’s sitting at the top of some aluminum bleachers, sweating his khaki pants through, watching a little league game. Typically, he’s a vocal supporter. It’s a matter of killing two birds. Allows him an occasion to be unnecessarily demonstrative and support his nephews at same time. Craig and his wife Brooke have four kids in all, but the eldest two are boys, starting to get old enough to be interesting to watch. Thirteen and eleven, roughly the same age difference as him and his own brother. The boys are good hitters, natural athletes. Like they were.

            It’s the fourth inning. Cole’s watching Ben, the eleven-year old. Striding up to the plate, digging in his cleats. He’s squinting from the hangover and the sun through Louis Vuitton sunglasses, clapping encouragement. Feels a slap on his thigh. It’s Brooke. “Come on, Ben! This pitcher’s a bum!” The shrillness is so unappealing to the senses, it nearly knocks Cole off the back of the bleachers.

            “That necessary?” he asks.

            “Heard my husband beat you up last night.” She pulls down his glasses and scans the damage. A cut above the nose. Swollen eye. Those two punches went a long way.

He doesn’t try to stop her. Truth is, Brooke’s one of his favorite people. When she’s not screaming at the top of her lungs.

“Craig feels bad.”

            “He at Charlie’s game?”

            “Yeah. But you knew that.”

            Cole smiles. She’s right. Brooke’s too smart to get over on. “Figured he wouldn’t want to see me.”

            He’s there to see Ben’s game, but there’s another game going on. Brooke knows it. Knows the brothers could have a handshake and a nod and their passed down Irish aversion to all things emotional would take care of the rest. He watches Ben foul the first pitch. The passion play of parents sounds off around them. A quick look at his brother’s wife. It’s a warm, humid day, typical spring weather for Texas. She’s wearing shorts that wouldn’t work if she didn’t work out, dirty blonde hair pulled up. Long, tan neck. He steals a glimpse but nothing weird. Maybe a little weird. She’s attractive, natural, always cute, always the girl next door. He’s glad for his brother. The one that punched him last night.

            “So what’d you think? My brute was going to hop aboard your flight of fancy?” Brooke and her expressions.

            “Not even sure what that means.” Cole’s chewing sunflower seeds, trying to spit them efficiently and keep an aloof air. It’s a difficult combination to master.

            “Craig loves you, but he isn’t dumb enough or smart enough to understand sometimes. It’s a blessing I’ve counted. Nothing as stupid as a clever man.”

            “So you understand?”

            “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

            Indeed. Few people get him like she does.

            “Don’t take the case, Cole. You want my permission, but there’s nothing there for you, my dear.”

            “You could allow me some joy.” He pushes the sunglasses back up against his face to hide rolling eyes.

            Ben makes solid contact, rounds first, slides into second. Safe. They stand and cheer. Mom and Uncle high-five. Mom texts Dad two-bagger. Ben doesn’t look to the bleachers for approval. He plays for himself and his team. Advice from Uncle Cole. Good boy.

            The cheers die down and Cavanaugh hears Brooke tell him that’s your problem.

            “What’s my problem? And don’t give me some canned line about being a grownup.”

            She doesn’t say anything. She’s thinking about the days after Elise left him. Brooke and her were friends. They were. Two days after the wedding that never was. Brooke asks what the hell happened. They’re at Elise’s house. The former bride-to-be is packing, heading off to hide from inquiries like this. “Is it another guy?” No answer. “Did he do something wrong?” Nothing. Silence. They’re both in the bedroom. Dresser drawers are opened, clothes are hanging everywhere. It’s a mess. “Tell me something. He deserves—”

            “Don’t start.” There’s fury in Elise’s eyes. “Don’t talk about deserves. Live your own goddamn life.”

            It was the first time Brooke had ever heard her swear, first time to see her snap, last time they ever talked. Capricious bitch, she remembers thinking.

            “It was a long time ago, Brolaw.” Sometimes Brooke calls him Brolaw. He’s still not sure whether it’s a reference to his profession or their familial relationship.

            “I’m just gonna do my job. We’ll leave it at that.” He spits another seed, making a mess of it. “Might never even have to see her. Probably, I’ll just end up backing off the whole thing.”

            “Oh, sweetie. What about the joy you want me to allow you?” Cole would have to be asleep to miss the mockery in her tone.

            “Just an expression.”

            “Expression my balls.”

            Cole pats her on the back, looks proudly out at his nephew. “It’s why I come to you. You’re a font of wisdom and sober critical thinking. Few other things as well.”

            “Remember when you weren’t an asshole?”

            “I remember. Remember what happened? What was her name? Buddy of yours, if I recall.” He smiles his billboard smile. They both know the duel is over. He’s got her this time.

            “Alright. Not like your life can get emptier. And go—”

            “I know. I’ll go see my damn sister.”

Chapter 4: Walls

            All things considered, Cole’s mood is fairly steady. Other than the fact that he’s on the way to the family home. His parents will be tacitly accepting of his presence and maintain their rugged politeness, fine. Craig’s brood is meeting him there, at least. After the boys were done with their baseball games, the brothers met and had the expected moment. Sorry dude. Yeah dude. Forget it dude. Brooke watched on, said it was a wellspring of openness and something about William Shakespeare.

            Good old Brooke.

            He tells his driver Bob to turn up the music as they pull away from the sports complex. Sits back in the tight leather of his Mercedes. Closes his eyes. Tries not to think, like always. It’s not working. His thoughts are of the past. In his mind he’s back at Elise’s house, looking at the clothes strewn around the room, asking the same things Brooke had asked just a few hours before. He’s angry at her and a little scared by it; it’s the first argument they’ve ever had. Argument. Nothing but one-way traffic. What was it that Carson said? A sphinx? Talking to a brick wall? Totally. He’s asking her everything, she’s telling him nothing. It’s as if he never knew her. Did you ever want to marry me—she walks by. Could you maybe have mentioned your reservations before walking down the aisle—she mumbles under her breath, looks for her keys. Cole says something horrible and punches a hole through one of the living room walls. He nicks a stud. Says some more awful things. His hand is broken. Yelling at walls. Breaking walls. She’s a suitcase on the run and he slumps down on a couch they had spent an entire weekend picking out.

            He opens his eyes. Back to the present. Looks at his newly injured hand and winces. “Hey Bob. You’re more than welcome to come on in and get some food. My old man’s grilling.”

            “That’s alright, Mr. Cavanaugh. You have your family time. I’ve got a good book that needs finishing.”

            “Your call. Standing offer, though.”

            “Thank you. You’re a good man.” Bob’s a decent guy, Cole thinks. Not because he lies to him—just very low maintenance. And he’s stopped more than a few pissed off ex-husbands and wives from clubbing him to death. Bob’s real name is Rolando Robert De La Croix, the product of a Haitian immigrant mother and an illegal Guatemalan handyman. Raised in California, Rolando found steady but humble work doing stunts for low-budget action movies in the eighties. A mid-life romance precipitated a move to Texas in the late nineties, where he eventually fell into security and small-time protection. Rolando (Bob) enjoys working for Cole. He’s no longer a spring chicken, and the gig is a lot safer than being lit on fire or thrown out of buildings for a hundred bucks a day. Mostly it’s calm and quiet. Over a year now and only a few incidents of note. A lot of sitting, but he sees it as a chance to catch up on a lifetime of not reading. Cavanaugh’s about to ask Bob what book he’s on, but his phone rings. Doesn’t recognize the number. No thanks. Puts it back in his pocket.

            “Alright then, Bob. Hang out. Shouldn’t be too long.”

            Cole prays he’s not a liar as he makes his way around the house to the backyard. It’s a simple home in an old part of town: two-car garage, half brick, half siding, built around the time Cole was born. The neighborhood has fallen victim to degeneration since he left, but he still feels a sense of comfort walking through the grass up to the belt-high chain fence. His father’s property is humble but immaculately kept. It’s something Cole admires or scoffs at, depending on his mood. Admires because of the old man’s attention to detail. Scoffs because daddy dearest probably could’ve done something more with that exacting nature.

            Bygones.

            He’s hardly through the gate when he hears his mother yelling. It’s bright and the freshly cut grass is making his ankles itch.

Home is more alien every time he comes back. He wonders if all bachelors feel the same way when they’re confronted with the inimitable sounds and smells and feelings of a place that is truly lived in.

“What happened to you?” Mom asks. Cole steps up onto the concrete patio, scuffs the mulch from his feet, tries to parry his mother’s overly-concerned hands. “It’s that job,” she says. “Another angry husband. When are you going to learn?”

Cole’s mother Jane is no nag. Just a mother. She’ll overreact, he’ll nod his head and pretend to consider whatever matronly advice she has to offer. Then he’ll get the hell out of there.

            “Give us a hug,” Cole says, clamping his mother to his chest. Her arms are trapped against his body. She’s tiny, fit for her age, engulfed inside his embrace.

She knows what he’s doing, but she lets him do it. He’s playing a part. Playing her. But it’s her youngest boy. The troubled one. Certain concessions. Times when looking the other way is the only way. She’s still a mother, though.

“How’s life?” Cole asks, continuing to hold her, looking around at the rest of the crew. Craig’s boys are playing with the dog in the side yard. The little girls are sitting next to Brooke while she downs margaritas on a chaise lounge next to his brother. His dad’s at the grill, belly covered by a decades-old apron, probing meat, talking to himself. His cell phone rings. “Excuse me a second, Mom.” Cole looks at the number. Same as before. Nobody he knows. Presses cancel. “Sorry about that.”

            “Can’t those people leave you be on the weekends?” Mom asks.

            “It’s what I tell them. Your marriage is shipshape as long as it’s Saturday or Sunday. Doesn’t seem to have the desired effect.” Oh, the times he’s had this conversation. Cole kisses his mother’s forehead and treads awkwardly toward Dad. “How’s it going?”

            “Should be about—five minutes.”

            “I meant… yep. Sounds good.”

            It’s all pretty standard fare. A bit of fencing with Mom, a few vacant mutters with Dad. He could go and seek refuge with the boys or with Brooke and Craig. He thinks it over, knowing it won’t do. Proactive is the only way. Otherwise it’s go talk to her or what’s a matter with you? He’s not in for that. Not today. Bite the bullet and all. “Gonna go get a drink. Anybody want anything?”

            He makes for the sliding glass back door hearing no thanks and we’re goods. They know what he’s doing as well as he does. His duty. Only way to describe it.

            The TV’s loud as he enters in through the kitchen. It’s instinct that makes him slip off his shoes, same way he has all his life. The linoleum gives a little with every step of his big body as he goes to the fridge. It’s tidy and humble. A billion memories in a couple hundred square feet. “Della? You want anything?”

            No reply. Just more jingles and voices from the idiot box. He walks into the living room with trepidation but also a hint of pride. He’s drinking a Coke, for her sake. Pretty damn thoughtful. She’s sitting in their dad’s old brown La-Z-Boy, feet up. Cole notices the cane leaning on the armrest but tries not to give it power over him. He stands there by the coffee table, waiting for her to say something. She’s so damn—not him. Weird. Wearing a band t-shirt from the eighties—she was like three years old in the eighties. Different colored socks. Too skinny. A couple steaks away from being the pretty thing everybody wants to remember. All kinds of crap around her wrists, sweatbands, leather bands, metal bracelets. Long, formless shorts, something you’d see on a grandmother. A total shit-show of fashion. He sits on the lumpy couch that’s flush with the front window, to her right. “What’s on?”

            It takes her maybe thirty seconds to respond. To even move. Finally she tilts her little head at him and points toward the TV with the remote. Makes a face with the part he can see. Her disheveled brown hair only allows so much to get through.

            “Well, I thought you were killing time cause something else was on,” he says, defending his obvious opening question. “Who the hell watches game shows on a Saturday—you know what—makes total sense, Della.”

            His snarky tone makes Della want to answer but she doesn’t. Just keeps on watching Alex deliver questions that are answers. There’s a lot of years and a lot of shit between the two of them, but it seems to be getting worse. His resentment. Her disenchantment. The things he’s never said and can’t say. If there’s a way back for the two of them, it’s a long way off.

Cole doesn’t know if it’ll ever be the same. It’s not like he wants it this way, but she can’t handle him laying all the cards on the table. Not the way she is. A nudge might send her into the stratosphere. His little sister. Damn her.

            “Anything new?” she asks.

Just like that. Like the seconds haven’t felt like hours. He almost spills his soda can at the sound of her voice. It’s enough to make him launch into a full-throated earnest answer, but his mind is quick enough to stay his mouth. Della never asks something so pedantic—so regular. Either she’s being elliptical or she’s being forthright so he won’t notice when she turns elliptical. His sister would’ve been a great lawyer. A great anything. But what is she?

            “Why?” He already knows why. It’s in the way she’s trying to hold fast to her stare at the TV. It’s not working. Cole can see a bit of creepy mirth bubbling to the fore under those rosy cheeks. They are siblings and at one time there were only games of fun and they know each other down to their genes. Bullshit is almost impossible. She gets it, too. Feels her big brother tightening like a spring. It’d be better to leave it alone, but it’s Saturday; her boredom is palpable and the folks mean well, but for Godssake get me the hell out of here.

            “Heard about your new client. Must be weird—I mean, it’s weird.” Della stretches out her words, like lasting lumps.

She slowly turns her body toward him. It looks uncomfortable, but he knows she’d contort herself into a pretzel to enjoy a moment of his discontent. He gives her as little as possible, pleasure or otherwise.

            “Just more money, D. We all have to make a living. You been keeping up with your P.O.?” Cole asks because he wants to throw his face into one of the couch’s old body-stained pillows, scream until his trachea blows. It’s obvious now that his brother went ahead and briefed the entire damn family on his situation. What the hell? If Della knows then Mom and Dad and the whole thing… Suddenly it’s older brother that needs the punch in the eye.

Should I have expected him to say something? He tells himself that Craig can be yelled at later—puts a partition around it, looks on at his sister. She’s staring like one stares at a coward, like he just went for the cheapest shot in the playbook. Maybe he did. The P.O. question was cold. Unnecessary and only meant to hurt. The dogfight is getting out of hand and he’s barely said anything. He gets up before she can answer the question. Cole knows her parole officer. There’d be a call to his office and a tirade and a succession of shit-creeks he’d have to jump if there were any new problems. No. Little sis is going to her meetings, peeing into embarrassing plastic cups, plodding through the physical therapy. He gets an update every day. It’s the reason—at least some of the reason—for his resentment. That daily gong, him half-expecting to hear about her next cliff dive, and he’s still bullied into making nice in the living room. It’s not old times. This isn’t after school when she was little and could watch the same stupid show as big brother and keep up. Della the precocious, Della the little beauty. All was true. All is gone.

            “I’ll see you later, kid.” He clangs the soda can down on an old end table, strides away without the suggestion of a look or concern.

Della wants to say something caustic, but his shot across the bow came a little too close and there’s damage below her decks. God if only she could get up and whack him with her cane. Does he deserve it? How fucked up am I—enough to strike the gavel down on anyone? It’s a recliner, Della. Not the Judgment Seat.

            She sinks down in the mushy chair and fumes half at herself, half at him. Cole’s shoes are back on, he’s back outside. Mom asks him how it went. She gets another kiss and Craig gets a middle finger and Dad gets a sorry I’ve got to run. Now there’s a judgment seat for all. Go on then. You wanted me here, and how did it go in your heads? Same way as the time before and the time before that? Well played then.

            Apologies later. Cole doesn’t know if he’s being unfairly brusque or if they deserve it. Won’t know until he has a drink and time to ruminate from a distance. Out the gate and the Mercedes is just a few steps away. Bob will ask him how it went and he’ll lie and that’ll be that.

            Opening the door, again he feels the phone buzzing in his pocket. Same damn number. Sees three new voicemails. Cole tells Bob to take him home and presses play. Unknown numbers. Maybe it’s good news. He could use some.

            “Mr. Cavanaugh, please call me back.” Sounds like a little girl. What the shit? “My dad is Will Carson. He gave me your card and said I couldn’t call anyone else. He’s sick. From drinking. I said I’d call my mom. He said it would be over if I did. What’s he mean? Please call me back. This is my phone.”

            “Good God,” Cole says. Bob asks if he’s okay but receives no response from his employer. He adjusts the rearview mirror to see the image of a man listening to a phone with a bruised face squinted incredulously up to one side.

            “Mr. Cavanaugh? My dad is breaking things. Saying—things. Please call me. Please.” The second voicemail. The little girl is crying. Plain enough. She’s trying to hold it together but the tears are coming all the same. Sounds that way, anyhow.

            “He’s passed out in his chair. I’m scared. I’m gonna call 911. He said you’d answer. I tried.”

            “Shit.” Cole pulls up his missed calls and presses on the little girl’s number. In the few seconds afforded he figures it’s the only way to go. The guy’s probably on a bender. Dammit Carson. This is above and beyond. I’m not a frigging babysitter. Have I had to do worse? Well, yeah, but still.

            “Hello.” The voice is little and hesitant, even more tremulous now.

            Cole spares the niceties. “Who else did you call?”

            “Just you.”

            “No cops?”

            “I was gonna—”

            “Not your mommy? Grandma or grandpa?”

            “I want to.”

            “No. You did alright. Be a sport and tell me your address. I’m a friend of your dad’s. That’s why he asked to call me. Understand?”

            She tells him the address and he relays it to Bob, patting the side of the front seat. Bob nods. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Can you hold on that long?”

            “I think.”

            “What’s your name, kid?”

            “Rosie.”

            That’s right. Cole remembers Carson whispering it back at the office. “Okay, Rosie. Stay with him. I’m close.”

            “Do you have to hang up?”

            Cole looks up through the sunroof. Rolls his eyes. What a frigging day. “No, Rosie. I don’t have to hang up.”

Chapter 5: Waking Up

            She snaps out of sleep. Must be the anticipation. It’s a happy day. For months now, one after another, a series of happy days. She never thought the feeling would define her, but here she is, about to team up with a guy—dare she say, a man. She used to be defined by misery and bad luck. Gone are those definitions; they’ve been ripped out of the book. She and her man are writing new pages; the wedding is only hours away. Sunlight is starting to crawl into her bedroom. About time. Who can sleep so close to the verge? It’d be like napping at the edge of the Grand Canyon. She hopes he’s feeling the same thing, the same happy restiveness. Somehow she knows he is.

            To hell with it. The covers fly off and the bride-to-be is running for the shower. Get the show on the road. Onward and upward. So on and so forth. Like a kid at Christmas, she’s throwing out prudence. She trips on an upturned corner of the rug. It’s happened before. After a grunt and some time to gather herself, laughter starts pouring out.

“Get it together, a-hole.” Still laughing, looking up at the ceiling fan. “You’re unbridled,” she says, out loud and to herself. She says it again and wonders in the levity of the moment if there’s any relation between bridle and bride. A moment more and she’s thinking of something else, back to being unbridled. It’s why he fell in love, even if he doesn’t know it.

They met in an old corner of the campus library. Usually reserved for the most anal of students. Perfect place for her to stand out. He was cordoned off, poring over torts or contracts or who knows. She was with her undergrad friends cackling about some inane undergrad class they were taking. What was it? Stress and the Family? No. History of Etruscan Art? Yeah. Something useless and Harvardy like that. She’d ace the test. No need not to cackle.

            He wasn’t shy about it. Imperious, stern, whatever you call it. “Would you ladies mind?”

            A few of her friends were stalled by his frame. His face. Neither were something to turn away from. “You’re awfully big there, fella.”

            He didn’t know what to say. “Just—I’d appreciate it.”

            “That’s it?”

            “It’s a simple request.”

            “Let me decide that. My friends are having good time. You know, we ladies.” A whole section of the building was starting to focus on their back-and-forth. The other girls at her table were open mouths and wide eyes.

            “Look it’s—”

            “Important. I know. Everybody at this asylum is doing something important. What are you in for?”

            “Law School.”

            “Last year?”

            “Yes ma’am.”

            “Law Review?”

            “You bet.”

            “Yeah? Super impressive.” She flashed just enough smile and sass to keep him tugging on the line.

            By the time they were finished, three hours had gone by. The extras in the scene had gone home or melted away. His assignment was a trifle. She was surprised because he was surprising. When she’d peg him for a Texas dullard he’d give it right back to her. When she figured him for future senator or senator’s son or something else boring, he told her he was going to advocate for the disenfranchised. No politics. She liked that.

            “You know, I never got your name.”

            “Cole.”

            “That fits. Coe.”

            “No. Cole.”

            “Yeah, I know, I was doing an imitation. Sounds like you’re swallowing your own name the way you say it. Can’t help yourself, I suppose.”

            “And your name, Yank?”

            “Elise.”

            “That fits.”

            “That right?”

            “Very delicate, very proper—now that I think on it, that’s not you at all.” His grin was wide and crooked, like he was practicing but hadn’t quite gotten it down. It had her.        

            “You have no idea, cowboy.”

            Elise doesn’t remember the whole conversation—they talked about everything. She did call him cowboy—not her best, but it didn’t matter. By that time they were already falling in love.

            It’s morning again. She’s about to get off her back but the fan has her transfixed, eyes heavy. Maybe the wake-up was premature. Pure adrenaline. Probably what caused all the reminiscing. She sits up and undoes the knot holding up her hair. It falls past her tan shoulders just before she tousles it into a mess. Shakes out the cobwebs. Heads for the bathroom guided by the nascent sunlight. It’s still too early for the blast of 100-watt bulbs so she brushes her teeth in the darkness. Throws some water on her face. Okay, girl. Overzealous future mother-in-law and a gaggle of hens will be here for the prerequisite pregame in an hour or less. Better look at what we’re starting with. She does the anticipatory eye-squint and flips the lights on.

            “So I hear you’re getting married?”

            To say she’s startled would do it an injustice. She’s the unperceptive girl from a horror movie headed inexorably toward death; the pitiful soul, helpless before the Reaper and his bloody scythe. He’s sitting on the toilet, no more than five feet away. She’d scream or run, but one of his hands sports a finger over his lips. The other one is holding a chrome pistol. He’s tapping it against his leg, calm as you like. There’s no running. Not from him, at least not yet.

            “No.”

            “No? Is that it?” he asks. “I figured the love of my life would have a little more to say than ‘no.’”

He stands up and moves toward her. Every thud of his boots on the tile makes her shrink a little more against the door.

“Need to calm down, Elise. This is just for precaution. I’ll put it away, I promise. Just needed to make sure Mr. Wonderful wasn’t lurking around somewhere. We’re in Texas, after all. Everybody’s got a gun. Only being logical. Like you always told me to be.”

            “Why?”

            He grabs Elise under the arm and pulls her into the bedroom with violent clumsiness. Throws her on the bed. He’s thinking what most men would think, but stops short. Maybe in years past, but not now. He’s changed. She’ll see it, the way he’s been evolving, filing down the jagged edges. Elise looks up through the tears. The half-light of morning somehow makes everything more terrifying.

“No? Why? Babe. I remember you being a more capable conversationalist.”

            It’s impossible to hold in anymore. Somehow discernable words squirm through the fear. “What are you doing here, Nicholas?! Get out!”

            She’s no threat. It’s plain enough to see. He owns her and knows it. Physically, he’s twice her weight, probably three times stronger. Mentally, she’s always been the clever one. But things have changed. Now he’s clever enough to know it. Which makes it a wash.

As he sits down on the edge of the bed and looks her over in all her apoplexy, he’s calculating what she might do and what he might do to combat it. Calm yourself, Nick. Elise is too spooked to get anywhere near a reasonable discourse. Do the talking. Play the long game. Puts the gun on safety and shoves it between his pants and backside. He lowers his voice. “They let me out, obviously.”

Elise senses new madness in the way he relaxes his expression. More light pours through. She can see he’s even bigger than before. Muscles seem to be straining to punch through his V-neck shirt. A few more tattoos. All the cliché earmarks of a man that’s done time in a real prison.

“Good behavior. And you hear how bloated the jails can be. Guess they figured on making room for the true villains and miscreants.”

            Elise is plastered against the headboard, as far away as she can get at the moment. The phone is on the nightstand next to her, but she knows it’d be a vain attempt to call 911. She finds some courage. Maybe it’s resignation. Hard to tell. “So how does this go, Nick?”

            There’s bile in her question. He feels it. Shakes his head a little. Runs a hand through his short-cropped hair. He speaks slowly, almost casually. She’d prefer an amped-up diatribe of aggression. At least it would be predictable. “It doesn’t have to go anywhere. I got out a few weeks ago. Ran into some people from the old neighborhood. They said you lit out and never looked back. Couple friends of your cousins said you were getting married. Figured I come see what’s what.”

            “Just go. Jesus, just go. This is sick.”

            “I will. I only… yeah, I’ll go.” He stands up slowly, backs away. “And I hope you have a really nice life. Proud of you, kiddo.” He lowers his voice, slows down the delivery even more. “Yeah. A really nice life.” He takes a few more steps back, out of the range of the sunlight. She hears trudging down the stairs and out the door.

He’s gone. Just like that.

Elise knows it’s only the beginning. Hell has come to fetch her and the fire doesn’t just flee at a polite request. Nick will be back. He’ll do what he’s done since they were kids. He’ll slowly cut away. The methods will vary. Sometimes the chisel, sometimes the ax. But always he’ll cut. She looks at her phone. Wants to call Cole. Every bit of her wants to call Cole. But he doesn’t know about this part of her past. He’d be angry, scared even, but he wouldn’t run. Somehow she understands exactly how it’ll play out. Her fiancé will do anything he can to protect her. But it’s not enough, never will be. The man she’s marrying is honest; the man with the gun is anything but. She’s tried to be honest, as far as she could. It’s worked for a while. It’s not working anymore.

Chapter 6: Rosie, the Prince, Etc.

            Not long and they’re at the Carson house. House, ha. More like palatial estate. Mr. Carson is truly his father’s son. Cavanaugh knows the neighborhood, but wasn’t aware a property this size existed in the midst of urban Fort Worth. It’s back behind high walls and centuries-old Texas oaks. The approach up the steep cobbled driveway makes Cole’s eyes go wide. A beautiful place, in the style of something you’d come across sightseeing in Tuscany or in the wine country north of San Francisco.

When they knock on the door, Cole does his best to make himself small and unthreatening. The girl Rosie answers after a few seconds, cute but red-eyed and wearing a doleful expression. Cole says, “Hi there, youngster, I’m your dad’s friend.” Never mind the part about not being her dad’s friend, that he’s just an interloper helping to facilitate the destruction of her family. She leads them with quick staccato footsteps to her father’s study; sure enough, Carson is passed out, drooling in a leather chair with an empty glass on the floor by a lifeless, hanging hand.

            “Come on, Carson. This is over and beyond.” Cole can’t tell if his words are getting through at all. He has his client with both hands. One is clutching the top of Carson’s pants, the other his neck. It takes a few minutes before they’re in the downstairs kitchen. Presumably it’s far enough away from where Bob’s got the kid so she doesn’t have to hear the proceedings. Cole’s guessing that the girl has probably seen her dad in a state like this before, but it’ll be better for Carson to hear that his lawyer was above board while he was on a bender. Cole has one sink filled with ice water, the other hot. He’s periodically dunking Carson’s head in, no particular order. There’s a trash can just to the right of the sink. Cole implores him to throw up if need be. He does, more than once. “Starting to feel better?”

            A mucus-filled “who cares” is all the tragic little man can muster. Another dunk. This time in the cold. Cavanaugh holds his head under, waits a little longer than he ought to, then lets him back up to gasp and spit. More coughing and half-formed words. Cole’s hands are starting to cramp. He tells Carson to man up and hold himself over the sink. The lawyer takes the respite to look around the kitchen. It’s one of two in the house. There’s another one upstairs. This one is where the servants prepare food, he assumes. Servants. Cavanaugh’s got money of his own, but not servants kind of money.

            “Carson? You have fulltime staff working here? Any of them see you like this?” His client is spitting, gagging on God knows how many days of a steady liquid diet. Enough. Cole smacks him with a flat hand across the ear, just hard enough to let self-pity give way to self-awareness.

            “I don’t think so.” The diminutive prince is neither surprised or even stunned. Still drunk, but finally functioning at a limited capacity. “She took them all. Or fired them. Weeks ago. I didn’t want to be like—this isn’t me. Wasn’t me.”

            Cole doesn’t know how much to believe, but he wants to. Wants to think this poor sap is just another victim, the same sap he was, victim of the same woman. Eh. Feelings later.

            A slap on the back, this time he’s less aggressive with it. “You got the kid all weekend?”

            “Yes. No. I don’t remember.”

            Great.

            “Let’s see your pockets.” Cole doesn’t give him time; he starts frisking his client for a phone. He finds it and sees a slew of missed calls and texts. The thing he wants least is staring him in the face. A text from Elise. More like ten. Along with voicemails. As he listens he wants to throw up alongside his client. Hearing her voice. Weird might be the word. Worse, she’s threatening to come and get the kid if he doesn’t answer. Cole gives Will another brief inspection. No. She can’t see him like this. If it wasn’t clear already, it is now. In his head he can hear his brother’s wife yelling at him; he’s not arguing back. She had the situation pretty much exact.  

            “Help me, Cavanaugh.” Is he crying? Oh God he is. What do you think I’ve been doing, asshole? “Just stay here.”

            “Rosie.”

            “I’ll go talk to Rosie. She’s fine. You stick as many fingers down your throat as it takes. Drink water. Focus. I’ll take care of the rest. No more bullshit, Carson. Ass in gear.”

            Cole’s up the back stairwell leading to the main floor kitchen. His hand, the one holding the phone, is shaking. The above-ground surroundings are posh and freshly scented but he can’t shake the foul and fetid smell in his nose and the dirty sensation in his stomach. He sidesteps furniture and jumps over tables, through hallways and libraries and sunrooms and other useless sections of house. Normally, he has guys for this kind of thankless work. Two are on retainer with his firm. They handle problem clients and their little messes. Bob pitches in, but they’re specialists. Soldiers more than lawyers. He’s tempted to bring them in, but something tells him to leave off for the moment. Yeah, it’s personal. And high-profile as hell. The divorce will be news statewide. Son of Carson Oil? Maybe national, if only a second. And then there’s the kid. The frigging kid. He’s not sure he wants his guys around a fragile young girl. They’re not freaks or anything. Well, yeah they are. Just not like that. Not exactly warm and fuzzy types. And I am?

            He comes to a drawing room and finds Bob and Rosie playing chess. She’s on her knees, hovering over the board with eyes riveted down. Bob’s across from her, sitting on a richly decorated ottoman. They’re as relaxed and focused as he and his client are frazzled. Cole takes a second to breathe, to smile, to not be overwhelming or overwhelmed.

            “How we doing in here?” he asks, looking around. The room is lit orange, all lamplight, old ornamental furniture that appears less than comfortable. Heavy curtains draped everywhere with gold filigree. It makes Cole feel like he’s in an Edgar Allan Poe story, kind of creepy, kind of quirky. On the other hand, a fine place for a chess match.

            “You giving Bob there a run for his money, sweetheart?”

            Bob says she’s doing more than that, rubs her light brown hair like they’ve become fast friends. Cole’s glad to see the girl in a better state. Thank God for Bob. Not your typical chauffer/protector. A rare enough breed; tough and capable, but also engaged in the more high-minded—old books, foreign flicks, quiet games of strategy. Things Cole wished for, but lacking the liberality of time, let fall by the way.

            He feels the phone vibrate. Another text from Elise. I’m on my way to get Rosie. What are you doing?!!

            Not good. Looks like he’ll have to step in as Carson to dodge this bullet. He can’t tell if the situation is ironical or just plain nuts. Everything’s fine. We’re playing chess. I left the phone in the other room. No need to come. Rosie’s having fun. Sends the message and prays it’s enough to keep her at bay until Will sobers up. It’s not about being a good lawyer. Certainly not a symptom of altruism. Whether the matter goes to court or mediation, Cavanaugh doesn’t want drunken stupors and fatherly negligence on or anywhere near the record. This kind of thing could be used; wielded over him by a judge in the open—wielded over him through threats by the opposing counselor. It’s legal and it’s blackmail. Cole knows the law and all the dirty business that goes with it. Every law comes with a trick, a crack you can slip something through. Maybe it’s a handshake deal, maybe the judge is having a bad day or maybe it’s just a bad judge.

            If you want to win you have to cheat without breaking the law. Or you break it in a way that’s impossible to prosecute. He understands the angles. It’s what one does outside the courtroom or the mediation table that matters. In this line, anyway. He balks at his own alacrity for the game at times, but not now. They’ll be no compunction in his soul for Elise Bennett.

            “You’re too good for me,” he hears Bob say. Cole looks on and sees him flicking over his king in defeat. His driver plays up the emotion of the loss but not too much. Bob has an instinct with her that’s obvious. He rubs what’s left of his graying hair and looks playfully puzzled.

            “I practice with my dad. He used to beat me, but not anymore.”

            Cole interrupts. “You ever play chess with your mom?”

            “Mom doesn’t play. She’s always busy.” The young girl starts to put the pieces back in place for another game. Always busy. Perfectly nice little kid wants to play chess, you play frigging chess. It’s your daughter. What else you have to do? Probably out screwing some brainless dude with abs while little Rosie and good old Carson are here at home having a grand old time, wondering after the absentee matriarch.

            Another text from Elise. Fine. I’ll be there in two hours. Have Rose ready to go.

            Cole responds immediately, says that’ll be great. He looks at a towering grandfather clock in the corner, notes the time. Two hours. Should be more than enough to get Will in a proper state. Better go check on the client. Hopefully he hasn’t drowned in the sink. What a frigging day.

            “So you’re making my dad get a divorce?” It’s like Rosie can tell the tall sweating man standing by the door is ready to do an about face. She wants to get a few questions in. Cole looks at Bob, trying not to gnash his teeth. How much did you tell her? Eh.

            “We don’t need to talk about that right now. Go on with your game, kiddo. I’ll go see what your dad’s up to.”

            She stands up and turns like a soldier toward Cole. Rosie’s a little thing, probably eighty pounds. Slightly puffy cheeks, probably the kind that’ll flatten out when she gets a little taller. Her hair’s in a ponytail and she’s wearing her private school sweatpants and t-shirt. She crosses her arms and straightens her back. Cole’s faced some pretty tough opposition in the courtroom but he’s absolutely terrified. Save his nieces and nephews, kids aren’t his thing. “I’m not stupid,” she says.

            “Did I say you were?”

            “I called you.”

            “Yeah. That’s why we’re here.” He’s trying to adjust his tone and manner but even he can tell it’s coming off all wrong.

            “I got the number from your card. My dad gave it to me. Cole Cavanaugh, Attorney at Law.”

            Cole coughs a bit. He can get around this. “So I’m an attorney. Your dad probably has lots of attorney friends.” 

            “The billboards.” She throws out a hand toward the window, like outside there’s miles and miles of his face plastered alongside every thoroughfare in town. He doesn’t know what to say. The kid’s got him boxed in. “Nobody tells me anything. My dad cries, my mom is so weird right now. Please?”

            Please what? Tell you your pop’s a complete drunk and that you are the spawn of a devil-woman? Not my job. “It’ll be okay, Rosie. I’m gonna go check on Dad.”

            Cole doesn’t give her a chance at a rejoinder. His mind is in one place: getting his client right in the head, getting the hell out of there. He mumbles past four staircases and three fireplaces, down two hallways and into the foyer. Sees a car pulling up into the circular driveway out front. What now?

            “Rosie?! What kind of car does Mom drive?” He hopes she can hear him. The frigging castle.

            He hears her tiny voice yell out, “BMW!”

            Ah shit. What to do? By the time he convinces Rosie to say that they were never there, tells Bob to sneak out a window, makes sure Will has his crap together—it’ll never happen. He’s screwed and knows it. Seconds later he’s back down in the kitchen. Carson’s sitting under the sink, looking half-dead but somewhat sober.

            “Your wife’s here, Will.”

            “My wife?”

            “You straight?”

            “Relatively. Nothing left to puke.”

            “Good. But you look like ass.” Cole walks over, almost kneeing him in his little face. Grabs a dishtowel. “You’re soaking wet. Take this.” Cole’s wearing two shirts; he takes them off together and sets them aside. Pulls his client’s flabby frame up by the armpits and steadies him. A couple quick shakes, then he removes Carson’s vomit and water-stained shirt and throws it in the nook under the sink. Gives him his own undershirt and puts his button-down back on. “I need you to be a cool customer. You hear me? If she starts in on you, don’t engage. No arguing, no scenes. Remember, Rosie’s up there.”

            “Yeah. I get it.”

            “Somehow I have my doubts.”

            “I’ll just say you work for the company.” It’s a stupid idea, but at least it lets Cole know that Carson is thinking.

            “And then we have to explain Bob. She’s probably up there jawing at him right now. Does your daughter get how to cover her daddy’s ass when he’s being a moron?”

            “Rosie’s the best. Who’s Bob?”

            Oh God.

            They walk up the stairs, Carson first, in case he tumbles backward. The little prince’s steps are careful and wobbly; Cole’s are heavy and reluctant. This is gonna prove quite the scene. “Your wife texted she’d be here in a couple of hours. Why’s she showing up now?”

            “I don’t know, man. She does stuff like that.”

            Awesome.

            And then there’s the real real problem. The man he’s representing is about to find out about the history of Cole Cavanaugh and Elise Bennett. Cole’s sweating at the prospect. Illegal? Probably not. Unethical? Probably. Insanely awkward? Unequivocally. He was harboring false hope that he might ease the ailing oil heir into that part of the dance. Should’ve listened to Brooke and Craig. The thought hits him again. They were right to tell him to stay away from this sordid business. “Whatever happens up there, just keep your cool, Carson. ‘Don’t talk’ would be my advice.”

            A few more steps and they’re through the door, back into the purely decorative above-ground kitchen. Then it’s like somebody hit pause. Elise is right there, looking pissed and lovely, almost exactly the way Cole knew she would. The kid is at her side, alongside a helpless Bob. Carson is just inches next to his shoulder. The two parties stand on opposite corners of an unemployed six-figure kitchen island. What to say? Cole keeps his silver tongue on the bench and lets the chips fall. Elise starts. Not exactly a shocker.

            “Will? What’s going on? Who are these men?” Fairly boilerplate, Cole thinks. She makes no mention of him, specifically. He figures it’s the low lights in the kitchen and the generally unthinkable situation of having to face the man you left at the altar and the husband that’s leaving you at the same unexpected moment. Bob obviously hasn’t said word one to Elise. Carson’s standing there, existing, trying to hold himself up. Rosie decides to intervene. She tugs on her mom’s blouse and puts the business card into her hand. Bob is right there but he doesn’t know the real story either. It’s strange. Too many secrets. Cole takes a chance. Maybe he can get out with minimal damage.

“Mrs. Bennett-Carson. I’m Will’s attorney. The man to your right is my assistant. I came here to discuss some legal matters with Mr. Carson and Rosie had a few games of chess while we talked things over. You have a lovely daughter, by the way.”

            No response. Fair enough.

            “It would probably be best if we all just went about our days, don’t you think?”

            A couple nudges with his elbow into Carson’s back. He mumbles an order for his client to say goodbye to Rosie. It’s damn near Pavlovian the way Will responds to the mere mention of his kid.

“Come give me a huge hug, Sprout.” She runs over and slams her head into her father’s chest, barely missing his chin. Rosie’s on her way to being as tall or taller than the little prince. Will envelops her; Cole makes a note of it. Their love is reciprocal—the daughter’s got daddy’s back, adores him no matter what state or what shirt he’s wearing.

            Elise isn’t watching her daughter. Since she saw the card her rapturous eyes have been fixed on Cole. He checks his watch. “Better get going,” he says.

            How much time goes by? A second. Maybe less. Elise stops his exit. “Are you kidding me, Cole?”

            The way she says Cole turns the room on its side. Amazing how the tone and tenor of one syllable can have so much impact. It’s familiar and practiced the moment it leaves her lips. Everybody looks at the former lovers looking at each other. “I said, are you kidding me?”

            “What’s this?” Carson asks. It seems he’s reengaged with the world. Since they’ve met, it’s the first time Cole’s seen a semblance of light or intelligence behind his eyes.

            “Bob, I think we can let ourselves out, don’t you?” Cavanaugh nods to the walkway leading to the corridor that leads to the next one and the one after that. Anywhere but here.

            “Is this who you hired, Will?”

            “What’s the difference who I hired? It’s my money.”

            “Is it even legal?” she asks. Carson thinks she’s asking Carson. She’s asking Cole.

            The lawyer answers. “From what I hear there are irreconcilable differences. It’s been legal to get divorced behind that for years. Legal as you like.”

            “Cole?” He knows she’s smart, what she’s really mining for. Same damn question his brother and brother’s wife asked. He’s got nothing. He doesn’t feel like answering, doesn’t know if answering is legal. She’s not his client. Plus there’s the poor little kid at the center of it all, trying to piece together the madness. Add to that he’s standing in front of the love of his life, the only one he ever had, the one he’s been hating for the last fifteen years.

            Elise makes a face or two, runs a manicured hand through her shampoo commercial hair. “Will. Your lawyer?”

            “What about him? It’s Cole Cavanaugh. You’ve seen the signs.”

            She looks over at Bob. “Mr.—”

            “De La Croix.”

            “Mr. De La Croix. Will you take Rosie to the other room for a second? I’ll be there very shortly.” She’s warm in the moment. Cole sees the woman that left him—before she left him.

            It takes a few seconds of convincing but Rosie does as she’s bid. It’s clear the girl is perceptive, knows something extremely adult is going on. Then Elise: “Tell him, Cole.”

            “I might’ve failed to mention a few things.”

            “Failed to mention?”

            “I know—knew your wife.”

            “I don’t understand.”

            “It was a long, long, really long time ago. Another life type stuff.”

            “So what’s the big deal?”

            She’s had enough. “We were engaged, Will. Cole and I. There was a wedding.”

            “You were married?!”

            “No,” Cavanaugh says. “That’s the thing, old boy. She walked out on me. No wedding. No nothing. It never happened.”

            “What the shit?”

            “Exactly. That’s what I said at the time. Anyway, when you came and told me you wanted a lawyer, it felt like the stars had aligned.”

            “You’re sick,” Elise says.

            “Me?”

            “Get out of my house,” Carson says. It looks like he’s about to implode.

            “Just wait a second.” Cole can’t believe he’s attempting to defend himself.

            “Get out or I’ll have my father’s people hunt you down and kill you.”

            “Fair enough. Hey Bob! Think we’re done here. Carson, keep the shirt.”

Chapter 7: Enough to Wet Your Pants

            “Wow. You are an idiot.” It was the response he expected, especially from Jake. Cole spares him no details. He flops the whole bloody tapestry out for his friend to step on. “Don’t get me wrong. Totally support the instinct, dude. But not telling him—legal, ethical—some line got hopped.”

            “It doesn’t matter now,” Cole says, cocks his head up at the porch ceiling. “I was officially fired. Hasn’t happened in a while.”

            “I say good riddance. Enough headaches in this life. Get that son of incest out of the picture.” Jake takes a hearty pull of his beer, crunches it, throws it over the hedges and into Cavanaugh’s well-trimmed lawn. Probably some attempt at symbolism.

            “Hey. This isn’t a fraternity house,” Cole says, getting up to retrieve the can from the grass. He waves apologetically at the neighbors; they’re playing some yard game with their tykes on the adjacent property. He sits back down on the porch chair, unable to stifle a laugh.

            “What?” Jake is completely unaffected. By anything. Just keeps drinking, looks out at the hilly landscape and the hazy Texas sky. Cole’s neighborhood is upper-crust. There are randomly placed million-dollar custom homes laid out in no discernable order. Every residence is fixed at a different angle to the street, different styles, different lot sizes. Cavanaugh’s house is huge but its size is obscured by the odd design. It’s a cross between modern-luxury and Spanish-contemporary, resulting in a lot of weird clashes and architectural confusion. The house of a single guy with too much money and no wife to tell him he’s an idiot. The neighborhood is new, built on an undulating ranch property some rich asshole finally sold off in west Fort Worth. The Texas way. First you graze it, then you check for oil, then you wait for the city sprawl to envelop it. When there’s nothing left growing and the wells are dry, you sell at some inflated price, because hey, it’s not like it was you that killed a bunch of Indians and homesteaded the thing 160 years ago. Those were your relatives. God bless them.

            “You’re the strangest person I’ve ever met,” Cole says, stares at Jake’s flabby profile. Jacob De Klerk is his real name. The De Klerk’s are one of the wealthiest families in Texas, one of the original 300 clans that came down to settle with Stephen F. Austin back in the early 1800s. Born of tough stock and not wanting to get screwed, the patriarch, Jan De Klerk, decided to screw at least twenty of those other intrepid families first. He bribed who he could, intimidated others, even formed alliances with local Native American tribes. A real go-getter, he secured vast holdings. When Stephen F. succumbed at an early age, Jan got over on his progeny, bilking some stock and land through blackmail and extortion. A half-castrated Tejano named Rueben was involved. If he had wanted, old Jan could’ve had the state capitol named Klerk—not one for fame, he settled for the land and the money.

“And I did some research on Carson last night,” Cole says. “He’s a pretty straight-laced guy, turns out. Low profile for someone with so much going. Well respected, keeping the money train rolling for the family. Lot of charities.”

            “He’s a weirdo,” Jake inserts. No passion. Just words spilling out. Cole suspects that somewhere deep down, the Carson family presence in town has hurt his friend’s pride. Being the second richest is probably a blow to someone of status. It’s the kind of thing that concerns Cavanaugh not one iota. He continues.

            “The kid seems to love him. He’s just bottomed out right now. All it was. That damn woman.”

            “Telling you. Children of incest. You can’t trust them.”

            “Stop with the incest, Jake.” It’s getting old. And he knows for a fact that Jake’s maternal and paternal grandparents were all cousins in some weird way or another.

            “Alright. But the rich are weird.”

            Cole starts to respond, but he sees Jake staring out, totally serious. It hardly seems worth it to point to the glaringly obvious. It’s why he likes Jake. The guy is sometimes impossible, sometimes ridiculously transparent. Hard to read, mostly. Unlike Cole, he isn’t one to let his views move him toward any sort of action or emotion. He has no causes, no real job. He liked to say he was “overseeing things.” Maybe that’s the case, and maybe he’s constantly lost in deep philosophy, but one wouldn’t know. Very few expressions ever find a home on his pale Dutch face. His thin lips barely move when he speaks; if something were to amuse or bother him you could find evidence by looking for slight angle changes in the corners of his blue eyes. De Klerk has a voice that stays at one volume and one note—flat, a voice like the Great Plains. They’d met at some country club thing at Colonial a few years back. They were the two most bored people in the room, standing by the bar. Jake was hitting on the bartender and complaining in dry tones and few words about the make-up to brain weight ratio in the room. Cole heard the commentary and laughed. After that, they would get together regularly to play golf, drink, get after women. If pushed, Cole would probably prefer to hang out with his brother, but Jake was the only other single guy nearing forty he knew. So the dude was a little weird. Not like Cole could say different.

            “You banging anybody?” Jake asks. Finally. A “normal” question.

            “Not really. Bit of a dry spell. There was that one for a while.”

            “Yeah,” Jake says. He’s amused. Cole can tell by the microscopic twinge in his retinas. “The marriage counselor?”

            “That’s the one.”

            “Funny stuff. Divorce lawyer banging a marriage counselor. Didn’t she hate you?”

            “Big time. Tried to run me over with her Audi. Not very professional.”

            “Crazy stuff. Women our age.”

            “Exactly. Women our age. Not worth it. ‘Nother beer?”

            “You bet.”

            “So you left out one thing—you know, from your story.”

            “And what’s that, Jake?” Cole asks, still laughing a bit about the Audi incident.

            “What’d she look like?”

            “Hot. But the face she made through the windshield… I’ll never get over that.”

            “Not the marriage counselor. The jilter. Don’t bullshit me, Cavanaugh. Gaelic bastard.”

            “What’s the difference?”

            “Tell me she’s ugly. A frump. Frowsy.”

            “Are you doing that vocabulary app again?”

            “Sorry. I’m on F.”

            “She looked older, if you want the truth.”

            “You said it’s been fifteen years.”

            “Exactly.”

            “Exactly?”

            “Fuck’s sake. I said exactly.”

            “Slow down.” Jake spits tobacco juice out one corner of his mouth. Lets some beer down the other corner. “We’ve been friends—hell I don’t know. You’re crossed up by a woman. First time I’ve been witness to it. What did she look like?” Jake, knowing his buddy is hot on his heels with a litigious retort, intervenes. “You were going to marry this broad.”

            “Fact.”

            “So obviously you thought she was hot, back in the day though it might’ve been.”

            “True enough.”

            “Well? Has she aged well? Let it sag, let herself go, gone dry, maybe went for one too many corrective surgeries?” They stop staring out at the yard and look at each other, locking eyes for an awkward couple of seconds. Jake’s pretty much unaffected. Cavanaugh wants off the whole subject, but his friend follows up. “You know, women our age?”

            Cole sinks into his porch chair and ruminates on the question. He doesn’t want to think about it, but Jake’s not letting go. “She looked good.”

            “Good?”

            “She’s mid-thirties—passing her on the street, you might say late twenties. Doesn’t need much makeup. Still in shape, hell, shapely, you know, like a real woman. Classic beauty. Has one of those full faces, big soft eyes. Full lips, kinda like wine. She was pretty made up, but you can tell she still looks good in a t-shirt.”

            “So you clearly weren’t payin’ much attention,” Jake says with a puffy smile.

            “Eh. Blow me.”

            A moment or two passes. Cole’s head is leaning to the side. He’s got that glazed over look in his eyes. Under a rush of feelings. He hardly notices that Jake has been pouring cold beer into his crotch for the last few seconds.

            “The hell, bro?”

            “Hey. You were gone there. Gone.”

            “I gotta change. Looks like I peed myself. For shit’s sake.”

            “You got bigger problems than your pants. Well, think you know what I mean.”

            Cavanaugh stands up to survey the damage, flashes another look of contempt at Jake. As he does, a car pulls up from around the corner and stops abruptly in front of the house. It’s an unmarked Crown Victoria, dodgy and used, the kind plainclothes police roll around in. Looks all wrong in Cole’s posh neighborhood. Two men clad in questionable suits step out. They’re wearing stern faces and approaching with authoritative steps.

            “What’s this?” Jake asks.

            “No clue.” Cole obscures the stain around his groin and moves toward the top of the steps. “Help you boys?”

            The one leading is the first to speak. “Mr. Cavanaugh?”

            “You know it is.” He’s seen them both before, one time or another. Maybe hanging around the court, maybe at some fundraiser for police and first responders. Can’t be sure. They look as worn down as their vehicle. Been around the block. So this isn’t some trivial errand. Uniforms and rookie detectives do errands.

            “We’d like to ask you some questions.”

            “Go ahead. I may even answer them. Let’s see your badges first.” He asks to establish some sort of understanding. Maybe to simply make them go through the motions.

            They begrudgingly oblige. The one doing the talking is square-headed, graying around the ears. Very cliché. Looks like he’s been wearing the same coffee-stained tie since they gave him the job. The one behind is only slightly younger, slightly slimmer. Cole guesses 45-years old, a couple kids he rarely sees. Something’s bothering the guy, something from way back. He’s the next to talk. “If you’re satisfied?”

            “Yeah, okay. Boys want a beer? Looks like you could use it.”

            “Thanks, but no,” says the older one. He looks up at the porch, then surveys the big house with a tilted head. Gives off kind of a smirk, the kind he wants Cole to notice. Jake notices it as well. He stands up and takes position next to his friend.

            “Officers,” Jake says. He spits a healthy stream of snuff juice on the steps. It lands inches away from the older one’s shoes.

            He tries not to look offended. Slightly slimmer can’t hold his tongue. “Mr. Cavanaugh. You need to come down to the station.”

            “Why would I do that?”

            Jake echoes Cole, spits again. “Why would he do that?”

            Gray hair’s about to boil over. “It’d be better if we could talk alone, is all.”

            Cavanaugh is playing cool but he knows something’s not right. He’s got a crapload of “friends” on the force—hell, he’s represented half the detectives in the county. Cops are some of the most frequent divorcers out there. But they didn’t send his friends. They sent these two, guys he doesn’t really know. There’s a reason for it. He wishes they were just a couple of assholes winding him up for the fun of it, but he doesn’t buy into that police harassment crap. These boys got a job to do. Orders to do it from people more important than them. Nothing’s been stolen, no recent complaints coming through the office from any of his clients. They seem like homicide, the labored way they’re talking and carrying themselves, like the world does nothing but kick them in the nuts, so they’re ready for it. Cole’s almost sure. These are murder police.

            “You guys got a warrant or something?” Jake asks.

            “Shut up, De Klerk,” Cole says, still trying to puzzle through the weirdness. He looks over at the neighbors. They’ve taken their kids inside; now they’re standing in their overpriced yuppie workout clothes, watching the standoff taking place on the other side of the garden wall.

            “Can I ask your names?”       

            “I’m Detective Chapel. The younger one here is Horace. What’s wrong with your pants, there?”

            “Never mind. How ‘bout you come inside, we’ll sort this out so nobody wastes their time.”

            “Afraid it’s gonna have to be a little more official than that. I know Mr. De Klerk there might try throwing his weight around, hell he could probably have me fired, eventually. But I’m just doing my job. My guess is, the only family richer than his is lighting a fire under the mayor’s ass to get me to do that job.”

            Cole had a feeling it was about the Carsons. “So this is concerning my ex-client? Will Carson? He fired me yesterday. Haven’t seen him since.”

            “If you say,” Chapel grunts. “But let’s go down to the station so we can confirm it. All official. All above board.”

            “Just ask him… oh no.”

            “What’s ‘oh no’?” Jake asks.

            “They can’t ask him,” Cole whispers. “Will Carson’s dead. And these good old boys think I had something to do with it.”

            “Come with us,” Horace barks. He doesn’t take kindly to waiting. It doesn’t necessarily make him an asshole, but Cavanaugh pretty much decides he is one.

            “I’m gonna go,” Cole says, putting his hands up, looking back at Jake. “Call Michelle.”

            “Michelle from the club? What do I say?”

            “Just tell her to meet me at the station. Use my name and murder. Should do the trick.”

            They escort Cole briskly and put him in the back of the car. It smells the way he expects, only worse. Jake has to watch his buddy get taken away ignominiously; he’s not the only one—half the neighborhood is out. The sun is setting and all the dog-walkers, baby-walkers, and exercisers are out in force, all kind of looking without trying to look.

            One more person is on hand for the drama. He’s sitting in a late model Cadillac. It goes nicely with the surroundings. The windows are tinted but not conspicuously. No need for that yet. He’s gazing into the rearview mirror as the Crown Vic pulls away. It’s a moving work of art. A living work of art. Life and all its infinite little possibilities. He presses the button for the ignition and smiles.

Chapter 8: The Station

            It’s a game. Tricks of procedure, things they can and can’t ask, ways to get at you before they make an arrest. Cole knows the lines and where they’re blurred—he was a criminal lawyer, after all. But it’s different when you’re in the hot seat, no matter how spurious the suspicions. Cavanaugh’s not happy, so he’s trying his best to pass the time. There’s a lot of ways to mess with cops. So far it’s them asking questions, but he hasn’t uttered a word. It’s really starting to piss them off. Horace especially, Chapel a little less, and then there’s the woman they just brought in. Kind of a detached, attractive woman. Presumably the boss. Maybe she’s the hot shit interrogator. It’s not working. He hasn’t been charged, but it’s obvious they’re chomping at it. Why?

            The room is small and drab, whitewashed cinderblock walls made gray by years of poor souls smoking and generally poor upkeep. The table is wood, something you’d find in an old public library, only heavier. Bolted to the floor. One of those little hooks mounted in the middle to put the cuffs through. He’s not in cuffs. Not yet, anyway.

            Horace gets in his face. “Cut the crap. We know about your history with the woman. Needed him out of the way, I suppose. Couldn’t hold your wad.” Horace is the younger of the male detectives, but apparently he went to the 1940s school of interrogative vernacular.

            Cole answers in the same manner he’s been answering for the last fifteen minutes. Felt tip pen and legal pad. He shows his response to Horace. Do you think I need to lose a few pounds?

            Chapel moves Horace out of the way with a hairy hand and sits down in the chair across the table. “Personally, I think this is ridiculous. Just tell us where you were last night and you’re out of here. You know how this works. You did criminal law back in the day—how many years before you started breaking up families?”

            Cole writes. What are you, Catholic? Sometimes I wish I’d gone into Marine Biology. I like dolphins.

            His answers have been getting more and more ridiculous. But every question he makes them ask is an answer for him. He’s either learning what they know or what they want him to think they know. But it can only go on so long. Especially with Detective Horace. He’s a ratty little guy with a temper. Cole lets out a breath, starts to whistle. His lawyer should be there any minute. She should be there already.

            The guys take a break. Ah. The lady’s turn. Cole smiles, gives her the old up and down. She unbuttons her suit top, reveals a low-cut white blouse. He notices, likes what he sees, pretends not to.

“My name’s Letterer,” she says. “Transferred from Houston a few years back. They let me at the tough ones.”

            More writing. Have you tried that Rosetta Stone thing? Feel like I should learn Portuguese.

            “Yeah, so here’s the lay of the land.” Letterer does the bit where she shows the suspect the crime scene photos. After she’s done dealing, there’s six high resolution shots of the little prince. His head’s near cut off, looks like someone slit his throat to the bone. Deep stab wounds across the face and arms. It’s horror movie stuff. Cole tries to act like he’s seen a million of these things but he gives away a bit of the game; he hasn’t dealt with anything like this in over a decade, if ever. He stops whistling. His shoulders go tight. He wants to write another smug retort but there’s no way. His hand is temporarily atrophied. The gruesome scene before him is not his doing, but hell, he knew the guy. Frigging yesterday. “We have a witness that saw a new Mercedes sedan pulling up to the Carson residence last night. Obviously someone with the six-digit code. Those numbers change every couple days. But you had the code. And the Mercedes. You drive one, don’t you? Matter of fact you were there. Or am I missing something?”

            Cavanaugh does his best not to fidget. They must be aware that he doesn’t do his own driving. Do they? Bob will testify to it. But Bob parks the car at Cole’s house every night, then drives his own ride home. Breathe, Cole. They probably don’t have a definite time of death yet. That right there could clear you. That or a million other things. Let her have the car for now.

            “Then there’s your hand. And your face.” Letterer points at one of the pictures with a ballpoint pen. Does she think she’s got something? Maybe she doesn’t know what she has; could be a running it up the flagpole type situation. “You see here? Mr. Carson has defense wounds on his hands. Kind of like he hit somebody. The forensics folks say he was struck a few times with a right hand.” She takes a breath, sits back in her chair. “What happened to left side of your face, Mr. Cavanaugh? And your hand? Maybe it’s just one of those things, but there’s a little bit of symmetry between the pictures and the guy sitting right in front of me.”

            Cole officially doesn’t feel like writing anymore. He flops the legal pad down on top of the macabre photos. He wants to say something. It’s all circumstantial, all this evidence they’ve parceled together. Don’t talk. Practice what you’d preach if you had a client in this jam. He can’t help himself by talking. Then again, he can’t help himself.

“Are you good at this, Detective?” The question comes out broken, laced with phlegm. Partially because he hasn’t talked in a while, partially because he’s reeling. There’s three options, far as he can tell. Could be the cops are under a lot of pressure, simple as that, so they go after the first and most obvious guy, looking for a break. Could be this whole thing is a frame-up, in which case he has no idea what else they think they have. That would be bad. Then again, Letterer could just be a shitty cop. Affirmative action hire, maybe.

            “I’d like to think so,” she says, crossing her arms. There’s no pretense in her manner, no false bravado. A cool customer. Cole rules out the shitty cop theory. Bummer.

            “So what do you think? I killed poor Carson and went home the next day, put my feet up, waited for you guys to come interrupt beers on the porch? Motive is weak if not completely nonexistent. And I’m pretty sure you lot know I’m not stupid.”

            She leans forward. “I’ve seen smarter people do dumber things.”

            “Really? I’ve a hard time believing that. It’s pretty damn stupid, your so-called thesis.”

            “Been doing homicide eleven years now. People lose it, Mr. Cavanaugh. There’s no rhyme or reason to it most times. Just takes one simple, insane choice.”

            “You trying to get me going down that route? Insanity?”

            “Of course not. Like you said, you’re a smart man. A successful man. No criminal record. A lifetime of reasoned choices, I imagine.” She taps the pen on the table, real casual. Looks over at the corner of the room. The dated little camera. “But that’s the thing. That’s why I have a job. How many choices in a life, reasoned or otherwise? Millions? Billions? It only takes one bad one. Occasion comes, special circumstances, a confluence, pressure or passion or whatever bullshit you want to call it. Like I said—why I have a job.”

            “Very philosophical. Ever think there’s something wrong with you? Who chooses to be around this stuff? We talking choices? You get up every day, I’m guessing to nobody, maybe a dog, you go to work, one dead body after another. It’s a bit strange—your choices. Of all the things in the world…”

            “Okay. Let’s not compare merits. You’re not winning any plaudits yourself.”

            He gives Letterer a hard look. Something’s not right. Her whole bit is too casual. She’s sitting on something, probably something that looks way worse than the conjecture she’s been throwing his way. Or she’s outthinking him. He really needs to shut up.

“Think I’m done talking, Detective. Truth is you’ve pissed me off. I liked old Carson. Thought I’d go out on one, you know, disabuse you and all that. Maybe get you bums hunting the guy that really did this. Whatever. Where’s my lawyer?”

            Letterer doesn’t respond. Checks her watch, puts the pen in her pocket, goes for the door without another word. Cole notices everything about her as she walks by. Well put together, in shape. Short brown hair, cute, not butch. Too young to be in Homicide eleven years. Either she knew somebody, banged somebody, or maybe she’s just that good. The door opens. Cole can hear mumbling outside in the corridor. What the hell is going on? There’s no real reason to panic, but he’s panicking. Sweating. Did she get to him? How do you get an innocent man to feel guilty? A lawyer, no less. Suddenly it’s clear what a low-stakes player he’s been all these years.

            “Get out of my way!” Cole hears. Letterer swings the door wide and lets the screamer in. “Get up. What is this? Are you talking to these clowns? What are you thinking?”

            His lawyer.

            “Hi, Michelle,” he says, standing up to block the pictures and the legal pad. She’s not going for it.

            “Do you want to let these people lynch you? What did you say? I want everything, every syllable. This is some amateur behavior, Cavanaugh.”

            “Fine. Here are my initial responses.” He gives her the legal pad. She flips through them. It seems to calm her down, if only for a moment. He can tell she’s fighting a smile.

            “Okay. Then what?” Michelle asks, throwing the pad onto the table. A few of the pictures fall off and on the floor at her feet. “Jesus.”

            “I know.”       

            “Jesus. You’re getting out of here. I don’t want you looking at pictures, I don’t want you answering questions. You better listen to me, Cole.”

            He knows he better. Michelle Kress is the most able defense attorney in the county, maybe the state. A former A.D.A. with an almost perfect conviction rate before she started playing for the other side.

“You weren’t here,” he says. “It got boring. Thought I’d try to suss out what they knew.”

            “No sussing. No anything, unless I say, from here on out. Otherwise get yourself somebody else.”

            “Loud and clear, Counselor. It’s just—you weren’t here.”

            “It’s Sunday night. I had to leave church and drop the kids off at their dad’s. You know I hate doing that.” She looks typically unadorned. Wearing a skirt and a monotone blouse that hangs where it should fit. Hair not quite curly but certainly not straight. Chapstick and no makeup. Not one for affectations. Never that pretty, past the point of trying to make improvements.

            “Yeah. Sorry.”

            “We’ll talk in the car. I’ll get the blow-by-blow once we’re out of here.”

            “Blow-by-blow? Nice choice of words.”

            “Cute.”

            They exit the interrogation room and walk through blandly colored hallways toward the front of the building. Rounding the final corner, they see media vans and camera lights humming outside the glass doors, ready to capture footage of the suspect. Cole checks his pants. The stain has gone away, but he still looks stepped on. Michelle grabs him by the arm, tells him to stop. “The backdoor,” she says.

            “The front ain’t exactly copacetic,” Cole says, peering around the corner with half an eye.

            “More like worst case scenario.”

            “You have your phone?”

            He grabs it from her, makes a quick call to Bob. Tells him to drive to the rear entrance. “Make sure he’s in his own car,” she whispers. Uniforms and detectives are streaming by them, acting like they’re not paying attention.

            “Bob. Use your ride. We need a quick out. Thanks.” Cole hands the phone to his lawyer as they make their way back toward the interrogation room. Letterer is leaning up against the wall, muttering with Chapel the old and Horace the ratty. Their hands are covering their mouths. It looks like a pitcher discussing the next batter with his catcher and shortstop.

            Michelle goes at the triumvirate quickly, slaps Horace on the arm. “Who told the media?”

            “No idea,” Chapel grumbles. “You be on your way.”

            Michelle’s quick to respond. She knows the cops hate her. Typical anti-defense lawyer bigotry. “Show us the back way out.”

            The detectives don’t want to respond. Finally Horace flexes at Michelle. “I suggest you and your client go out the f—”

            “That’s fine,” Letterer says, calmly cutting off her subordinate. “Follow me.”

As they shuffle by, Michelle sneers at Horace and brushes Chapel aside. Cole smiles at them in self-defense, holding his head high. He’s at least four inches taller than either of the detectives.

“It’s just down here and to the left,” Letterer says. “It’s an emergency exit but I’ll disable the alarm.” She peers through a window next to the door. “Looks like you’ll be unnoticed.” The young detective starts to walk off, twirling her pen in her fingers.

            “Guess she’s playing good cop,” Michelle says, looking up at Cole.

            “Think there’s more to it than that,” he whispers.

            Staring out the window they hear Letterer calling out from down the hall. “And, Mr. Cavanaugh. I told your lawyer, but—just don’t leave town. You know the drill.” Her delivery is one part smug and two parts ominous. Cavanaugh’s lawyer lets out a coarse sigh, gives her client another sideways look.

            “So how was your weekend?” Cole asks.

Chapter 9: The Score

            Cole’s surrounded by newspapers on his kitchen counter. They’re all screaming at him in slightly different ways, all making the same point. The local rags have little else to say. The national papers are just starting to set their hooks in. Murder in Cowtown. Real creative. Heir’s Life Cut Short. Cole can’t tell if the headline is a pun on Carson’s height or on the near decapitation. Either way, a touch cynical. Cavanaugh’s mentioned as a person of interest in every article. Somehow a history that’s been buried for fifteen years is on full display for every person with fifty cents at a newsstand or an internet connection. He’s just off the phone with Clara at the office. After listening to her cry for about five minutes and explaining that no, he didn’t brutally murder a guy, he informed her that he wouldn’t be coming in and to delegate his caseload to the rest of his underlings. Clara told him that it wouldn’t be a problem; most of their clients had already jumped ship for non-murder-suspect representation. He reassured her and made some calls to a few of his senior associates. They seemed to believe him and agreed to ride out the bad press as long as possible. From the sound of their voices, Cole estimated their loyalty at a week. After that—money, marketability, careers, clients would win out—he’d be just some guy they used to work for.

            Ten miles away Elise Bennett-Carson is poring over the same headlines. She takes a drink of coffee and calls out to Rosie from a couch in the living room. Covers up the papers with a blanket. They’re staying at a home owned by the Carson family. It’s on loan from Grant, Will’s father and founder of the empire. She and her daughter are there at his insistence. Insistence. Elise wants to run away from everything but it’s not the time. Will’s dead and somebody’s going to pay for it, one way or another. Her life has never been easy, one hurdle after another; right now she knows the thing that matters is the red-faced little girl running at her to cry into her arms.

            “Aren’t you sad, Mom?”

            “Of course, darling.”

            “Have you been crying?”

            “Yes, Rosie. I’ve been crying.”

            “Nothing. Never. What are we doing? Why is this happening? Daddy never hurt anyone.”

            “No he didn’t. Daddy was a wonderful man. And he loved you more than anything in the world. I’m sure he’s watching you right now, darling.”

            “Why aren’t you sad?”

            “What do you mean? Why do you keep saying that?”

            “You were getting a divorce.”

            “We would’ve worked it out. We would’ve. Don’t think about that now,” Elise whispers, shedding her first tear of the morning into the nest of her daughter’s hair. “Don’t think about it ever again. Come here.” Elise wants to squeeze her mourning child impossibly close, to never let her go. She’s been aloof and distant these last months and knows it. They sit intertwined on the couch and wade through the weight of the moment in silence. Elise is grateful for it. No more questions. Not from her father-in-law, not from Rosie. Not like last night. Rosie’s inquiries weren’t all that different from the police. Especially the Letterer woman. Elise can’t help it; she drifts into yesterday, perhaps to trade the miserable present for the miserable past.

            “The last time I saw him was Saturday, late afternoon,” she says.

            “When you went to pick up your daughter?” Letterer asks, not making eye contact. It’s not an interrogation room but Elise is more than aware that it might as well be.

            “And that’s when you saw Mr. Cavanaugh?”

            “That’s correct. And his man. Bob something or other.” There’s nothing to do but tell the truth. Any obfuscation will shine the light of suspicion directly on her. She doesn’t care for Letterer. There’s something about her eyes. They’re big and inviting, out of place on a cop’s face. Elise feels like she’s being conned somehow.

            “Seems strange.”

            “Which part?”

            “You running into the man you left at the altar. Him representing your husband. And then of course—”

            “My husband ending up dead. Why don’t you ask what you want?”

            Letterer finally looks at Elise. “Maybe later. But you can tell me one thing.”

            “I’ll do anything I can to help.”

            “You don’t seem that upset. Separated or not, it seems like—”

            “You just came by and told me the father of my child is dead. Do you have any family?”

            “Not much.”

             “Maybe—if I have more than a moment—leave my house, now. This is ridiculous.”

            “Of course, ma’am.” Letterer shows her hands, a gesture of surrender. She starts to walk away but stops herself. “One more thing.”

            “What?”

            “This house belongs to Grant Carson. Is that correct?”

            “Yes. Either in his name or the company’s. Does it really matter?” Whatever face Elise is trying to put on is starting to fall to pieces.

            “Probably not, ma’am. I’m sorry for your loss. We’ll let you know if we find anything.”

            Elise pushes the door closed hard, knows full well it’s not the last she’ll see of the detective. Even if she was the prototypical dutiful wife, the cops would be having a go at her. Spousal murder is hardly an anomalous situation. Especially when the relationship is earmarked for divorce.

            Rosie squeezes her hand tight enough to hurt. It has the effect of bringing Elise back to the present. “Darling?”

            “Yeah?”

            “Do you think you might want to take a bath, get cleaned up a little?” The mid-morning sun is starting to creep through the little openings of the curtains. It’s not a day that either of them want to face, but face it they must.

            “Can’t we just stay here?”

            “I wish we could.”

            “Let’s stay then.”

            “Your grandparents will be over soon.”

            Sharply Rosie pulls away from her mother’s arms. “The rest of them, too?”

            “The whole clan, I imagine. They just want to make sure we’re okay.”

            “We’re not okay.”

            “I know, darling. I know.”

            Rose can barely stand, but she wills herself down the hall and starts to run a bath. Elise closes her eyes and lets out an exasperated breath. She’s been holding it in unconsciously, afraid of breaking from what’s happened or what’s to come.

            Five minutes away, Grant Carson and his wife are headed toward the house, an armada of security and company cars to the fore and aft of their limousine. Grant’s wife Amelia is crying quietly next to him, holding his age-spotted hand.

She’s predictably stricken at the loss of her only son, trying in vain to fend off the agony eating away at her guts. As the limo weaves its way through the winding residential streets, their bodies slide and bend at every turn.

Grant looks over at her, not knowing what to say. He only knows what he can’t say.

            Fifty years ago, Grant Carson and Amelia Winthrop were two kids meeting at a chaperoned prep school dance. It was a quick but controversial romance. Amelia’s parents were eager to step in. Theirs was a family of vaunted New England Puritan stock. It would be below her station to step out with the son of an upstart clan of wildcatters like the Carsons. Typical new money/old money story. She was delicate and pretty and he was strong and iron-jawed, determined to take his father’s million and make billions. After his service in Vietnam, it’s exactly what he did. Carson waded through the jungles for two years, killing whoever needed killing so he could get back to forge his empire. The senselessness of the war turned his ambition into steel. He was wounded four times, including an instance where he was bayoneted in the chest by a fourteen-year-old while napping. Fully hardened and mad from the endless attrition, he pulled the blade out and with two bloody hands caved in the child-soldier’s head with the butt of his M-16. While the gore and brains spattered about the rain-soaked ground he thought of the money to be made when he got home. When they finally took him to the hospital, he thought of Amelia. A letter was sent the next day back to the states.

            Dearest Amelia,

            I miss you dreadfully. The war has been a valuable learning experience. Tell your tuxedo-wearing father to try to stop me from marrying you when I get back. I’ll be in my uniform. Soon my love,

            Capt. Grant Carson, USMC

            Finally discharged, Carson proceeded to make his way out to the Winthrop’s summer house on Long Island, cursing her family’s soft pomposity the whole way there. Amelia’s father, butler, and draft-dodging brothers tried to stop him from absconding with her, but he was having none of it. The brothers ran, the father suffered three broken bones, the butler a shattered jaw. Carson took Amelia by the hand and said, “See?” If she had reservations about her feral suitor she was too terrified to voice them. They were married within a week. In the end it all worked out. Carson was able to quench his bloodlust with money lust and Amelia traded her self-righteous family for a self-righteous husband. With his ideal wife in tow, the impetuous young man was unstoppable. He acquired leases and lands, investors and equipment, stone upon stone. Off-shore drilling was his specialty until the craze of horizontal shale fracking became the newest thing. He was there before anyone. The ground floor, as they say. Carson Oil turned into one of the biggest operations based in the United States. A true mogul. His son, though comparatively soft, had a good sense for the business. Smart where he was weak. Will could’ve carried the family dynasty for another generation. That part of it was now over.

            “We’ve arrived, Mr. Carson,” the driver says.

            “Alright. You ready, Meelie?”

            “Poor little thing. To have no father...”

            Carson takes out his silk handkerchief and dabs at his wife’s eyes. “I know. You go and give her the biggest hug she’s ever had.”

            “What about you? She needs to see you, Grant.”

            “Of course, Meelie. I’m going to check on Elise first. See how she’s coping.”

            “How she’s coping?”

            There’s a tap on Grant’s window. It’s one of his assistants. He puts a hand up and looks icily at his wife. His eyes are foreboding pits, almost all pupils.

            “I’m sorry. Yes. See how she’s doing.”

            Amelia’s shaking as she pulls the handle to open the door. Mr. Carson rolls down the window and bristles at the lackey sweating in the suit next to the limo.

            “I’m sorry, Mr. Carson. It’s your private cell, again. The same text message over and over. 5 this time. Call me. I don’t know what it means. It’s from an unknown number.”

            “It’s not your job to know. Give me the stupid phone. And get in there, see if my wife needs anything. That means all of you.”

            Carson wipes his eyes and steps out. Wonders how the person sending the texts even acquired the number. The damn phone is brand new. He dials and leans against the limo. The black paint is already 100 degrees under the Texas sun. The oil tycoon lets it sear through his designer suit, into his leathery skin. Three rings and he hears a click.

            “There you are.”

            “When I find you—”

            “Oh. Maybe you didn’t read the text. Lost your reading glasses?”

            “What do you want?”

            “Truly reprehensible, what happened to your son.”

            “Do you think this will end well? The resources at my disposal? You’ll be running for the rest of your life.”

            “I don’t mind. You think because you went to war you’re tough, old man? Maybe you are. Judging isn’t my thing. But my whole life’s been a war. Save the threats. I want five.”

            “Nothing. You get nothing. There was a deal and you broke… what the hell are you playing at?”

            “OK. I’m gonna give you time to cool off, Mr. Carson. Consider your options, let that brain sort itself out.”

            “I should’ve killed you the day we met.”

            “We’ve been down that path. I’ll say it again. Five million. I get this is a fresh wound, but I know you’ll do what’s best for both of us. Can already see you’re helping, pushing the cops toward the lawyer guy. Now you understand why I recommended you have your son hire him. Between that and your good instincts—you needed someone to take the fall—Cole Cavanaugh is as good a person as any. Maybe the best person, in fact.”

            “What else was I supposed to do? I’m dealing with fucking Texas mayors and district attorneys. These aren’t my people,” Carson says, grinding his teeth with every word. “I will kill—”

            “Of course, the lawyer might be clever. That could be a small problem, but best case, nonetheless. In the end, you managed to do well with your feet to the fire. Quite a boon, quite lucky, Cavanaugh being around.”

            “Is he part of this in any other way? What you’re up to?” Mr. Carson is trying with everything in his body to keep his voice down. His insides feel like a singularity.

            “Less you know, the better.”

            “You won’t win. My son’s life? You’ve killed the wrong person. My boy!”

            “I won the day you let me go, Mr. Carson. Faster you figure that out, the better. You’ve had years. What do they say? You know what I’m capable of. If you didn’t before, you certainly do now. As far as winning, look at the scoreboard. Seems you’re down the heir to your throne. We’ll be in touch.”

Chapter 10: The Other End of the Line

            He ends the call with cautious satisfaction, setting the phone down gently. It’s all about pace. Something learned in prison and honed by years of being on the fringes and near the void. As far as criminals go, he’s an outlier. Ruthless patience, philosophical detachment. In his youth, he let goals box out methodology. Passion and a lot of upstart nonsense. Not anymore. Being locked up was the best thing for him and the worst thing for society; from a cell he learned everything books could teach, and most importantly, learned that he was smarter than the men he was confined with. Jail converted his DNA. He went in an impetuous thug and came out with a mind that could subjugate another’s soul. Pace. Strategy. Thought. These are his gods. Many have been sacrificed at their altars.

            Nicholas Rhine. Prisoner 35286. He calls it his approach. Hard living and introspection, mostly. It tells him that his desires are the same as anybody’s. All have greed. All want what they want. From attainment and freedom to failure and capture—it can be boiled down to that one thing. Approach. Nothing that complicated about it. And it’s always evolving. Process.

            “Please. P-please lemme out.” The plea is coming from a skinny, bearded young man named Josh. He’s not getting out.

            “Shh.” Nicholas raises a plaster-colored finger up to his lips, slowly. Like calming an overactive child in a movie theater. “Shh.”         

            “So what? Are you going to kill me?” It’s a valid enough question. The young man is chained to a fireplace grate in a derelict house teeming with rot and foreboding. He doesn’t know why or how he’s there. On a good day, Josh is feeble and sallow-skinned. Today is not a good day. He closes his eyes and searches the recesses of his memory. Flashes of the night before, walking to the car after a long shift tending bar in a seedy corner of town. Then he wakes up, shackled, watching an imperturbable figure moving around him as if he’s not there. It’s steaming in the house. Sweat has turned his cheap white dress shirt yellow. There’s no air conditioning and the moldy carpet is soaking up the heat and throwing it against his body. The walls are laden with half-covered graffiti, as if someone thought about fixing the place up and abandoned the project to nature.

            Nicholas begins by saying what is on his mind. It’s not always wise, but this situation is fairly stable, for him. He pulls a folding chair close to the fireplace the young man is chained to. Sits a few feet away at an angle. “I don’t kill a lot of people. That may shock you. Sometimes, when I think about it, it shocks me. Then again, what’s a lot? There’s not exactly a governing body deciding whether or not you’ve killed a lot of people. Suppose some would say I have, some wouldn’t. It’s relative.”

He stops, truly lost down his own rabbit hole of thought. Wipes the back of his neck and face with a dirty bandana. He opens his eyes and sees the prisoner shivering despite the heat. Shivering at the sight of him. He understands. A good portion of his body is scarred from burns—the rest is tattoos of this or that, things that mattered but are trivial now. Most of his face is unmarked, but there’s a river of red skin rising out of his shirt and up his neck, all the way to his chin. It looks fresh and oozing with pain. It’s looked that way for years now. He wipes his brow once more and stuffs the bandana back in his pocket.

“Then again, I hate that word. Relative. A bit of a pussy’s word, a word for pussy philosophers.” He looks hard at his captive. “Not that being a philosopher makes you a pussy. Just in case you’re aspiring. I meant to say it’s one of those words that people use to get out of defining their terms. And that’s what it’s all about. Defining your terms. Hitler killed a lot of people. Stalin killed a lot of people. Genghis Khan. No way to pussy your way out of that one. Believe it or not, I’ve heard people try it. Heard people say Hitler didn’t physically kill anybody, just ordered it. Stupid, right? Heard people say that Harry Truman was a big killer, green lighting the nukes. At first I want to say stupid to that one, but it’s not. He’s a big killer. Nothing relative about it. Huh. The point is not how many, but if it was for a good cause. Only way to look at it. Not really sure what any of that means for me. No easy answers. Whether you’re talking death or life, no easy answers. Unless you want to be a pussy and say it’s all relative.”

He does a few circles with his head. Josh can see the muscles bulging from his neck as he goes through the motions.

“Anyway, I would prefer not to kill you.”

            A long pause follows. Josh goes ahead like he wasn’t listening to a thing that was just said. “What is this? Are you some mental patient? What did you do to me?”

            “I need you.”

            “Need me? Fuck you, man! Lemme out!” He fights against the restraints, inflating muscle against metal. There’s no give. His situation is intractable, like the figure seated in front of him.

            A gun emerges from the waistline of Nicholas’ pants. He stands and holds the weapon firm, but doesn’t point it at anything in particular. Somehow it’s just another part of a scary whole. His other hand is occupied with a photograph. He leans over, shows it to the floundering younger man. “No loud noises. The neighbors will hear. And then it will be bad.”

            “Where are we?”

            “Your hometown, Josh.”

            “We’re still in Fort Worth?”

            “Yes, but I have a feeling you didn’t grow up around here. A little too pale to fit in with the local—color. What can you tell me about this little lady?”

            Josh ignores the picture and starts to scream for help. His cries change from words to syllables quickly, however—the man with the gun reaches behind and snaps two of his fingers at the mid-bone. “I’ll give you a second. Think about your situation. And don’t yell out again.”

            In truth, he’s not worried about the kid’s screaming. The neighborhood is rough, six miles southeast of the downtown area. It’s a mixture of stash houses and old, sagging wood-framed duplexes, occupied by minorities too old or poor to get out. Vacant lots on either side. The windows are boarded with heavy plywood to be safe, but it’s the kind of area where you expect to hear bad things. Nobody’s coming. The house is a rental. He paid a guy five hundred dollars to pay the owner five hundred dollars for three months. For someone unafraid, armed, and possessing the skills to defend himself, it’s perfect. “Ready to go again, Josh? I’ve got time.”

            The picture is on the carpet next to Josh’s leg. He looks at it for a second and shakes his head wildly, still fledgling from the pain. “I don’t know her. Please—”

            “Okay. You know what, this is unnecessary. I can see you’re overwhelmed. Probably need a drink?”

            “Water.”

            “I assumed something stronger.”

            “Water.”

            “Interesting. Water it is. Be right back. Just need to pop away for a second.” Josh watches the man get up and head to the kitchen. He tries to rally his fingers and almost screams again. Tries to move his body. It’s ineffectual, just like last time. Why does he want to know about her? I thought this was behind me. Who is this frigging psycho? Just play along. He’s crazy but you can’t lose your head. You’ve been in trouble before. He wants something. Negotiate. Yeah. Leverage. It’s your only chance. Chance. What the hell is this?

            It takes several minutes for him to return. A rush of light enters first; Nicholas has an electric lantern slung over his shoulder and a steaming cooking pot in both hands. For the second time Josh gets a good look at his captor. Somehow he’s gotten more menacing. Nicholas is mostly bald and appears to be one giant muscle underneath all that damaged dermis. Josh doesn’t realize it but subconsciously he’s affected by the fact that his abductor carries himself in a rather relaxed way, incongruous with his meathead-like physique. It goes to the wickedly enigmatic nature of the man. For Josh, all those clever thoughts of negotiation and manipulation are gone in an instant. A naked who are you? is the only thing he can summon.

            Setting the pot down in front of Josh’s outstretched feet, he answers. “Sorry. My name is Nicholas Rhine. Call me Nick if it makes you happy.”

            “Okay…”

            “Apologies for all this, by the way,” Nick says. “It couldn’t be helped, if you want to know the long and short.” He begins to unlace Josh’s boots slowly, methodically. “The girl could prove important, so I’m going to need your assistance with her. Now please stop kicking. It won’t help.”

            “What are you going to do?”

            “It’s rather obvious. You’re not too quick are you?”

            “Don’t.”

            “Why wouldn’t I? You gave me the idea, asking for water. I’m not trying to be cute or clever—direct is my preferred method. Though sometimes you don’t get what you want.”

            “But the picture. Everything about her. Anything. Just ask. She’s—”

            “Please,” Nick says, tossing the last boot into the corner. “First thing’s first.”

            “But I’ll tell you. Just don’t. Don’t.”

            “Be afraid if it helps. My experience, it doesn’t.”

            Josh moves his feet the little he can but it’s no use. The chains have his legs pinned together tightly at the calves. Nick lifts his feet, slides the pot underneath, then pushes down. Expected thrashing and screams follow. The smell of cooked flesh fills the already fetid air. Nick’s expression doesn’t change. Before Josh passes out from the agony, he bellows the name of the girl in the picture, once again promising to divulge whatever is required. A few more violent seconds pass and he goes limp.

            “Of course you will,” Nick says, pulling the scalded feet out of the pot. They singe the carpet as he sets them down. He looks at his work, thinks about it for a few moments. It’ll be a while before the kid’s awake again, before there’s anyone to talk to. He notes the smell, inspects his prisoner for a pulse, stares into that drooping, tear-stained face. He didn’t plan on burning the kid. He was being honest. It just occurred. Who was he to argue with himself? He checks his own pulse and drags in few quiet breaths. No excitement. No enjoyment. Only pace, only control. In the end they will all suffer under his will. This is just practice.

Chapter 11: Lying Low

            It’s been a few days now. A lot of drinking. Cavanaugh’s well-defined face is turning puffy and red from the booze. It’s a great deal of sitting around in his underwear, blinds drawn, watching daytime TV. The it’ll probably blow over thing Cole kept telling himself is looking ever more the pipedream. Cabin fever is starting to set in; it’s been impossible to leave—walking outside would introduce him to a legion of reporters and unanswerable questions. He’s on the phone with his mother. Again. It’s the same story at the family house. He’s briefed on all the important matters: They’re running out of milk. People keep calling at all hours. Dad can’t even go in the backyard to cook. What are they going to say at church group? Something’s bothering your sister, even more than usual. She won’t come out of her room. Whatever progress Della was making seems to have stalled completely.

            It’s all very interesting. Cole tells her not to worry, tells her he loves her and to say nothing, no comment, no comment. He’ll figure it out. There’s a way to make this all go away.

            Yeah.

            The next call is to Bob. He answers quickly and asks the boss how he’s doing.

            “I’ve got to get out of here. Without being seen. The cops aren’t talking. There’s got to be—I don’t know, we have to do something.”

            “We?”

            Cole’s stunned. He’s been assuming Bob would stay loyal. There’s silence while he tries to find the right words.

            “Boss?”

            “Yeah. I’m here.”

            “Just kidding. Sorry. Probably not the time for jokes.”

            “Probably not, Bob.” Cole runs a hand through his hair, annoyed but relieved. Chalks it up to his man being almost as nervous as him. It gives Cavanaugh time for another thought to creep in. Does he even believe me? Does anyone? “Don’t worry. You’ll get a big raise.” It’s an awkward thing to say. Cole can’t figure out if it rings polite or guilty.

            “Okay,” Bob says.

            “Think it’s time to give your buddy a shout.”

            “You talking about Big Frank?”

            “Yes,” Cole says, rolling his eyes. Has it really come to this? “Big Frank. We need someone like him. The more the better. Anybody else come to mind?”

            “He’s a—Frank’s pretty much got his own niche.”

            “My point.”

            “I’ll get on it. Figure a way to get you out of there. Today, tomorrow at the latest. Sit tight. Don’t forget. They’re waiting to pounce out there.”

            Cole looks out the peephole of his front door. Sighs at the conclave of vehicles boxing him in. “Don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

            He ends the call and forces one foot in front of the other toward the living room. Nothing to do. There’s a bottle of 18-year old scotch on the end table. Never mind a glass. He turns it on its end and opens his throat. Switches on the TV and slumps into the sofa. It’s three in the afternoon and there’s nothing on worth watching. The local networks are talking about the Carson murder, no big surprise. As his eyes start to droop a festival of swishing sounds and breaking story alerts start emanating from the screen. Cole opens an eye and sees a familiar sight. The sound is low but it’s clear enough that they’re taking live footage of his neighborhood. A sea of reporters poking at someone with their directional microphones, prodding their prey toward his front walkway. He takes another drink and sets the bottle down haphazardly, spilling it all over the upholstery. He’s trying to listen and handle the bottle but ends up draining it on his underwear. There’s a knock on the door. More like a crunch. It sounds like someone’s trying to breach a castle. He’s thirty feet from the scene, ten feet away from the screen. Forty people are yelling just outside the threshold, hurling questions and snapping pictures. Sensory overload. He hears everything twice due to the broadcast time delay. What now?

            More pounding on the door. The wolves are at the gate. One voice is audible above the rest, making its way from the entranceway and down the hall. Cole isn’t exactly on his game; he rushes toward the foyer, tripping on one of the steps. The empty bottle he’s been holding breaks on the marble floor, sending whisky-scented shards everywhere. There’s enough liquor in his system not to notice the cut on his chin or the glass slicing his feet as he gets up to reconnoiter the situation. The pounding continues.

            “Get off my property!” he screams. Cole thinks about lawsuits and trespassing laws, taking tentative steps toward the door. He’s a lawyer, after all. “Go away, you bastards!”

            It has no effect. The thumping—“Enough of this shit.” He throws himself against the door and plants an eye flush to the peephole. “What the—”

            “Hey! Let me in! For God’s sake I’m being crushed!”

            No. It can’t be. What have I done to deserve this? Tell me this is a dream, the bender’s just catching up. I’ll wake up any minute. Stupor be gone.

            “Cavanaugh!”

            Okay. Not waking up. The noise is unrelenting. It’s all too hard to process; fortunately the TV’s providing overbearing commentary:

            Elise Bennett-Carson is here at the Cavanaugh residence. She’s fervently attempting to gain entrance. As you may well know, these two have a history that has thrown some suspicion their way in the wake of the brutal murder at the Carson mansion. Wait. It appears he is at the door. It’s hard to make out through the glass, but he looks to be holding something in his hand, perhaps a weapon of some sort.

            Cole glances at his hand. It’s the top of the bottle that he broke. He hadn’t even noticed. There’s too much going on to be this drunk.

            “Would you let me in? I can’t breathe.”

            “Uh. No. You can’t be here. Take it down the road.”

            “I’m trapped.”

            “Tell me about it.”

            Behind the scrum, Fort Worth’s finest are watching, mostly laughing, mostly arms folded. Pure spectators. Among them is Detective Letterer. She had arrived a few minutes previous, wanting to do some follow up with Cavanaugh. Not anymore. Not now, anyway. Being the ranking officer on the scene, she could order her men to go in and provide relief to the widow Carson. Probably the right thing to do. But this is darn interesting. She’s got ideas, expectations, the way a detective has with every case. This was not something she saw coming.

            “Cole. I can’t breathe. I’m about to pass out.”

            Why is she here? Man, whatever she says, you can’t trust her. This is your home. She walked out of your home years ago, left you broken and alone. One in, one out. Fine. But not the same one. Thinks she can just waltz back in? What an asshole.

            Two more thuds from the gang of reporters repel his head away from the door. He hears Elise starting to whimper and cry out, not for Cole, but for mercy. Oh for the love.

            It seems Elise Bennett-Carson is completely unwilling to talk to the media at this point. Mr. Cavanaugh seems inclined not to let her in. This is very dramatic, folks. We can only speculate as to what is really going on here.

            “Ah, shut up,” Cole says, throwing the rest of the bottle at the wall. He cracks open the door. Elise slips through and falls to the floor, hair tousled, eyes red and wild. Cole yells at the reporters, pushing all his weight against the advancing horde. The blood from his bare feet doesn’t allow for much traction, but eventually he’s able to heave it closed. After securing the locks, he slides down to the floor, back buffeted by the relentless throng.

            “So you needed to see me?” he asks.

            Elise sits up, surveys the damage done to her body. She’s still trying to catch her breath. Where to begin? So many conflicting emotions. But first thing’s first. “Did you piss yourself?”

            He looks down and starts to laugh. “No. There was the drinking and the bottle and then you came and with the television and everything… it was a spill, not a piss.”

            “Put some pants on. Maybe a shirt. Please?”

            Mrs. Bennett-Carson is now inside the Cavanaugh residence. I’m told from my colleagues near the door that they are conversing at this very moment. One can only imagine what their dialogue consists of.

            “Your TV on loud enough?” Elise asks, examining her arms and neck for bruises and scrapes.

            “That’s what you’ve got to say?”

            “What’s the right thing to say?” She pulls back her auburn hair and lowers her mystically dark eyebrows for effect. Only a few seconds and her countenance is controlled and lovely. He’s reminded of their first meeting at Harvard; it’s the same look that turned his steady heart to fluttering. Only now it’s more practiced. A few more wrinkles, more wisdom, more sophistication. She’s not in a loose sweatshirt anymore. Elise is wearing an elegant but tight black dress, cut just low enough to make one aware. Always expressive with her attire, always a reason for everything. It’s what makes it so vexing to see her in his house.

            “How about explaining—you knew what was out there, what you’d be walking into. I’m trying to lie low, dammit,” Cole says, still feeling the thumps on his back.

            I’m guessing that the police investigators will be looking at this reunion with keen eyes. Some of the pressure was seemingly starting to lift off of Cole Cavanaugh. Now we can only assume that it will be back on the successful divorce lawyer in full force. We’ll keep you updated, of course. Back to the studio.

            “Afraid hiding isn’t going to make this go away,” she says, rubbing her neck. There will be bruising—she suffered more than a few stinging forearms and shoulders on her journey through that gauntlet of inhumane humanity.

            “Vicious sons of bitches,” Cole says, tapping the back of his head against the door.

            “Unremitting,” she answers.

            “Pertinacious.”

            “Ineradicable.”

            “Intransigent.”

            “Incommodious.”

            “That one’s a stretch. But I like it. Anyway. They’re an inconvenient bunch.”

            “Chalk incommodious up to creative license.”

            “My friend De Klerk would appreciate you. But he wouldn’t understand. He’s only at F.” Cavanaugh produces a small but wry smile as the noise outside starts to fade. Apparently the reporters have their A-roll, B-roll, sound bites and the whatnot. Finally, a moment to think. It’s hard. He’s still drunk. The chaos outside is ebbing enough for him to notice the spinning in his head. And she is right there, the leviathan, the only love of his life. “I’m sorry about your husband.” It has to be said eventually. Off with the fencing. “That your daughter lost her father. It’s awful. No other way to put it.”

            “No. Suppose not.” Elise isn’t looking at him anymore. She’s pretending to notice the décor, like she’s come over for a casual reunion, hankering to give herself a visual tour. Cole’s brain is booze-soaked but he’s not stupid. He knows that it’s deflection. Either a defense against crying or something else. He does his best to presume nothing. Remember, Cole. It’s been fifteen years.

            “Elise? What are we doing here? By we I mean you, of course.”

            Her emotions are becoming untethered from her will. They’re starting to seep through. She yells, it feels a bit out of nowhere, like they’d moved to calmer waters. “For the love of Jesus! Would you put some pants on?”

            “In a minute.” Cole doesn’t move a muscle, just stays splayed out before her, package on full display. “Hey. Look at me—at least my face. Will seemed like a good guy. Never got to see him at his best, but—I could tell. He loved your daughter, loved you. I didn’t have anything to do with his death. Still not sure if that’s what you came to hear, but if so, there it is.”

            Elise seems ambivalent, like she just accepted bits and pieces of what she just heard. “You obviously didn’t kill him.”

            “Ok,” Cole says. “Wish it was that cut and dry for everybody else.”

            “This thing is far from cut and dry.”

            “What aren’t you telling me? Volumes, I’m sure. Start with what you know and what precipitated your little walk of atonement out there.”

            Still outside is Detective Letterer. The sun is beginning to go down and the media vultures are starting to return to their nests. She’s a little at odds about what to do next. As cool as the young investigator is playing it, the situation is prime for a fuck up. All the uniforms around her are salivating for it, another chance to tell their buddies at the bar about the girl upstart who couldn’t get the job done. As she stares at Cavanaugh’s big, weird house, the scroll of shit unconsciously unfurls in her mind. Why would she catch this case? It’s possibly the highest profile murder in Fort Worth history. They put their youngest murder cop on it, as lead investigator? Could be that the mayor’s trying to score political points by being all progressive and girl equals boy, but Letterer’s too smart to buy it. Add to her plight one of the richest men in America, breathing down the PD’s neck for swift and total justice, damn the procedure, damn the law. Perhaps it’s as simple as the press and Carson and the public want it to be: might be that at least one of her murderers is inside that house right now, laughing it up. It might be. But something is keeping her from going in. She’ll catch hell from the brass, but she’s going to stay right there. Watch. Wait. Cavanaugh’s not going anywhere.

            “Hey Letterer, it’s shift change. Want to come have a drink? Looks like you could use a little stress relief?” It’s one of the younger ones, figuring he’ll take a shot. She doesn’t blame him. It’s hot as hell and her shirt is sweating through, highlighting her breasts.

            “Walk on, soldier,” she says, still staring at the house. “Maybe if you weren’t such a shitty cop I’d oblige.”

            “What’s she mean?” asks the youngster, turning to his partner.

            “The detective likes girls, dickhead.”

            “What a waste.”

            What a waste. You don’t know what you’re missing. Stop playing for the other team. It’s a daily thing. She takes no offense. Men and their libidos are about the least mysterious thing on the planet. And she’s got a real mystery on her hands.

            Cole’s catching up on lucidity. The novelty of the situation will wear off and he’ll be left with his temper. It’s coming to the fore, he knows. Soon the fact that the world has taught him since birth to pretend be a gentleman and the fact that a woman freshly widowed is his guest will not matter.

            “I came here for help,” Elise says, walking to the kitchen. She returns with a dishtowel and starts picking up the pieces of glass from the marble entranceway. Wiping away the blood.

            Cole tries not to get distracted by cleavage as Elise bends over. “Seems like the last place on earth to come for help. You’re not exactly cracking my top five people in the world list. Sure, I’m being all noble at the moment, but I hate your guts.”

            “Still pissed?”

            “Yeah.”

            “We were kids. Figured you’d let it go by now.”

            “No you didn’t. Why else would I take your husband’s case? Nobody lets things go.”

            “Guess that’s true,” she whispers, focusing on the floor.

            “Is it?”

            “Is what?”

            “Is it true, or just true for me?” Cole asks. You let go with both hands—let right go. But maybe I’m extrapolating. From the whole running out on me and never contacting me again series of events. It was kind of a big deal. Left a mark.”

            “I guess it did.” Elise stops wiping and trains her deep brown eyes on Cole. He looks ridiculous, like a handsome man-baby that’s just run through the thorns. “I know it was a shit deal,” she says. “And it’s not over.”

            “What does that mean?” Cavanaugh really doesn’t know what she means.

            “I mean the reason I left you that day is the reason I’m here now.” There’s silence. The ex-lovers leave the world on standby, trying to get a fix on each other and themselves.

            Cole closes one eye for focus and says the only thing he can think of. “Yeah. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Give me specifics. Take your time. I’ve waited fifteen years—probably can wait a few seconds longer.”

Chapter 12: Bad Calls

            “Hang up the phone,” Nick whispers, looking stony-eyed at Josh Ratliff. His captive is as good as housebroken. Starting out, Josh was a feeble-minded, translucent-skinned loser in his late twenties. It’s been days and he’s acquitting himself about how Nick expects. He complains, says he’s starving for a minute, then pleads, then begs, then offers to do whatever for whatever. Sometimes he moves straight to the offering. A little intimidation, a bit of torture, anything is possible. The sound of gunfire goes off somewhere not too far from their location. Josh quakes as much as the chains will allow. Nick breathes through it, unmoved, uninterrupted. Takes the phone from young Josh. “Thanks for making the call.”

            “What are you doing this for?”

            “Options. I have a partner going off book. Needs keeping in line. It’s rather complicated.”

            “Why did you make me say those things? I didn’t do that.”

            “You did. God’s honest.”

            “Bullshit.”

            “God’s honest can be hard to hear.”

            Indeed it was. Della Cavanaugh wants to cry out. All in an instant the pains in her body feel worse. She doesn’t quite know if she believes what was just told to her, but it’s doing something to both body and spirit. Overwhelming. Overload. Like the last night Josh and her were together, before everything went black, the last night she’d heard his voice. Why would he call now? She ignored the first three calls from last night but lost her nerve. Too much agitation. Della leaps off her bed and bursts toward the bathroom, fast but hindered, like a wounded soldier trying to make it to the first available foxhole. She leans over the sink but nothing comes out. Runs her hand through the medicine cabinet—it’s an old habit. Bottles and packets crash at her feet and make a racket. Nothing’s there, nothing that she needs. Of course there isn’t. Think, Della. Mom’s heard the commotion and is knocking on the door behind her, asking if everything is all right. How many times has she had someone knocking, checking up, asking her what she needs? Suddenly a switch goes off in her brain; a part of the person she used to be is reactivated. It’s not who you used to be. It’s who you are. Della’s a thirty-year-old woman but almost half her time on the planet has been dedicated to doing things a certain way, acting a certain way.

            “I’m fine, Mom. Dropped something like an idiot. Forgot my cane.”

            “Oh, honey. Let me go get it for you.”

            “No. Everything’s good. Don’t worry about me.”

            “Never ask the impossible, sweet daughter. Just doing my job. Love you.”

            “Love you too, Mom.”

            Love isn’t on her mind. Only one thing is. After a few moments to think, she picks up all the crap off the bathroom floor and returns to her room, down the hall past her parents. They’re watching one of their weekly primetime shows. Good. That’ll have them transfixed for the next hour, especially now. Her mom and dad are bored and restless, having had to stay put for the last few days. Thankfully they still can’t figure out Netflix. No TiVo. They’re stuck. Glued to the couch like it’s 1998. She’s got time.

            Della closes her room door quietly. Her breathing is rapid and sweat is forming on her brow. She picks up her cell phone and looks into the mirror above the little wooden vanity she went to every morning growing up. A million things are sweeping their way through her mind. Why? Why would he call? How much of it can be true? Della keeps looking into the mirror, tapping the cell phone unconsciously, trying to come to a decision she already knows she’s going to make. Cole’s always been a bastard, hasn’t he? Of course he has. Always acting smarter than everyone, Mr. Superior. Especially for the last six months. Ever since that last night with Josh. And Josh? Why would he say those things? He’s trying to protect me, maybe. Or maybe he did what he said. She tried and tried to find him afterward, but he wasn’t having any. Dude dropped off the map. Now that it’s all in the rearview, he decides to pull a random mea culpa call?        

            She limps up to the mirror and judges herself, head to toe. Curses the stupid thrift store clothes, the stupid hair, even the mirror itself. You’re pathetic. Letting these people push and pull you, letting them confine you like a little girl. You are a little girl, living in a little girl’s room. Do something for yourself for a change. Grow up.

            She dials a number from memory, one not in her contact list. A familiar male voice answers. One of her old dealers. “Well, now. Look here.”

            “You still getting around town?” she asks.

            “Hold on, there. Just hold the hell on. Little out of the blue, I’d say.”

            “So yes. Triple. Screw it. Quadruple. I’ll meet you in the alley behind my parents’ house. You know where they live.”

            “Quadruple? What about the cops? I ain’t getting caught for no measly handoff.”

            “They’re all out front. And everyone’s about gone home. Just do this. Measly my ass. Quadruple. And I’ll take three times my usual shit.”

            A moment passes. She continues to sweat, waiting for a reply. “Ok then. Four and three. Better be straight?”

            “I’m straight. Been nothing but straight. You know that.”

            “Alright, then. Holla at you in thirty. Make sure that mess is safe. Do some recon or whatever.”

            “Recon. Whatever. Thirty minutes.”

            Della immediately deletes the call from her memory and throws the phone on her bed. A quiet moment passes. She asks herself what’s she’s doing. At about the same time, back in the bad part of town, Nicholas Rhine is dialing a new number into a new phone. It’s a disposable. Safety first. Nick knows exactly what he’s doing. He motions for Josh to take it.

            “What now?”

            “Nothing much,” Nick says, trying to avoid getting too close to his prisoner. Josh has been crapping and pissing himself. It’s not a torture thing. More like a too many chains thing. “Just tell her exactly what you told your friend Della.”

            “Who am I telling?”

            “Her name is Detective Rachel Letterer. Fort Worth Homicide. It’s her cell number. If she doesn’t respond, leave a detailed voicemail. That’s fine, too.”

            “No way. This is nuts. I’m not saying that shit to the cops.”

            “Take the phone.”

            “No.”

            Prisoner 35286 sets the phone at his feet and stands back up. He pulls his pistol from behind his back and a bag of dope from his right pocket. “Two choices,” he says. Like always, there’s nothing much in his voice. No menace, no annoyance; just do this, do that.

            Josh isn’t thinking clearly. He’s dying of thirst and hunger, dying for that bag his captor is dangling before his eyes. But the cops? No way, man.

            “Two choices,” Nick repeats. “You have thirty seconds. After that I’m going to have to shoot you in the head. It’s important. Remember? Off book? Partner?”

            “You’re not going to shoot me.”

            “God’s honest. Twenty seconds.”

            Josh can’t decide if the whole thing is a bluff. It’s all past the point of nuts. He looks once more at the bag.

            “Ten seconds.”

            “Fine! Just put the gun down. You’re fucking crazy! Shit!”

            “Let me get the phone for you,” Nick says, hitting dial and placing it on speaker. It rings several times. Josh steals a look at the balding, muscle-bound psycho standing over him. Steals another look at the phone. Hears a click.

            “This is Letterer.”

            One more look at Nick’s dead eyes and the dope. Josh gives whatever’s left of himself over. Not that there was much to begin with. “Yes, I need to—talk to you, Detective.”

            “Yes. Who’s speaking? And be louder.”

            “I can’t say who.”

            “Well then I can’t listen. Thanks for wasting my time.”

            “It’s about Cole Cavanaugh.”

            “Yeah. What about him?”

            “He’s a bad guy. A liar. You can’t trust him.”

            “You been listening to the TV, buddy? He’s a divorce lawyer. Of course he’s a liar.”

            “No. He covered up something bad. His sister. It wasn’t a car crash. She got beat up. He only told her it was a car crash once she woke up in the hospital. People got paid off to back the story and look the other way.”

            “Who got paid off?”

            “I don’t know, exactly. It shouldn’t be too hard for you to find.”

            “Okay. And how do you know all this?”

            “Because I beat her up. Della Cavanaugh. I beat the shit out of her.”

            “What the hell?”

            “Just listen. We were both on some serious shit, high as—we were gone. I don’t remember doing it, maybe a little bit of the argument—nothing more than that. She ends up with a broken hip, broken ribs, busted leg maybe. Concussions or whatever. Permanent hearing loss in one ear or something.”

            “Jesus.”

            “So I didn’t even remember doing this. Couple days later Cavanaugh comes up in my place with this other dude, tells me what I did, tells me that I’m never gonna see his sister again. He knew me. Me and Della had gotten busted before—you know, minor shit.”
            “Okay. You need to tell me who and where you are.”

            “Listen! This dude is weird. He tells people things, gets them doing what he wants. Cavanaugh scares me.”       

            “Did he assault you?”

            “I don’t know. Not really, I guess. That’s not the point. He made it so she’d never see me again, lied to his sister, even put blame on her for it. Said I was driving her around, joyriding. Said we were high on her shit. Think he was doing some psychology thing, trying to scare her straight. Left just enough of the dope in her purse so she’d take a possession charge. Who does that? After she’s gotten knocked around. It’s messed up.”

            For the detective, a lot to try and inhale all at once. “So they told her not to contact you?”

            “Yeah. But she tried. Like I said she didn’t know that I had lost it that night. But I didn’t answer. Never did again. Cavanaugh said he’d kill me if I even sent or answered a text. Crazy.”

            “Why now? I mean—why are you calling me? This happened when?”

            “Like six months ago. Listen. Do what you want with the information. Just saying, I watch the news. This guy ain’t right.”

            “Mister you need—”

            “Detective. Check his car.”

            “Wait. What?”

            “CHECK. HIS. CAR.”          

            Before another question can come back, Nick’s hitting the end button. He picks up the phone and cracks it in half. “That was very good, Josh.”

            “You gonna give that bag up?”

            Rhine almost smiles. His dirty little pet is coming in handy. He curls himself around Josh’s body and unlatches one of the wrist clamps so he can get at the drugs. “Told you I would. God’s honest.”

Chapter 13: Army for Advice

            Despite more than a few passing reservations, Letterer is banging on Cavanaugh’s door at three in the morning. After hitting a dead end trying to trace the cell phone that called her, she went back to work, looking into the night of Della Cavanaugh’s incarceration. Broken ribs, broken wrist—half her body was in a shambles. She spent the next hour perusing Della’s arrest record until she found the name of a guy they pulled her in with a few times in the past. Joshua Ratliff. Scummy looking from the mug shot. Dark hair dyed light, pale and sickly, big screw you look coming from his beady red eyes. Arrested twice for possession and a couple more for driving under the influence. He was suspected of dealing medium-sized weight but the narcs couldn’t put the stash and him together in the same place. Letterer figured this was the guy she’d had her little conversation with. Best guess, anyway.

            It was late but she called Ratliff’s last known address and his listed current place of work. Some bar. The manager moaned about how he’d been missing the last few days. Great. Letterer played with her pen and watched cops coming and going from the station at shift change. She stayed planted, fidgeting, looking over the hospital records. Minutes gave way to hours—finally, enough was enough. She got in her car and sped over to Cavanaugh’s place. CHECK HIS CAR. Not something a detective can just let go. Also, something you don’t do without a warrant.

            But here she is. Just her. No warrant.

            Two more bangs. Her holster is unbuttoned and her hand is resting on her sidearm, a Sig Sauer .40mm. This is retarded. Come to the damn door, Cavanaugh.

            At last the entryway light comes on and the door cracks. Letterer doesn’t give him the chance to talk first. “Let me in, Counselor.”

            “Can we do this tomorrow? What time is it?”

            “Step back. Step back and let me in.” She’s trying to control her breathing. It’s stupid being there alone in the middle of the night. But it’s the play she feels she has to make. Talk fast. “Or I could arrest you right now.”

            Cole lets go of the door and steps back lazily. All kinds of women seem to be forcing their way in of late. His eyes adjust quickly to the light as he sees Letterer’s little hand on her big gun. “What’s up, Detective?”

            “What would you say if I asked to look in your car?”

            “I’d say that’s a thing you need a warrant for.”

            “That’s an option. But it means I’m calling a judge, getting some uniforms down here to make sure you don’t go anywhere. Could be middle of the morning by then. The cameras and the little blond reporters will be everywhere. Your call. Believe it or not, I’m trying to do you a favor.”

            Cole’s tired and somewhere between drunk and hung over. There’s a million reasons to make things hard for her but a million ways she can make things hard for him. Depending on who she calls, he could jam her up pretty good. Standard divorce lawyer protocol is to donate to every judge’s campaign, under the table or over. Some of them are very appreciative. It helps in contested cases. Long term investment, like the billboards. Then again, he knows young Letterer is going to keep calling until she finds one that got paid more by Carson. It probably won’t take too long. What does she want? The car? It’s been here for days. Either here or with Bob. “Whatever,” he says. “Go ahead and look.”

            Letterer instantly feels better and lets out a long, silent breath. Whatever’s going on, Cavanaugh doesn’t scare her. Something about him. She’s seen violent types and he doesn’t have the look. The look? What is this, Psych 101? Screw that. You’re in the house of a possible murder suspect in the middle of the night. He’s bigger than you, probably smarter than you. Don’t be an asshole. Get it together. “Turn the lights on in the kitchen and the living room, please.”

            “Okay,” he says, moving slowly. Cole’s not going to do anything to make that gun hand of hers any more tense.

            “Are there weapons in the house?”

            “Three pistols and some shotguns. They’re all upstairs in a safe. Do you want the combination?” Cole’s wide awake now. Enough to be appropriately freaked out. More reason to play calm. “Anything you need, Detective.”

            She throws her cuffs at him. Looks at the kitchen and the living room. “Wrap your arms around that column next to the couch and put those on. I can help if you want.”

            “Seriously?”

            “Seriously put them on, or seriously will I help you with them?”

            “Both, I guess. Mostly the first one.”

            “Do it.”

            “Whatever you say.” She hears the click of the restraints and watches Cole slump down to the carpet with his face against the column.

            “Car in the garage?” she asks.

            “Yeah. It’s just through the kitchen there.”

            She checks the cuffs with a shake and starts walking.

            “Wait!”

            Letterer snaps around, hand even tighter on the gun. “What?”

            “Just hold on.”

            “Something you don’t want me to see, Cavanaugh?” There is in fact something he is hoping she wouldn’t see, but it’s not the thing she was thinking. Cole has no idea what she’s thinking at this point, though he knows when she sees what he’s talking about, she’ll think the wrong thing about it.

            Communication and trust—proving difficult.

            “Elise Bennett. Bennett-Carson. Whatever. She’s upstairs. You might want to get her down here if you’re gonna be searching. I’m just trying to keep things on the up and up.”

            “So you sleep with the dead guy’s wife?”

            Cole’s face turns red; he bangs his head against the column. “No. We didn’t—do you have any idea what that woman did to me?”

            “Everybody does, Cavanaugh. I think it’s still trending on Twitter.”

            “We talked awhile. Had a couple bottles. She passed out upstairs and I crashed on the couch. The place was surrounded before.”

            “I saw that. Fine. I’ll go get her,” Letterer says, eyes rolling.

            “Up the stairs. Second door on the right.” Cole tries to get comfortable so that he can properly feel sorry for himself. He is really off his game. For all his swagger, nothing he’s done since meeting Will Carson has made sense. He’s cocky with no right to be. Things are moving slow in his mind. What am I doing? Letting a cop in my house? Letting Elise—Elise Bennett, Elise Bennett-Carson, whatever the hell her name is—in my house? Letting her speak to me, crash at my place?

            It isn’t like him. But in the end their meeting had the feeling of inevitability. The last two or three hours consisted mostly of her crying and spurting out unintelligible drivel, but it started productively enough:

            “I’m serious, Elise. What does that mean?” he asks.

            “There were things, parts of my past I never talked about. Things I was hiding.”

            “Yeah. I got the sense that you weren’t completely honest with me when you left me at the wedding.”

            “Are you going to be a jerk?”

            “I am a jerk. It’s the new normal, to use a term I hate.”

            “This is ridiculous, Cole. I could be in danger. Rosie could be in danger.”

            The mention of the kid shuts Cavanaugh up. Elise relays the story of the wedding day, how this guy she was childhood sweethearts with went crazy and they got into some trouble as juveniles but he went away and she turned her life around and then he showed back up and she knew that he wouldn’t stop and he’d make their lives miserable so she panicked and got out of there and didn’t tell anybody why because she didn’t want anybody to get hurt and she needed to disappear.

            She takes a long breath. Looks at him. “It doesn’t matter now, but I was completely in love with you.”

            “Then you should’ve told me. But you’re right. It doesn’t matter.”

            “But this has got to be him—probably.”

            “The killer? You think your fourth-grade sweetheart murdered Carson?”

            “Thought you were laying off the jerk thing?”

            “Just taking a break. Why do you think so now, after all this time?”

            “For a while I’ve been getting calls, someone’s on the line but doesn’t talk.”

            “Kinda strange.”

            “I got a typed letter asking me how I was, no return address. And it feels like somebody’s been following me since I don’t know when. Having a lifetime stalker gives you an instinct for these things.”

            “Very strange.”

            “What part?”

            “The entire thing. Why didn’t you tell the cops?”

            “The cops are idiots. Most, anyway.”

            “Won’t necessarily argue with that.”

            “This guy’s… difficult. He doesn’t do enough to get the cops involved. At least not to me. He just plays games. But I don’t know. Not even sure he’s alive.”

            “Wait. What?”

            “That’s the thing. It’s crazy town. I hired a private investigator up in Oklahoma to track him down.”

            “What’s his name?”

            “The private investigator?”

            “The sweetheart.”

            “Nick. Nicholas Rhine. Like the river.”

            “And the investigator turned up nothing on Rhine?”

            “He found some guys that Nick fell in with. Apparently he did some stuff with guns and drugs but disappeared. The PI said the feds had him scratched off their list.”

            “Scratched off their list? There’s a list?”

            “I don’t know, Cole.”

            “Well. This is quite a nice life you’ve etched out for yourself.”

            “You can thank me for not getting you involved in it.”

            He can’t help but laugh. “You’re in my house. And I’m the prime suspect in your husband’s murder.”

            “That’s your fault.”

            “My fault?”

            “Cole Cavanaugh, Attorney-at-Law. You only took the case to get back at me.”

            “Nah. Bros before hoes. It’s on half my billboards.”

            “You know, until I saw you at the house last weekend, I had no idea Will even wanted a divorce.”

            “Really had your finger on the pulse. Well done.”

            “I was withdrawn. Afraid someone was playing mind games with me. Stalking me.”

            “Well, maybe if you communicated to Will, he could’ve helped. He obviously cared. See the running theme here, Elise?”

            At that point she demanded Cole put on some pants and he yelled something asinine about her dress. She found the liquor cabinet and he was hot on her heels. They argued a little more but the dialogue seemed to devolve with every passing minute. Nothing was resolved and nothing was figured out. At one point he asked who was watching her kid and she told him that there was an army of people for that. Cole mentioned that we should all be so lucky as to have armies watching us as children, instead of our parents. She yelled at him for another thirty minutes or so for that, told him that he was pathetic and had no idea what it was like to raise a child. He said that he’d ask the army if he ever got in a jam. She also said that he was a horrible bitter man and that before they almost got married he wasn’t particularly good at intercourse. Cole didn’t know what she was saying for effect and what was actually true. Finally, the whole thing ended when Elise fell asleep in mid-sentence. Another glass broke as she keeled over, but Cavanaugh was able to catch her and put her in the guest room. He watched sports highlights and drank his anger off downstairs, crashing out on the couch. The sleep was awkward and uncomfortable. And then, alas, a knock on the door.

            He hears two pairs of footsteps coming down the stairs and sees Elise and Letterer right on her heels. The detective is being cautious with the widow but Cole notices that she’s no longer gripping the pistol.

“Right there. Just like him,” Letterer says. A few moments later Elise is wrapped around the same column as Cole. Because he’s slumped to the floor, her lady parts are right in his face. Letterer bluntly assures them it won’t take long before making a final check of the cuffs and walking to the garage.

            “What is this?” Elise asks, still trying to keep her eyes open.

            “It’s nothing. She’s got one of those police hunches, suppose.”

            “Is it a good hunch?”

            “What’d did you say about most cops?”

            “Idiots. But is she one of them?”

            Cole doesn’t feel like answering. He’s tired and the only thing he wants is one more shot of whisky and ten more hours of unconsciousness.

            “Enjoying the view down there?”

            “Funny,” he says, hugging the column like a pillow. “Hey—last night or whatever—I don’t even really know what the hell we were saying, but I’m pretty sure I was out of bounds on a few things.”

            “Nice apology.”

            “Yeah, well, told you I was a jerk.”

            “You did indeed.”

            “One thing neither of us talked about. Did you still love Carson? He barely came up. Thinking about it now, it seems kind of weird.”

            “Yes, I loved him. I wasn’t the one trying to get a divorce, remember?”

            “Yeah. Only you seem more worried than upset.”

            “I’m both. Is there a metric for the appropriate amount of grief a woman has to display for her murdered husband?”

            “Nope. Out of bounds. Out of bounds.”

            “Let’s try to be silent. When she gets back I’ll go home and we can pretend nothing happened.”

            “Nothing did happen.”

            “You know what I mean.”

            Before Cole and Elise can escalate their sniping, Letterer returns holding a plastic bag, talking rapidly on her phone. Cole can’t see what’s in the bag but it’s sloppy and red. The sight of it leaves him confounded.

            Letterer mumbles a few more things into her phone and ends the call. Turns toward the column. Cole stands up quickly, still looking at the bag. “What’s that you got, Detective?”

            She walks nearer with careful steps. “You do any cooking?”

            He can see it now. It’s a knife. Blood and bits of skin hanging off. It renders him speechless.

            “Cavanaugh? Cooking?”

            “Whatever you think you have, it’s not mine. Are you suggesting that was in my car?”

            Elise’s mouth is open as she slides around the column to put some distance between her and Cole.

            “What kind of knives do you cook with? I’d like an answer, not a question.”

            Cavanaugh fumbles around with his words, trying to remember. “W-Wusthof. Whole set of them. They’re right there in the kitchen. Next to the sink.”

            The detective backtracks up the step and into the kitchen area. Spots the hardwood block of knives, expecting to find one slot empty. There isn’t one. The entire set is intact. What the hell is going on here? Letterer is holding what looks to be the murder weapon, found in the car of the PD’s number one suspect. She has about two minutes to roll it around in her head, ask herself why the slam dunk isn’t totally total. One knife should be missing from that set, right? None of it really makes sense. Something’s not right about the anonymous tip. Cavanaugh couldn’t have acted so cool when she asked to do the search. Not if he knew the weapon was there. He never would have let her inside in the first place. Or maybe he’s off the rails. Doubtful. A few more moments to ponder. After that, she finds herself surrounded by her colleagues. Chapel and Horace are there, looking bitter to be woken up. The chief appears out of nowhere to do the honors. She watches as her cuffs are taken off and slapped right back on Cole Cavanaugh.

She hears as they read him his rights and charge him with the murder of Will Carson. Letterer and Cavanaugh will never know it, but they are thinking precisely the same thing at precisely the same time:

What the hell is going on here?

Part Two

Chapter 14: Rosie

            Rose Carson is trying to hold it together, doing a noble job for someone nearing twelve years old. Not that she isn’t going a touch stir-crazy. Since the death of her dad, any kind of school or social situation has been put on hold. Her grandfather has taken her computers and cell phone away, citing the for your own protection argument. She threw a half-hearted tantrum but left it at that. The family is freaking out and crazier than ever. Pushing isn’t going to do anything. Mom’s around more now, but most of her time is spent staring at walls or being comforted by “friends of the family.”

Grandpa seems to be scurrying around a lot, making calls and yelling from time to time. That’s nothing new. Grandma doesn’t quite know how to behave, constantly looking in on her, face sagging and make-up running. She talks a lot, asks a lot of questions, says things with good intentions that don’t do much good. A lot of it goes over her head; Rosie’s sharp enough to know there might be pearls of wisdom in her grandmother’s words, but she’s just too young to really understand. She does a great deal of listening and nodding. You should eat something, Rosie. It’s just something we have to get through, Rosie. Hard as it may be.

            “Yes, Gram,” she would say, always with a hug.

            “You’re a precious thing. Just the most precious thing. Your daddy loved you so much.”

            “I know, Gram.” Over and over, until finally it starts to feel like she’s the one doing the comforting.

            Her grandmother closes the door to her room after yet another check-up. Rosie dashes to the bed and falls into it, stares up at the ceiling. It’s not her ceiling. Not her home. They’re staying in some huge random place her grandfather’s company owns. It’s luxurious and comfortable but there is nothing comfortable about it. Rosie is a girl that’s always been one for routines. Like anybody, she likes things a particular way, though she does her best not to be a complainer. It’s all the rich little girls and boys that make up her peer group; constantly complaining about everything you could think of, things that wouldn’t matter to the average person. It’s so obvious the way they all complain, she thinks. People are always focusing on the wrong thing. Every day now she realizes it more. Whether it’s Mom focusing on what’s out the window or Grandpa focusing on money or Gram focusing on food. Her father had been good about that. He would make it a point to read whatever book she was reading; they would talk every day, discuss, dissect. Stupid books about girl stuff, serious books about adult stuff. Thinking about characters and stories and fanciful worlds seemed to matter to her more than the real world. Her dad had a way of making imagination important. He was different, and he’d been one of the only things keeping her sane since the move to Texas. Despite the fact that he had been acting distraught for some time, he was always there for her, trying to make things comfortable. He’d tell her she was an old soul and she’d say that her teachers said the same thing and he’d say there you have it, even teachers can get things right every now and then.

Thinking about him causes a tear to leak sideways, down the side of her face. She takes off her glasses and clenches her expression. She tries imagine a better world, some faraway place; she imagines that’s what he would want her to do.

            Rosie allows herself a few more minutes of silent reflection then reaches behind her pillow to pull out a smart phone. It belongs to one of the suit-wearing men downstairs. They’re all over the house, random mobile devices and random men. Many of them she knows. Some are new. Whatever. None of them talk to her anymore. Probably Grandpa’s orders. She looks at the phone. It’s a lot like her old one. She slides it open and makes a tiny noise of relief when she sees that it’s not password protected. Opening the browser she types in her last name—a gruesome list of search-ending phrases appear. Rosie clicks on the first one. It’s news about the murder investigation:

            Update in Fort Worth. Cole Cavanaugh to Be Released on Bail:

            In a stunning turn of events today we’ve learned that the native resident and attorney has managed to post the two-million-dollar bail. Some in the community are outraged, claiming that this is a luxury that only the privileged can afford. Defense Attorney Michelle Kress stated that she is happy with the judge’s decision to allow bail and that she and Mr. Cavanaugh are assembling a team of experienced investigators and litigators to help clear his name. She also asserted that the charges are facile and ridiculous, predicting that the case will never make it to trial.

“My client is innocent, and this is nothing more than the Fort Worth Police Department going after a good man, a pillar, someone with deep ties to the community, his family and friends. My team will not rest until we see this miscarriage of justice undone.”

            This is of course in relation to the brutal murder of Will Carson…

            Rosie presses the home button on the phone and puts it in the pocket of her pajama top. She opens the door and heads the wrong way on the upstairs landing, not realizing the stairs are in the other direction. Turning around she sees a tall man in a gray suit walking around very deliberately with something sticking out of his ear. She has to move out of his way while passing by.

“Excuse me,” she says, looking back to hear a response that isn’t coming. “Very poor manners.”

            Downstairs there’s a commotion going on. Rosie’s careful not to slip as her thick socks make contact with the polished wooden stairs. She grabs the bannister and descends quietly. People never argue around her—when things get heated or the adults start talking about real life, there’s always a maid or a distant relative or a man in a suit to usher her away. This time she’d like to hear. It’s Gram and Grandpa, in the study. They don’t sound very happy. For a moment, the world isn’t on her shoulders. She’s just a kid sneaking around the house, trying not to get in trouble.

            The volume of the conversation increases steadily with every step. There’s a long wall at the foot of the stairs separating her from the study. She needs to sneak around the corner of the wall to hear better. Rosie looks both ways and makes her move, almost tumbling in the process. Everything is super-polished in these non-home houses she’s been living in. She makes a note to be more cautious and hunches her skinny little frame down near the study’s glass doors to listen. Half of one of her oval eyes is devoted to watching the scene as she intermittently checks for men in suits. It’s ridiculous and she knows it—sneaking around like a junior spy in your own make-believe home.

            “Tell me. There’s something more that you’re not saying,” Rosie hears. It’s her Gram, speaking simply and softly to Grandpa. It’s so strange—she wishes her grandmother would be this direct with her. It’s like the old lady’s got her audiences backward. Though there’s a door separating her from the elder Carsons, it’s easy enough to see what state they’re in through the glass. Gram appears to have wiped off and reapplied her makeup; she looks fairly normal, fragile and stately, sharp nose elevated to a normal position. Grandpa Carson is who he always is, large and endlessly kinetic, muscular for an old man, lipless and round-headed. It’s clear to Rosie just from a few seconds of watching that he’s skirting some issue while his wife attempts to cut to the heart of it.

            “This whole thing, my love. It’s a cavalcade of cretins, that’s what it is. Every corner, around every nook, there’s a Mephistopheles, a Moriarty, a Medea. They lurk and snivel, they prod and poke. I say it to you, my dear Amelia, and I can’t say it any clearer.”

            “You can’t say it any stranger, Grant. Sometimes it would be helpful to get to the point.” It was true. Ever since beating up her entire family and absconding with her many years ago, Carson was constantly trying to elevate his level of speech, whether it be through historical or literary references, a self-written quip, or maybe just a poetic turn of phrase. Whatever he could do to make Amelia forget that she married a man from lowborn stock. The years were making it worse. It was only with her, and only truly ridiculous when he was upset. To everyone else in his life it was a gruff syllable here, a labored or irritated slur or obscenity there. His wife was starting to tire of the compartmentalized communication. Fifty years of anything can wear a person down.

            Like many who are generally supportive, Amelia could become very direct if pushed to a certain point. “You’re not sending her away on some whim, not without explaining the decision. She’s our precious angel, the only future left of this family. Or haven’t you noticed?”

            “Haven’t I noticed? Did you not hear me? Why, only minutes ago—I cannot foresee the future, what changes with the wind. Therefore it is only right that she go, away from the tumult. Away from the tumult!”

            “What tumult?”

            “Our son. Slain! Slain!”

            “Grant. Are you losing your mind?” Amelia asks softly. The theatricality is going to push her off the edge. And she’s used to it. “At times I wonder if you don’t have that multiple personality disorder.” They’ve argued enough for her to know that the florid language will eventually give way on account of her husband’s lack of imagination; still, enough already.

            “That’s ridiculous,” he says, throwing his hands up. “I’m just trying to make you aware that the situation is not resolved. Until it is, I want my granddaughter, as you say, ‘the only future left,’ to be gone. That girl school in New England is a fine place, Meelie, I remember you saying yourself.”

            “I said it was for me. I went there, Grant. I’m seventy-three years old. The place is a bit out of fashion. Regimented.”

            “Yes? Your point, woman?”

            “I was born and bred for that sort of education, to bow and bend and learn enough to be interesting but not enough to be a bother.”

            “Not be a bother? I’ll say strike one for the place!”

            “Rose is her own person,” Amelia fires back. “Very much so. I don’t say it enough and neither do you, but she’s a special child. Smart, independent. Kind but not weak. She’s the best parts of you and Will.”

            “And what of the mother? Her actions of late? Going to that school would get her away from Elise and whatever machinations she’s about.”

            It’s a point that’s hard to argue with. Amelia sits down in a ridiculously ornate winged-back chair and crosses her pale legs, trying to answer with a level of measured wisdom. “I’ll admit, I don’t like what I’m seeing from her.”

            “Who?” Carson asks. “Medusa?”

            “Elise.”

            “That’s what I said.”

            Amelia Carson assesses her husband, huffing and puffing all over the room. He’s going to have a heart attack, a nervous breakdown, a stroke. “Come here,” she says, making slight beckoning motions with her long, bony fingers. At first he won’t oblige. “Grant. Over here, please.”

            At last Carson capitulates, sitting down next to her on the armrest of the chair. She puts her delicate little hand inside his and they sit in silence, the way people do after decades of marriage. A minute or two passes. Carson finally catches up with his smoky breath. “I want her away from that mother. What was she doing over at the house with Cavanaugh?”

            “I can’t even begin to imagine,” Amelia says. “She’s lucky you are who you are—otherwise she’d be in a cell right beside him.”

            “That’s the truth, Meelie. Right beside him. Do I even get a thank you?”

            “She didn’t thank you?”

            “Of course she did, but it wasn’t real. Going through the motions, ever since I met that one. Going through the motions. Never understood what Will saw in her.”

            “Nor I,” Meelie said, still gentle and refined, delicate and pointy all at the same time. “Of course she’s a pretty thing, and always with that plebian sort of cleverness. But when he came home and told us they’d gotten married, I—”

            “We all remember. You couldn’t believe it.”

            “I couldn’t believe it,” Amelia says, trailing off.

            She’s only five or six feet from her grandparents, but Rosie is having a hard time hearing what they’re saying now. She hopes they go back to yelling. A cough rings out from one of the suits roaming the halls. Rosie freezes, trying to decide whether or not to abandon her surveillance. Why? What are they going to do to me? If one of these mean men say I was up to no good, maybe I’ll say they were touching me. Worst case scenario, but things are getting desperate. They’re talking about shipping her off to some place where they will apparently remanufacture her into her grandmother. It doesn’t make sense. She returns to the edge of the glass door.

            “So we’re not sending her away, then?” Amelia says, breaking a good spell of silence. Hardly a second goes by before Carson is on his feet, heart rate abuzz.

            “We made no decisions. You don’t know everything. Always, you think you know everything.” At this point his face is a radish with eyebrows pitched downwards at an impossible angle. He looks as if he’s passing a twelve-pound kidney stone.

            Amelia’s seen this behavior before, but something in her soul gives out. The mother in her needs to mourn, support and be supported. Dealing with her truculent husband is becoming an impossible chore. “Tell me what’s going on or I’m leaving. Now.”

            Carson looks at his wife. He hates that he’s forced into calculating what he can and cannot disclose. She’s composed but loaded, ready to fire off and never come back. Her posture is straight and her hands are squeezing the armrests. “It’s not resolved. Or maybe it is. I lack certainty, and dammit wife, I need our granddaughter to go. You take her. I don’t even care anymore. Tour Europe, have the child learn fancy languages. Tell her it’s to get away from it all, a fun vacation because she’s so special.”

            “She is special.”

            “There you go.”

            “Her mother might have a problem with this. She won’t be able to just up and leave the country. How would that look, with all the suspicion around her?”

            “Damn the mother. You two go alone. I’ll send security with you. They’ll be invisible. I know the kid hates all the security.”

            “I think it annoys her, Grant. It’s annoying.”

            “Well, she should be more grateful.”

            “No.”

            “No?”

            “No, Grant.”

            “Stop being so smart and tell me what you’re saying no to.”

            “I’m not winging off with Rosie unless I know exactly what’s going on here. You’re not yourself and I understand. Our son is gone and we obviously aren’t handling it very well but we will get through it. Thank God they’ve got the man who did this. We’ll see justice done—it won’t be enough, only fools think that’s enough—but it’s as good as we’re going to get. We’ll see it through. Families face things together. You don’t start shipping people off, pushing them away.” Amelia rises up from the chair and stands squarely in front of her husband. She’s proud of herself. Sometimes things just pass by, but here she is, a bastion of strength. The tough talk doesn’t come easy but one day Grant will thank her for it. Amelia’s feeling of self-actualization and general utility lasts another few seconds.

            Her overheated husband looks directly into her gray eyes and says, “They don’t have the man who did this.”

            “What?”

            “Cavanaugh didn’t do it.”

            “But you went on TV, said you were sure—I’ve heard you on the phone with the mayor, the police chief...”

            “You wanted to know. Whoever did it is still out there, and I don’t know what else he’s capable of.”

            “So you do know who the killer is?”

            “No.” He decides to lie. He’s telling her too much already. “And that’s the point. This is why you should just listen when I say you and Rosie need to leave.”

            “I don’t understand.”

            “It’s a very complex situation. If I had a handle on it, do you think I’d be so frantic?”

            Spousal instinct tells Amelia that they’ve done enough talking for the moment. Her husband might start another reference-laced tirade at any moment if she persists. Amelia puts her hand on his back and tells him that it will be alright.

            Grant is both relieved and worried. Relieved to be done for the moment, worried that telling his wife anything is a mistake. The mogul is not thinking clearly. There is no place to go and no one to talk to about it. Perhaps that’s why he parceled out the bit about Cavanaugh’s innocence. He’s been prevaricating about everything else, but in his judgment it was all for good reason. The old man hoped his wife’s questions would cease and he could tie up the loose ends threatening to sink the rest of his world into oblivion.

            Rosie sees the conversation ending and glides toward one of the living rooms, planting herself on a love seat with tags still hanging off. There’s a suit reading a magazine about hunting and fishing on the couch across the room. He hardly makes an effort to notice her. That’s more than fine by her. She curls up and presses her face into the back of the upholstery, trying to sort through the information dump she’s just received. In a matter of minutes Rosie’s worldview has changed considerably. The young girl suddenly feels her age, naïve and unobservant. Apparently her grandparents don’t like her mother and never did. Maybe it was something she knew but refused to acknowledge.

Rosie’s thoughts come fast, almost on top of each other. How could she not notice their hate? Sounds like they pretty much don’t care if Mom gets hit by a truck. What else? Oh, they want to send me away. No. They’re not shipping me to some place for proper little ladies, Gram’s right about that. What was the last one? Oh yeah, Grandpa’s even crazier than I thought, and he’s been lying to everybody about the Cavanaugh guy that Mom used to like. Grandpa’s really scared of something, and Gram stopped short of prying more out of him because… who knows?

Rosie wants to start weeping into the cushions, to erupt into an all-out tantrum. Take a breath, Rose. Take a breath. Don’t be stupid. Don’t act like kid.

            She’ll do her best, but Rosie is in fact just a kid. One who’s trapped in a house surrounded by people and family that she simply can’t trust. “Hey,” she says to the suit with the magazine, walking across the room. “I think you dropped this.” Rosie tosses him his cell phone, the one she stole. Before he can raise a question she shuts him down. “Sir, if you tattle I’ll tattle. I’ve seen shows about it on TV. Nobody’s gonna like you after they find out you touch kids.”

Chapter 15: It’s 10 Now

            “Bob, never been so good to see you. Drive us out of here. Nice idea with the rental, by the way.” Reporters are banging on the car and yelling out questions, forcing Cavanaugh to almost scream at his driver in the front. It’s a big luxury SUV, the type with three full rows of seating. Cole is quick to notice the large figure in the passenger seat, looking straight ahead, completely unaffected by the madness outside.

            “Thought it was a good idea, maybe we’d get out of there incognito, like the other night at the police station.”

            “Wishful thinking, Bob. But I need all the optimism I can get right now. At least the Mercedes isn’t getting scratched.”

            “Yeah,” the driver says, looking back at his boss. “Course that was impounded.”

            “Good point. See you brought a friend.”

            Bob honks the horn and throttles forward. The cops are in no hurry to help them away from the county jail. It’s a frigging circus. Finally, a little window opens up and he guns it, barely missing a motorcycle cop and an androgynous teenager doing some iPhone filming for her/his school news website.

            “Yes, he brought a friend.”

Cole turns toward the back of the vehicle. His lawyer, Michelle Kress is checking her messages and writing things in her leather-bound notebook.

“And I don’t see the point of this friend,” she says, pointing her pen toward the front. “What exactly does he do?”

            “Lots of things,” Cole says, breathing a little easier, happy to be out of jail and moving. He watches the buildings turn from posh to derelict in a matter of seconds. Fort Worth has a beautiful downtown, until it’s not. “Big Frank, am I right? Heard a lot about you.” Cavanaugh shoots out a hand between the two front seats. It just hangs there.

            “Probably best to leave Frank alone, boss. He’s a really quiet guy.”

            “Fair enough. Sure we’ll get to know each other later. Good stuff.” Cole’s full of a strange kind of energy. He needs something. Needs a drink. Needs a woman. Something to take the edge off.

            “We need to figure out how to keep them from sentencing you to death,” Michelle says. “And I’ve seen this before.”

            “What?” he asks.

            “You’re a little wound-up from the clink. Common thing with my clients. Pull your head out.” Cavanaugh puts his head down and squirms through the opening to join his lawyer in the back. Her manner and appearance are congruent. Normally frizzy hair, pulled back tighter than a snare drum. She’s wearing bulky glasses and very little makeup, some kind of skirt and jacket combination that might have been nice for five minutes in the early nineties. It’s fairly standard for Michelle. Everything about the woman says if it’s not what I care about, I really don’t fucking care. It’s a quality he finds admirable, and he’s finding her somewhat attractive in the moment. It takes a second to realize that his eyes have been tricked; he’s been in the exclusive presence of large tattooed men with noisome body odor for the last few days. Everything’s relative.

            Cole settles into his seat. “Seriously. Thanks for getting me out. Didn’t think it was going to happen for a while, there.”

            “My husband thinks I’m crazy to take this case.”

            “Always liked him. How’s he doing, anyway?”

            “He’s an asshole, same as when we got married.”

            “I can handle the divorce for you.”

            “Thanks. You’d need a practice for that. Pretty sure they’re removing all traces of a law firm from your law firm as we speak.” Michelle writes down something else. Types something into her phone.

            “Are you serious?” Cole asks. “They’re packing up?”

            “I don’t know, Cavanaugh. Stands to reason. Your name is basically dogshit.”

            “All heart, Michelle.” She doesn’t acknowledge her client, now brooding with his arms crossed less than a foot away. “I’ll pay you back the two-hundred thousand as soon as we get back.”

            “I didn’t put it up.”

            “You said—”

            “Yeah, I don’t know why I said that. Trying to make you feel like I care, maybe.”

            “OK.”

            “DeKlerk did it.”

            Cole smiles. “Good old Jake. Cool of him, though I wish he wouldn’t involve himself.”

            “Cool of him? Do you know how much that bum’s worth?”

            “Friends usually don’t talk about money.”

            “Give me a break. Like you’ve never looked at Forbes in your life.”

            “Jake’s going to meet you there!” Bob yells, interrupting the discourse between lawyer and client/lawyer.

            “Where is there?” Cole asks, shooting a glance at the perpetually distracted Michelle. It’s a wonder she even knows he’s in the car.

            “Your parents—we’re going to their house, straight away.” The defense lawyer looks up and locks eyes with her client for the first since he’s been in the car. She quickly goes back to her notes and wonders how lockup did nothing to make Cavanaugh rougher on the eyes. She prays the case never goes to trial. Juries tend to want to punish people with good looks and money.

            Cole’s wearing a hangdog expression. “Why would we go there, Michelle? Of all places?”

            “It’s your family. Some kind of a crisis.”

            “Like their son being accused of murder?”

            “No. Something else. Apparently you don’t get first billing with the Cavanaughs.”

            “Screw them then,” Cole says. “Take me to a bar.”

            “We really should head over there, boss!” Bob yells.

            “Should we? I’ll ask Big Frank. What do you think? My parents’ house?”

            No answer.

            “My thoughts exactly. Thanks, Frank.”

            “We’re going, dickhead,” Michelle says. “You’re going to need your family’s support. Optics and all that. Mommy and daddy doing interviews about you playing little league and volunteering when you were a kid.”

            “What is the crisis?”

            “Don’t know, and don’t bust my balls for waiting to tell you.” She smirks and takes off her glasses, wiping them dirtier with a piece of her skirt. “You were in jail. Didn’t want to burden you with anything else.”

            “Yeah,” Cole sighs, covering his eyes and leaning toward the side window. “All heart.”

            “Your mother called me a few days ago. Left a message, crying. Unintelligible.”

            “I was arrested.”

            “No it wasn’t about you. Anyway, I called your house and talked to Craig, talked to Brooke. Apparently they called DeKlerk for some reason. Big gathering over there right now, don’t have the details. Bail hearings. They can be time consuming.”

            “Shit,” Cole grunts. Those three only have one thing in common. Della. Five minutes out of prison and he’s feeling like breaking back in. As Bob is catching the light for the freeway, Cole begins trying to destroy whatever is in striking distance. He takes a cup holder insert and begins to stomp it with his wingtips—the headrest for the seat directly in front of him becomes a punching bag. It’s a genuine workout. Spit is flying, sweat is dripping. Michelle continues to scribble notes. Bob moves his head slightly in the direction of Big Frank.

“He isn’t usually like this,” Bob says. He takes a quick peek in the rearview mirror and sees Cavanaugh head-butting a torn out folding DVD screen.

            While Cole continues to bash his skull, Nicholas Rhine is directing young Josh to the bathroom. The little junkie smells like he’s spent the last week in a sewer and can barely stand. His body is covered with blisters from the chains digging into his skin. “First we’ll wash you up and change you.”

            “I could use some more,” he whimpers, shivering.

            “We’ll get you more. First you get clean and changed. After that, it can be anything you might want. Food, water, drugs. You’ve been very helpful. Really, Josh. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”

            Nick is well aware that his words mean little to his captive at this point. The kid is broken ten times over; once again hooked on heroin, the poison he’s tried hard to kick for the last six months. “Can you sit down in the tub?” Nick asks, pulling out a new disposable phone.

            “More,” Josh groans, starving but not aware of it. Normal biological messages are no longer transmitting. The physical and psychological privation have rendered his mind and body utterly useless. He is only for using, now.

            Rhine guides Josh over the lip of the tub and tells him to sit down. Like everything else in the house, it’s in a state of abandon and disrepair. Mold and rust have rotted away every bit of the white porcelain. Josh sits with his legs folded up against his chest, shivering. “Stay here for a second,” Rhine says, walking out of the bathroom and grabbing two empty industrial-size paint cans. He exits through the backdoor and takes a quick look around before walking two houses over. There’s a garden hose in one of the backyards of his “neighbors” that looks like it hasn’t been used for some time. He rotates the nozzle and after a few spits and spurts, brown-tinged water starts to flow. Once both cans are filled, he nonchalantly returns to his leaning rental. Water spills over the stained carpet and cracked linoleum as he negotiates his way back into the bathroom. The cans are heavy and he sets them down with a deep thud. Josh is still shivering in the exact position Rhine left him in; the smell of shit and piss-rotten clothing is more pungent now that he’s been outside for a few moments. He doesn’t react. “Take off your clothes, Josh.”

            “More.”

            “We need to get this done. After.”

            Josh mindlessly complies, peeling off the fetid rags.

            “I’d have you shower, but I’m afraid there’s no working utilities. This water will do fine.”

            “I’m cold.”

            “Got a nice change of clothes waiting for you once you get this done. There’s a bar of soap there. Use it.”

            “Drugs. Please.”

            “Underwear, Josh. Everything goes.”

            Once again, Josh does as commanded. Nick puts on some gloves and shoves everything into a plastic bag. He then picks up one of the cans and upends it over his prisoner’s head. “Use the soap. Your whole body, if you can.” Rhine watches for two or three minutes, urging Josh along. “Very good. Now we’ll rinse.” He employs the other can, emptying it out slowly and methodically to wash away the soap. Josh is handed a towel. “Dry off. Fresh clothes right here.”

            After another injection and bite of Nick’s half-eaten sandwich, it takes Josh a few minutes and a fair amount of help to get him into his new wardrobe. The midday sun is already baking the poorly insulated structure, but the little man doesn’t make a fuss when he’s given new boots, jeans, and an olive-green army style jacket to put over his fresh t-shirt. “Alright. Time to go home. Just need you to make one stop with me.” Rhine pulls out his phone again and looks at a new message. He doesn’t react—it’s the response he expects.

            Once they’re in the car, Josh doesn’t make a sound. He seems fascinated by everything they pass as they make the way downtown.

Nick notices his pet slowly swaying his neck back and forth in an otherworldly fashion. “Feeling better, right?” he asks.

            “It’s nice to see things again. Just… nice.”

            The car, a stolen mid-nineties Oldsmobile, comes to a slow and deliberate stop on a side street in an industrial district two miles south of downtown. It’s an old part of the city, full of buildings built in the early 20th century. Many of the dated structures are being resurrected due to the lack of real estate close to the downtown area. “Josh?”

            “Are we going home?” he asks.

            “In a minute. First I need you to drop off this package in that building right there.” Nick points to a three-story red-bricked structure at the end of the block. “It’s on the corner. You understand?” he asks, handing the addict a small unmarked parcel, about the size of shoebox.

            “The one at the end?”

            “Yes. The end of the street. It’s important. If you do this for me I promise you’re going home. The drugs are all yours, too.” Rhine flashes a bag in front of Josh’s eyes and places it in his hand. “The end of the street.”

            Josh steps out of the car without argument. Nick yells after him. “The end of the street. Just say you have a delivery, then come straight back.”

            Rhine watches as his courier walks down the middle of the road. He takes a second to look around. The other buildings on the block are still vacant or in a state of renovation, just as he thought. His eyes turn back onto Josh, now close to the red-bricked building. He’s walking like a person that’s trying too hard, but Nick can’t expect otherwise. As long as he gets there. Eyes still ahead, he pulls out his phone and sends the same text he’s been sending all morning.

10. It’s 10 now.

After the message goes through, he picks up a device similar in size and shape to the phone. It’s actually a much simpler gadget. Inside the little metal rectangle is a battery and some basic wiring—on the outside there’s one toggle switch and one button. He flips the toggle and watches Josh finally make his way into the building.

Through the door, a pretty young receptionist says a polite hello to Josh, though immediately she’s put off by his appearance and odor. He sets the box on the counter and a few young men in khakis and dress shirts walk by talking about land and numbers. The receptionist stands up to ask who the package is from, but she doesn’t get the chance. Nick presses the button on the little device and it sends a signal to a detonator powered by a small battery pack in the lining of Josh’s green jacket. Instantly the small explosion triggers the Semtex plastic explosives that he’s been walking around in. He was too high to notice the weight he’d been carrying around since the tub. The pretty young receptionist and five men are dead as Nick Rhine drives from the scene. As he turns slowly onto a crowded street, the building is still collapsing and readjusting itself around the fire and shock from the detonation. The little sign that read Carson Oil Field Annex would be found later that day amongst the bits of body and rubble. Nick drives calmly, fastidiously obeying the rules of the road, listening to his own breathing. Sends another text.

10. It’s 10 now.

Chapter 16: Home Sweet Home

            “That’s not what I suspected,” Michelle says, smacking Cole on the shoulder and pointing outside. Bob is pulling the SUV up to the Cavanaugh residence. Nobody’s around. Stepping out they see the remnants of what up until now has been a continual media presence. It’s like camp has been abandoned and the troops are off to fight another war. Orange cones are strewn about the street. Empty soda cans and fast food bags roll and dance along the searing blacktop. Michelle bites a lip to prevent saying something caustic. She’s getting sick of surprises. Nothing about the situation is computing for her. She went into Cole’s case thinking it would be a slam dunk, a chance to stick pins in the DA and improve her already burgeoning reputation. Now she’s wondering. Wondering why the hell the media up and vanished, wondering why her client is acting like a child—at times she even wonders if he did it. As they ascend the walkway she forgets about her lip and unleashes the question. That question.

“Did you do this, Cole?”

            “What?” he says, stopping to turn toward her. Big Frank and Bob are up ahead, almost to the front door. They stop too but don’t turn. Cole starts fiddling with his tie, trying in vain to get the top button undone. That, along with Michelle’s question, makes for a frustrating moment. “You don’t ask that.”

            She drops her gaze and nods. “I know.”

            “Hey. You don’t ask that, and not because of the stupid ‘you don’t ask that’ thing.”

            She’s not going to let him control the conversation. “Then tell me about the knife. And Elise being there. Your ridiculous behavior? Cole, you’ve been charged with murder.”

            “I just got out of jail. You think it escaped my mind?”

            “The knife? Elise?”

            “Somebody must’ve put it there, she—I don’t know. Same thing I told you yesterday and the day before. My mind hasn’t been sharp.” Cole’s still making a go at his top button; his fingers are almost bloody from the effort.

            “You need to get your head out. Latent love, hate—don’t care. Things are happening to you. Act like you give a shit or you’re gonna be sitting on death row.”

            “Death row,” he repeats, trying mockery.

            Michelle slaps him across the face. “I’m not kidding. You forget where you grew up? They kill a guy every week or so in this state—sure they won’t have a problem flipping your switch.”

            “They don’t flip a switch.”

            “You know what I mean, pretty boy. I’m not watching that shit again.” Early in her career, Michelle witnessed a client being executed. Walking in, she figured lethal injection at the very least would be fairly humane. Walking out, she became determined to never see another client to that sad end. “And sorry I slapped you.”

            Cole’s fingers hurt from the button. His face hurts from the slap. The apology helps. He’s never heard Michelle walk anything back. “I get it,” he says, pulling her in for a hug. She accepts it with reluctance. It’s not like him. Exceptions can be made. “Let’s go in. Sure my parents are dying to see their darling son.”

            They aren’t. Nobody is dying to see him. As soon as they walk through the door all hell breaks loose. He tries to ask what the crisis involves but instead is met with anger and looks of scorn from his parents. Jake is there, like a piece of furniture that doesn’t fit the room, sitting in the corner, spitting tobacco into a glass. He makes a slight motion with his hand to say hello. They’re all gathered in the living room—Craig and Brooke, Mom and Dad. Della’s conspicuously absent. Cole’s shoulders slump from confirmed suspicions.

            Mom asks, “What have you done?”

            Dad says, “Tell your mother.”

            “Everybody calm down!” Cole shouts, moving his hands back and forth in front of his face. “Where is she?” There’s a moment of shockingly pure silence that comes on the other end of the question. Michelle, Bob and Big Frank are lined up with him on one side of the room, wondering what the hell he’s talking about. Lined up on the other side are the people that know what the hell he’s talking about. Jake is sitting in a chair between it all. He kinda knows what the hell he’s talking about.

            “She’s in her room,” Craig says, arms crossed, face drawn from stress or lack of sleep. “Been in there for days, more or less.”

            “How long has she been using?” Cole asks. The room is quiet except for some nervous mumbling from his mother.

            “Since the day you got arrested,” Brooke answers. She has an arm around her husband’s big sweaty shoulders, a signal that she’s taking the burden for the next few moments. “Della wouldn’t come out of the room. Two days, minimum. Said she was sick. Of course we all know what it meant—but she was violent. Usual stuff. Aggression.

            “I called your brother,” Mom cries.

            “She called Craig,” Brooke interjects. “We’ve been over, pretty much ever since.”

            “It’s not like we could call you. You got yourself arrested, staying with that woman.” Mom throws herself into her spouse’s ever-capitulatory embrace.

            Cole’s been running hypotheticals in a box for the last few days, trying to figure out the reason Carson was killed and why he was the one the cops fingered. The knife. Now, in an actual moment, he realizes his brain’s been on cruise control. Okay. What’s happening right now? What can be dealt with? Mom’s pissed. Handle that, first.

            “We didn’t stay together. Not how they’re saying, Mom. Despite anything you’ve heard on the TV, nothing is going on, me and Elise are not in some conspiracy, there are no cahoots, nothing.”

            “The things I’ve had to endure...”

            “If you want to know something, ask me. Still your son. Your innocent son.”

            TELL HIM TO GET THE FUCK IN HERE!

            The sheer volume is enough to make Bob and Big Frank wheel around. Cole knows that sound. Della coming down off chemical Everest, Della out of her damn mind.

            “Yeah. Ever since I got here,” Jake says, slow and with his native drawl. “Been screaming and hollerin’ like that.”

            “Not sure how she got the drugs,” Craig says, deciding to reinsert himself. “But once it was clear—you know, I went in there. Tore the room upside down. She was gone by then. Not moving much.” Cole’s brother pauses, looking down at the carpet. “You’ve seen it. Hard to describe.”

            Cole can see that his family’s been through the wars and he wants to help.

            LITTLE BIG BROTHER. YOU ASSHOLE. GET IN HERE!

            Take stock, Cole. You’ve got Linda Blair from The Exorcist in the other room, despondent parents, emotionally drained brother, doubting lawyer, some guy named Big Frank, and Bob and Jake. Time to cut the shit. He looks at Brooke. “And you didn’t call an ambulance because of the probation, I’m assuming?”

            She nods. If anybody gets how much is going on and how to process it, it’s Brooke. Her eyes fix on Cole and she decides very quickly that saying as little as possible is the best course.

            “Drugs are definitely out of the house?” Michelle asks. Everyone looks at her. Cole doesn’t react like the others. It’s a good question. A legal question.

            “Unless she’s staying off voluntarily,” Brooke says. Cole puts his hand on his lawyer’s arm and nods slightly. It’s the answer they want, an obvious one to the initiated. But Michelle’s never had to deal with a serious addict. When they have drugs, they do them, if not, they scream things like TELL HIM TO GET THE FUCK IN HERE.

Not the most forward-type thinkers, but easy to predict.

            Cole scans the respective visages of his family members. He has to play this situation just right—the thought goes through his head, just those words. He has to play it right. His stomach turns over. “Ok. So she’s gonna live. Why aren’t you in there?”

            “She’ll only see you, won’t say why,” Dad says. His little gray eyes are appraising everyone and everything; so focused they’re almost entirely closed. Brooke and Craig try not to flash any tells toward Cole.

            “Right. Everybody stay here.” He puts his hands out as a signal for the group to leave him be and backs up into the hallway. A light knock on Della’s door. She’s still screaming as he does it.

            “Hey kiddo. It’s Little Big. Coming in.” Cole figures it’s best not to wait for a response. He steps through the threshold and sees his sister sitting up on her bed, soaking wet, arm cocked back and ready to hurl a high school trophy at his head. He can’t help but have his heart broken by the sight of her, so rabid. It breaks even more thinking about how many times he’s seen her in a similar or worse state.

“Gonna put it down?” he asks, closing the door with his back. She’s about ten feet away, close enough for him to feel the heat coming off her dehydrated, used-up body. Smells like Cole thinks Hell would smell. Other than Della’s exasperated breaths, the only sound in the room is a steady click of the ceiling fan chain connecting with a passing blade. She’s been in here a long time. If you knew nothing you would know that much. Cavanaugh realizes that they’ve both been in prison these last few days; she got high, but at least he got out. “Let’s talk, kid.”

            It’s as if she was waiting for one more syllable to come out of his mouth. She takes a short windup and hurls the trophy at her brother, hitting him on the forehead with the faux but nonetheless weighty marble base. The blow forces him to the floor. He slides to the carpet, still leaning against the door. “Really?” he says/asks, trying to stem the blood flow with his necktie. She watches with no small amount of enjoyment as he’s forced to wrap it around his head and knot it off in the back like the Karate Kid.

            “The night I woke up in the hospital. The night I was arrested. What happened?”

            Cole stands up and dives toward the danger. Della has another piece of memorabilia cocked and she could kill him with the right strike. He blocks her arm, walks through a few slaps and kicks and pins her arms and legs down, putting his weight on top of her. The bed almost collapses. It’s like they’re kids again, only now narcotics, duplicity, and multiple forms of criminality provide the backdrop.

            “What went down, you piece of shit?”

            “Specifics, Della. This is why I’m over here? You probably haven’t been keeping up on current events, but they want to send your little big brother to the next world.”

            “Did you do it? Kill that guy?”

            That’s twice in the last ten minutes now. “You think I’m a murderer, Sis?” Della tries again to squirm her way out of her position. It’s useless. She burns out what little energy she has. Too many drugs, not enough of anything else. She gives up, stops moving.

            “You done?”

            “Just get off me.”

            Cole tentatively moves over to the side of the bed, still ready to spring into action if need be. A little stream of blood is making its way down his forehead.

            “You need to tighten your headband there, Rambo.”

            Cole moves the fabric up and down and cinches it up in the back.

            “So did you kill him or not? Don’t know why I’m even asking.”

            “Really? Got your mind made up. Is that it?”

            “Who knows what you would do. You’re a liar. What happened the night at the hospital?”

            “We don’t need to be retracing those steps, Della. It was a bad scene, but you made it through. Is that what triggered you to use again?”

            She sits up against the headboard, shaking her sweaty little head. “I talked to Josh. He told me what really happened that night.”

            Cole isn’t ready for that one. Tries to play as dumb as possible. Like he barely recalls the name. “Josh? The guy that was driving the—”

            “Was he driving? Were we even in a car?”

            “What did he say, exactly?”

            “He said a lot, Rambo. More than you ever told me. It was always ‘let’s just get you better’ and ‘we’ll find you the help you need’ and ‘this is the best deal I or any lawyer could get you’ or whatever other line you had on tap that day.”

            “Della. What did he say?”

            “That there was no crash. Weird, right? That he apparently beat the shit out of me over an ounce of uncut white heroin. Cops arrive, ‘complaints from the neighbors’-type thing, find me bleeding, find us both passed out.”

            “How does that even make sense, D? You were brought in for a car crash. The hospital. They only charged you after, when they searched your body. Cops don’t just make up stories.”

            “Officers Story and Traiger. They were the first on the scene the apartment.” It’s amazing how quick and lucid Della is coming at him. Dehydrated and next to death, she’s still capable of twisting Cole up in knots.

            “What are you saying?” he asks.

            “Stop me when you want to end the bullshit you’ve been feeding me for the last six months. Story and Traiger show up, find us passed out like the junkies we are—only Story finds my ID—happens that he’s an old client of yours. Gives you a call.”

            “Ridiculous.”

            “That’s what I thought. When Josh called me, I sounded incredulous, the way you do now. Even with my ID, how would he know we were family? Then Josh reminds me of the stupid photo of us all at the lake. I keep it in my billfold.”

            “This is nuts, Della. It’s the drugs and the stress of trying to get out of this pattern. I want to help. And I’m sorry this idiot called you, got everything stirred up again.”

            She isn’t even looking at her brother anymore. His words float by. She’s got an arrival point and there’s nothing he can do to make her deviate course.

            “All that said, and I’m still about to hang up on Josh. But he starts saying things he can’t really know. He tells me the exact amount they found in my purse at the hospital, how much was in my system, the deal that you cut to keep me out of jail.”

            “He could’ve found that stuff a million ways.”

            “Name one. And before you do, Little Big, tell me how he knows what your henchman looks like? Bob? Josh painted a nice picture of you guys getting together after to have a little chat. Was Jake there too? Said you basically threatened to kill him.”

            “What the shit?” Cole says, almost leaping up from the bed. It’s the only thing he’s got, a completely worthless, searching question. He starts wishing he could retract every action he’s taken concerning Della; I mean, what the shit, Cole?

            He walks little circles in the space between her bed and the door, mulling over options. Factors include Della’s intelligence, his own intelligence, Della’s health and well-being, his own well-being, etc. Cavanaugh continues with the circles. It’s like she’s the jury and he’s stuck out in the cold mid-case, clutching for something clever to say. Only it’s not there.

            “It’s true.”

            His sister squints her bloodshot eyes, looking at him with a startled fixity. “All of it?”

            Cole sits back down. No more half-assed prevarications. He simply doesn’t have time to nibble about the edges. There’s that murder thing hanging over his head. “I imagine you’ll eventually do some digging of your own, little resources you have, work yourself up—it won’t be worth the opportunity cost.”

            “You’re such a prick. That’s why I couldn’t get ahold of him all this time. Do you know how abandoned I felt?”

            “The guy beat the shit out of you. Really beat the shit out of you. Can you hear the things coming out of your mouth? How far off your high are you? ‘Cause this is nonsense. I’m used to old Della, where the stupidity at least had its own twisted kind of logic.”

            Out in the living room, the rest of the Cavanaugh family is huddled around the little flat screen TV, alongside Michelle, Bob, Jake and Big Frank. They’re watching the news at the suggestion of Michelle. Sitting around doing nothing, she’s decided to check local events on her phone. Reports of an explosion near downtown instantly explain the lack of media surrounding the Cavanaugh house.

“I don’t understand,” Brooke says, arm still around her burly husband. “They’re saying that it’s a Carson owned building. This is linked to everything else going on, right?” She doesn’t really know who she’s asking. The question just sort of hangs in the air, ready for someone to engage with it. Nobody tries. They all just keep listening and staring at the screen. It’s almost as if a possible murderer and drug addict aren’t a few feet and a few layers of thirty-year-old sheetrock away.

            Brother and sister are still going at it, still heated but slightly less so. “It’s not that I felt abandoned by Josh,” Della says. “Just that I was abandoned. I would’ve been fine never speaking to him again. The reason was all I was after.”

            “That makes a shred of sense, Sis. Maybe a shred.” Cole isn’t giving in to her argument, necessarily. He’s not sure what he’s doing. Good or bad, he did what he did. Now she knows. “We wanted you away from that loser, we thought you were going to end up dead sooner than later. The cop called me. We acted.”

            “Who’s we?”

            Ah shit. Cole’s coming clean session is supposed to be limited. But she’ll just keep asking. Screw it. “I ran it by Craig and Brooke. Jake, too. He was a little bit involved. Just covering our asses. Like I said. We acted.”

            “That’s great. My lovely siblings.”

            “Yeah. Cause you’re a real prize, D.” It’s not what he wants to say. Cavanaugh puts a hand over his mouth, moves it up to rub his eyes. Lack of sleep and the weight of the world are taking their tolls.

            “Mom and Dad?”

            “Of course not. You think they could keep a secret like this, lie to you, lie to the rest of the police?”

            She pauses a second. Hugs a pillow and buries her face in it. “And all this time, you all had me pegged as the wicked liar.”

            Della had him down, but not totally out. Her last statement was a bit of an overstep. The events of six months ago had been a moral quagmire. Cole, Craig and Brooke’s main concerns were keeping her alive, letting the law scare her with a slap on the wrist that wouldn’t mean her ruination, getting that douchebag away from her. It was a derailing situation, but no mistake, she started the train.

            He looks at his sister. It’s obvious she’s trying to convert all the new information into something useful. Her eyes are twitching and she’s rubbing her hands together unconsciously. Della’s desperate for a fix, desperate to fill up the darkness. It’s all cliché but it doesn’t lessen its effect. What his little sister is really after is some kind of place in the cosmos. She’s certainly too smart and too much person to be living with her parents, shoving smack in her nose. It’s only now that Cole understands the true price of trying to protect her, that it perhaps isolated her even more. And yet they most likely saved her life. Life. What a bitch sometimes.

            “I’m sorry, Sis. You’re gonna process things the way you process things. I’ve always been a step away from understanding it.”

            She starts to cry. He moves a little closer to her. Tears begin to form in his own eyes.

“No, asshole,” she says. “I don’t think you get to do that. Not now.”

            The expected breakdown finally comes. Cole grabs Della and holds her as tight as her frail body can withstand. She doesn’t mind, but isn’t likely to admit it. Just keeps calling him asshole, sobbing tears and mucus into his shirt. He puts his chin on her head and cries as well. It’s been too long since they’ve connected. The kind of time where you know it’s happened, but you can’t quite picture the year or the place. Cole thinks about hazy half memories and then about where they are now—there’s nothing to do but weep over it.

            For about five minutes straight they embrace and cry. She’s mostly lamenting the past. Cole’s paralyzed by an unknown future. Nothing gets wrapped up. Not really. Neither are sure what they’ve accomplished, but it’s something. He asks her if there’s anything else she wants to know about that night. A few more questions get answered. Cole lays out everything he can, inquires if she’s gonna check herself back into a place, get away from Mom and Dad lurking around corners. Tells her that if she wants everybody to come clean to the authorities about lying to the cops, he’s willing to do it. She calls him an asshole a few more times and asks what good that would do anybody. Since he couldn’t agree more, he tells her exactly that. Cole kisses his sister on the forehead and says he’s gonna send Mom in to help her get cleaned up and “together.” He makes a joke about her being something worse than gross and she makes one about him being Hitler. Another kiss on the forehead and he’s out the door. Closing it quietly, he hears “Later Rambo” from the other side. He can’t help but smile.

            It’s a mixed bag. There may be hope for Della, some kind of light at the end. They’re talking at least. Cole’s almost filled with enough optimism to forget about the painful sliver of information that was just lodged in his brain. As he walks back out into the living room, it’s quiet enough to put a few thoughts together. Who could’ve told the douchebag Josh all that crap? That loser was just as drugged up as Della when it all went down, if not worse. As far as Cole or Bob could tell, the guy had no memories of the beating he put on her. He knew something had happened, but Traiger and Story were the only ones with any real idea—and no way they would want this story out there. Cavanaugh thinks back to the night after the hospital, when he broke down the little prick’s door and roughed him up. A bat and a gun were also involved, but only to threaten. It had worked, that is, until now. Again—who would know enough to tell that smacked-out freak? And like Della said, what’s the motivation behind calling now? Cole already has an inchoate theory forming alongside the questions in his mind. He looks up to see a crowd around the TV, tells everyone but his parents to come outside. They watch him leave the house before they can catch him up to speed on the bombing of the Carson annex and the wild speculative theories being thrown out to the masses by people with low IQs and runny makeup standing outside the attack site. The two main suspects are Muslim terrorists or Cole Cavanaugh, according to the political leanings of whatever station one is watching. One glassy-eyed commentator said, “If Cavanaugh is willing to cut a Carson’s head off, it stands to reason that he’d have no problem blowing up a Carson building.”

On another network, an old yellow-eyed white man stated that “It’s those damn radical Islams, Muslims or whatever. You’re telling me this lawyer had someone set off a damn explosive a damn half hour after he gets released on bail? Where’s he get the stuff? He doesn’t have a network, or cell, or cell network—whatever you call those things. Nah, it’s the damn Islams. We bomb their oil, so they hit back. Never mind that there wasn’t any actual oil there. It’s a political statement. That’s what these people are about. The Carson connection is just bad luck. The Islams don’t care that the man just lost his son. They’re cold hearted desert-dwellers. Islams.”

            The group follows Cavanaugh around to the side of the house through the crotch-high chain fence. They stop by a rusty air conditioning unit buzzing away against the Texas heat. “Dude. You’re not going to believe what’s going on,” Craig says.

            Cole looks at his brother and puts his hands up. “One thing at a time. Della knows everything. That junkie Josh rang her up the other day, pretty much spilled the whole story. How he beat her. Our bullshit car accident story. Our threats. The cops.” He puts a hand over his mouth. “The dick. That’s what sent her spiraling. Why she would only talk to me.”

            “But how?” Brooke asks, quick as usual. “I mean how would he know what happened?”

            “Exactly,” Cole says. He takes a second to look at the individual reactions of everyone in the group. Craig looks like he’s about to puke. Brooke has her hand to her chin, predictably contemplative. Bob is pretty much unmoved. Jake’s steady enough, but Cole can tell by the tiny tilt of his mouth that his friend is a bit confused.

            “Anybody want to tell me what the hell is going on?” Michelle asks.

            “I’ll catch you up in a bit,” Cole answers, rushing to get back on message.

            “I’m your lawyer, moron. Whatever this is, sounds fairly important.”

            “Oh it’s huge. You’re going to hate it.”

            Bob decides to chime in. “Got to be cops. Besides us, they were the only ones that knew anything. Unless… somebody at the hospital?”

            Cole nods at Bob’s suggestion and puts his hands on his hips. Kicks the grass at his feet for a second. “Has to be the cops. They have records of the 911 call that night, the neighbors saying the whole thing sounded like a MMA match going on in Della’s apartment. But it wouldn’t be Story or Traiger.”

            “Why not?” Craig asks. Michelle takes a step back, throwing her hands in the air. Story, Traiger, the entire thing is a complete mystery as far as she’s concerned.

            “They wouldn’t tell the junkie. We paid them to keep the thing quiet. They falsified reports. Helped turn it into a bullshit car accident. They’re just as culpable as any of us. Makes no sense.”

            “So someone else tells Josh, reasons unknown, then Josh tells Della,” Bob says.

            They all stand motionless, looking shamed. No one wants to think about that night or anything surrounding it. Skeletons in the closet and all that. The illusion that they could ever get back to being a normal family is waning fast.

            “So someone’s setting you up,” Brooke says. “Obvious, right? Showing they have the power. It’s like blackmail—except there’s no blackmail. There’s gotta be someone else involved. Grant Carson? He’s been wailing on you in the press. The Bitch? Are we still going to avoid talking about her being the one who planted that damn knife?”

            Cole can see that his sister-in-law is at least is trying to figure her way through the muck. He decides to bring her and the rest of them the rest of the way. They’re not going to like it. “Stay with me on this. If you were looking to set me up for this murder, whoever you are, you’re more than halfway home. Only there’s a few problems. My brother and sister-in-law have made statements to the police that the marks on my face and hand came from a fight the night before the murder. My driver tells the cops that the mileage in the Mercedes was the same as when he left it at my house after we were over at Carson’s, a nice piece of defense testimony if the thing ever goes to trial. Not to mention, my best friend comes from Texas nobility, about the best character witness you could hope for. But now—”

            “Our word is shit,” Craig says. “Oh my God. We’re completely screwed. We’re all going to jail. What about the kids?”

            Whether or not everyone’s going to jail, it certainly isn’t good. Cavanaugh closes his eyes; he’s seen enough of his family freaking out for one day. “Nobody’s going to jail. We cut corners to help Della. Did what we had to do. If the worst comes, I’ll make a deal to keep everybody’s name clean. That’s if it even comes up. And that’s the worst-case scenario. There’s some bullshit going on here. I’m going to figure it out.”

            “Figure what out?” Craig asks, hands on head. The news has him looking white as a sheet.

            “Well... what do we know? We know someone put that knife in my house and told Letterer where to look for it. We know that Josh all of a sudden decides to start playing games with our little sister to get us doing exactly what we’re doing right now. Yeah. And we know that Will Carson was killed by someone who is not me.” He takes a breath. He hopes they know that last one.

            “So what do we do?” Brooke asks. Good old Brooke. She’s got kids and PTA meetings and baseball practices to worry about, but somehow she’s keeping a fairly even keel. Between her sharp eyes and straight back it’s obvious she knew what they were doing six months ago, had already pondered the possibility of shit hitting the fan.

            “Information. Clearly we don’t have enough. Bob. You, me and Big Frank are gonna go find the Josh kid. At this point I don’t care if we have to hang him over a cliff by his ankles. He’ll tell us where he got his information. That’ll be a good place to start.”

            “Agreed,” Bob says. “Big Frank’s good for that kind of thing. S’long as we’re asking the questions.” Big Frank nods in agreement.

            The person Cavanaugh really needs words with is Detective Letterer. She got a tip the same night Della went off the deep end. Logic says that her source was the Josh kid. It seemed that she was incredulous about the recovery of the bloody knife. Something is telling Cole that Letterer is one of the good ones. On the other hand, she could be behind the whole damn thing. Information. It’s in short supply.

            After Cole stresses the importance of remaining silent, he does his best to allay any fears swirling about. It’s a little ironic, considering he’s the one that could be sentenced to death before the whole thing’s over.

            They’re about to break from the huddle when Michelle hurries over. She’s been gone for the last few minutes, talking on her cell in the front yard. “I’m back. You people want to bring me up to speed now?”

            “Sure,” Cole says. “We’ll do it in the car. Jake, come with, whatever you want. I never thanked you right for getting me out. For everything.”

            “No biggie, man.”

            “Y’all go back in, try to stay calm.” He gives Craig and Brooke a hug. It’s an unconscious thing. They’re both surprised but don’t say anything. Kinda like they didn’t mention Cole’s post-crying eyes when they first got outside. “And sorry you’re in the dark, Michelle. Know you hate that. Full disclosure from here.”

            “Wow. That’d be really neat of you,” she says, throwing some of the condescension back at her client.

            “Everything good?”

            “That was my assistant,” his lawyer says. “Apparently they have video of the guy that did the bombing. A CCTV camera across the street has him as the last person walking into the building.”

            “Wait… what bombing?”

            “Oh yeah, you were talking with—for God’s sake, people. Can we agree that some sort of coordination system needs to be implemented, posthaste?”

            “Dude. Someone went human bomb on a small Carson Oil field office,” Craig says. “We were watching the coverage before we came out here. It’s why there’s no camera crews around.”

            “What the shit?” Cole asks.

            “Not someone,” Michelle interrupts. “Looks like the bomber’s name was Josh Ratliff. Local nobody. The cops are saying he went missing a week or two ago—”

            “Wait now,” Jake says, spitting the last of his dip onto the grass. “Ratliff. That’s the fella, ain’t it?”

            Josh Ratliff. The guy they threatened. The one that called Della the other night, Captain Asshole, the one that started this whole mess of lying and obfuscation. The most important person on the planet when it comes to exonerating Cavanaugh from wrongdoing.

            “Did I say something wrong?” Michelle asks.

            “What the shit?” It’s on repeat, the only thing Cole can manage to get out.

Chapter 17: Meet the Carsons

            It’s been three years since Elise Bennett left Cole Cavanaugh and Fort Worth. Three years of frigging misery; running and hiding, crappy jobs and cash-only residences. All points of the map, small towns, low profiles. Always looking over her shoulder. The world’s a different place now.   

            She hasn’t had a friend since she bailed; books have sufficed for companions. The Harvard Graduate absorbs pages filled with practicalities, guides on how to fix cars or survive in the woods for two weeks, what to do if your gun jams, optimal tools, etc. Not exactly emotionally stimulating, but it keeps her going. It was soul-crushing to leave the man she loved, to leave the way she did. Daily thoughts nag at her to call him—see how he’s doing, to hear his voice and tell him that it was nothing that he did. Lord only knows what theories he’s contrived. It disgusts her to think about it. Maybe now she won’t have to. Maybe now things will be different. Another chapter. The only thing to do is be optimistic. A lot of other people’s negativity is going to be laid at her feet in the coming days. Chin up. This was unforeseen. Unplanned. But it’s happening. She’s not going to get too emotional about it. Emotions take a toll, and life for Elise is a zero-sum game until it proves itself otherwise. The energy put toward feeling will take away from something else more useful. It wasn’t supposed to be this way, but supposed to is a concept that serves no purpose and must be jettisoned. Zero-sum game and all.

            “So you—you come in here and decide to do a number. A real number. My wife’s out there in tears. She’s religious, you know? Are you religious? Well, obviously not. A woman of propriety, my wife. A lady. Foreign concept to you, I gather. Something from a time you’ll never understand, Miss.”

It’s strange to see a man like Grant Carson this rattled. Not that they’ve met before. But coming in, knowing his reputation, walking through the big house past the servants and the heads on the walls, she imagined him to be the quintessential stoic living on a hill, elevated in every sense above the fray. Quite the opposite. In spite of his hard, graying appearance, Mr. Carson seems as flappable as anyone she’s ever met. His tweed suit seems like an affectation to her, incongruous with the rest of the persona. His hands and face are cracked and scarred as he paces around in strange patterns, hunched over with a brutal, unrefined gait. She sits precariously at the corner of an ottoman in a room larger than any house she’s ever lived in. There are long shadows and bookshelves seemingly placed at random along the walls, chairs set near each other at impractical angles. She guesses that someone watched Citizen Kane and decided this would work as a study in Xanadu.

            “Don’t want to get too comfortable, huh?” he asks, still pacing, lighting up a Marlboro 100 cigarette.

It looks ridiculous and overlong, protruding from his lips.

“On edge, more ways than one. Smart. But Will told me you were smart. Are you smart, Elise?”

            By the way he ends the question, she knows there’s a lot in it. The businessman wants to know if she’s playing him, if his son’s getting taken by a gold digger.

            Before she can answer, two sliding mahogany half-doors open and Will storms into the room. “Elise. Come on. How did you even get here?” He shoots a glare full of menace at his father. It takes the elder Carson and Elise by surprise in equal measure. Will’s explosive entrance is out of character. She clenches her body out of instinct.

            “Calm down there, boy. You’ve changed your stripes enough, lately.”

            “Some men came to our house. They picked me up and brought me here. It wasn’t exactly a polite invitation,” Elise interjects. She doesn’t understand the gas she’s throwing on the fire. Well, maybe she does.

            “How dare you?” Will seethes. “Scaring my—”

            “Wife,” the father interrupts. “Not using your brain, were you? I wasn’t going to wait around to let you ruin your life. Elopement? You’ve let weakness get the better of you.”

            The son’s heard it all his life. Will launches himself at his father. They both crash on top of the elder’s boat-sized desk. Elise stands up on stiffened legs to watch the fracas. Will does his best to get off some punches but he loses the top position quickly and allows himself to get tossed against the wall. It’s clear that both men have taken leave of their senses. As the son tries to gather his wits the father moves to the fireplace and grabs a led poker with a pronged end. The situation looks to be irreversibly ominous.

            “I’m pregnant!” Elise shouts. It’s the only thing she can think of. Grant Carson looks at her. His momentum has stalled out. After a few seconds of heavy breathing he lets the poker drop from his hands. Will stands up against the wall, nursing an ailing back.

            “Pregnant?”

            “That’s right,” Will says, walking past his father to take his new wife’s hand. “So you have two options. Either we kill each other right here and now, and so help me, I’m inclined to do it.”

            “Watch your tongue, boy. You’re not half the man—”

            “Spare me. Or, you get over whatever preconceived notions you have about my life and accept facts. This is my wife. She’s carrying your grandchild.”

            Carson doesn’t seem to know what to do. He looks at the newlyweds and then down at his feet. Thinks back to the day he took his wife away from her life, against the remonstrations and physical threats of her family. It’s about as much sentiment as he’ll allow. Forget sentiment. Time for practicalities. His only boy. This trollop from nowhere and nobody. Married. With child. This is how he goes through it, fact to fact, trying to formulate a method for softening the blows that might weaken his legacy.

            Carson sits at the edge of his desk, looking at the next generation in all its stunted glory. “Make me understand, Son. Why her?”

            Elise does seem at odds with the surroundings. Grant Carson’s in tweed and she’s in denim. Literally anything in the room is worth more than everything she owns in the world. None of that is on Will’s mind. Despite the fight and the nasty business, he’s still bursting with an innocent kind of pride. “You still have eyes, Dad. Let’s not pretend this isn’t the prettiest girl you’ve ever seen.” He pulls Elise tighter, arm around her shoulder, kisses her on the cheek.

            “But pretty girls—you’re from a proud and rich family—pretty girls you can scoop up by the handful.”   

            Elise can’t help but be slightly amused by the fact that she’s being spoken of as if she’s on the other side of the planet.

            “Wasn’t finished, Dad. Elise has a degree from Harvard, in finance. She’s the smartest woman I’ve ever met.”

            “Then how’d you meet her serving slop at some diner? Don’t deny it, she told me as much, before you came bursting in.”

            Will squeezes her lovingly. Asks her if she wants to finish the story. “Yes,” she says. “But I think everyone could do with a drink. Everyone not pregnant, that is.” Elise smiles, kisses Will back. “And do you think your mom should be in here? Cards on the table, clearing the air and all?”

            “Sounds good to me,” Will says, trudging past his father before an objection can be raised. Elise can hear him climbing the endless steps of the mansion, searching out his weeping mother.

            She moves toward Carson, closing the distance with three measured steps. Her face is close enough to smell the musk and years of tobacco evaporating from his skin. The proximity makes him uncomfortable. “I was ‘serving slop,’ as you put it, for a good reason. There’s been a problem nipping my heels for a long time, so working in forgotten places like the one your son met me in—it had become my way of life.”

            “What problem?”

            “The kind that lingers,” Elise says, still face to face with Carson. “But I’m hoping that’ll all change now.”

            “I see,” Carson says. “You want something. That’s what this is all about.”

            She takes a second to shrug off the disdain in his face. Will could be back at any moment, Amelia in tow. Time to speed it up. “Yes, I want something. To be married to Will. He’s a good man. I want to have his child and be a good mother, to live a happy life. If there’s something nefarious in that, then call me the Devil.”

            “But that’s not the want you’re talking to me about right now, all close-quarters.”

            “No. The problem... his name is Nicholas Rhine. He needs to be dealt with.”

            “So deal with it.”

            “I’ve tried. You have the resources, the money—hire somebody, make him go away.”

            “Go away?”

            “Will’s told me enough about you. There’s no need to play the tycoon with the heart of gold.”

            “I’m still not seeing my motivation,” Carson says, lighting another cigarette. Crosses his arms. She can hear Will coming back down the stairs, clumsy steps, a pleading son, an apoplectic mother.

            Elise decides laying it on thick is the only way to go. “Your motivation is to keep me alive, Mr. Carson. Will and I love each other. There’s no way around it. But if my problem—if Nicholas finds out, he’s likely to kill me and your unborn grandchild. Probably your son, too. Motivation enough?”

Chapter 18: France or France

            Nicholas Rhine is ready. It’s not that he’s some unstoppable force of nature, although he imagines his victims might perceive him that way. An inevitability, the slow-moving monster that inscrutably catches up, no matter how fast you run.

            Two acts of all-out war. First he kills Will Carson, waits for retaliation. Nothing much happens. Then yesterday, the bombing. One strike at the heart, one strike at the wallet of the great Grant Carson. The company stock is diving. It’s all over the internet. What’s Going on With the Carsons? Sounds like a bad TV show title. Whatever. Rhine offered ten million. It’s a round number, a believable figure. Really a drop in the bucket compared to the billions at risk from investors pulling the plug on the oil man’s company. But it won’t be as simple as that. A leader as inveterately stubborn as Carson won’t acquiesce and call it a day. Unless he’s been broken. Not impossible, but not something to wager on, either. Rhine takes a moment to recalculate it, one more time.

            Whatever the circumstance, he knows only two things can come from starting a war. Either you get France, or you get France. The World War One version, ready to punch back, emboldened to sink into the muck and fight with every last ounce of whatever. The ballsy one. He’s expecting that France. It feels inevitable. On the other hand, it could be type Two, the capitulating, enervated foe, ready to bend the knee. However unlikely, Nick must entertain the possibility; Carson did nothing after the murder of his own son. It could be that the businessman is carefully crafting his retribution, reading obvious Sun Tzu or Donald Trump books to get properly riled up—could be he’s just a punch-drunk old man.

            “We’ll see,” Nick says, under his breath. “France or France.” He texts the location of the meeting place, exactly where to park, etc. Puts the phone in his pocket, shimmies his way up a telephone pole that gives him a good sight line over the high walls and trees obscuring the view into the Carson estate. It’s on a hill roughly a half mile away, but he’s got a zooming scope with night vision. Checks his watch. 11:10 pm. Rhine set the meeting at 11:30, forcing them to leave immediately. “Come on,” he whispers. It’s about as worked up as he can get.

            It’s just that there’s a lot going on.

            “There,” he says, focusing on the carport and light coming from an opening garage. Two black sedans roll out, accompanied by three more SUVs that were already sitting idle in the drive. He moans. No way of knowing if Carson himself is in one of the cars that is coming out. Rhine’s instructions were simple. Bring the money and yourself to the location. Nick expected an accompanying entourage, prepared for it. But the whole thing is for nothing if the man himself isn’t there. Rhine wants, needs one last face-to-face before ending their arrangement.

            Their arrangement.

            The first time Nick met Carson, he wasn’t ready. He’d been taken by some hired goons, nabbed like a rank amateur, right out of the seedy bed he was calling home that night. This was years ago, when Rhine was still working things through, rounding out those edges. That being said, he gave them a pretty hard time. Broke one guy’s jaw, made it so another one would never walk right again. They gave him a vicious beating. Shuffled him off somewhere no one would ever look, tied him to chair in the middle of a room filled with nothing but dank air. Nick figured that was it. One of his misdeeds catching up. Fair enough.

            But then this guy comes in, the type that doesn’t match the situation. Wearing a suit, projecting some strange sense of importance in the cosmic order of things.

“My name is William,” he says, walking circles around Nick. “I’m a friend of Mr. Grant Carson. His best friend. His son is named after me. We served together in the war.”

Mr. Important is holding a piece of wood about the size of an ax handle, wrapping the end with cloth. He takes out a little pocket-sized tin of starter fluid and lights the thing up like a regular torch. Nick is still cultivating his powers of discernment at this point, but it’s clear the guy doesn’t need a torch for anything good. Then he puts it out. Rubs it into the ground like a gigantic cigarette. Nick takes a breath of relief. Too soon. The end of the torch is still hot. The guy starts placing it on random parts of Rhine’s body. When it gets too cool, he lights it again.

“You see,” he says. “When we captured a gook back in the day, we liked to burn ‘em.”

William grins from ear-to-ear. He’s nothing but a figure now. Nick can’t see through the pain. How many times is he going to do this? Bastard ever going to get to the point?

“Only you couldn’t be lighting torches all night, so we’d get one going toward the end of the day, kinda keep it cooking, take a Zippo to it every now and again. Sure, we’d gag the gook, keep the whole thing to ourselves, in case we had some snot-nosed officer. Officers. Geneva, Switzerland is a long way from Nam.”

Nick can hear him smack his lips, like he’s tasting the moments through memory. A vulgar, mutated synesthesia. It’s weird, even for Rhine.

            A pivotal few moments. That’s all it is, just moments. But it’s already changing Nick’s life. He’s a hideous freak now, scary forever for babies or anybody else with eyes. His insides are different, too. He’s gone through torture and has no idea why. Until this point, there hasn’t been one question thrown at him. Just beatings, speeches about torture, and then plain torture. That’s what is terrifying him—the not knowing. The pointlessness of it all. That is, until Grant Carson walks in. He hasn’t seen the businessman up close at this point in his life. Nick’s eyes are beginning to refocus. He watches the new arrival exchange heated words with Mr. Important, directing the creep sternly out of the room. He walks right up, like he’s rushed, like there’s a tee time he’s late for and this is just the part of his day where he checks on his no-reason prisoner.

“We can kill you or I can pay you. What’s your pick?”

            Nick would laugh at the absurdity of the question if it wasn’t so absurd.

“Pay,” he says. Blood drips from his lips. He’s nearly bitten off his tongue from the pain. The bubbling skin is still audible. Huge chunks of bone are showing. It’s a real shit-show.

            “Just so you know, I’d like to kill her right now. I don’t understand the hard-on you’ve got for the girl, chasing her all over the country, but it stops. Today. The girl belongs to my son. I’ve got a grandchild coming. A legacy to protect.”

            “Pay for what?” Nick manages to ask.

            “Yeah. Get set up somewhere, get this whole thing off your chest. Move on.” The words come awkwardly for Carson. He has no idea what to say, really. He hasn’t been a killer or a torturer since the war—yeah, lives have been ruined, a few broken kneecaps along the way, but nothing like murder. Nothing like the horrific burning William just subjected the kid to. “Go live your life. I’ll give you money. You know we can get to you—so you get out of line, more of the same. Pretty self-explanatory.” He lights up a cigarette. The sight of fire causes Nick to piss himself involuntarily. “Sorry about that,” he continues. “But if we do show up, call you… I want you to kill her.”

            It’s not what Nick is expecting to hear. “Kill her?”

            “If she’s trying to get over on my family, get over on my son, I want her dead. This is after the kid, maybe. Maybe never. Who better to do it than the stalker guy?”

The oil man seems pleased with himself now, like this is the tidiest of all plans. Rhine doesn’t know what to think. This dude’s a seriously cold fish—dumb, smart, protective, insane—it’s impossible to know. A scary riddle. He was living hard, following whatever trail Elise was leaving, working his brain and body, thinking all the time that he was impervious. The world had thrown everything at him, and he was still standing. Now he knows that it was a spurious kind of confidence. If he gets out of this room, there’s miles to go.

            “Whatever you say.”

            They let Nicholas Rhine go that night, released him back into the wild. He did his miles, learned more, taught himself to never be predictable or stupid. Made it so he’d never be dragged unwittingly away into a dark place again. From now on, he would be there already. Nicholas would become the dark place.

            He climbs down from the pole. Thinks once more about the night in the chair, the last time he felt a fool. Lets out a long breath and pats the sweat from his scarred neck. Pulls out his phone, makes a call to Carson. The phone is turning his ear white—he has it pressed up as hard as he’s able.

            “What is it?”

            Nick doesn’t answer. He’s listening for anything he can pick in the background. It’s not an exact science, what he’s attempting, but it’s the best he can do at the moment. No continuous droning. No sounds of other men talking.

            “Rhine? What is it?”

            “Where are you?” Nick asks.

            “On the way.”

            “I mean exactly.”

            “I don’t know. This isn’t my town.” Carson scoffs. “Want me to know the name of every damn street in Fort Worth damn Texas? Ridiculous.”

            “Ask your driver.”

            There’s a pause. It’s too long. Rhine’s putting Mr. Carson on the spot. He’s not doing well with it. “Uh—east. The highway? 30 east. Close to the exit.”

            “Very well,” Rhine says. “See you soon.” He hangs up the phone, opens the trunk of the sedan parked near the telephone pole. It’s on a bend, out of view of the houses to either side. He slips off the workman’s overalls he’s been wearing and throws them in the trunk. Takes out a backpack, then starts a steady jog toward the Carson estate. If any vehicles pass, they’ll assume he’s out for a midnight run. He’s wearing a tight black pants and shirt combination, and the backpack’s small enough to be mistaken for one of those idiotic contraptions people drink out of while exercising.

            The outer wall is too high to scale, fifteen, maybe twenty feet. Nick’s been by the property many times before, taking pictures, trying to find little places where the perimeter cameras don’t overlap. Best as he can tell, this is one of them. He listens for cars, closes his eyes, takes a few long breaths. Inside the backpack is a short rope with a three-pronged hook at the end. An easy toss, a sharp tug, and he starts the climb with no delay. His feet hit softly in thick grass, recently watered. He hunches down. Sees the house and surveys the surrounding features. Most of the men that might be on hand for protection have bugged out with the caravan, heading for Nicholas’ meeting place. Only two remain, on either side of the property. He curls the rope back in the bag, pulls out the night scope, pulls out a .40 mm pistol. Attaches a silencer with four practiced rotations. Nick has another peep through the lens then puts it back in the pack. He feels the balance of the gun in his hand, thinking. “Okay,” he says, stowing the gun against his backside, letting out another breath, counting down from ten.

            It’s about forty yards to the back of the house. He hits it at a full sprint and climbs up a metal drainage pipe, digging his shoes into the bricks. He gets good traction and is up and on to the second story veranda in seconds. The two men below might as well have been in another country—they see nothing, hear nothing.

            The house is quiet. Nicholas can’t hear a thing going on inside. Was I wrong? He shakes his head and looks through the glass of the veranda, trying to get a better grasp of what he’s facing. It’s all dark as far as he can tell. One of the pitfalls of being an unpredictable one-man operation. At times, it can require a leap-without-looking mentality.

“Okay,” he says again, making quick work of the lock. The door is new and the hinges are well-oiled. It opens without a sound. Nick squints to adjust to the lack of light, sees he’s in room full of couches and a huge TV. Another breath. Another count from ten. He pokes his head out of the room and walks the upstairs hallway with controlled steps. It’s room after room. Nick puts his ear to each door and moves on. Nothing. He almost gets frustrated. Almost. A few steps later and he hears sound coming from the room nearest the stairs. Little unpredictable bits of light are shooting out from underneath the door.

“Rosie,” he whispers, placing his ear flush to the wood to hear whatever he can. He wonders what she’s watching. Nick knew the girl and Elise would be in the house, but to be there, inches away… he imagines what she’s doing behind that inch of wood that is her bedroom door. His rigidity washes away. She should’ve been his child. He would tuck her in, take care of her and her mom. If only the world had allowed him to be normal. Never mind the world. If only Elise had allowed it.

            Nick stays stuck to the door, losing himself in a life that never happened. He doesn’t try to stop it; no breathing exercise, no restorative meditation. It’s a head rush of feeling for a man that has committed the most recent chapters of his life to feeling nothing. For the briefest of moments, he’s new to the world, trying to learn the entire spectrum of what it means to be human in a breath. It’s not working. There’s too much buffeting his brain, causing grand scale cognitive dissonance. Rival thoughts vie for supremacy. His hand moves to the doorknob. The desire to end little Rosie’s life starts to find a home in his soul. Imagining the pain that it would bring Elise, the insanity that it would bring upon the entire Carson clan. He begins to twist the knob.     

I’m sorry Rosie. I’m sorry about your weak little daddy. But the weak and the innocent end up scattered to the winds like everyone else. Whatever you are now, gentle and small, I was too. And look now. Look at your grandfather, at your heartless mother, at everyone. A little twist of the neck and you’ll be spared from becoming the same as the rest of us. Nicholas twists a little more and starts to enter. The door cracks. There’s Rosie, sleeping to the sounds of a kid’s movie. The covers are moving up and down with her little breaths. She’ll never know. Two more steps and he’ll be there.

            “What’s the situation, dammit!”

            Nick stops his advance and turns toward the sound. It’s old Carson, screaming from somewhere downstairs. It has the effect of transforming Nicholas back into himself. He counts down from ten, does his breathing thing. Blinks a few times, then retreats from Rosie’s room. Whatever her fate, it won’t be decided tonight.

            Rhine is down the stairs quickly. His feet are amazingly light for a man his size. He doesn’t know the exact layout of the house, but he’s getting a better idea of where Carson is by the second.

            “I’m texting him right now,” he growls. It’s louder now. Rhine can hear the little bits of gravel in that old gullet. He feels the buzz of his phone from his pocket. Pulls the backpack off, moving down a dimly lit corridor. He pulls out the rope and a mini tablet. Zips it back up and continues. Rounds a corner and spots Carson, sitting in a leather armchair with his back to the half-open door. Nick cranes his neck a bit more for a better view. There’s a little end table to one side of him and a coffee table and chairs on the opposite end of the brightly lit room.

            “Just give it till 11:30. That’s two minutes. This bastard likes to do things just so. I’ll text him again.”

            “Not necessary,” Rhine says, pressing the end of the silencer to the back of the old man’s spotted head.

            “You—”

            Rhine gives him sharp whack with the side of the pistol. “No.” With the gun once again pressed flush to Carson’s now bleeding scalp, Nick drops one end of the rope into his lap and tells him to grab it and hold. Carson complies, seeing stars while Rhine walks circles around the chair until his captive is bound and tied off. “Thanks for the help,” Nick says.

He’s cool and collected again, finding comfort and a strange sense of the familiar in what he’s about. It’s all he can do not to be filled with crazy joy. A few breaths. A quick count.

            The oil baron is gathering his wits. A shake of the head. It’s one of the only things he can move. “We had a deal—you psycho.”

            “Rosie. Your wife.”

            “What?”

            Rhine sits on the table directly in front of Carson. Pulls the hammer back on the pistol. Points it right at his face. “Rosie. Your wife.” He uses his right thumb to click the safety on and then back off. Turns the pistol sideways so the little red mark is visible. “Rosie. Your wife.”

            The message is clear. For the moment, it stops any more recriminations. The room is cool, but Carson is beginning to shake and sweat into the fine leather of the chair. His face looks drawn and crapulous. Too much drinking and worry. Nick sets the little tablet on his captive’s lap and presses the home button. A live feed of a line of cars pops up on the screen, green and blurry but discernable enough. “I don’t understa—”

            “Rosie. Your wife.” Rhine fishes down the side of Carson’s chair, looking for the cell phone he was using. “There it is.” He looks at the time on the phone. 11:32. Opens the last text message, types a new one. Leave. He’s not responding.

            Carson wishes he could use his hands, wishes there was something he could do. But all that fight is theoretical and in his head. His body is withered from the games and the losses. He slumps into the chair. An old man. Old and tired.

            “Hey. Look at the screen. What are you doing?”

            “I’ve had enough. I’m beaten. You’ve beaten me.”

            “Look at the screen.”

            “You’re a monster.”

            “The screen,” Nick says, unaffected, tapping the tablet with the pistol. “Rosie. Your wife.”

            Carson watches the caravan start to pull out. The parade of vehicles is single-file, between two old brick buildings, the only structures that remain of an old metal works on the extreme east side of town. When Nick was scoping the place out, it looked like he’d been the first person to set foot on the property since NAFTA. Good a place as any for a meet. That is, if it had ever taken place.

            The vehicles never make it out past the buildings. Carson watches all his people go up in a quick series of explosions. Some of them he even cared about. Rhine puts a hand over the old man’s mouth, knowing some kind of involuntary outcry is likely. “They’re gone,” he says, softly, right next to Carson’s saggy ear. “Just keep saying it in your head. “Rosie. My wife.” Nick takes the tablet, puts it back in his pack. Looks up. “I’d add Elise to that list. She’s here too, after all. But let’s be honest.”

            The beaten man speaks, unable to look at his scarred captor. “You knew I wouldn’t go to the meet.” There’s no guile or craft in his words.

            “No. I’m not a mind reader.”

            “But you’re here.”

            “The phone call. It was fairly obvious.”

            “Of course,” Carson says. “But what if I had shown up? With the money. You still would’ve killed us?”

            “Not necessarily. Ten million was a good figure.”

            “So this was a backup plan?”

            “Sort of. There’s a skeleton of a plan. A bit like jazz, if that makes any sense.”

            “Jesus.”

            “What?”

            “What do you mean, what? I should’ve killed you. You were tied to a chair once, if I recall.”

            “Indeed. You should have. Your friend William had his regrets as well.”

            “Is he—”

            “Gone. Merciful, considering what he did to me.”

            “What now? My turn?”

            “Thinking about it.” Nick looks toward the door, pondering over everyone else, sleeping mere walls away. “What about twenty million?”

            “That would get rid of you?”

            “Sure. Like I said, ten might’ve. But what do you business guys do when someone violates a deal? The price goes up.”

            “If I thought it would do any good…”

            “You’re emotional right now. I’m going to go. Sleep on it.”

            “I just don’t understand what you’re doing. It’s seems so—”

            “Senseless? Pointless?” Rhine puts the backpack on, getting ready to leave. He knows only what he needs to know. That as far as it is possible, he’s in control. In his mind, there’s a tower, tall and majestic. Dynamite is attached at the base of the structure. If he lights the match, there’s no telling what will happen. The tower may fall one way or the other, or just lean, or take the hit and keep standing. He only knows he holds the match. “Indeed. The product of a ruined psyche. And it wasn’t Elise that ruined it. That was your friend William. That was you.”

            Nicholas begins to walk out of the room. “You’re just going to leave me tied here?” Carson asks.

            “I could do worse,” Rhine says, sticking his head out the door. “The knot’s fairly loose. You’ll get out eventually. And don’t yell. If you do, I’ll have to kill everyone in this house.”

            “I get it.”

            “You’re starting to. And be positive. I know it’s uncomfortable, but this will give you some real alone time. All the people you would call right now are dead.”

Chapter 19: A Bit of Confluence

            “Thanks, Della. How you doing, anyway?”

            “Asks the murderer to the drug addict.”

            “You’re an asshole,” Cole says, smiling, hanging up the phone. He leans toward the driver seat. Holds the address out in front of Bob, the one Della just texted him.

            “Got it. How’s the kid?” Bob asks.

            “She’s gonna be alright, I think. If the rest of my family doesn’t drive her insane.”

            “Too much love can be as heavy a burden as too little.”

            “Who said that?” Cole asks.

            “Bob De La Croix, driver, ex-stuntman, all-around useful individual.”

            “Nice one, Bob. All that reading’s turning you into a proper scholar. Right, Big Frank?” Cavanaugh pats the side of the front passenger seat, trying to further lighten the mood.

            There won’t be a response. Cole’s half-asking out of mockery, knowing that it would take an act of Congress to get the man to utter a syllable. Big Frank is gray-haired, leather-skinned and heavy set. He’s taller than Cole and still powerful, despite his age. And of course, spookily silent. Stonehenge, if they took away all but one stone. Just a big frigging rock on a hill in the middle of nowhere. Cavanaugh hasn’t had the pleasure of seeing him in action, but Bob assured him that he’s strangely light on his feet and clever, once you figure out what he’s doing. It’s not as if he’s going to tell you. Cole throws one more glance at Big Frank before sitting back in his seat. If you’d said a couple weeks ago, I’d be rolling around with this lot…

            The lawyer shakes his head. More than a few cobwebs, not enough sleep. It’s been a steep trail and the grade shows no signs of leveling. Fort Worth’s becoming the news capital of the country. ATF and the FBI had to get involved. Two big explosions directed at Carson, Will’s murder, the Cole and Elise saga, and now, news of a very famous arrival. The kind that can only complicate things, Cavanaugh thinks. He tries to put what he can from his mind. It’s more of a path than a plan, a way out of this, but it can only be accomplished by doing the next thing, then the next, etc.

            And so the next thing. “We’re almost there, Bob. Della says it’s building two, corner unit.” They pull up into the apartment complex. It’s a weathered affair, probably thirty years old. Paint and wood is cracking around the windows. As far as residences, it’s the only one on the crowded street, mostly surrounded by auto repair shops and fast food restaurants.

            “Far end?” Bob asks, looking back at Cole. Cavanaugh nods and clears his throat. He’s anxious to get this over with. His driver can sense it. Bob adjusts the mirror and tells his employer that they’ll get it done quick. “Big Frank and I should do this. You shouldn’t go in.”

            “Not on your life, my friend.” Cole pats Bob on the shoulder as they park across the lot from the front door of the apartment. It’s at the back of the complex, a hundred yards at least from either the entrance or exit to the road. “Let’s do this,” Cavanaugh says, throwing open his door.

As he’s about to step out, he finds himself pushed back in his seat and the door closed. Big Frank looks at Cole blankly, a vein protruding from his forehead. How he managed to contort half his body into the backseat and reach across Cavanaugh is a complete mystery.

            “We need to watch the place for a bit. Remember?” Bob asks. Big Frank lets out a breath which Cole can only guess is one of annoyance. As he hand-walks his way back to the front, Bob offers a faint touch of support.

            “You could’ve just said something. For God’s sake, talking can be helpful.”

            Big Frank returns to his boulder-like position. Bob looks back apologetically once more. “Sorry, Mr. C. He’s just—I’ll tell you later.”

            “Fine,” Cole snaps. He doesn’t mean to. They had discussed the plan, to wait and watch, get a sense of any comings or goings into the apartment. “Sorry, my friend.” Cavanaugh’s in unfamiliar waters in so many ways. Calling people “my friend.” Continuously being humbled or scared on a minute-by-minute basis. It’s good for his character, he tells himself halfheartedly. On the other hand, he’s ready to play offense for a change. Too much sitting, being locked away, whether it be in the confines of his own home or a damn prison cell. Hence the premature exit from the car. “Sorry, fellas,” he says, finally gathering all his thoughts.

            Big Frank is focused on something else. He taps the windshield. Pulls out a large pistol and chambers a round, staring at the front door of the unit.

            “Holy shit. That’s Detective what’s-her-face. What’s she doing here?”

            “Being a cop,” Bob says. “Except—”

            “Where’s her partners?” Cole asks. “It’s just like when she came knocking on my door. Likes to work alone. How’d did she get this location, without Della?”

            “We can’t know. Cop stuff,” Bob says, clearly at odds with what to do. Big Frank taps him once more on the arm and does a thing with his hand. “No,” Bob says. “Hold tight. She might know better what she’s walking into.”

            A sudden quiet naturally comes over the car as they watch Letterer knocking on the door. She tries to look through the front window but they’re completely covered. The detective goes back and knocks again. It looks to Cole like she’s talking to somebody through the door. The car windows are cracked but they’re just out of range to hear what’s being said.

            “Maybe we should get out of here,” Cavanaugh says, cutting into the silent concentration. It seems like a reasonable thought, but it gets completely ignored.

            Big Frank points. The door cracks open a bit wider. Looks like more conversation. Letterer has her hand down by her side, near or on her gun, like she did when she came to visit Cole.

            Cavanaugh thinks back to one of the last things Della said on the phone, just minutes ago. Be careful. They’re dangerous people. He sighs, still watching. “Or maybe we should go help?”

            Bob and Big Frank turn slightly toward each other; it’s what they both feel the urge to do, and yet it’s impossible. Not like murder suspects and their retinues meet the requirements for proper police backup.

            No more time for considerations. They see the door open and Letterer pulled into the apartment before she has time to draw her weapon. Bob yells out shit and listen for the window as he and Big Frank leap out from the car. Both have their guns under their shirts but are holding them as they run. Cole doesn’t have time to ask what his role might be. He sits like a useless spectator as Bob stops behind the car nearest the apartment and Big Frank moves with great efficiency around the back and over a small metal fence, stopping just beside the backdoor. He listens with an ear near a window, trying to learn anything about what’s going on inside. Knows Bob is doing the same.

            Finally, the sound of broken glass. Big Frank moves off the building and gives the door a vicious kick, splitting it clean off its hinges. He enters with abandon—might as well—any thoughts of being smart are on the backburner. It’s all recklessness and ill-advised, moronic heroism from here.

            About fifteen feet away, he sees Letterer struggling in vain against a long-haired man with tattoos and no shirt. He’s got a hold of her gun. She’s fighting, but it looks like he’s just too strong. To his left a woman in jeans and a dirty white bra is coming at him from the kitchen nook with a raised knife. She cocks it over her head to plunge it into him, but he recognizes the approach and closes the distance with quick sidesteps, shoulder-checking her in the face before she can come down with the blade. It breaks her nose and puts her flat on her back. Big Frank gives Dirty Bra a medium-weight kick to the head to prevent any more demonstrations. All the while his gun has never left the man with no shirt. He takes a moment to kick away the knife and look around the place. Not very big. A back hallway leading to rooms he can’t see. Kitchen to his left, laundry to his right. He can’t know if those back rooms are empty. More guess work.

            “Put that goddamn gun down, dude!” yells Mr. Tattoo. He’s got the lady cop turning purple in the face now, squeezing her with one arm and using the other to hold her own weapon to her temple. “I’ll kill this bitch right now! Don’t give a fuck!”

            Big Frank does whatever thinking he can in the seconds that follow: He knows the guy does in fact have the look of someone who doesn’t give a fuck, that he might kill her. He also knows that he doesn’t have a good shot at the guy, and even if he did, blowing his head off would negate the purpose of the visit. But he also knows that the lady cop is going to die of asphyxiation in about five more seconds. She’s doing her best but the son of a bitch is strong and probably on something to make him stronger.

            That’s why he’s relieved to see Bob slip in through the front door and put his pistol to the back of the guy’s head. It’s done as carefully as possible; obviously, Bob can’t spook the asshole—he might fire a shot into her head from pure instinct.

            “Let her go. Set it down,” Bob says, stepping back halfway between the gunman and the front door. Enough separation to prevent any unexpected moves. Now that they’ve been incredibly reckless, Bob would love to be extremely cautious. “Set it down, Mr. Ridge.”

            Hearing his name causes the guy to release his grip on Letterer ever so slightly. She’s grateful for the solitary breath. Her gasp is loud. The sound of it seems to bounce off every surface in the low-ceiling, low-budget apartment. Big Frank looks down at woman he knocked out and then takes a slow step toward Mr. Ridge and Letterer.

            “Do you prefer Ellis?” Bob asks. This time his voice has more force. “Put it down, Ellis. We didn’t come here to hurt you.”

            “You put it down, fucker!” Just what Big Frank was afraid of. Someone else in the apartment. He steps left so he can get an angle at the new arrival from the hallway. Another man, smaller than Mr. Ridge, but holding a much larger gun. It’s a goddamn Kalashnikov, an old model, but still scary as hell. Hard to know if it’s full auto or semi; either way, it causes Big Frank to swallow.

            “You got ‘em?” asks Ellis Ridge.

            “Yep. Get yer asses over there. Get! Move, fuckers!” The new guy takes his assault rifle and moves it around in the air. The flimsy metal and wood components make the thing sound like it’s coming apart, but Big Frank knows better. The AK could be fastened with safety pins and it would still fire. “Go on!” yells the little man. Finally, Ridge lets go of Letterer, training his weapon (formerly the detective’s) on Frank.

            Bob’s thinking, all the good it’ll do him. His gun is now on the floor. Useless. He helps Letterer toward the couch at the center of the room. The smaller man keeps an eye on Bob and Letterer and tells Big Frank the usual, put it down or this, give it up or that.

            All the attention, everyone’s eyes are trained toward the back at the room and Big Frank. Ridge is concerned for the woman at his feet. The little man is overexcited, waving his cannon around, yelling racist things at Bob and anti-women things at Letterer. The things one expects from an idiot with an AK-47.

            What no one expects is Cavanaugh. Really, not even Cavanaugh.

            With all the yelling, the lawyer’s been able to poke his head through the door more than once. It’s partially why Big Frank hasn’t put his gun down. Maybe he wouldn’t anyway—doesn’t matter. He’s simply trying to keep the action focused away from the front door. Saying Cavanaugh is all wrong for the situation would be putting it nicely, but it’s all they’ve got. Cole looks down, says a prayer to God, who he hopes is mighty—opens his eyes and sees the L-shaped tire iron in his hand. It’s not exactly awe-inspiring, his weapon. He’s through the door quick and it’s two steps before the small man even sees him. Cavanaugh swings the metal like he’s hitting a running forehand in tennis, striking him across the face.

            Frank ducks down, preparing to fire on Ridge. Doesn’t see a choice, really. And then Letterer steps in his shot. She grabs the wrist of the startled Ridge and uses her body weight to throw him over her hip and take away the use of the weapon, all in one move. Frank takes pressure off his trigger as the detective picks her pistol off the floor and digs it into Ridge’s chin. She’s still catching her breath. Decides not to say anything, though she’s never wanted to so badly.

            “Everyone good?” Bob asks, setting the little man against the wall. His bell is still ringing from the tire iron. He’s bleeding from his head and babbling incoherently about God only knows.

            Frank uses his own pair of cuffs to bind the lady’s hands. He walks the few steps over to Letterer and asks her if she has an extra set so they can restrain the little man. She uses hers on Ridge and fishes out a set of zip ties. “Hope that’ll do.”

            “Thank you, ma’am.” Big Frank says.

            “Thank you,” she says, propping Ridge up off the floor.

            Cole’s sitting on the couch, breathing hard. Feeling proud. Feeling glad not to be dead. Feeling like he’s about to throw up all over the damn place. “Wait a minute,” he says, looking at Big Frank. “Did you just—”

            “I did. And nice job. Saved the day.”

            “You’re just going to start speaking? Completely normal and everything?” Cole’s almost surprised enough to forget about the near-death experience.

            “What’s this?” Letterer asks, looking at Frank and Cole. Ellis Ridge moans as she sets him back down. She tells him to shut up.

            “Not important,” Frank says.

            “I beg to differ,” Cavanaugh answers. “Talking is kind of a big deal.”

            “Let me take a look at you,” Bob says, motioning for Letterer to turn toward him. He puts a thumb on her throat and gently rubs around the windpipe. “Does that hurt?”

            “Bet your ass,” she says, head tilted toward the ceiling. “But it’d be worse if you guys hadn’t shown up.” Letterer pats Bob on the side. “I can breathe fine, now. Don’t think anything’s broken.”

            “Get it checked out, anyway.”

            “When there’s time.”

            “What were you doing here, Letterer?” Cole asks. “And don’t you people have partners?”

            “We’ll talk about it in a minute. Where’s the damn thermostat in this place?”

            “I’ll look,” says Frank, heading to the hallway where the little guy came out of.

            “Watch them,” Bob says, handing the assault rifle to Cole, walking to the fridge for some ice. He packs some cubes in a paper towel and hands it to Letterer for her throat.

            “Thanks,” she says, shooting the driver a tentative smile.

            “A/C’s broke,” Frank says, returning to the room. He picks the still unconscious knife-lady off the floor and sets her next to the little man. Tells Ridge to sit next to her. It’s quite the triumvirate.

            Cavanaugh’s not waiting any more. However the cop wants to do things, it’ll have to wait. He’s the one with the Russian killing machine in his hands, and he just saved the day, kind of. “You with me, Crawford?” he asks, lifting the little man’s chin with the barrel of the rifle. Bob is quick to snatch the weapon from Cole’s hands.

            “I was using that,” Cole says.

            “Ask your questions.”

            “You guys came for him?” Letterer looks confounded.

            “You didn’t?” Cavanaugh asks, empty hands on head.

            “Who is he?”

            “Crawford Ames, loser extraordinaire. Buddy of the bomber.”

            “We didn’t figure he’d be here, but we had info that Mr. Ridge would know where to find him,” Big Frank says, putting his gun away. Cole thinks he sees a slight flirty smile directed at Letterer. The whole thing is too weird.

            “What about you, Detective Letterer?” asks Bob. He looks irritated. Cavanaugh’s recent raise isn’t enough for this kind of shit. Feels like he’s being lit on fire for a fee again, like the Hollywood days.

            At first, Letterer remains silent. Since the Carson murder, she doesn’t know if she’s been useless or good. She doesn’t know much of anything. As an investigator, it’s the last place you want to be. Talking to her murder suspect and his people isn’t exactly in the playbook, but what the hell. Chalk it up to almost getting killed. “I came for Ridge. He’s come up as a possible past associate of Josh Ratliff. Nothing about this Crawford, though. My guess, Ridge is a little higher up the food chain. Why he pops up on their radars, most likely. The feds questioned Ridge earlier—they’re working the bombings with local PD.”

            “Yeah, we saw on the news,” Frank says. “Is their help helpful?”

            “That’s the thing. I’ve never had a problem with Homeland, FBI, ATF. They usually just get in and get out, give support where they can.”

            “But now?” Cole asks, sitting back down on the couch. He realizes his heart is still about to run itself out of his chest.

            “Now I’ve got my case, your case. And it seems to have everything or nothing to do with the bomb shit.”

            “Alright,” Cole says, standing back up to look her in the eyes. Their faces are inches from each other. “Somebody tell me what’s got Frank talking all of a sudden?” Cavanaugh’s pointing at the older man, but his eyes are still fixed on Letterer. She’s squinting with incredulity. Bob and Frank sigh and roll their eyes, respectively. “Is there an on switch?”

            “Boss. Later.”

            “Fine. Just saying. One mystery, then another, set ‘em up, knock ‘em down.”

            Detective Letterer seems to be done trying to figure Cavanaugh out for the moment. “We need to go. Take these mopes with us. I’m getting shut out of parts of the investigation. Anyone could show up here. It won’t be good if I’m seen colluding with Cole frigging Cavanaugh.”

            “No, it wouldn’t,” Frank says.

            “OK,” Bob says. “Where do we take them? She’s got questions for smelly, we’ve got questions for stumpy.”

            “What about slutty?” Cole asks.

            “She’s coming, too,” Letterer says. “Just a couple of hours.”

            They all look down at the sad sacks that just tried to kill them, then at Cole.

            “Fine,” he says, pulling out his cell phone. “Give me a second.” He walks around the dirty room, sweating onto the screen. For a moment he loses faith. At last it clicks and he hears a mumbled, yessir?

            “Jake. You’re a precious man, you know that?”

            “S’pose.”

            “I need a place.”

            “What kind?”

            “Out of the way. Really out of the way. Just for a little while.”

            “Yep. Give me a few—I’ll sort it. Text you the address.”

            “Someday I’m gonna pay you back.”

            “Nah. Still owe you for the time with the girl from the Miss Japan thing.”

            “It was Mexico.”

            “Anyways. Should be on your phone. Mind if I join?”

            “Don’t get followed. Make damn sure, Jake.”

            “I’m rich as Croesus. Resources. No worries. And somebody’s gotta let you in, you dumbass.”

            “Love you,” Cavanaugh says, putting the phone back in his pocket. Everybody’s staring at him with expectant faces. “We’re good. That was Croesus.”

Chapter 20: The Aforementioned

            It’s a new house for Rosie. New men surrounding her. These guys are in t-shirts and vests that say FBI and have pants with pockets all over. She sees a lot of sunglasses resting on top of heads and big guns strapped around their necks. Nobody tells her much. No big surprise there. She prefers the agents to the suits. There’s nothing to figure out with these guys. They put off a serious but polite vibe. One of them talks to her, plays a game of chess every now and then. They laugh and he tells Rosie about his kids. It’s the first time she’s ever played chess with an opponent wearing a submachine gun. His name is Mr. Stanton, but he tells her it’s okay to call him Stan. That’s what everybody else calls him. She says that it’s nice to talk to a normal human being for a change and he tells her she’s a clever girl. That’s what they tell me, she says.

            Still, it’s yet another house. She doesn’t hear much from Grandpa anymore. Gran says that he’s sad about the men in the explosions. Then there’s Mom. Whatever’s going on with her, whatever’s been going on, Rosie needs to know. A year ago, her mother was a different person. Always hard to read, but it worked on some level. She was beautiful and cool. Maybe not like some of her friends’ moms—not the nice little housewife—but Dad never cared. Neither did she. Everything moved along and felt for the most part normal. Then it didn’t. Some months back, she asked one of her teachers at school about it. Menopause was mentioned. Rosie knew what it was, the way kids think they know about adult things before their time. She looked it up on the internet. It didn’t seem to fit. Mom was too young, and she wasn’t moody—just not around, not there the way she used to be.

            Elise is talking on the phone when Rosie walks in her bedroom. “Got to go,” she says, ending the call and pulling her hair back. She’s sitting up against the headboard. Her eyes are bloodshot. The room is sparse, like a random hotel. The whole scene makes Rosie feel sad all over. “What’s up, my love?”

            “What’s wrong with you, Mom?” It’s not the way it should be. The little girl is put together and direct. Her only surviving parent is anything but. Elise shifts in the bed and looks around. Either she feels cornered or annoyed or both.

            “Your father is dead,” Elise says, rubbing her hands all over her face. “You’re young. Things—things get harder, Rosie.”

            “I think this is bullshit.”

            “You watch your mouth.”

            “No. This is bullshit. You’re bullshit. Gram, Grandpa, all bullshit. Ask the FBI. Turn on the TV. Everybody thinks so.”

            “You don’t know what you’re saying. This is a terrible time for our family. It’s not like you to make things worse, young lady. Stop being a child.”

            “Can you hear yourself? I am a child, in case you forgot. And at least I’m not curled up in bed, letting these people take us all over. Do you really care? I’m the only one that loved Dad!”

            “That’s not fair,” Elise says quietly, looking away from her daughter.

            “Bullshit. You can’t even get up to defend yourself. Why don’t you go back to bed? Sleep yourself to death. Maybe I’ll go to that school or Switzerland with Gram. I can’t take this anymore.”

            “What school? What are you talking about?” Elise asks.

            “What do I know?” Rosie says, turning to leave the room. “I’m just a child, remember?” She walks out and slams the door, like she has somewhere else to go, someone else to talk to. But there’s no one. Having to go full brat makes her sick to her stomach. Bullshit? Five times? Rosie puts her hand over her mouth, finally admitting to herself how upset she is with everything.

            Rosie makes her way down a long unfamiliar hall, trying to remember where the kitchen is. Maybe some food will help. Her eyes are starting to redden. It’s a lot of weak knees and tear ducts. A total breakdown might be coming. She needs some way of expressing it all. Could be time for an all-out tantrum. Rosie stumbles into a common room with high ceilings looking for objects to smash against the walls. As she picks up a lamp, there’s a commotion from the entranceway to the house.

            “Get your hands off me, rogue.” It’s a female voice. Not loud, but certainly annoyed.

            The little girl stops for a second, holding the lamp above her head.

            “I went through this. At the gate. Then again at the door. Did you not get a message on your little toy there?”

            Agents that were watching other areas of the house start to stream by Rosie at a brisk pace. She sets the lamp down and follows the crowd.

            “Come now, boys. You know who I am. If you wanted to feel me up, you could’ve been polite about it. At least get one of the cute ones to search me—ah! My niece!”

            Rosie pokes her head out from behind one of the FBI men. Immediately she recognizes the lady in the foyer, though it’s hard to get a solid look with all the bodies surrounding her. “Aunt Alice?”

            “Alright, you ruffians. You’ve had your fun. Will somebody take my handbag?” She holds it out, but nobody follows her command. She doesn’t wait. Just drops it like it’s nothing, spilling all manner of things onto the treated wood floor. “Come here, darling.”

            “Return to your areas,” one of the older agents says. The men disperse slowly, looking behind while Rosie takes tentative steps toward the new arrival. To the child, she looks like something from one of the old movies her Dad used to watch. Blond and delicate, slender but strong. She has sharp features, but somehow they all blend together to form a perfectly symmetrical whole. Rosie’s seen her picture a thousand times—probably more. Figured photo shop was doing all the work. Not so. Aunt Alice is even more beautiful in person.

            “Come here, you poor thing,” Alice says, taking off her silk gloves and hat. “I know… ridiculous, all this finery. We’re in Texas, for God’s sake. As if anybody could even identify De La Renta around here.” She takes her heels and tosses them aside. “Well? Are you going to give me a hug or not, kid?”

            Rosie walks into her aunt’s arms slowly, thinking it’s going to be a manufactured embrace. More bullshit. She couldn’t be more wrong. Alice grabs her niece with the strength and abandon of… it’s just unexpected. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through. He was my brother but—I won’t make excuses, not to you.”

            “I’m almost twelve. We’ve never met. What am I supposed to say?”

            “Exactly. I’ve got no right to expectations. I’m hugging out of sheer need, I suppose. Selfishness. Once I let go, you can hate me, hit me, whatever you want.”

            Rosie steps back and surveys her famous aunt. Yes, she’s in an otherworldly slim white dress made of something only Europeans can pronounce, but other than that, she’s real. Alice isn’t looking out a window or texting or saying inane things. She’s there. The bag is on the floor, the “finery” is to the side. The fancy shoes are in the corner. “What the hell are you doing here?” Rosie blurts out.

            Alice can’t help but laugh. “I like the language. You want to sit down? Long journey and all.”

            “Okay,” Rosie says. They make their way to a sitting room just off the foyer and plop down on the only sofa, facing each other. “And sorry. I just started cussing about five minutes ago.”

            “How do you like it?”

            “Cussing?”

            “Indeed.”

            “I think I like it. Feels weird, like bad and good.”

            “Well said. Believe we’re going to be fast friends.” Alice holds up a perfectly-manicured hand. “Now. I’m not saying we have to be. Just a prediction. And if you don’t like my prediction, I don’t give a damn.”

The emphasis on damn makes Rosie laugh. It might be the first laugh to escape her since the death of her father. Alice smiles at the sight of it and suddenly resents herself for staying away so long. There was a time when she didn’t know any better, but she’s too old for excuses now. Oh well. Forward unto the breach.

            “Why haven’t you visited? I mean, even before all this?”

            “No doubt you’ve heard about me. From inside and outside your family.”

            “Kind of hard to avoid.”

            “Yes. Well, I’m not going to try to disabuse you of any notions the press has given about me. Some of the nonsense is true nonsense. Nobody’s perfect, young Rose.”

            “I can understand that.” She’s trying to understand. Alice talks fast and doesn’t pander down—Rosie has to infer what disabuse means, but she gets the general idea.

            “As far as what you’ve heard from the family...”

            “Dad never really said anything bad about you. Just wished you’d come around. Sometimes when a news story would pop on the TV about one of your—”

            “Yeah. One of those.”

            “He’d pick up the remote and sigh, say ‘my dear sister.’ But he was never mad.”

            “What about your mother?”

            “Mom?”

            “You know what, none of my business. Just let me look at you.”

            “Not much to look at.”

            “Blasphemer. Who do you think you’re talking to? I am one of the world’s leading lights in fashion and beauty and all the other crap that doesn’t really matter. Don’t tell me what I’m looking at.” Rosie laughs again.

Alice puts her hand on her niece’s chin, moving her head gently from side to side. “You’re lovely. You’ve got my mom’s nose and lips, same as me. Your mom’s cheekbones and eyes. Best of both camps.” She takes her hand down. “Not that it’s important. But it so is important. But really, it’s a bunch of crap. I’m kidding.” Alice hits the cushion between them playfully and Rosie once again giggles. She’s a kid again. She had no idea her aunt was coming, but it’s a boon to her soul.

            “Gram and Grandpa are going to be so glad you’re here. Mom, too.”

            “I bet,” Alice says, saying a lot of other things under her breath. She doesn’t want to ruin the first meeting with the girl. It’s good for them to both have a moment. It makes sense and it’s ironic. Rose had no clue about her arrival but seems to have taken well to it. Everybody else knew—the exact date and time. And they couldn’t so much as come to the damn door. Her beloved mother and father. And Elise. Not a lot of amity there, between any of them.

            Alice looks at her niece. Already a whole new set of thoughts are forming in her head. This can’t be about the old days or who was wrong or what was said. There’s a great kid stuck in the middle of everything. Alice once again flashes her magazine cover smile at Rose. She wonders why she’s chosen not to have one of her own. “Because most kids suck,” she says, barely out loud.

            “What?”

            “Nothing, beautiful.” Alice stands up, flattens out her dress. “I want to know everything. I’m saying the whole story. From the day you were born until this exact moment in time.”

            “Okay. Sure.”

            “Sure? Okay? Give me some enthusiasm, crying out loud. Lady time, let’s say ten minutes.”

            “Why ten minutes?”

            “Because I’m too excited to take in your awesomeness and I need to prepare. Also, I have to say hello to your grandparents.”

            “Okay.”

            “Good. Now up to your room. You have those big headphones all the kids are wearing?”

            “Yep.”

            “Listen to your favorite song on repeat a couple times. Not saying I know for sure, but it could get loud just a little while.”

            Alice gives her niece a wink and walks out to find her estranged parents. Rosie leaves to go back to her bedroom but stops for a minute at the entranceway where her aunt dropped her things. Thinks for a second. Maybe it’s the new feeling of having an ally, maybe something else. She walks over and examines the spilled contents of the bag. The usual woman stuff, makeup, lotions; finally she finds what she wants. Rosie looks around. Nobody’s looking. She snatches her aunt’s smartphone and heads down the hall. Closes the door to her room. It’s a bit like cussing; the young girl feels good and bad about what she’s doing. Rosie does a quick internet search for the law offices of Michelle Kress. Dials the number. Figures now that Cole Cavanaugh is out of jail and off the radar, this is the best way to reach him.

            A secretary answers. “How may I direct your call?”

            Rosie thinks she’s doing the right thing. She thinks.

Chapter 21: Degelating Responsibility

            Jake De Klerk’s out of the way place fits the bill. It’s on a lonely piece of land southwest of Fort Worth’s city limits. Nothing but tall grass struggling under the sun for miles in any direction. There’s a sturdy little hunting cabin on the property—little for De Klerk. It’s fit with all the normal comforts, minus central air. Window units are buzzing full blast in every room of the rustic one-story structure.

            Ridge, Crawford, and Dirty Bra are on the floor in one of the unfurnished bedrooms off the main living space. Big Frank’s watching over them. Jake’s sitting in a cloth recliner next to an imposing old-fashioned stone fireplace, trying to cool off. Letterer and Bob are standing around, wondering what’s keeping Cavanaugh. He’s been outside on the porch for the last five minutes.

            The door cracks open and Cole walks in slowly, past his driver and the detective, tentatively sitting down in a chair opposite Jake. “Weight of the world, looks like,” De Klerk says.      

            “What’s so important? I’m dodging my superiors for the past hour, Cavanaugh.” Letterer checks her watch, gives Bob an oblique look.

            Cole is hesitant for two reasons. First, the detective is still a bit of an unknown. They just saved her ass, so peace on earth and goodwill and the rest, but she remains the lead on the Carson murder. Second, his news is just weird. Oh well. He’s lost his practice, his reputation, damn near everything else. Might as well shed his sense of propriety. “That was my lawyer. Apparently she’s been on the phone with Rose Carson.”

            “C’mon Cavanaugh. It’s probably just a crank. Your lawyer hasn’t been able to change her numbers. Something this high profile, they’re probably getting a hundred of those a day.”

            “My first thought as well, Detective. By the way, what’s your first name? Feels weird not knowing it.”

            “It’s Lee. Can we get back on point?”

            “Yeah. Lee makes it painfully anticlimactic,” Cole says, looking down at his boots. “Anyway, my lawyer asked her a lot of questions, seemed to pass the sniff test for authenticity. Michelle’s smart. Not going to waste one second she doesn’t have to on some poser.”

            “Fine.”

            “Said the kid was freaked out, but intelligent. You know, precocious.”

            “Rosie is certainly that,” Bob says. Letterer and Jake both shoot him surprised looks. “What? She beat me at chess. Smart kid. Liked her.”

            Jake does his mildly amused, barely audible chuckle thing. “That’s right. From when y’all morons went over there. Night before everything.” He takes another sip of scotch. “I mention how dumb that whole thing was?”

            “Unremittingly,” Cole answers. “Point is. Kid says she knows I didn’t do it.”

            “Why—”

            “Detective, dammit. Lemme filibuster. A week or so ago the girl says she overhears her grandpa telling grandma that I didn’t do it. Of course, I asked Michelle to clarify this. Yes, the very question that you’re going to ask. Why would he think that, considering he’s been up the city’s ass to put me away for the death of his son? Jake?”

            “Oh yeah. He’s been up some asses.”

            “So Michelle says that the grandma was grilling old Carson on what to do, nagging like a wife, talking about Elise coming over to my house—right, this is after I got arrested. Write that in your little timeline, Letterer.”

            “Think I can remember.”

            “Good enough. Not like it’s my life. Anyway, Carson spills he knows, wife asks him how he knows, but he says to trust him.”

            “And they just left it?” Bob asks.

            “Maybe not. Or maybe. I’m telling you what the girl said. Oh. Carson was talking about getting Rose out of dodge, like it was dangerous. This is just as I’m getting released, minutes before the explosion at the office building.”

            “The kid remembers it that well?” Letterer asks.

            “She is smart,” Bob says.

            “Yeah, I guess she’s smart. And it’s fairly memorable stuff—the guy who might’ve murdered your daddy getting released, and a building owned by your grandfather getting blown up.”

            Letterer sits down, clearly trying to work through everything. There’s what she’s hearing now, plus everything she hasn’t mentioned to anyone. The things that led her here. “So the kid comes with this out of the blue? I don’t get the timing.”

            “She said she’s being kept away like a prisoner, her mother’s being completely weird, that aunt just showed up. Apparently the girl wants some answers, she’s sick of waiting. Can’t say I blame her. Oh, they took away her phone and internet after Will was killed. She had one before, but gave it back before her family could get wind. She’s scared, you know, just a kid and all that. Just now, she was calling from what’s her face’s phone.”

            “What’s her face?”

            “The aunt. Alice Carson-Petit whatever.”

            “That’d have to be the first thing we check.”

            “I told you. Michelle’s good. She had her guy run down the number. It belongs to the aunt, one of her bullshit fashion companies. The whole thing seems straight up. It’s worth considering, is all. Michelle’s talking about using it in court, I’m thinking about never having to go. Call me overly hopeful.”

            They’re all looking at each other, thinking along their own lines. Cole’s tired of talking, asks Jake where the scotch is and gets up to pour himself a drink. He takes a few swigs and shoves his face in front of one of the window units belching out cool air. Hopefully it’ll wake him up. He’s been dealing with a pretty heavy adrenaline dump since the standoff at the apartment. Think man. You need to think, lay it all out, get a freaking marker and a dry erase board if that’s what it takes. Diagrams and shit. First, he’ll try words.

            “Okay,” he says, moving away from the cool and back toward the group.

            “Are we gonna get started with these losers?!” The question is shouted from the other room.

            “Sorry, Talking Frank! Few more minutes. Hold your wad. Hell, grill them yourself!” Cole laughs and looks at Bob and Letterer.

            “Yeah, I still don’t get the joke,” she says.

            “That’s the thing. I don’t either. We’ll table it for a second. Jake. Turn around. Everybody open your earholes. I’m gonna throw everything I got at you.”

            “Do it, man,” Jake says, holding up his scotch.

            “Okay. So here’s what I know. First, I didn’t kill Will Carson. Some other asshole did it, and he must be pretty good, because the cops don’t seem to have any other clue who might’ve. Except Josh Ratliff, and that makes no sense, considering no one can ascribe any type of motive to the guy. No connection to any of the Carsons as far as we know, never met a single one of them.”

            “But he’s connected to you,” Letterer says, thinking about the anonymous call she received the night of Cole’s arrest. CHECK THE CAR is running through her brain.

            “Good,” Cavanaugh says, not expecting that one. “So someone kills Carson. Maybe the guy Elise told me about. The guy she was running from.”

            “Wait, what?”

            “We didn’t really get into it, Lee. And she probably didn’t tell you people because the guy’s supposedly dead.”

            “Supposedly?” Letterer asks. “This is the kind of thing you tell the cops.”

            “You know, we were planning to follow up on it, me and my lawyer. But on advice from counsel I decided to withhold the old dead guy did it defense until every other avenue was exhausted.”

            “Say we’re at that point, brother,” Jake murmurs.

            “Yeah. Exhausted is where we’re at. But that’s not all. Now we’ve got little Rosie Carson saying the old timer knows I’m clean. And Mom’s huddled up and acting weird and scared. The way I see it, somebody in that house knows or thinks they know who did it. Either Grant Carson, reasons known or unknown, or Elise, reasons she doesn’t want to admit.”

            “What’s that last part mean?” Bob asks, trying to keep up.

            “It means if we totally believe the little girl, it still doesn’t mean that Grant really knows. He could have a thousand enemies nipping at his heels, some very suspicious—all she heard him say was that I didn’t do it.”

            “I suppose,” Bob says.

            “Yeah, it’s flimsy. My guess is he knows exactly who it is. We’re talking proof, though. And then there’s Elise.”

            “Can’t believe you ever tangled with this skank,” Jake says, pouring an oversized flask into his liquor glass.

            “Right. She told me two things when I saw her. First, she was sure I didn’t do it. Second, she talks about these suspicious calls and letters she’s been getting. I told her it was weird but unlikely, but thinking about it, if this dude is crazy enough to make her take off on me on our wedding day, could be he’s crazy enough to off her husband.”

            “This is the dead guy?” Letterer asks.

            “Right.”

            “But dead guy is probably dead. And maybe he was crazy, maybe not. Maybe she just wanted to leave you and was trying to make you feel better about yourself.” The detective feels good for about a second but then goes head in hands. “And then she plants a knife in your car?”

            “Things ain’t getting much clearer,” Jake says.

            “And you’re only talking about half the case,” Letterer says, pulling her hair back. She’s frustrated and sweating along with everybody else in the cabin. “Here’s what I’ve got. From the get-go, I don’t like you for the doer. It’s just stupid. But I’m a cop, job to do, so I do it. The evidence against you isn’t perfect, but it’s there. Your face, the witness who saw the Mercedes, the marks on your hand. Now Chapel’s telling me they’ve got your DNA on Carson’s dead body.”

            “No. You never took a sample.”

            “Those pens you were writing with. Touch DNA. Telling you, they’re pulling out all the stops, Handsome.”

            “But—”

            “I know it usually gets thrown out, but they used the best lab in the country, and it’s a freaking spot-on match.”

            “Lovely,” Cole says, going back over to the window unit.

            “But you were there the night he died. You were his lawyer. So I’ll let that go for now. But then I get a tip. I check the tip, find a knife. Find you and the lady doing the overnight thing. Of course, somehow, and someone can explain this, you get bail.”

            “Bribe,” Jake says.

            “Figured. Which leads to your other misdeeds. The same guy that told me about the knife told me about your little sister. And yes, this calls into question the credibility about your hand, your face, and the word of your driver. Your word. Mr. Scotch over here. That’s why the cops haven’t dropped this thing, even after the bombs.”

            “What a pile of shit.” It’s about the only thing Cavanaugh can come up with.

            “Agreed. I’m still pretty young, but I’ve never even heard of anything this cocked up.”

            “You’re right in there with us, Detective. Sorry to tell you. The PD’s part bought by Carson, part bought by Jake to fight back against Carson. Maybe others. You’re all alone.”

            “I’ve been getting pulled one way, running the other.”

            “Anybody particular leaning on you?”

            “Yeah. Particular and in general. Lots of leaning. They want to fry your ass. Most of the brass on down. Horace really hates you. I have a feeling he would do anything.”

            “Horace is Rat Face, right?”

            “Yeah.”

            “How did you track down Ellis Ridge’s place? That’s a pretty random druggie dungeon.”

            “Chapel got it for me. He said he knew a guy in narcotics that knew a guy.” Letterer goes pale, looks frustrated. Chapel’s actually been…”

            “What?” Cole asks. “You got something?”

            “Sorry,” she says. “Not really sure.” A string of events is starting to unfurl in her mind. The investigator pulls out her notes and starts flipping through.

            “You might want to come in here!” It’s Big Frank again. “I think the little guy wants to say something.”

            Cavanaugh puts down his drink and heads to the bedroom. The rest of the group follows. A few seconds and the little space becomes very claustrophobic.

            “Just tell him, man.” Sure enough, it’s Stumpy. Crawford Ames. He’s dying to scratch himself, obviously coming off something.

            “We got some real role models here,” Frank says.

            “Just tell him!”

            Ames is desperate, shouting over Dirty Bra’s head, trying anything to make Ellis Ridge listen. Ridge is seething, face blotchy. He’s in the same state as his diminutive associate, just minutes behind on the race down. The woman is still unconscious from the kick to the head, just a placeholder between the two tweakers.

            Finally, Ridge decides to respond. “Shut your damn mouth. You don’t even know who you’re talking about.”

            “You said—”

            “I said keep that little trap shut.”

            Letterer pushes through the men and kneels in front of Ridge. This is her job, and until this case started, she was pretty damn good at it. “Tell me, Ridge. Just tell me what you know.”

            “Tell her,” Ames pleads. He looks like he laid down in fire ants.

            “Maybe we should get some water,” Cavanaugh says.

            Letterer holds up her hand. “No. They’ll be fine. C’mon, Ellis. I know you were warned I was coming. If you tell me who’s involved, I’ll forget about it. Do you think I care about some worthless drug dealer? I’m homicide. Tell me, I’ll do everything to cut you a deal. You may never see a day inside. You feel me?”

            Cavanaugh and the rest are standing over Letterer, giving each other wondering looks and furrowed eyebrows.

            “Screw you, Dyke.” He’s barely able to finish the insult. She smacks him across the face with her palm and backhands Ames as hard she can muster.

            “Okay,” she says, standing up. “But whatever you boys are on, we’re gonna leave you here, crying for a fix. I’m done getting fucked with. Better strap in.”

            “Please,” Ames cries.

            “Get strapped in, because after you’re done taking it here, it’s off to hell. Getting fucked will be your new occupations. I’ll find whatever prison they send you to and personally deliver a check to whichever guards need paying, just to make sure you’re still doing your jobs.”

            Cole takes a step back to let her out. Everybody’s intimidated. Not just Smelly and Stumpy. It’s hard to know if it was her vivid prognostication or the slap, but Ridge starts sputtering.

            “The dude. I don’t know his name,” he says, drooling blood onto his chest. “Only met him once.”

            “The cop?” she asks, standing sideways, like it’s going to take more for her to stick around.

            “Nah. Chapel’s just a message boy, small time. He’s around, you know. Takes a cut. Always been like that with him. He called me before you showed, but he’s taking orders.”

            “From the guy you met once?”

            “Bald dude, all scarred up. Hardly says anything, real hardass. It’s all Chapel’s fault. He tells me to meet this new connect while back, turns out I’m talking to this psycho about where to find Josh.”

            “Why didn’t he just ask Chapel to find Josh? This bald guy, I mean.”

            “He said he might need me for something later, just in case. Said he liked to degelate duties or some shit.”

            “Degelate huh?” Letterer looks at the others and rolls her eyes. “It’s delegate, you moron. And I don’t get it, why didn’t you tell him to screw?”

            “The guy doesn’t play. Said I could make a bunch of money, or I could get a bullet from Chapel. Let me think.”

            “What the hell man?” Ames asks, furiously rubbing his shoulder across his face. It’s clear he didn’t know anything other than, “There was a guy.”

            Letterer leaves the room and comes back with a bag full of their things. Wallets, keys, cell phones. She hadn’t gotten around to checking them. Stupid.

            Frank decides to weigh in while she fishes around. “So we’re supposed to believe you? Two minutes ago, you were ready to go to the grave.”

            “The lady made her case. And I need a fix.” Ridge takes a moment and leans back against the wall. “You think this dude’s gonna let me live, either way? I deal drugs, old man. So I’m a piece of shit, giving up Josh. But this other shit? Like I figured it was gonna be terrorism fucking central around here? I watch the news. If that crazy dude don’t kill me, I’ll be in Guantanamo getting my ass renditioned.”

            “You’re clearly a man of the world,” Frank says, stepping back.

            Letterer holds out a phone. “This is yours, right? Call Chapel. Tell him you got me, you haven’t called back because you had to get rid of the body.”

            “Wait a minute,” Cole says, putting a hand on Letterer’s shoulder. “Why not just go in and blow the whole thing open?”

            “Do you know who else is involved? Did the great murder-slash-bombing mystery just get solved? I walk in now, rat out Chapel, I might be dead before I leave the building.”

            “But—”

            “Cavanaugh. I know you want to get clear of this, as far as I’m concerned, you are. But if what Ridge says is true, we’ve got to figure a way to get out alive. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but the law is a secondary problem.”

            “Alright. Your call.” Cole says it immediately, maybe because he’s worn out, maybe he’s just bending to good sense. He walks out of the room and goes over everything again. Chapel sets Ridge up with this mystery man. Mystery man takes Josh. In that time, Della and Letterer are getting calls from Josh with information about the night of the “crash,” information obviously supplied by Chapel or somebody else he’s working with. Chapel could’ve blackmailed the information out of Story and Traiger or someone else that helped with the cover-up that night. Makes sense, kind of. But then the bomb. And then another bomb. That part doesn’t make as much sense. There’s one more thing. What was it? Damn it—oh yeah. Cavanaugh walks hurriedly back into the room as Ellis Ridge is finishing his call with Chapel. Letterer’s telling him that it was fine.

            “I sounded like a pussy.”

            “It’s exactly how you would’ve sounded after killing a cop. You are a pussy.”

            “Uh, Mr. Ridge?” Cole’s arms are crossed. He feels ridiculously unintimidating given the display put forth by the detective.

            “I need drugs.”

            “Fair enough. We’re going to get right on that, I assume. One thing though. When did you meet with the bald man?”

            “Dude. Days ago.”

            “I’m sure that’s correct. Do you recall hearing about the Will Carson murder?”

            “Who doesn’t? That was you, right?”

            “Pretend that doesn’t matter. Did you meet him before or after the murder?”

            Ridge has to think. He’s quickly beginning to catch up to Ames, shaking all over. “It was before. The day before. I told him about Josh’s place, when he was pulling shifts over at that dive.”

            “Thank you.”

            “Wait—so you didn’t kill that dude? Oh shit. It’s all that bald son of a bitch.”

            “Out of the mouth of babes.” Cole feels like it’s a good line to leave on. He needs a drink. Letterer and Jake follow him to the little kitchen area where he pours himself a tall one. Y’all want a taste?” Lee says please and Jake nods.

            “What’s next?” De Klerk asks. It’s hard to tell whether he’s excited or bored.

            “I think we need a break. Make a plan,” Letterer says. Her glass is shaking in her hand a bit. Common side effect of finding out one of your colleagues tried to have you whacked.

            “Tell you one thing,” Jake says, like he’s making conversation at the water cooler. “There’s a lot going on, I get it—but y’all need to have some words with Old Man Carson and Shifty Boobs.”

Chapter 22: The Next Thing, Then the Next

            “I understand, Detective Chapel. Just make sure that it’s been done correctly. These people… drug addicts are a sad sort.”

            “Of course.”

            “And please remember to hold to your own duties. Don’t lose your cool.”

            “You think I like this? You bringing the feds down on the situation doesn’t make anything easier.”

            “An inconvenient side effect. But they know nothing. So now we simplify. Take whatever pieces off the board we don’t like.”

            “So what’s the plan? Specifically?”

            “You’ll know when I know, Detective.”

            “I can’t decide if you’ve got it all figured or none of it.”

            “Just look at the results so far. Watch your partner. He seems a bit of a loose cannon. Watch the rest of investigation—we’ll be home free.”

            “There’s a lot of moving parts, here, pal.”

            “That’s why there’s you. I can’t be everywhere at once.”

            The line clicks and goes dead. Chapel’s in the parking lot of the station, pacing back and forth. Like every moment of every day since this whole thing started, he’s questioning his involvement in it. He walks around to the back of the building to seek some shade. Lights a cigarette with a shaky hand. Takes a pull from a flask full of cheap Canadian whisky. Dead people. Lying to his own. For a few moments, he laments that first time years ago, when he took money or looked the other way. It led to the next thing, then the next, and now, finally, this tenuous alliance with the bald man. He still doesn’t know his name. Doesn’t want to. The stress is wearing the old sleuth frail. He kind of liked Letterer, even though she brought out a lot of spite. He resented her being his boss. Resented being too old to have a shot with her, the fact that she had an alternative lifestyle. So he sold her out? He’d been dirty for years now. What was a little more dirt, especially if there was a big payout at the end of it all? You’re looking out for yourself. No one else will. Keep your head on a swivel, keep your cool.

            Nicholas Rhine was keeping his cool, trying to figure the next play to run. Like always, there was a rough outline. Things were a little more complicated now, he had to admit, staring through a high-powered lens at the luxurious new safe house lodging the Carsons. Eight federal agents were keeping tabs on the family, men and women much smarter than the ones Carson previously had in his employ.

            The ones he blew up.

            He squints at the sun and sets down the scope. It’s too great a challenge, dealing with the feds, but he has something in his back pocket for that. Literally. Nicholas calls the number of the cell he last left on Carson’s bound body. The man himself answers. He’s quiet and his voice trembles. “Give me a second.”

            “Take your time,” Nick says. “I assume the authorities advised you against any calls.”

            “I didn’t ask for this protection. You have to believe me.”

            “I do believe you. The government can be insistent, especially when it comes to protecting your ilk.”

            “When is this over?” Carson asks. “I can’t take much more.”

            “First thing. Tell them to leave.”

            “The FBI?”

            “Yes. Tell them you no longer desire their protection.”

            “And they’ll just leave? I don’t think it works like that.”

            “Are you a suspect in any crimes?”

            “No. I’m not a damn suspect.” Nick can tell Carson wants to scream but he’s having to whisper his outrage.

            “You are a private citizen, Mr. Carson. Famous, rich, seemingly in danger, it doesn’t matter. You have the right to be left alone. Tell them to leave you alone.”

            “And that’ll work?”

            “Do I need to remind you what I can leak? You’ll be a suspect in no time. Then I can guarantee they won’t leave.”

            “Fine.”

            “Good. Be quick about it. I’ll contact you shortly.”

            “Wait—”

            Rhine doesn’t wait. He’s in control. Careful as always, but increasingly confident. It’s hard to know what steps Carson is taking, if any. A few breaths. Be alert. You’re almost there. As he crawls from cover toward his vehicle, Nick’s mind takes him back. All the things that he’s done, the things done to him. He closes his eyes to reset. Not even 40-years-old. Hard to believe. Nick tries to think of the average person his age, to form a picture of normality. It doesn’t work. Just causes a dull ache in his head.

            About twenty miles away, still at De Klerk’s cabin, Cavanaugh is on the phone with his lawyer. She’s not being amenable. “Just give me the number, Michelle,” he says. It’s the third time asking and he’s beginning to lose his charm. It’s been a long day in a series of long days.

            “Again,” she says. “Not until you tell me why.” The volume of her voice is going up and down, like she’s busy doing something else, moving about her office. Imagining Michelle at her usual multitasking bit serves to further annoy Cole.

            “I’m paying you. Remember how this works?”

            “If clients advised their lawyers, there wouldn’t be lawyers. Remember how this works?”

            “The memory is starting to fade. My clients have all gone, if you recall.”

            “That’s what happens when they come in for a divorce and end up dead.”

            There’s an ongoing and intransigent verbal tug-of-war between Cavanaugh and Kress, but she knows she crossed the line. “Sorry. I’m stressed out. The feds are going to be looking for you. I can’t see what’s in front of us with this case. It’s not how things are done. All my rules are being broken.”

            “Break another one.”

            Michelle at last gives in and tells him the number. “Hope you know what you’re doing.”

            “I could tell you.”

            “I don’t know want to know,” Michelle says brusquely. “I’m sure it’s wrongheaded, positive it’s stupid, convinced it’s criminal. Screw it. Tell little Rosie I said hello.”

Chapter 23: Friends

            “I thought we were off to a better start.”

            “Please shut the door. Please, Aunt Alice.” Rosie is holding the swiped cell phone out with both hands, like an offering of atonement. Alice stands akimbo at the threshold, sweat on her brow, needing a nap. A lot of travel, a compound on the outskirts of a throwaway Texas town. Not what she’s used to. Not to mention the shouting match she just had with her parents. A decade and a half of no face time could create longing or enmity, depending on the situation. The forces of nature and the force of the Carson family personality mean enmity. They don’t know each other. Alice is playing catch-up, still trying to figure out why her brother is dead. Grant and Amelia are overwhelmed at the sight and sound of their daughter; somehow, they find a way to blame her for all the bad things that are happening, typically irrational, lashing-out type stuff. And then there’s Elise. No help at all. Just there, drained and sickly, withering away at the edge of every conversation.

            Alice rubs her eyes. “Why would you steal, Rosie? Is it a boy you have a crush on? You old enough?”

            “Yes. But no. I took it for a good reason. Now I’m giving it back. Please close the door. Please.” It’s as whiny a tone as the girl can muster. It’s not the same Aunt Alice that she met earlier, Rosie’s smart enough to glean. Obvious her famous relative has run that human gauntlet she’s been adeptly avoiding for the past few days. “How’s my mom?”

            “Well, you know…”

            “It’s okay to call her a freak.”

            “Been that way awhile now, huh?” Alice pulls a little wooden desk chair up square in front of her niece. She takes Rosie’s delicate hand and pulls the rest of her skinny body in for a hug. It’s a decision Alice makes in the moment. She’s not going to add to the weight on the kid’s shoulders. She’ll try to help if she’s able.

            “Before Dad died. Something changed. It made him change. Everything just sucked from then on.”

            “He called me,” Alice says. It shocks Rosie back to sitting on her bed.

            “Y’all talked?”

            “Not as much as we should’ve, but more than you probably know. Dad—your grandfather didn’t want Will speaking with the family disappointment. Think he kept it to himself, you know, not to rock the boat.”

            “How come you never tried?”

            “Tried? What? To kiss and make up? I tried a few times. This is before you came along. No use, I’m afraid. The moment the old man out there saw that wild streak in me, it was ordained. We’d never get along.”

            “I loved Dad. He was the best.”

            “He was. So quiet, some might never know. But a good soul.” Alice slows down her delivery with every word. Regret is wrangling her speech. She takes a minute and remembers what brought her to Rosie’s room. “So what’s with the phone?”

            “You can’t get mad. No matter what.”

            “That’s a tough request, kid. Considering you’re a confirmed thief, and all.” Alice gives one of Rosie’s puffy cheeks a mock punch, a little smile manifesting out one side of her mouth.

            “I needed to talk to Cole Cavanaugh.”

            “What? The guy? The lawyer?”

            “That’s why I took your phone. I thought he might have some answers.”

            Alice stands up stiffly, predictably starts pacing around the room, doing her best to fulfill the request not to get mad. She tempers her mind and voice the best she can. Like it’s one of her stupid reality shows and she wants to come off as reasonable. “Why?”

            “He didn’t do anything to my dad. And Grandpa knows. I heard him say it to Gram.”

            “How would he know? Did you ask?”

            “I was eavesdropping. And they want to send me away. And I can’t go to Mom.” Rosie’s eyes start to water. Tough seas for someone not used to navigating. “This is a crazy place.”

            “I won’t argue with that. Just not sure what talking to Cavanaugh’s supposed to accomplish.”

            “He didn’t hurt my dad, but that’s what they keep saying on TV. I can’t think of anyone else with a better reason to help me find out what happened.”

            Alice sits back down in the chair. Assuming the kid’s right about Cavanaugh, there is a certain logic in what she’s saying. “What about Elise—your mom? What’s she got to say about any of this?”

            “You’ve seen her.”

            Alice nods. “Yeah. I’ve seen her.”

            “I called Mr. Cavanaugh’s lawyer at first. She’s nice. He is too, in a way—he doesn’t know how to talk to kids, but luckily I’m not a normal kid.”

            “No. You’re certainly not.”

            “So what’s he got to say? Your friend, Mr. Cavanaugh.”

            “Not a lot right now. He says thanks and I’m brave and there’s something going on and that there’s somebody out there that’s very dangerous. Him and some people are working on it.”

            “That’s it?”

            “He told me to tell you that I was talking to him.”

            Alice raises a well-manicured eyebrow. “Why would he do that?”

            “Because I said you were the only person in the house that I could trust.”
            “After everything you’ve heard about me?”

            “I know I think you’re cool, and I don’t blame you for wanting to get away from all of this.”

            Alice is moved once more by the kid. It’s not something she can express because she never intended on feeling anything like it. Rosie’s no priest but it almost feels like absolution. It’s an occasion that calls for a gesture, grand or not. Something to mark the moment. She’s got nothing. Alice has tried to be real and attached to the ground as the world made itself crazy around her. “I’m trying to catch up here, Rose. The man suspected of murdering my brother asked you to basically go with your gut, trust the crazy tabloid-whore aunt that you’ve known for a total of one day?”

            “I know it’s sounds insa—”

            “No. I get it. We’ll figure it out. First, I’m needing another hug.” Aunt and niece embrace again. It’s quiet, and the shared blood and the shared space make the world a thing that can be dealt with. The quiet doesn’t last long.

            There’s a knock on the door. “Miss Rose? It’s Stan. Mr. Stanton. Can I come in for a second?”

            Rosie unlocks herself from her aunt. “Come in, Mr. Stanton.” Alice turns around in the chair to see a worn, honest face poking in the room.

            “Hey there, Miss Rose. Remember, call me Stan.”

            “Up for a game?”       

            “No. This isn’t about chess. We’re leaving. I came to say goodbye and good luck to you.”

            “Leaving? What do you mean?” Alice gets up quickly from her chair and pushes by Stan, heading out toward the landing. She looks down and sees men and women in a storm of official activity, gathering things, talking—like the man said, leaving. Rosie hears her aunt screaming questions down at the foyer while she asks questions of Stan.

            “Are we safe now?” the girl asks, crossing her arms.

            Stan is hesitant. “Your grandfather thinks so. And we can’t force you to stay here under our watch. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

            “You don’t seem sure,” Alice says, hotly reentering the room. Rosie was about to say the same thing.

            “One way or another. We’ve got our orders. I wish you the best of luck, Miss Rose. You’re a sharp kid.”

            “Bye, Stan,” Rosie says, shaking his meaty hand, wanting a little to play adult.

            “Yeah. Bye, Stan,” Alice repeats, this time with some sass. He turns red and looks at Rosie. She shrugs her shoulders and waves as he walks off, head down. Alice closes the door behind him. “We need to talk more. About what you and Cavanaugh said.”

            “What are you thinking?” Rosie asks.

            “I’m thinking un-circling the wagons is about the dumbest thing I could’ve imagined. I’m thinking your grandfather is up to something.”

            “You sure?”

            “He’s been keeping secrets. You said that.” Alice does some more pacing. She taps the phone against her chin and digs her bare feet into the recently-installed carpet. Rosie watches her and stays quiet. “His number still in here? Cavanaugh?” Alice asks, shaking the phone.

            “Last number called. It should go directly to him. If not, one of the people he has with him. His friends.”

            Friends. The word sticks to the walls of Alice’s brain. She’s got friends all over the world, the kind that are fun at parties, the ones that tell her how wonderful her dress is and her hair and that last magazine shoot and on and on. Rosie’s saying that Cavanaugh still has friends. The kind that don’t exit stage right even when you’re accused of murder and blowing shit up. She doesn’t need more Twitter followers. She needs friends like those. Alice presses down on the number without a solid plan, just hoping that it’s a step in the right direction.

Part Three

Chapter 24: Bully for You

            The next morning Cole Cavanaugh is up early. Sleep has been a battle. The three stolen drug addicts are worse than newborn babies, crying all night, needing their “medicine.” Detective Letterer and the rest of the crew crashed just after sundown, finding whatever piece of floor De Klerk’s cabin had to offer. It promises to be another busy day. He makes a list in his head. Avoid the feds. Make sure Letterer stays dead. Figure a way to finding the theoretical source of all their problems, the bald man with the scars. Cole wonders about the conversation he had the night before. It was surreal. Alice Carson-Petit. Either she’s a much-needed ally, or a really bad idea. Time will tell.

            He walks over a few bodies and turns on the little TV in the kitchen, looking for something other than booze to drink. The detective is the first to stir. She joins him in the kitchen, eyes still hazy from an uncomfortable night, surrounded by large, snoring men. “Big day,” she says, yawning.

            “Maybe,” Cavanaugh says, handing her a glass and motioning to the sink. “Water’s the best we’ve got, looks like.”

            “Fine,” she says, looking back at the television on the counter. “What’s this?”

            “What’s what?” Cole asks, giving up on finding anything edible in the fridge.

            “Look.”

            “What the shit?” he says, dropping a glass on the floor. It shatters, waking up the rest of the cabin. Cavanaugh jumps over rising heads and finds his cell phone. Only a few people have the number, but there’s ten missed calls and a slew of texts. Lots of exclamation marks and letters all in caps. He tries to read through the messages as he hurries back to the kitchen. De Klerk is the only one still sleeping. Cole trips over his big body and crumbles to the floor. Letterer yells at him to stop messing around. Bob and Frank are still trying to get their bearings through the chaos.

            “He’s dead,” the cop says.

            Cole manages to get back to his feet and find the dropped phone. “I saw. What are they reporting?”

            “Not much. The guy just keeps repeating it. GRANT CARSON FOUND DEAD EARLY THIS MORNING.”

            Cavanaugh makes his way back to the kitchen, beckoning everyone to get up. “Well, at least you know one thing.”

            “And that is?”

            “I didn’t kill him.” Cole sidles up next to Letterer, staring at the little screen.

            “This stinks. I mean what the hell?”

            “What is it?” It’s Jake.

            “Old Carson is dead,” Cavanaugh says.

            “Huh. That’s something.”

            “Thank you, Jake.”

            “Check your phone,” Letterer says, nudging Cole with her elbow.

            “Yeah.” He rubs his eyes. Scans through the texts. There are several from Michelle, basically telling him to get his ass up. The rest are from Alice Carson-Petit. They provide a basic narrative. Cole reads them out. “From last night. I’m going to ask Elise about the bald man. A few minutes later. She says she doesn’t know anything she didn’t know before, basically a repeat of what she told you at your house. Worthless. An hour later. Confronted my father. Asked him why he told the feds to go. Told him that I knew he was pushing the suspicion toward you even though he knew it was someone else. A little after that. It was ugly. My father said I was full of shit. Told me to leave in the morning, that I wasn’t welcome. One more, three hours later, middle of the night. He’s dead. My dad shot himself. Left a note. A confession. What have I done? What did you make me do?

            Lee snatches the phone from Cole as he finishes his reading. Everybody else is wearing quit and confusion on their faces. “This sucks ass,” Jake says, flailing about for the bottle he ended the night with. Cavanaugh has to agree. Looking around, he can’t help but feel somewhere south of desperate. They’re cooped up on the prairie, junkies in the other room, death and darkness around every corner. Not to be overly dramatic.

            “Cavanaugh,” Letterer says. She’s forced to repeat it for effect. “Cavanaugh!”

            He turns to her, still half inside a depression stupor. “Yeah?”

            “Your lawyer. Her guy inside the FBI says they’re likely to drop their investigation of you. You didn’t listen to the message?”

            “Carson died like nineteen seconds ago.”

            “The confession Alice Petit was referring to. Guess the old man wrote it out before he blew his head off—killed his son, those other people, apparently he was doing dirty deals, cooked financials. They found out, had him cornered. So he lashed out.”

            “Can we go home, now?” Jake asks.

            “Yes. No. I don’t know. Like the detective said, this stinks.”

            Big Frank says his first words of the morning. Apparently still talking. “We’ve got the junkies, that dirty cop to deal with. Detective Letterer is still in danger, however you look at it. Whether or not Carson killed himself, which—”

            “Which let’s be honest,” Cole interjects. “Kills his own son and a caravan of employees, then has a crisis of conscience? What about the bald guy?”

            “Way too many loose ends,” Letterer confers, pulling her uncombed hair back. “But bully for you, Cavanaugh.”

Chapter 25: Do You?

            Cole checks his texts. It’s another one from Michelle. This one says the investigation has been officially called off and something else about her bill. Cavanaugh rolls his eyes and tries to do the math. Considering the state of his practice and the permanent stain on his name, he may need to go on a payment plan.

            Eh. Have to put a pin in that one.

            Cole exits the car in front of the downtown police station. Big Frank and Bob are flanking him as he walks up the steps. It only takes a second for the camera crews and reporters to try to envelop him, but his two helpers provide enough cover to get him to the door unfettered. Cavanaugh’s in a new suit, just purchased and tailored by his guy Jerry down the street. No tie. Hair slicked back. He wants to come off like he owns whatever room he’s in—in other words, the guy from a couple weeks ago. The young sergeant at the front desk tries to ask him to sit down but he says he’s going in, “where all the police people are.”

            “No you’re not,” cries the sergeant, totally unprepared for the situation, still holding his lunch fork.

            “Okay,” Cole says. “I’ll just go back outside and tell the media about the police brutality and being wrongly accused. I can’t believe you hit me, by the way.”

            “I didn’t touch you.”

            “They don’t care. They like stories. Make your call.” Cole’s knows he pressing and being a dick to the sergeant but there’s not a lot of time.

            The standoff doesn’t last long. The door to the guts of the building opens and a few clerical-type workers come out. Cavanaugh catches it before it closes, all the while looking back for a response. Nothing. Kid’s overwhelmed.

            Cole turns and walks past rows of cubicles. He sees what looks like a young secretary over a cabinet in-between a row of desks. Nobody notices him or looks up. Why would they? It’s not like Cole frigging Cavanaugh’s going to come barnstorming into their place of work. He taps her shoulder. She’s mildly pretty, dressed modestly. Her attire makes sense, with all the horny cops in the vicinity. “Don’t freak out,” he whispers. Her mouth is agape. The guy from TV. The guy that murdered that guy for love. The guy that blew up those people, maybe. The guy that didn’t do any of that stuff. Cole frigging Cavanaugh. “Do you know Detective Horace?”

            “Horace?”

            “Ratty face, kinda short. Jerk.”

            “Yes,” the secretary says, still a bit overwhelmed. “He’s down at the end of the hall. Him and Detective Chapel share an office.”

            “Thanks so much. What’s your name?”

            “Erica.”

            “Lovely. Do me a favor and give me thirty seconds before you decide to tell everyone.”

            He walks off like assuming she’ll say “okay” is okay to assume. He’s past more rows and more desks, in front of the office window in about ten good strides. He gives the dirty glass a few smacks with his fist. “Hey assholes. Can I talk to Letterer?” The door opens sharply and the two investigators come striding out, standing in front of Cole side-by-side. “You’ve got some balls,” Horace says, teeth showing. They’re more crooked than Cole remembers.

            “Really should get some work done there,” Cole fires back, smiling. “Letterer?”

            “She’s not here,” Chapel says, holding a hand out in front of his partner. Horace appears ready to launch himself at Cavanaugh. There are murmurs starting in the background, people standing up. The scene has officially begun. Cole makes a note to remember Erica. Just about thirty seconds.

            “She didn’t check in last night or this morning,” Horace says, pushing against his partner’s hand. “You know something, don’t you, you bastard.”

            “Easy.”

            “Thanks Chapel. Anyway, just wanted to come by and say great being arrested and exonerated by you guys. Who would’ve thought, old Carson the whole time.”

            “We can’t talk about the—”

            “No I understand. Just wanted to say hey to you guys and Detective Letterer. Hope she turns up. Is it normal, her being absent?”

            “No, it’s not normal, douchebag.” There’s no end to Horace’s seething.

            Cole crosses his arms. Feels a crowd forming behind him. “Look, Horace, can we shake hands? I really want to apologize if I’ve upset you.”

            “Just leave.”

            Cole sticks a hand out. “Seriously. I want to go back out there and say that there is no ill will between me and the PD, peace and love, all that good stuff. Let’s bury the hatchet.”

            “Shake his damn hand,” Chapel says, giving Cavanaugh’s body language a more thorough look. “Do it, Horace.”

            The younger detective does as he’s bid, limply meeting Cole’s hand with his own. He starts to say something but Cavanaugh cuts him off, pulling Horace closer. “I really appreciate it. Very magnanimous of you.”

            A moment of true awkwardness follows. The irritable detective staring down Cole, Chapel trying to referee, the rest of the department looking on in suspicious wonder. “Okay then,” Cavanaugh blurts, crashing the silence. “Can I get a few guys to walk me out of here? Damn reporters, getting in the way of justice—as usual, am I right?”

            Moments later he’s standing at the backdoor, having just called Bob to drive around the building. He can’t help but think of the first night they dragged him in. He was way behind the game then. At least now it feels like he’s catching up.

            Their new rental screeches to a stop and Cole jumps in through the open door. Big Frank follows him into the back and Bob hits the gas like they just robbed a bank. They’re getting good at it. Practice and all.

            “What’d you think?” Frank asks.

            “I think Letterer’s right. We’ll find out.”

            “Did anyone notice the note?” Bob asks, taking an eye off the road for a second.

            “Don’t think so. Horace, of course. Ball is in his court. Chapel played it straight, same as he has from day one.”

            “He’s gotta be suspicious,” Frank says.

            “Most likely. But I’m thinking he’s not all that bright when it comes down to it.”

            “Let’s hope.”

            “Give it a minute. Dude’s probably calming down. You want to tell me now, Frank? The talking?”

            “Fine. You don’t quit.”

            “It’s only because I care.”

            “Had a client, rich guy, like you. Normal protection thing, but down in South America. Nothing’s quite normal down there. He used to talk my head off, whatever was on his mind. He was a young executive, full of piss—you know, money, girls. But a smart guy. I liked him. He’d ask me how I was and I’d answer, he’d ask me what I thought of the game or the girl that just walked by, just guys talking. Then one day he’s talking and I look over to answer, only he’s not there. His corporation wasn’t doing so hot, and some of the so-called investors decided to send a message to the board of directors. Never got a look at the shooter. Never got to answer the question. That’s for damn sure.”

            “What? Like a drug cartel hit?”

            “Yeah.”

            “It wouldn’t have mattered, Frank. Those guys tend to get their man.”

            “From your extensive experience?” Frank gives Cole a sideways look, like he regrets talking again and especially regrets talking about talking again.

            “I’m just saying. It probably wouldn’t have mattered.”

            “Probably. But from then on, I decided I only work on teams and I’m never the one doing the talking.”

            “Until now.”

            “Yeah. Fifteen years.”

            “Wow. Well, you talk pretty well, considering.”

            “It was just a job thing. Not that interesting.”

            “I though it was. So how did you and Bob meet?”

            “At a yard sale,” Bob says, adjusting the rearview.

            “That’s a story I can hear later,” Cole says. His phone is ringing. He answers it without thinking. For the briefest of moments, he’s just a human being listening to another human being. How dare he. “This is Cole,” he says, smiling at Frank.

            “What was that stunt back there?” It’s Horace. It sounds muffled, like he’s calling from a bathroom stall.

            “Hey, Detective,” Cavanaugh answers. Bob shoots another look in the mirror. Frank makes a motion with his hand. Cole assumes it means, “calm down.”

            “And this note,” Horace continues. “What’s this supposed to mean—Do you want to know the truth?”

            “Well,” Cavanaugh says, leaning back in the car seat. “Do you?”

Chapter 26: Tragedy, Widows and Rosie

            “I knew when you didn’t drop your surname...” Amelia Carson pushes Elise from an attempted embrace. “Come here, Alice.”

            It’s a dour scene. A few family friends hovering in that unhelpful helping manner, toting awkward, long faces. A few police officers bustle around the house, finishing up with their particulars. The four remaining family members are in a sitting room, behind mahogany sliding doors. It’s particularly strange because none of them are good with shock and none of them are good with each other. Amelia’s spurning of Elise and her sudden acceptance of Alice is reflexive and somewhat arbitrary. The brand new widow is jealous of the other new widow, opting instead for the comforts of Alice, the most experienced widow; Elise was the last person to see Grant Carson alive—she got there just in time to see him pull the trigger. It doesn’t seem right to Meelie.        

            Her daughter will have to do. Alice has been through this a few times—nothing this gruesome, of course.

            “And come here Rosie,” the matriarch says, tearfully. The little girl does as she’s told but hugs her mother on the way to the settee. The furniture is roughly filigreed and stiff on her bottom. Rosie doesn’t know where they get the décor for all their “new” houses; she wants to make a joke about the basement in Buckingham Palace, but decides silence and hugs are the best policy. She squeezes Gram as the doors slide open, someone else with a perfunctory offer to do this or that. Amelia waves the courtiers away and continues with arms around the part of the family she’s currently accepting. They are real blood, after all. Elise watches on, sinking into a high-backed chair just feet away. Amelia’s not done. “You never wanted to be apart of this family. Bennett-Carson. Grant never liked you. Neither did I. My boy was bewitched by you. My husband tolerated you. If I had my way—”

            “Mom,” Alice interjects. She gets it, but her mother is bringing it down pretty hard. Plus there’s her own guilt. The thing she doesn’t want to think about, let alone mention. “We know you’re upset, but this isn’t Elise’s fault.” Alice is no advocate of Rose’s mother, but she is Rose’s mother.

            “Upset?” Amelia cries, letting go of her daughter. “Go over there with her.” The old purebred finally breaks all the way down, removing her hand from Rosie. “All of you, over there. Or just get out!” Makeup is running everywhere. Rosie tries to go back in, but she’s rebuffed. Elise puts a hand on her daughter’s shoulder and nods at Alice in a way that says let’s give her some space. They walk out quietly, single-file, led by the youngest member of the family. Rosie helps her mom slide the doors closed behind, leaving Amelia alone to take out her anger on the furniture and God.

            “This is terrible,” Alice says, suddenly sympathetic to Elise.

            “Putting it lightly,” Elise sighs. She sets her hand on top of her daughter’s head and asks Alice if they all might get something from the kitchen.

            “Sounds good,” Alice says. “I could use some coffee.”
            The three of them walk through the long hallways and into the kitchen, where Elise pours three cups. “Thanks Mom.” Rosie’s glad to see her mother doing something, even something as simple as pouring drinks. Part of the girl thinks it might be shock. Her mom did actually see it happen. Nobody told her, but Rosie was eavesdropping when the police were asking their questions earlier. Spying was starting to become her thing. They sit at the counter drinking in silence while the remainder of the cops file past with bags and equipment. The last one out apologizes once more and tells them that the PD will have some cars posted around the property for a day or two, in case of crazies or overly-zealous reporters trying to get past the gate.

            Elise thanks the officer and walks him to the door. When she comes back into the kitchen, Alice and Rosie are staring down into their mugs.

            “I’m so sorry about your father, Alice. And Rose—my darling, you’ve lost so much. I won’t lie to you. You’re too smart to be lied to. We’ll… we will get through this, somehow. You are what matters. That’s all I’m trying to say.” Elise kisses her daughter’s hand and feels an affectionate squeeze from her former sister-in-law.

            “I think I’m starting to understand what it’s been like for you two. Weeks of hell, people you don’t know asking you questions, coming and going from these makeshift homes. Elise, I’m really sorry,” she says, giving her hand another quick squeeze. I’ve never known you, and maybe I never gave you much thought. Any of you. Me and my stupid life. I thought I was brave. Clearly not. I find myself barely able to stand up.”

            Rosie watches her aunt and mother hug for the first time. Though it’s only a fleeting moment, it’s far from insignificant. Learning what Grandpa did and seeing Gram completely lose it, she was starting to feel like there was no way back from the abyss. A simple moment of solidarity and solidity does a lot to ease the sinking feeling in her soul.

Elise smiles down at her daughter from behind Alice’s shoulder as they continue their embrace. Rosie says she’s going to go upstairs to change and brush her teeth. She gets a wink from her mom and slides along the floor in her socks. There’s an honest rush going through the little girl’s body. Of course she hasn’t forgotten about the massive everything that’s been raining down, but it feels like the woman in the kitchen is her mother. The real one. Why now isn’t a question that enters her mind. Rosie’s still a eleven-year-old in need of steady hands to guide her.         

            “She’s an amazing little force,” Alice says, wiping away tears as she and Elise unlock their bodies and arms. “Marvelous, what you and Wi—”

            “It’s okay,” Elise says.

            “No. I, just...” Of course Alice wants to finish her thought out loud, to say what a wonderful job Elise and her brother did bringing up their child. But Will is dead and buried. Apparently killed by the father they just wheeled away, though she’s still having a hard time getting her head around it. There’s too much wreckage to see a clear path toward conversation.

            “It’s okay,” Elise repeats. “Have some more coffee. I know what you’re thinking. Nothing appropriate that can be said. Might as well say what’s on your mind.”

            “You’ve got shit together better than me,” Alice says, sitting back down at the kitchen counter. She puts her elbows on the cold tile and feels a shiver up her back. The temperature in the house is dropping due to the lack of bodies buzzing around. “I just don’t understand. My father was many things, but it’s hard to swallow, all of this.”

            “Of course.”

            “Don’t you think it’s weird?”

            “Afraid you’ll have to be more specific,” Elise says. It makes Alice go red in the face.

            “That the cops are so sure.”

            “Sure?”

            “They basically ruled it a suicide the second they got here—you know what, I don’t need to bring this up. It’s just—nah.” The prodigal Carson is trying to ride a microscopic line of honesty and decency. She wants to think that she’s better than a normal person having straightforward denial, but apparently there’s no running from it. It’s clouding who she is, making her retreat when forward is the only way. Go on, then. Say what you need to say, Alice. “But still. It’s too quick, right? Something this high-profile, you’d think there’d be more of an inquiry.”

            “We all heard the shot,” Elise says, letting her head drop. “Jesus, I saw it. Can’t believe you didn’t.” Every bit of her body language says are you really bringing this up again? “You were right behind me.”

            “I know,” Alice answers. “I came down because of the screaming.”

            “So did I. So did my mother. And before we could figure it out, the shot went off. There’s nothing we could’ve done.”

            “Who screams before they commit suicide?”

            “Did you ask the cops?”

            “I did.” Alice bangs a fist on the counter. She doesn’t like the imperious way Elise is starting to look at her. “They said it wasn’t out of the ordinary. That the kind of people that blow their brains out aren’t exactly predictable in the seconds leading up to it.”

            “They told me the same thing, Alice.” Elise turns on the tap and runs some water on her face. “They told me the same damn thing after I asked the same damn question. I’m not an idiot, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

            “Of course not.”

            “Don’t just say ‘of course not.’ I’m not the foil on one of your vacuous TV shows. This is real. Unpredictable. If you haven’t noticed.”

            “I’m upset and asking questions,” Alice fires back, standing up straight. She’s still shorter than Elise, but it helps ease the feeling that she’s being treated like a child.

            They’re staring daggers at each other when Rosie walks back, face fresh, asking if they can go outside. “See if one of Gram’s friends will walk out in the back with you,” Elise says, still boring holes through Alice.

            “What just happened?” Rosie asks. She’s not going anywhere. Two minutes and this breaks out.

            “Leave a second, Rosie.” Alice doesn’t mean for it to sound like an order. She pulls back a little. “It’s probably a good idea, don’t you think?”

            “What just happened?!” The girl is justifiably intemperate. One brief up. So many downs. Her eyes start to water from a mixture of sadness and rage. “What?!”

            “Rosie, I’m your mother. You need to leave.”

            “Listen to her, kiddo.”

            “More bullshit.”

            Alice tries to cover half of a laugh. Elise looks like she’s going walk over and give her a throttling. “You know what? Stay.”

            “I will.” Rosie crosses her arms and leans against the refrigerator.

            “Good. Because I was about to ask Aunt Alice what she did to upset Grandpa.”

            “I asked him how he knew Cavanaugh wasn’t Will’s killer.” Alice’s answer is as flat and straightforward as she can manage. The cold she was feeling is starting to turn to sweat. It’s the thing she didn’t want to talk about, at least not now. The kid standing right there. Mother in the other room, crying into pillows. But maybe now is the time. She looks up at the ceiling and puts her hands on her hips.

            “What did he say?”

            “Nothing. He was evasive. Upset… he was goddamned upset, Elise.”

            “I don’t blame him. This is after you interrogated me, I’m assuming?”

            “Well—you weren’t making any sense. Just trying to get some answers.”

            The washed-out coffee mug is the closest thing to Elise’s hand. She picks it up and throws it to her side against a pantry door. It’s the opposite end of the kitchen from Alice and Rosie, but the shattering pieces send a sharp scare through both of them.

            “You show up and start demanding answers. Perfect.”

            Alice is at a loss. Still reeling from the mug thing. “I—”

            “I don’t care. You can’t just waltz back into this family and expect to understand anything. You asked him about the bald man, how he or I knew so much. Don’t you get it? I didn’t know. I had my suspicions. What do you think the first thing I did was? After Will was killed?”

            “Can only assume—”

            “I asked Grant the same questions you asked him. Only I wasn’t working as a messenger for Cole Cavanaugh and a little girl.”

            Alice steps back near Rosie and the fridge. She’s on the way to full out embarrassment, but still needing to understand a few things. “That’s why you went to Cavanaugh’s house that night. You confronted my father about the exact thing—the man from your past.”

            “Of course I did. Who else would want to harm Will?” Elise’s eyes are becoming blurry with tears. “But it was a fool’s errand. And Cole was a dead end. I’ve been stuck with no answers, trying to keep it together.” Elise finally bursts out in tears. “No answers. The fucking answer was down the hall from me. Your sick fucking father.”

            Alice can’t help but be moved off the field by the bleak picture painted by Elise. In a breath’s time her own impetuousness becomes obvious. “I pushed him,” Alice says. The words barely drip out of her mouth. “Like the final straw. I pushed him, and he went in there and killed himself.”

            It’s all creepy and silent for a few moments. Rosie hears the faucet dripping every two seconds or so. Alice is tuned in to the air conditioning coming through the vents. Anything to avoid any piece of the heaviness.

            Elise wills herself to rescue the situation, as far as it can be. She knows that blaming her former sister-in-law casts the same charge on her own child. That’s not her intention, at all. Alice and Rosie were obviously doing a little nosing around behind her back, but she could hardly expect otherwise. For her it’s been hiding away, all blankets and corners and pondering the perils of living for the last several weeks. “Come here, darling,” she says, walking around the counter toward her daughter. She bends down to hug Rosie and puts an apologetic hand out at Alice. “I’m sorry. No one should talk like that, no matter what. It’s just—it doesn’t matter what you asked him. What I asked him.” Elise brushes some of her daughter’s hair aside and looks deep into her big, honest eyes. “You’ve been acting like an adult, Rosie. Can you handle one more adult thing? God, I’m so sorry.”

            “Yes, Mom.”

            “We asked Grandpa to tell us the truth. He lied. Did terrible, awful things. Lied some more. Screaming at each other is the last thing we should be doing. I love you, kiddo. Alice, I was wrong. I didn’t mean to lash out.”

            “No. Like you said, there’s no such thing as appropriate at a time like this.” The three of them hold each other tight and decide to go their separate ways for a few moments. Elise says she needs a shower. Rosie still wants to break free and be outside. Run off some nervous energy. Alice feels it’s best to go back and check on her mother. She’s feeling better and worse. It’s good that her and Elise laid it all out, but there are a few things that aren’t adding up. Best to let them keep. But not for too long.

            Her eyes are rolled back to the whites as she plods back to her mother. It’s instinct walking her there. Alice has tried to listen to her instincts all her life. They got her the hell out of dodge all those years ago. Got her a career of her own, say what you will, a career that means she’ll never have to answer to anybody. Got her back here, in and amongst this mess.

            Instinct’s also got her thinking the story isn’t over.

Chapter 27: Safe Like That

            Their evidence is scant, but it’s what they’ve got. Lee Letterer has her hair pulled back tight, ready for action. She slaps Cole on the arm and tells him to get ready. He’s texting his sister. Della’s asking why he won’t meet back with the family. It’s a fair enough inquiry, considering he’s out from under. She keeps nagging him about what happened at the apartment she sent them to. Asking about Crawford Ames. Not exactly something he can get into. He texts back that he’s fine and he’ll call soon. Even adds an I love you kid and means it.

            “Yeah, I don’t see anybody following him.” The sharp nasal tone of the voice flips a switch on in Cavanaugh. It’s DeKlerk coming through on a walkie. He puts the phone away and looks to his left. Letterer’s behind the wheel of a panel van Jake procured from one of his family’s companies. They’re in two vehicles, set up on either end of a large shopping center parking lot. It’s four hours past closing and there isn’t a soul around. It’s on the southwest side of town, far enough from the police station downtown to follow Horace and get a sense that he’s playing it straight. The deal was to meet alone. Letterer called Horace shortly after Cavanaugh pulled his little maneuver at the station. She told him she was alive but just barely. He asked what the hell was going on. She told him he had two choices: meet with her or wind up dead at the hands of a dirty cop. She followed it up by playing Ridge’s confessional about Chapel from back at the cabin. Until the player was out, Cole had no idea she’d even recorded the thing. It’s a good thing she did; the tape was what brought Horace to the table.

            Cavanaugh is still questioning the plan as they watch the irritable detective walking toward the van. He’s got Big Frank and Bob on either side of him. Jake’s looking out for any “suspicious activity,” though Jake has zero experience in surveillance or counter-surveillance. They’re working with what they’ve got. Letterer’s got one hand on the wheel and one on her pistol, just in case Cavanaugh’s doubts have merit.

            Jake checks in again on the walkie. Says it’s still clear. He’s doing his lookout thing about a quarter mile away on the other side of the lot. Horace is getting close. There’s a big light post every fifty yards or so and his teeth are starting to give off a visible reflection. He skulks toward them and bends over to see through the window. It’s obvious he drops some of his defense when he spies Letterer’s face. “Hey Detective,” he says, sounding genuinely happy to see her. “Seriously, what’s with the cloak and dagger?” His face turns sour when he sees Cole sitting in the passenger’s seat. “And why hang around these losers?”

            Cole looks forward and holds out a middle finger as Frank and Bob open up the sliding door to the back.

            “Did you tell anybody you were coming? Anyone?” Letterer’s questions are rapid-fire.

            “No. I did just what you said. You have my word. Nice look, by the way.” Horace is used to seeing his boss in pantsuits. Her tight jeans and band t-shirt combo are a welcome change for the subordinate. Cole sees him smile embarrassingly and look down. It’s almost endearing.

            “Ready?” Letterer says, brushing past the previous comment.

            “I don’t like it, but what the hell.” Lee nods him toward the back. She’s impatient. Cole taps her on the shoulder as a kind of affirmation. She lets out a breath of relief but can’t even finish exhaling. It seems like ten things at once. The radio starts cracking with broken messages from Jake. Horace drops like he found a sinkhole in the middle of the parking lot. Bob’s swearing. A lot. So is Frank. They’re yelling at Lee, telling her to go. They slam the door shut. Two bullets pierce the windshield of the van. Everyone ducks down. Two more shots, one through the side near the roof, the other near the front fender. The high velocity lead hitting aluminum is shockingly loud.

            Letterer’s yanking the transmission into drive, asking if they grabbed Horace.       

            Bob yells “we got him!”

            Frank yells “drive!”

            More shots. She finally pulls the van into gear and wheels the vehicle sharply to the right.

            “Seriously. Some asshole’s shootin’ at my shit!” It’s Jake on the radio. Cole is still ducking down too far to see DeKlerk at the other end.

            “Jake, get low and move. Follow us.”

            “Think it’s coming from across the street. On top of that tire mart.”

            “That’s why we’re going the other way. Move dammit. Jake, you hear me? Move.”

            Cole doesn’t hear from Jake for a few seconds. It’s enough to make him worry. He pops his head up and sees his friend following close behind in the other van. He sighs gratefully and buries his face back into the seat upholstery. Letterer drives behind a row of shopping center buildings toward a service road that leads back to the highway. The shots stop but the noise doesn’t. Cavanaugh jumps in the back to assist Bob and Big Frank. They’re both tearing off pieces of clothing, trying desperately to stem the tide of blood coming out of Detective Horace. He’s carrying a gory wound somewhere in his midsection, laying on his back. There’s a geyser of red pouring and sputtering out of his mouth, but he’s trying to say something.

            “Turn him on his side,” Frank says, feeling around for the bullet. His fingers probe through cartilage and gelatinous chaos. “Shit, I think it hit a lung. Might’ve broken against one of his ribs.”

            “Keep trying!” Cavanaugh screams. Letterer slows down a little. Cole can hear her blasting away to Jake in the walkie but it’s in the background and registers just above his subconscious level. What’s before him is all too visceral, on the other hand.

            “I can’t find it,” Frank says, still digging. Horace’s body is beginning to convulse as if he’s attached to jumper cables. “I can’t—”

            “Do something,” Cole pleads, shifting his eyes up at Bob and Frank. They’re still trying in vain to stop the bleeding, fighting a lost battle in earnest. Cavanaugh rips at his own shirt sleeve and pulls off a fragment to wipe the blood from Horace’s mouth.

            “I—didn’t. Know. For sure.” Every syllable is a contest for Horace. Cole has his ear right around the dying detective’s mouth. Each word costs Cole a new face full of carnage. He’s doing his best, faking, really. For all Cavanaugh’s been through, chance or fate has kept him away from the sight of such a thing. He grips Horace’s hand and leans down one more time. “Notes. He doesn’t know about the knife.”

            It’s all Horace has. Cavanaugh wipes the blood one more time and stops, frozen over the body. It’s quiet for a few seconds. All’s quiet. No more shooting. They aren’t even moving. Cole is aware and he’s not. He can’t stop staring down at the mess. The metal floor is wet with one bodily fluid or another. Everyone’s knees are in it, their hands, their arms. Bob whispers out a regretful son of a bitch; it’s about the only sentiment anyone has at the moment.

            Cole watches transfixed as the blood drips from his fingers and onto the corpse that was Horace only seconds ago. The lawyer is utterly out of place. The situation in all its fullness finally hits him. He starts laughing. It’s something worse than strange for everyone else in the vehicle.

            “Boss.” It’s Bob, trying politely to rescue everyone from the weirdness.

            “Cavanaugh.” It’s Frank. He’s not so polite. Looks like he’s about to punch Cole through the side of the van.

            “Cole!” It’s Letterer. She has her feelings as well, but now is not the time to breakdown.

            “That was it,” Cavanaugh says, leaning back against the side of the van opposite Bob and Frank. “He was the key. Without him, how do we make a case? He was going to help us trace the thing from Chapel to whoever else is involved, to the Bald Man, right up everyone’s ass.” He laughs again. This time there’s a little bit of crying in it. “I don’t know, Lee. Think this poor dead bastard here was the only one that had the goods. I got him killed.”

            “No you didn’t, Mr. C.”

            Cavanaugh waves a fledgling arm at his driver. “Thanks Bob. You’re a good man. The way you’re nice to me, polite, tolerating the unending stream of bullshit that comes out of my mouth.”

            “I mean it.”

            Letterer’s had enough. “Just stop. Would you listen?” She has the walkie in her hand—looks ready to hurl it at the bridge of Cavanaugh’s nose. Instead she adjusts her neck and presses the transmit button. “Come in, Jake.”

            “Yes ma’am.”

            “Still got him?”

            “Sure. This dude’s not moving for a bit.”

            Cole’s about to ask what the hell they are talking about when Letterer cuts him off. “While you were back there crying, your boy decided to save the day.”

            “My boy?”

            “DeKlerk. He ran down the shooter. Says it’s a cop.”

            “He was just behind us.”

            “I thought so too, but my head was down, trying to drive, trying to see if Horace was going to pull through.”

            “But that’s crazy. He could’ve gotten killed.”

            “Let’s just go ask the man,” Letterer says, snapping the van back into drive. They circle around an abandoned fast food parking lot and head toward Jake. The roads are level but Lee’s turns are sharp and abrupt, forcing Cole to hold onto Horace’s still draining body. He shakes his head as the dead man’s limbs slide around on the wet metal. “Dammit,” Cole says, grasping bloody clothes. He hopes Letterer feels the heat of his words directed at her. He’s sure Bob and Frank did. What’s wrong these people? Cavanaugh wants to see sullen faces, some indicator that life means something to his companions. He slams his fist into a side panel, but nobody responds. Bob and Frank are whispering something under the sound of the road and the engine, checking weapons, cleaning blood off their hands.

            “There he is,” Letterer says. Cole moves back into the passenger seat and sees Jake. His friend is standing proud next to the tire store. A cast-iron ladder is hanging off the side of the building behind him in the background.

            “Got him in the back,” DeKlerk says, opening up the sliding door. Lee and Bob poke their heads in to confirm who it is. “Other policeman, like I said.”

            Cavanaugh doesn’t want to get out. He’s still shaking, listening with the window down. Big Frank stays with Cole. He asks the lawyer if he’s going to be alright, tells him that it’s normal to feel guilty, normal to feel sick. Whatever or however Cavanaugh is feeling, Frank assures him that it’s completely okay. It will wear off.

            At the same time, Jake is giving Detective Letterer and Bob a characteristically abridged rundown.

            “Why did you turn around?” Lee asks.

            “It was only the one guy shooting. That I could see.”

            “So then what?” Bob asks.

            “Y’all were wobbling all over the place, but once we got near that feeder road I saw the guy climbing down the ladder in the rearview. It’s gotta be three or four stories. Turned around, drove right into the bottom of the ladder, guy went flying.”

            “He hurt bad?” Letterer asks.

            “He was groggy. Maybe he was heading back for the roof, made the fall a little harder.” Jake spits out a buildup of tobacco juice. “When he came to, I gave him a kick in the teeth. I don’t know. You check him out.”

            Cole can’t hear DeKlerk’s summary. Frank won’t stop saying things are normal. Finally he hops out of the van. “What’s the situation?” he asks.

            “Chapel’s back there. Looks like he was the only one around,” Letterer says.

            Bob looks into Jake’s van one more time to make sure Chapel’s still unconscious. “We better get out of here.”

            “Let’s go,” Cole says. He heads toward the passenger side of Jake’s van. No way he’s going near that body or Frank’s attempts to ease his conscience, at least for a while.

            “Back to the cabin?” DeKlerk asks. He’s looking around, willing to take a sensible response from anyone.

            “I don’t want to go back there,” Cole says. What about your place, Jake? Your real place?”

            “Dude. Dead people. Crooked cops.” He fishes out the snuff from his lower lip and scatters it on the concrete. “C’mon.”

            “It’s a fortress. And you’ve got security.”

            “Yeah. But all the cameras.”

            “You own the security. And the cameras. Don’t act like I don’t remember sneaking those girls into the guest house for you.”

            “Oh yeah,” Jake laughs.

            “Morons,” Letterer declares/says. It’s hard to tell if she’s trying to get their attention or making a simple statement of fact.

            “My house,” Jake says, jumping back in the van. “I’ll follow close behind. Looks like the ladder took out one of my headlights. Don’t want to get pulled over.”

            “Perfect,” Lee says, hopping in the back with Chapel. She yells at Bob to lead the way after Jake yells out the address to the driver. “At least our lead car looks good on the outside. Never mind the dead guy on the inside. And the bullet holes.” She slides the door closed and sits down on the floor next to Chapel. Jake turns on the ignition and pulls out of the tire store parking lot behind Bob.

            “Thought you didn’t care about the dead guy. Didn’t seem to rile you a few minutes ago,” Cole says, not bothering to turn around in the passenger seat.

            “There was lot going on. Don’t make me apologize for trying to keep the rest of us alive. Numb-nuts up there got incredibly lucky. Sometimes there’s a fine line between brave and stupid. He was just plain stupid.”

            “C’mon, Detective,” Jake says, hands at ten and two.

            “That’s my diagnoses,” she whispers, kneeling over Chapel. She didn’t think he had the skills to avoid being detected from the downtown station. Really didn’t think the old guy was the type to go around playing sniper. She knows he was in the military, but that’s about it. Maybe he was some kind of a badass; this was him trying to relive the glory days. They’d find out soon enough. She needed to. Cavanaugh was wrong. This wasn’t his fault. She was the professional. She was the one that got Horace killed.

            There’s a few minutes of silence. Letterer checks Chapel’s breathing. It’s slow but fine. Nothing a dunk in a cold tub or some smelling salts can’t remedy. DeKlerk makes a call to his main security guy, tells him and the rest of the staff to take the night off, with pay. They’re only minutes away. Cole looks back and nods for Lee’s attention. “Sorry about going off the rails.”

            “No. It went all wrong. We didn’t see it coming. Obviously, neither did Horace.”

            Cavanaugh slips back through the wide console and kneels on the other side of the sleeping detective. “Holy shit, I almost forgot.”

            “What’s that mean?”

            “The last thing he said—you know. Horace sputtered something about notes and that ‘he doesn’t know about the knife.’”

            “We’ll check Horace’s pockets before we talk this asshole up,” Letterer says.

            “How do you know? Maybe he was pointing us to Chapel’s notes.”

            “Maybe. But he didn’t know we were going to have Chapel just a few minutes later. Most likely he was talking about his own notes.”

            “That’s why you’re the cop.”

            “Yeah,” she says. “Things are working out. Looking back I think career day went really well, all things considered.”

            Jake is listening from the driver’s seat. “Think maybe you should visit your counselor and give him a pistol whip.”

            It’s enough to draw out a tiny laugh from Cole. He hears Jake chuckling a bit from the front. Letterer smiles for a fleeting moment but she can’t let herself fully disengage. “Hey,” Cavanaugh says. “We’re getting close.”

            “Quite a change of attitude from five minutes ago.”

            “Oh that was a just a show.” He lets out an exhausted grin, puts up his hands, still covered with blood. “I do this kind of thing all the time.”

            “Divorce law that messy?” she asks.

            “Shit yeah. You been around the last few weeks? I’m going into defending murderers. Something safe and wholesome like that.”

Chapter 28: Nightmares

            Della hasn’t relapsed since the talk with her brother days ago. She would say that it was quite an accomplishment, if anyone cared to ask her opinion. Only no one’s asking. Her parents’ inquiries are thus: whether or not she’s had enough to eat or if there’s anything they can do for her. Yes Mom. Thanks but no thanks Dad. I’ll be in my room in case you want to know what I’m thinking.

            That last line she leaves out.

            She looks at her phone. Four calls to Little Big today. A slew of texts. He’s not much for responding. Either he’s really busy or he’s out celebrating the fact that the authorities don’t want to string him up by the short hairs. What was his last response? Love you kid. Don’t tell me you love me. If you loved me you would answer when I ask if you found Crawford Ames. Della sits on the floor, back against her bed. Finds Big Big on her phone’s screen and presses down to call out. After three rings, Craig answers. He’s blue-collar groggy and disoriented. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

            “Have you heard from Cole?”

            “Della. What’s going on? It’s after midnight.” Brooke stirs in the bed next to him. He tells her to go back to sleep.

            “Nothing’s going on. And it’s the nothing that worries me.”

            “Today was a good day. Let’s just leave it. Cole will be fine.”

            Della’s too sharp and too irritable to be condescended to with this heavy a hand. “You know what, go back to sleep.” She hangs up, talking to herself, rubbing the muscles around her surgically repaired hip. “That’s enough,” she mumbles, rising up quickly, attempting to beat reality into submission with sheer will. It works long enough for her to grab the cane hanging on the door handle.

            Rhetorical questions bounce around the walls of Della’s brain as she grabs the keys off the kitchen counter and hobbles out the front door. Her mom’s car is sitting there for the taking; might as well take it. She negotiates her body into the driver’s seat and comes to a rest with a grunt of pain. The questions continue to bounce, boxing out any space for her to question the wisdom of her actions. Nobody thinks it’s weird that the guy who called me is the guy that blew up the Carson building? That I used to run around with? No one thinks it’s a little strange that I’m also the sister of the man who until ten hours ago was one of the main suspects in this hairy affair?

            She turns the key. After a few spits and coughs, the old engine turns over. Mom’s car is a mid-nineties sedan that smells like church and dust. Della wrestles her cane over to the passenger side so she can work the peddles. She hasn’t driven since she could, and that was a long time ago. It never enters her mind. Just more questions, still rhetorical. You think I’m just gonna sit here in my room? Does it is really seem wise to keep me out of the loop?

            If Cole wants to keep her out of the loop, she’ll find a way to put herself back in. She reverses down the steep driveway, mind set on finding Crawford Ames.

            At about the time of Della’s embarkation, Crawford Ames is being led by Big Frank to the bathroom back at Jake’s cabin. Frank pulled the short straw. As soon as they parked the vans at the DeKlerk Estate, he was off to check on their pet junkies. “Just make it quick,” he says, pointing his pistol at their zombie-like captive. Frank keeps the door cracked just to keep Ames honest. You know, in case the moron junkie decides to turn into MacGyver in the next few seconds.

            “I’m gonna need more.” Frank rolls his eyes at the demand.

            “You’ll get more. Just finish your business.”

            “Don’t play me, man,” Ames whimpers, trying his best to hit the toilet.

            “You’ll get it!” Frank yells, punching the flimsy door wide open. Ames turns but continues to pee, splashing urine at his captor’s boots. There’s no malice in Ames’ actions—he’s a guy in need of drugs. Drugs that Frank and his comrades are continuing to supply to keep the status quo-ing. Somehow the whole thing seems less dignified than just shooting the three of them in their heads. He closes the door and closes his eyes, imagining the conversation he’s going to have with Cavanaugh about his salary. The one where he informs his employer that his price just went up.

            Della Cavanaugh pulls up into an ill-lit parking lot after a touchy fifteen minute drive. Her mom’s beater is forced to an abrupt landing as the front tires connect with a concrete parking stop. She manipulates herself clumsily, slapping her cane across the steering wheel and door. Ahead is a weathered wood-framed building, set back about thirty yards from the road. The three Harley’s outside and the loud music blasting from inside signal biker bar, but she’s not afraid. Della’s been there more times than she knows—literally. The bull-faced man at the door shakes his head and crosses his arms in disbelief. “What the hell brings you here?”

            “Do you watch the news?”

            “Do I watch the news...” he says, laughing, sitting on a wooden stool that looks like it’s begging to collapse to its own death. He’s over three-hundred pounds of beer weight and jail muscle. A mountain named Coop. She’s known him for years. He’s affable enough, considering the scene, just not too bright.

            “So you don’t.”

            “Does that hurt?” he asks, watching her step crookedly into the light.

            “Feels great, Coop. Have you seen Crawford? Any of the people he and Josh used to run with?”

            “Man, I haven’t seen you since way before. I heard it was bad for you. But you’re feeling better, I’m guessing?”

            Eh. One track mind. “I’m not here for any of that. Can you answer my question, Coop? It’s kind of hard standing up like this.”

            “Oh. Sorry, Della. Just it’s been a long time. No, Ames has been a no-show for work, kind of like Josh was. Wait. Think he’s dead too?”

            “Not sure what I think, big guy.”

            “You want to go inside?”

            “That’s okay. But thanks.” She puts a hand on Coop’s meaty arm to steady herself a moment. “Any ideas about Crawford?”

            “I’m not sure.” It’s obvious to Della or anyone with half a brain that he’s telling tales. Coop’s a sweet guy as far as drug-dealing bikers go, but a criminal mastermind he is not.

            “C’mon. It’s me.”

            The big man looks left and right and leans his head in close. “That crazy bastard Ridge and him were staying together.”

            “Still over at Ames’ place?”

            “That’s what I heard,” Coop says.

            “Ridge inside?” she asks, nodding toward the bar.

            “Nope. Haven’t seen him either. Not for a day or two.”

            Della needs to think. She asks Coop if she can sit on his lap as a reprieve for her hip and leg. Tells him no funny business. He puts his hands up and she takes her spot like Christmastime at the mall and she’s a tyke again. “It makes sense for them to lay low, after the Josh thing.”

            “That’s what the G said.”

            “G? He still the owner in there?”

            “Yeah. He jumped all over me before that cop showed up. Week or two ago. Said to keep my mouth shut no matter what.”

            “What cop?”

            “Some old guy.”

            “Name?”

            “I can’t remember. He asked me the same things you’re asking—wait a sec...”

            Della hops up and turns to face Coop. He’s looking down at the gravel like a dog that knows he’s in for it.

            “Why does G care? What else did the cop ask?” Della has a hand on each of Coop’s shoulders, shaking him to no effect.

            “I don’t know. I just work here. I just work here. I think I’m in trouble.”

            “You’re not in trouble, buddy. Just help me ou—”

            Before Della can finish her plea, Coop’s enormous head explodes in front of her. He falls to the side, out of her arms. There’s isn’t time to scream or process. When she starts to figure out that he’s been shot, a gloved hand is around her mouth and she’s being carried away from the bar. There’s no way to tell who’s doing the grabbing, but it’s somebody with an arm like a vise. Her legs are a foot off the ground, flailing helplessly. They stop in front of her mother’s car. She feels a hand dig inside the pocket of her baggy shorts, feels a rubbing around her damaged thigh. Terror sends a cry out against the glove, but it does nothing; just allows her to taste bits of Coop’s blood and brain.

            The keys are out. Her mom’s trunk is open. She’s forced in—her wild attempts at fighting are completely ineffectual. Before the door closes, a rag is roughly wrapped around her mouth. She’s able to get a moment’s look at her attacker. Something gruesome, bald and scary. The trunk slams closed. A minute of kicking goes by and she hears the car start. A minute of useless thrashing and she’s on the move. No idea where to. No idea who with. Her side is burning. She wants to vomit Coop’s blood but can’t. The suspension bounces her in the little room she has. It’s a child’s nightmare. Trapped in dark box by a half-seen monster. Della’s been through some real-life nightmares—at least, that’s what she always thought.

Chapter 29: Here’s How I See It

            “You tried to have me killed. Horace is dead.”

            “Oh give me a break. You’re sitting right there. And Horace was a joke.”

            The back and forth between Chapel and Letterer isn’t getting them anywhere. Cole’s trying to hold to the periphery, trying not to insert himself. It’s a calculation. Looking for any tells that Chapel might be giving away while staying out of the hand. Only this isn’t a game. Comfortable as Jake’s estate is, they can’t keep the crooked cop tied up there forever. He’s a cop. And there’s the other guy, the one he’s working for.

            “Gotcha,” Bob says, hanging up his phone, coming to a stop next to Cavanaugh. “That was Frank. He’s on the way back. Says our narcotic-dependent kids are down for the night. He sounds pissed. Says you owe him new shoes.”

            “Yeah, ok.” Cole doesn’t have much to say about it. He’s too busy thinking about the next thing. They’re standing about twenty feet away in a windowless room Jake had specially designed for watching movies. DeKlerk thought the soundproofing made it a good idea for a place to chat. They all agreed, but Cole insisted against “enhanced interrogation.” Letterer seemed to ignore him. Bob shrugged his shoulders.

            The room is slanted downward, like a regular theater, just smaller. Lee’s asking her questions to Chapel in front of the screen, where the floor is hard and flat. The detective’s on his knees, hands tied behind his back. He can hardly hold himself up, probably nursing a few broken ribs from his run-in with Jake’s van. It’s clear he’s favoring one side, using a lot of extra effort for respiration.

            “You look ridiculous, by the way,” Letterer says. She’s sitting in a folding chair directly in front of Chapel. “What’d you do, steal someone’s tactical gear? Black’s not your color.”

            “You’re not gonna do anything. Stop acting like you are. A bitch with no guts, no experience. And these losers. You’ve been played the whole time.”

            Lee lets her hair out just long enough to tie it back again. “Not the whole time. Like you said, Chapel, I’m sitting right here.”

            “You have no idea. About anything. Some bullshit affirmative action hire.”

            “Is that what this is about? You getting passed over for a girl? Tell me you’re deeper than that?”

            “I’m a good cop.”

            “We’ve got different definitions.”

            “I was a soldier. Put my life on the line for this country.”

            “So you’re playing American Sniper on rooftops? The good old good old days, huh?”

            “And they make me answer to you. I don’t deserve this.”

            Letterer starts laughing. Not just a chuckle. A bellowing, heaving laugh. Cole and Bob give each other uncomfortable looks. Neither is sure if they’ve even heard a giggle from her. It’s weird. “A good show, Chapel. But we’re not buying it.” She raises her voice and turns toward her companions. “Are we, boys?”

            Cavanaugh and Bob shake their heads. They’re still dealing with the laughing thing.

“I don’t care what you buy,” Chapel says. “You’re probably recording me, and even if you aren’t, there’s nothing to gain by talking.”

            “What about your life?”

            “You wouldn’t. I know you wouldn’t.”

            “Yeah,” Lee says, pulling out a little green notebook, covered in blood. “But the bald guy you’ve been working for doesn’t seem to be the kind who passes out pensions to failures. Your phone over there’s been buzzing the last hour. Got a feeling he’s looking for a progress report. What do you think? Think you’ll be the next one crossed off? The way you tried to get those druggie assholes to cross me off?”

            Chapel’s squinting, looking at the notebook. He knows what it is, but he doesn’t know what’s in it. Letterer’s smacking it against her leg, letting the older cop watch her do it.

            “Whatever you think’s in that book—it ain’t nothing.”

            “Not going to talk about this guy? Don’t you want to be out from under his thumb? The way we hear, he’s pretty much marching you around.”

            “Like I said. You have no idea what’s going on.” Chapel’s face is dirty and smug, but if he’s lying Cole can’t tell. It’s strange. A few weeks ago, Chapel was the nice one. It’s weird seeing him in his natural state.

            “Maybe. But do you? Come on, old man. Let’s make a deal.”

            Cole whispers to Bob. “She’s getting nowhere. Why doesn’t she use the book?”

            “Should she use it? Not a lot in there, Mr. C.”

            “What are you talking about?” Cole continues, cupping a hand over his mouth. “The thing said Carson’s confession was typed.”

            “Doesn’t prove anything.”

            “What about the possible ligature marks?”

            “They were just Horace’s crime scene notes. At the time, he was probably looking for any excuse to keep you in as a suspect.”

            “Ahh!” Cole yells, frustration bubbling over. He knows it’s a stupid thing to do, but he needs to punch something, break something, have an effect. “Wait,” he says, toning his voice back to a low level. “Why would he tell me to look at the notes, Bob?”

            “What do you mean?”

“I mean Horace was dying. His last words are to tell me to look at some notes that are going to falsely implicate me?”

            “Huh. Yeah. At that point he knew—”

            “That Chapel was dirty. Letterer had already played him the tape over the phone.”

            “Exactly.” It feels like there’s momentum. Cole just doesn’t know where it’s taking them.

            Bob feels it too. “So the notes imply that Chapel was pushing the suicide investigation along.”

            “Yep.”

            “And Horace probably called his bosses to ask what the hurry was...”

            “Yeah.”

            “But the big shots ignore Horace, let it go through on the quick. Sounds like our boy down there isn’t the only one moonlighting for our mysterious scumbag.”

            “Which is why she’s dancing around it with him,” Cole says, turning to face Bob. He’s frantic all of a sudden, ecstatic. He grabs his driver and friend by the cheeks, growing more ebullient by the second.

            “Boss?”

            “Could be she’s trying to find a chink. Doesn’t matter. I think I’ve got it!” He kisses Bob on the forehead and takes a few hops down to Letterer. “Ask him about the knife.”

“What about the knife?” Lee asks, frustrated to be interrupted.

            “Yeah. What about it?” Chapel follows.

            “Shut up, asshole. I’ve got this thing cracked.” Cole smiles a little.

            “You’re cracked,” Chapel says.

            Cavanaugh’s phone rings. Della. He puts it back his pocket, ready to verbally put the puzzle together for anyone who cares to take it in. “So—

            The phone buzzes. He pulls it out to turn it off, but the text message on the screen stops him cold. He’s got me. The man you’ve been looking for. He’s says he’s going to kill me if you’re not here in a half hour.

            Cole goes full stop. Starts to shake all over. Everyone in the room is waiting for him to continue with his revelatory address. What he says is just as dramatic. “The-e guy. He’s got my sister.”

            Letterer can see the severe change in Cole’s countenance. “What now?” she asks. Bob moves with purpose down the little aisle. Lee reads the text and tosses it to Bob. Cole is spinning, grabbing for a counterweight of logic to offset the emotions. He sees Chapel smirking. It’s more than he can handle. Cavanaugh throws everything he has at the old man, form-tackling him against the painted concrete. He mounts him at the waist and starts dropping fists and elbows at a frantic rate. It takes everything Letterer and Bob have to get him off. After a few hard attempts to free himself from their lock, he finally burns out. “Let go!”

            Lee can’t believe how strong he is. “You need to bring it down, Cavanaugh. Use your head.”

            “Let me go,” he grimaces, giving it one more try.

“Boss, she’s right. We need to think.”

“I am thinking. Now get off. Now!” He throws his hands out and asks for the phone back. Dials Della’s number.

            Nicholas Rhine answers immediately. “Mr. Cavanaugh. I wondered when we’d finally talk.”

            “I want to speak to my sister.”

            “You do?”

            “Give her the phone.”

            “Okay. But just so we’re clear, now you want to talk to her?”

            “If you’ve hurt Della...” It’s cliché, but 100% real.

            “Hurt her? No. I’m not you, Cavanaugh. I don’t think she’d be in this predicament if you’d answered the phone once in a while. When you didn’t need something.”

            “What the hell do you know about me and my family?”

            “Too much. We’ve talked, me and Della. She’s a fighter. Like her big brother. But I can see in her heart. You’ve hurt her, Cole. It’s kind of what got you involved here in the first place.”

            Cavanaugh knows what he’s trying to do. There’s a weird irony in it, because the guy’s half right. It’s more than that, though. Cole just about has it all figured out, but he’s pretty sure the man on the other end of the phone still thinks he’s clueless.

            “So what do we do?” Cole asks. Letterer and Bob are standing on either side of him, waiting to spring into action. Jake enters talking about his long trip to the restroom, asking what he’d missed. Lee tells him to shut up.

            “Like the text said. I’ll give you the location. Bring your friends. All of them. We’ll do a trade. Chapel for your sister.”

Cavanaugh looks down at the detective, bellowing on the floor.

            “Come on, Cavanaugh. If you’ve gotten this far, I know he’s there. I’ve been calling the good officer. He’s been useful. I hope you didn’t hurt him.”

            “Chapel’s fine. He got a bit nicked up trying to kill us, but other than that.”

            “Truth is, I was watching your family anyway. Your sister was that last little piece of leverage. I would’ve taken her at some point. When I didn’t hear from Detective Chapel, I simply moved up the timetable. But no matter. Let’s have our rendezvous.”

            “No. My sister. Put her on.”

            “Why?”

            “Because I have no reason to think she’s alive until I do. And because we both know how this ends.”

            “Good points, both. You know, Cole, it’s not true what they say in the papers. You seem like a sharp enough guy.”

            A few seconds pass. Cavanaugh shifts weight from foot to foot, clenching his free hand into a fist. He hears Della call out. About what he’s expecting. It’s her voice. Struggling and small, but definitely hers. That’s all he gets. The sound goes away and Cole does his best to bury it. He has to bury it. The last words from his sister’s kidnapper are rattling around. Sharp guy. You know what, screw this prick. You are a smart guy. Maybe you’ve been a dick for way too many years, but it doesn’t mean you’re not smart. Smarter than this asshole. Smart enough to put this whole thing to bed, and afterward, maybe smart enough to change. After the long pause Cavanaugh asks, “Any other rules?”

            “Rules?”

            “You’re the criminal mastermind. What was your name, again?”

            “It’s not important. As for rules, already went over it. Thirty minutes. Or I kill your sister.”

            “How do you know I won’t call the cops?”

            “You mean like the one you’ve got? How do you know who to trust?”

            “I—guess you got me there.”

            “Better get started. The timer’s running down. I’ve sent another text with the specifics of the handoff.”

            The line goes dead and Cole’s already moving. All of a sudden he’s able to shut out the fear and just go. One of those things you don’t know until you do. He tosses his phone to Letterer. “That phone has Alice Bennett-Petit’s number on it. Call her. Now. If she doesn’t answer, text. Say we’re about to meet her father’s killer. And keep calling, Detective.”

            Letterer opens her mouth to ask specifics, but Cavanaugh is too quick. “Do it. Baldy has my sister. He says he’s going to kill her.”

            “Jesus,” Bob says.

            “Let me see your phone,” Cole says, quickly punching his brother’s number on the keypad. “Bob, talk to my brother. Tell him to meet us in the Modern Art Museum parking lot. It’s close to where this guy wants to do the exchange.”

“Exchange? Della for Chapel?” Bob asks, lifting an eyebrow and catching the pre-dialed phone.

            “I know it’s not an exchange. He said he wants us all there. He’s gonna try to kill us.” Cole’s heart is running fast but steady. “Jake?”

            “Yeah.” DeKlerk’s still standing at the top of the room, feeling like he entered another dimension.

            “He’s got Della.”

            “Fuck.”

            “What do you got here?”

            “Like guns?”

            “Guns.”

            “About half the family’s collection.”

            “Go get some bags. Rifles, pistols, plenty of ammo—”

            “I’m on it. Be right back.” Cole’s never seen his friend move so quickly.

            “What about Traiger and Story?” Letterer asks, waiting for a reply from Alice Bennett. “The cops that helped you guys before with Della?”

            Cavanaugh gives Bob a look. His driver shakes his head, at the same time trying to calm down Craig on the opposite end of the line. “Do you know Traiger and Story?”

            “Not really,” Letterer says. In the background Chapel’s moaning. Begging not to be taken to the “exchange.” She walks over and kicks him like a fifty-yard field goal.

            “Then not good enough. Is Alice answering?”

            “No.”

            “There’s no time. Give me the phone, Lee. You and Bob get Chapel and throw him into the van. Help Jake with the guns.”

            “So we just do what he says?”

            “To a point. He’s got my sister, Detective.”

She nods in compliance. Cole knows she has her own things to worry about, not least of which, her life. He takes the phone and puts a quick hand on her shoulder. Looks her dead in the eyes. “We cracked the case.”

            “More like it cracked us.”

            “No. I’ll explain on the way. Go. I’ll be right behind.”

            He looks at the phone and sends another text. Answer right now or people are going to die. Then again. Answer right now or people are going to die. Another. Answer or you’re probably next.

            Finally, it rings. Cole lets out a heavy sigh of relief. He really needed her to respond.

            “What the hell?” Alice says. She’s either doped up or sleeping. Cole doesn’t have time to care.

            “Do you guys still have protection over there?”

            “What? What’s with all the damn texts?”

            “Protection?!”

            “There’s a few federal cops still watching the place down the street, pretty sure. FBI, ATF, I don’t know. What is this?”

            “Alice, your father didn’t kill himself.”

            “What? How do you know?”

            “I’m not bullshitting you. There’s just no time to explain. The guy who did it has my sister and he’s going to kill her in less than thirty minutes.”

“Oh my God. I’m—”

            “Yeah. It’s a lot. But you need to start moving.”

            Alice hops out of her bed, trying to negotiate her legs into some sweatpants while still holding the phone. “Yeah.” She looks out the window of her bedroom. There are two government SUVs and some kind of news van parked in the distance, just outside the gate.

            Cole has the phone tight to his ear, trying to gauge Alice’s degree of awareness. It’s a lot to ask of anyone, especially someone you don’t know. He throws open the door to the theater and heads down the stairs, meeting up with Jake on the way to the van. Bob’s right behind, toting a huge duffel that’s full of clanking metal. He yells out that Frank’s on the way and that Lee’s in the van with Chapel. Cavanaugh gives him a thumbs up as they walk out into the back carport. As they jump in, he’s still on the phone with Alice. “Hey. The guy that killed your father—he’s the same one that killed your brother and all those other people. He’s a nasty dude.”

“How do you know?”

            “Just get moving, Alice. I need your help. And you need to help yourself if you ever want to know the truth.”

            “Ok.”

            “You can’t tell the cops. But do me a favor. Tell Elise.”

            “Why Elise?”

            “Because she knows the guy. She’ll know what to do.”

            “What?” Alice whispers, suddenly more freaked out. “You mean she had something to do with all this?”

            “No. She’s been running from him a long time. Tell her we’re setting a trap for him. He’s never going to see this coming.”

            “Okay?” Alice asks/says. In her defense, it is just a bit too confusing.

            “Just do it. I promise this damn nightmare is almost over.”

            Cole can hear Alice knocking on Elise’s door. “Then what?” she asks. “After I tell Elise?”

            Cavanaugh’s holding tight to the handle above the passenger side window. Bob has the van’s engine redlining and then some. “Just repeat it to her. Exactly what I said.  And tell the news guys outside to get to the address I text you.”

            “Why would they do that?”

            “I thought you were a celebrity? Do your thing. Make it work. Just don’t tell the Feds if you can help it.” Cole really doesn’t know how she’s going to make it work, but he has a feeling about Alice.

            “Elise is coming to the door.”

            “Good.”

            “How are you going to trap him?”

            “Focus, Alice. I’ve got to go.”

Cavanaugh hangs up the phone. In a strange way he feels like himself, proactive, moving fast, setting pieces in motion. It’s what made him such a good lawyer, back when he was still lawyering. He swivels his head around at everybody in the van. Jake and Letterer look like they’re heading to a Ugandan arms deal—they’re loading magazines for more than a few assault rifles, shoving shells into shotguns. There’s even an UZI somewhere in the mix. “Can I have the UZI?” he asks.

The answer is no. It comes in unison from Bob, Jake, and Lee. The two in the back of the van stop what they’re doing to ask what the hell is going on. Seems about that time.

            “We just gonna dance to this dude’s tune?” DeKlerk asks.

            “You really shouldn’t d—”

            “Shut yur trap,” Jake says, hitting the prone Detective Chapel in the balls with the butt of an AR-15.

            “I don’t get it,” Letterer says, sweat running off her brow. It’s a hot night and they’ve all gotten a hell of a lot done in the last five minutes.

            “Which part?” Cavanaugh asks.

            “Start with the call you were just on,” Bob says, sounding tight but calm. “Why do they need to know so bad? You don’t know what Alice Petit’s going to do.”

            “She’s going to tell Elise. Alice is scared like the rest of us.”

            “What’s Elise gonna add? This ain’t the time for reunions. Hombre out there blows people up,” Jake adds. He’s forgotten to spit. A little river of brown is running down his lumpy chin.

            “That’s why we’re meeting at the Modern.”

            “Seems like a strange place for a jump-off point,” Letterer says, grabbing onto a side panel as Bob trundles over a pothole.

            “Sorry,” he says, winding the engine back up, careening down empty early morning streets.

            “Figure we meet there. It’s always quiet at night, no regular folks, no houses. The people that want in, stay the course. The people that don’t—don’t. I asked you to get in the van with me. I’m not asking anybody to go all the way.” Cole turns around to face forward once again. “That’s why I had you call Craig. He’ll want the chance to help. He’s partially responsible for this. Not a lot of spotless characters in this story. Nobody except you, Letterer.” Cole doesn’t turn around. He just looks at his city flashing by in the night—the familiar scenes, normal people, the place he’s lived his entire life. Gas stations and little stores and fast food restaurants, still lit up in the hot Texas night. He wonders if it’s his last chance to take it all in. Could be. Cole’s as sure as he’s been for a while, but he’s just one insect stuck on a tangled web. Cavanaugh asks Bob how long until the museum. Three minutes. Fields a text from Craig. He’s already there. Another text from Big Frank. He’s five minutes out. Tells him to wait. “Chapel,” Cole says, still looking at the phone. “Last chance. You either tell me if you know where my sister might be, or we both walk into this. Pretty sure neither of us are coming back from it.” His compatriots are throwing looks at each other, down at Chapel, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Cole knows for them to move forward, he’s going to have to share his theory. There just hasn’t been time. He shakes his head back and forth, in case any of his senses aren’t raised entirely to the fore. “Alright, people,” he says, turning sideways to address everyone. “Chapel, still silent? Guess you’re going in with me. Braver than I thought.” The old man is still lying flat but his head is raised at attention, trying to decide between two very bad options. He should’ve thought of that before he started playing urban commando, working for bombing, murdering, psychopaths. “So here’s how I see it...”

“Wait,” Chapel says. Cole doesn’t know what finally pushes his reasoning toward cooperation. Doesn’t care. Apparently the old man’s doing the math and it adds up to acquiescence. “I think I know where your sister might be.”

            Jake forces the barrel of the rifle into one of the crooked cop’s nose holes. It’s a little much, considering the guy is finally agreeing to play along. Cole doesn’t stop it. He knows DeKlerk has a soft spot for Della. They all do. Anybody that has a semblance of what she’s been through.

            “Where?”

            “I know the last place he was holed up. That’s your best chance.”

            “Address?”

            As Chapel recites the location, Cole dictates it in a text that goes straight to Frank. He lets him know the situation and to run every red light to get there. Says for God’s sake be careful. Says please get my sister.

            “You could’ve told us this two hours ago,” Cavanaugh says, finishing the text.

            “Two hours ago I wasn’t being taken to this psycho’s doorstep.”

            “Well, it might not matter.”

            “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            “Means she could be dead. Or not there. You get what’s happening here, right? I’m walking out to meet the Grim Reaper. You just saved yourself for a while.”

Cole takes a second to look around at his friends. “But if our friend doesn’t find her, I’m fairly sure one of these folks is going to kill you for me.”

            “Damn right,” Jake says, shoving the barrel down farther.

            “So that’s the plan?” Letterer asks. “Go and meet the Grim Reaper? Not exactly nuanced.”

            Cole checks the time. They’re running out of it. Otherwise he’d play this thing in a completely different way. Unfortunately, the Reaper tends to do things on his own schedule.

Chapter 30: The Principals

            Fifteen minutes later. Cole Cavanaugh sits in the driver seat of the van. There’s nothing around for five-hundred yards in any direction except warm pavement. It’s probably the biggest parking lot in the city. Perfect place for no surprises. Cole knew the location the moment it was texted to him. Off to his left is a municipal high school football stadium; he spent of a lot of his youth there. Behind is an old brick building, a field house for basketball and other public sports. It’s an old part of town, half a mile from a major rail line and another half-mile to the Trinity River. In front of him are the lights of Fort Worth’s new version of “uptown,” the kind of thing going on all over the country, rich people going into a run-down district, making it new again. Cole can’t think of the word. Gentrification. No. Re-gentrification. Eh, whatever.

            It’s dark. He’s sure the bald man’s picked it for that reason, plus a bunch of others he hasn’t thought of. Weren’t you just in a parking lot? What’s with all the parking lots? The last one didn’t prove all that safe. Cavanaugh’s not expecting this one to be any safer. Cavanaugh’s thinking too much.

            “Anyone there yet?” The voice spurts out through a walkie on Cole’s lap. It’s squelched, but obviously Letterer. She’s at the edge of the lot, hundreds of yards away. All of Cole’s companions are in similar positions. Safe, but close. His insistence.

            “Can’t you see?” Cole answers back.

            “Yeah. I’m just nervous. Sorry.”

            “I get it. But hold your wad. How do you think I feel?”

            “Maybe you should get out of there. I don’t want to say I’ve got a bad feeling about this, but, I really, really do.”

“Just stay put.” He almost tells her to be a man. Partially because she’s tougher than him. Mostly because it’s what you say.

            “This plan is—”

            Cole presses the transmit button, cutting her off. “Over and out. Seriously. That goes for the rest of you. Just tell me when you hear from Frank.”

            Cavanaugh sees a car approaching. It’s coming west down Lancaster, one of Fort Worth’s most-trafficked thoroughfares. But that’s during the day. This is the first vehicle Cole’s seen since he parked. “Dude. Car’s coming.”

            Craig pokes his head up through the front console. No insisting was going to keep him from a chance to save Della. “I think that’s Mom’s car.”

            “Are you sure?” Cole asks, squinting to improve his night vision.

            “Yeah. I’ve fixed that damn thing enough to know.”

            “Fine. Just get back there.”

            Craig scoots his big body back along the floor of the van. He’s holding a tactical shotgun in his hands. They’re sweaty and shaky. Thirty minutes ago, the plumber was in bed with his wife. Now he’s in a van with his brother and a damn shotgun. Not exactly how he planned the day. But it’s his little brother up there. His little sister, God only knows. “You loaded?” Cole asks, watching his mother’s car stop twenty feet out in front of the van.

“Yeah,” Craig says.

            “Stay put. Stay low. Try not to come out. I got this.” Cavanaugh doesn’t know how much he’s lying as he steps out of the van. He’s holding a pump-action shotgun, much like the one his brother is strangling in the van. There’s an AR-15 slung around his back, but that’s mostly for optics. He’s also carrying a .38 special under his shirt. The guns might help, but Cole seriously doubts it. He’s facing down a man that’s killed trained professionals by the dozens. A divorce lawyer on a mission is probably laughable to the guy—Cole’s counting on it.

            “You want to get out of my mom’s car?” Cavanaugh says, walking toward the old sedan. His shoulders quake as the door pops open.

“You’re certainly dressed for the occasion,” Rhine says, stepping casually onto the pavement. Cole gulps at the sight of him. Appearance isn’t the main cause of his trepidation. It’s knowing what the man has done. On the other hand, the visuals certainly don’t do anything to put his mind at ease. The only decent illumination is coming from each of the vehicle’s headlights, paths beaming across the scene.

“Before we start,” Cole says, trying not to tremble. “Can I at least get your name?”

            “Sure,” he says, crossing his arms and leaning against the hood of the sedan. “It’s Nick. And since we’ve started, can I just say I’m fairly impressed.”

            “Is that right?”

            “You’re out here, looking ridiculous, trying to do the right thing. I suppose it takes a preponderance of guilt to get a person to commit like this. Knowing what you know.”

            “You don’t know what I know,” Cole says, holding the shotgun at Nick’s chest. “And don’t say things like ‘preponderance of guilt’ to get into my head. I know you’re smart, asshole. You’ve got this whole town under your thumb. The quirky repartee is just one bridge too far.”

            “Fair enough,” Nick says, standing up from the hood. “I’m not armed, by the way.” He holds up his shirt and does a slow, deliberate circle in front of Cavanaugh. Cole gets a healthy view of the aftereffects of the fires that forged Nick into what he is. “And if you thought I was that dangerous, you wouldn’t have exposed yourself like this.”

            “You kill people that aren’t expecting it,” Cole says. “I’d say that makes you pretty dangerous.” The attorney takes a stinted breath. No guns. That means bombs. “My sister. You must be fucking desperate.”

            “You might think. But proof. You don’t have any. Please don’t tell me this was your grand scheme? Your friends are conspicuously absent. Again, please say that they’re not off in the bushes pointing a parabolic at us? A recorded confession? Why not hold out your IPhone and just have me speak into it—you really have to do better.”

“I didn’t come for a confession. I came for my sister. She in the trunk?”

            Nick sits back against the car. Crosses his arms. “Maybe.”

            “You want Chapel. Hell, you must need him. Need to know he’s out of the way.”

            Nothing. Rhine’s not impressed with Cavanaugh’s display thus far. It has him relaxed, but suspicious. Nick is prepared and hyperaware, as usual, but something’s not adding up. It’s a tiny chill on his spine, barely a feeling.

            Cole continues. “Why’d you even come here? I don’t get this part of the plan. Is my sister alive?”

            “I certainly hope so,” Nick says, motioning to the rear of the sedan, still trying to get a clear reading.

            Cole starts to laugh. It’s not an affectation, not something he planned. It’s spontaneous. Rhine furrows what’s left of his eyebrows. “I wonder what she’s going to say?”

            “Who are we talking about?”

            “Elise. The love of your life, Nick.”

            “Not sure.”

            “Not sure what she’s going to say, or just not sure in general?”

“Like I said—”

            “You don’t seem to be saying anything, Nick. It’s a bit of a letdown. I’m scared shitless, I don’t see my sister, my brother’s in the van with a gun—yeah, we didn’t bring Chapel—the situation isn’t sustainable.”

            “I’ll agree with that.”

            “I wonder if she’ll agree. Elise. I’ll repeat it. The love of your life.”

            Nick decides to keep himself rigid, unflappable. Cavanaugh’s trying for something new, and until Rhine knows exactly what it is, better to just observe and record. Cole walks up to him and sticks the barrel of the shotgun flush to the killer’s muscular chest. It’s an unexpected move. For both of them. Nick doesn’t react at all. Cole nods his head.

            “Yeah. You’re a gamer. I’ll give you that,” Cavanaugh says, pushing the barrel off of Nick. “We both know I won’t shoot you. Not if there’s a chance for Della.”

            “What is this?” Nick asks, holding his hands out. He’s genuinely curious. It’s possible that the lawyer has just buckled under the unrelenting pressure. Possible. There’s a lot of variables in play. He’s thought of everything, like always, calmly, methodically.

            “Bet you’ve thought of everything,” Cole says, taking a step back, lowering the shotgun toward the ground. “But one look at you says you’ve lost before. Maybe you’ll lose again.”

“I doubt it, Mr. Cavanaugh.”

            “It’s not a coincidence.”

            “What’s that?”

            “Will Carson choosing me for his lawyer. When he first mentioned Elise, I tried to slough it off to coincidence. It never was.”

            “Is that so?”

            “It is. My guess is old man Carson told his son to hire me. But it was your plan, wasn’t it?”

            Rhine holds his poker face. Says nothing.

            “It’s okay,” Cole continues. “You don’t have to go into the whole deal. It’s pretty obvious. Should’ve been obvious from the get-go, but you had me hopping over too many landmines to give it any real thought.”

            “Are we about done?”

            “You are.”

            “Whatever hand you have, I think it’s being overplayed.”

            “Don’t be so sure. Full marks on your game, but you were the one that overplayed.”

            “When was that?”

            “Maybe when you killed the old man. Still, you probably would’ve gotten away with it. I was clear. But then you had Chapel take out Horace. Tried to kill Letterer. Sloppy. Then you took my sister. That was beyond sloppy. My guess is she’ll have something to say about it.” Cole lets out the most tension-filled breath of his life and nods toward the entrance of the parking lot. “Wonder who this is?” He’s been stalling, hoping beyond hope for this moment.

Rhine snaps his body around to see the approaching car. It’s a dark SUV. It skids to a stop next to the sedan. Cole tells him not to move.

            Elise jumps out, looking crazed, pistol trained on Cole. Her eyes and gun never leave Cavanaugh as she strides toward Nick. “We need to go. This is a trap.”

            “Hey Elise,” Cavanaugh says.

            “Shut up.”

            “See you got my message. I’ll have to thank Alice later.”

            “Nick, we need to go.”

            Rhine doesn’t have time to be deliberate. He grabs Elise by the throat. “Stop talking.”

            “Quite a partnership,” Cole says, looking on at the violence in both of their eyes. “Good thing I’m here. I do amicable and hostile disputations.” 

            “That’s enough,” Nick says, staring holes through Cavanaugh while his grip tightens around Elise’s throat.

            “Let her go, Rhine.” Cole takes a step forward and aims the shotgun at his knees. “I’m not a good shot, but even I can’t miss with this thing. Get next to that damn car.”

            Cavanaugh almost pulls the trigger out of surprise when he hears the sliding door of the van open behind him. Craig jumps out, clumsily trying to manage the walkie in one hand and the shotgun in the other. “He got Della. Your man, Frank. She’s safe, brother. Oh, thank God.”

“Are you sure?”

            “That was the lady cop. Della’s not hurt. I made her say it ten times.”

            The relief is enough to force Cole to his knees. Prayer, thankfulness, whatever you want to call it. Maybe in a few, but not right now. He wants to hug his brother, but there’s still the hulking psycho and the crazy ex to contend with. Elise is turning purple. The news about Della hasn’t done anything to soften Nick’s mood. He’s lifting her off the pavement with one hand. “It’s over! Let her go!” Cole screams. He tells Craig to call Michelle. She’s had her FBI guy on standby. Looks like they’re going to need him. “Do it, Craig. And tell everyone else to move in. We need to be together when the shit-show comes down.”

Cavanaugh can’t believe this guy. He’s got Elise on the ground now, choking her with both hands. “Last chance,” he says.

            Three shots ring out from Elise’s gun. In his rage, Rhine disregarded the pistol in her hands. Two more shots. A few more seconds and finally he crumples down on top of her. Cole moves quickly and kicks the gun out of her hand before pulling Nick’s big frame off of her body. She’s hacking away, desperately trying to pull air into her starving lungs. Despite the fact that the dude’s been filled with led, Cavanaugh’s still careful, feeling around Nick’s pants for anything resembling a trigger. He’s still worried about a bomb. Checks his pulse. Still breathing, but it’s hard to know how long. It would be nice if he lived. Maybe a few more answers. On the other hand, to hell with him.

Craig is attempting to sit Elise up. “Watch her hands,” Cole says.

            Elise’s eyes are blood-filled and watery. Craig pats her on the back, like he’s trying to force out a chicken bone at dinner. Good old Craig.

            “What the heck just happened?” His brother asks.   

            “Things worked out,” Cole says, trying to stop the blood from seeping out of Rhine.

            “But how?”

            As the other van pulls up, Cavanaugh meets Letterer and Bob and tells them to help Craig out. “Is he going to make it?” Lee asks, looking at the prostrate Rhine.

            “I’m done caring,” Cole says, wiping blood on his shirt. It’s the second bullet-riddled body he’s had to contend with in the same set of clothes. The shit’s getting old. “Sis!” he says, staggering toward Della as Frank helps her out of the van. Tears come as Cavanaugh puts a strong arm around the big man and a gentle one around his little sister. “Are you okay? Frank, thank God. Did he hurt you? Tell me you’re fine.” Cole kisses Della on her forehead over and over.

            “Who’s idea was all this shit?” she asks, wry little smile. Like the only thing to do is meet her brother’s love with more ironic detachment. He doesn’t care. Craig comes over to join the embrace. For him, the emotions are coming in waves. Cole vividly remembers seeing his brother lose it on one other occasion; the night they found Della beat to hell. He’s glad beyond anything in his life that this time the tears are tinged with happiness. Big Frank pulls away to let the siblings Cavanaugh have their time.

“Who’s that?” Della asks, pointing off toward the street. There’s a gray van with an antenna sticking out the top. It’s a good distance off but Cole can see a rolled down window. He’s sure there’s a camera running inside, pointed right at them.

            “That’s the press. If you’re gonna do something right, might as well get it on camera.” Della gives her youngest big brother a slap on the face and slips in for another embrace. The cars are starting to flood into the parking lot, sirens everywhere. Cole sees Michelle among the growing crowd of uniforms. It would be smart to put their hands up, but the Cavanaugh’s aren’t letting go.

            “I think my FBI guys are going to cuff you, Cole,” Michelle says.

            Cavanaugh laughs and bends to the force being exerted on him. “Just tell them to be careful around that car. I’m guessing the trunk’s rigged to blow.” With his hands behind his back, there’s no way to stop the tears coming down his face. He can deal with it.

“Where are you taking him?” Della asks.

            “They’re going to question everybody,” Michelle says, putting an arm around Della. “You guys too.”

            “But what’s with the cuffs?”

            “Well,” Michelle says. “You know your brother—he’s...”

            “OK,” Della says, grabbing for Craig’s hand. “You can just say it.”

            “Well, it’s true. Your brother is an enormous pain in the ass.”

Chapter 31: Debriefing with a Guy Named Joseph and a Lady Named Jane

            It’s an hour later, around four in the morning. Cavanaugh’s awake as he ever has been. He sitting in a depressing little room, whispering into Michelle’s ear. She looks like it’s four in the morning, but Cole has no room to talk. He’s wearing layers of sweat and stink over layers of blood. The two are back to their old routine. Cavanaugh’s making ill-placed wisecracks. Michelle has “shut up” on repeat.

            “I love you,” he says. She looks sideways and scoffs. “Seriously. I don’t know how you got your FBI guy to help, but you saved our lives.”

            “Not the first time.”

            “I’ll kiss you right now.” Cole tries to lean over but the chains running up from the floor to his wrists halt his progress.

            Michelle reels back. “You’re disgusting. And sick in the head.”

            “True.”

            “I’m not so sure they shouldn’t put you behind bars with what’s her face over there.”

            “Elise is in the next room?”

            “Pretty sure.”

            “What about Mr. Clean?”

            “Still alive. Somehow. They’re operating.”

            “Better keep a close eye. I’m telling you, these locals are going to want to get rid of everyone and everything attached to this mess.”

“ATF has their SWAT guys guarding him. FBI is helping.”

            “ATF has SWAT?” Cole asks, truly curious.

            “I don’t know if that’s what they call it. But yeah. And that’s like all-star SWAT.”

            “Have you noticed how many times we’ve said SWAT?”

            “Yes. Why don’t you nod off awhile,” Michelle suggests, tapping her pen on the old wooden table. She’s only half sarcastic. It’s clear that her client is need of a break. He looks like an extra from a horror film. The emotional swings he’s had to face are hard for her to imagine. Cole feels a tentative pat on the back from his lawyer. Considering the source, it’s a watershed moment of affection. He doesn’t rile the gesture with humor or deflection; it is what it is.

            The door opens behind Cole and Michelle, heavy and slow. It sounds eerily quiet outside. He’s not paying complete attention but it makes sense to Cavanaugh that half the municipality would be out there, hoping to not be dragged under the rubble of the crumbling edifice. The list is long and he doesn’t know exactly who’s on it; he should be more worried, probably, but worry has given way to something else. Cavanaugh is only interested in nailing one person at the moment.  

Michelle taps him on the back. An older woman sits in the chair across the table. She hasn’t looked at Cole yet. She starts flipping through a folder that’s at least six inches thick. The lady stops at every page, takes a disinterested breath, then flips another. At last she decides to speak. “Hi, Cole.” The voice is of a woman much younger; somehow it doesn’t match with the short white hair and the librarian’s stern face.

“Big folder,” he says.

            “Too big,” she answers, closing it up and taking out a fresh piece of paper and a ballpoint pen. “Can you help me with it? I’m Jane by the way.”

            “She’s the US Attorney,” Michelle says.

            “I figured if the bombings didn’t get the whole justice department down here, the corruption would.”

            “We have our mandates, like anybody else,” Jane says, smiling politely. Cole sees immediately that she appears to be playing no games—he wonders if that in itself is a type of game.

            “So are we done?” Cole asks.

            “In what way?”

            “Just ask me what happened. Because I don’t think you know what you think you know.” Cole taps the table with the side of his fist. “You wanna know, Ms. Jane?”

            “Start at the beginning,” she says, readying her hand to start writing.

            “Even I don’t know that. But let’s assume it goes something like this. Girl meets boy. Girl lets him hang around. He gets ideas. She’s pretty, maybe he isn’t. But he’s loyal. This thing happens between girls and boys all across the world. It’s an epidemic. Only in most cases it doesn’t end in murder and mayhem.”

“What’s your theory?”

            “I think Elise Bennett wanted to marry me. I’ve got no hard evidence for it, but unless she’s a pure sadist, nothing else make sense.”

            “Could she be a pure sadist?”

            “God no. I don’t even know if she’s evil. It’s hard for me to say, but the whole thing is kind of tragic. Like tonight. She shot the dude because she had to. I’m thinking she’s done a lot of things from a similar motivation.”

            “Are you saying she’s justified?”

            “I’m not making excuses.” It’s Elise in the next room, bawling all over the table. Through everything, all the dark turns, she’s never been chained up. It’s a sign of what’s to come—she knows it in her bones, but her brain is still in denial. “The man was threatening me. My life. My child’s life. Do you see the records? Do you know how many times I went to the police? You people did nothing. My life was hell, and you did nothing. This is your fault,” she says, sneering at the man across from her. He seems completely fine with her condemnation. It’s a brilliant plan by the Fed in charge, sitting outside watching. He can tell the woman is ready to crack, so he sends in his dumbest, sleepiest agent to do nothing but sit there. The sounding board’s name is Joseph. He’s perfect. He has good hair and somehow manages to dress himself well. It gives people the illusion that he’s smart. “OK. It’s not your fault. But you have to know the situation. Otherwise it’s pointless to even discuss.” This is Elise’s attempt at diplomacy. The guys in suits are in a room mere feet away, watching on a big screen TV. There’s about twenty of them. They’re serious, but a laugh sneaks out from one person or another from time to time. The whole thing is so frigging crazy. “So I’ll need a lawyer, I guess. And my daughter. You can’t just sit there and deny me my rights.”

“What if she gets a good lawyer?” Cole says, leaning in toward Jane. “I can help. I’ll spend nights, weekends filling in the gaps. But my outline is worth you signing a form that makes it abundantly clear that me and my friends won’t be investigated or prosecuted for anything revolving around this debacle.”

“What are you talking about, specifically?”

            “Produce a form. Michelle will tell me if we’re okay to go.”

            “Can I get a hint?”

            “Well, you know about Chapel. We had him tied up, for shit’s sake. And—there might be a few kidnappings in there somewhere.”

            Michelle whacks Cole across the back of the head. It’s stupid, even for him.

            “They’re bad guys. They’ll help your case, if anything. We were holding them for their safety. Phrase it like that.”

            Jane is matter-of-fact and uninspired in everything she does. Cole admires it. Like she showed up to the circus and decided not to get blown away by the attractions. “I’ll work on the ‘form,’ as you call it. I thought you were a lawyer?”

“Lot of lawyers around here. Not necessarily a lot of law.”

            “You don’t seem overly concerned for yourself,” Jane says.

            “Because Elise is a survivor. Crazy, sadistic, call her what you want. Bottom line, she’ll fight. She may even win. You need a magic bullet.” Cole leans back in his chair and listens to the door close behind. Michelle tilts her head like she’s nursing a crick in her neck. It’s not a crick. It’s Cole. She hopes he knows what he’s doing. So does he.

Elise is starting to pound on the table. She can’t put force into it. The chains prevent a great deal of movement. “I didn’t do anything. You hear me? I’m not a terrorist! You haven’t even charged me.” She’s breathing fire. Points to the camera in the corner. “You let me out. Bastards. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

            “So if she says she’s just a babe in the woods, don’t go for that.” Ms. Jane is back in the room. Cole’s looking at his “form.” Michelle says it’s okay. So okay. “Yeah, she did a lot of things wrong. Ask the right questions. She’ll crack.”

           “I need more. Enough waiting. Tell us what really happened here.”

Chapter 32: How Cole Put It Together

            “Go.” It’s a simple command, stated without emotion, but Cole knows Ms. Jane is serious. There’s been enough fencing. He’s got his signed immunity. He’ll live up to it. At least he thinks so.

            Cole begins. “This thing only works if you think of Elise, the bald guy, and Carson as a kind of triumvirate of bad. I say that because if you know anything about history, the Triumvirates in Rome were alliances of expediency. They didn’t like each other. You don’t have to make agreements with people you already trust—also, just because there’s trust with one, doesn’t always mean that it’s going good and proper with the other.”

            “Okay,” Jane says, checking her personal sound recorder. “So they killed Will Carson to start this thing off. Elise and Rhine conspired together?”

“No way,” Cole says. “That’s just it. You have to look at every action, and the possible motives that each of the three might have. “Let’s start with Elise. She was awesome. I loved her, no bullshit. Ask my family, friends, they’ll all say the same thing; for months she was one thing, and out of nowhere she’s a runaway. It was something beyond head-scratching. Will Carson had the same look on his face when he showed up to my office the day before he died. I think baldy has been in and out of her life. He showed up and she bolted. I was lucky. This last time he comes on the scene, Will Carson ended up getting killed. And so on.”

“So it was a jealousy thing? Baldy would come around to save his lady love from any other comers?”

            “That’s what I thought. But Elise came over to my house that one day, the day Letterer found the knife in my house. She told me about the guy. Vague. Not a lot about him. Just enough to make me feel sorry for her. Then the knife. It made sense that she planted it, but it didn’t make sense why. Now I think I get it. She was lashing out at Nick. Having him kill Will wasn’t part of her plan. She wanted Rhine to kill Grant Carson. And old Carson didn’t want his son dead. The knife—that wasn’t part of Nick’s plan. She had it, yes, so clearly it was meant to be planted on me. But the timing was off. Elise was acting out of spite or, God help us, she was trying to protect me.”

“How does planting evidence protect you?” Jane asks.

            “Because it was done the wrong way. A way that would help me. If she’d taken the matching knife from my set, no one would’ve been scratching their heads. Maybe no bail. She was protecting me, or spiting Rhine. Or both.”

            “I don’t know,” Ms. Jane says. “There’s no way to verify all this.”

            “Just hear me out. There was a divide, and it manifested in earnest that day. No one was on the same page. That’s why it confused Chapel so much. Look in Horace’s notes, and try to stay with me. This is a twisted game.”

Jane is attempting to keep up, scribbling furiously. She’s nowhere in the vicinity of understanding what he’s talking about. Cole makes a comment that they better get this taped from multiple angles, he doesn’t want to repeat himself. She mutters something under her breath. Sounds like conjecture. Sounds like baseless theories.

“It’s deduction,” Cole says. “And you’ll find the evidence.”

            “I still don’t get it. Why would Elise be all that upset about Will Carson? Wasn’t he going to divorce her? According to you, she was the one pulling away.”

            “That’s the interesting part. I bet if you go back about six months, you’ll find a day when Mr. Nick showed back up. Maybe he was standing on a corner somewhere. Elise told me she thought the guy was dead. Must’ve been quite a shock.”

“Yeah.”

            “Follow me here, Ms. Jane. Elise finds out that Nick is still alive. This makes her what? Starts with aloof.”

            “Aloof?” Jane asks, smirking at Cole. He’s not enjoying himself the way he usually would. His face is stoic. He’s tired and bloody. This tangled web requires focus to describe.

            “Aloof. Will said she started pulling away six months ago. He kept saying aloof, the night he was throwing up all over himself. That was one of his words for it. That’s why I say there’s a point of origin.”

            “Makes sense.”

            “Not yet. Because the pulling away makes Grant Carson nervous. He’s not going to let Elise divorce his only son. She’d take half the family fortune. As a divorce lawyer, I know about rich people and divorce. They don’t play games.”

“So what are you saying?”

            “This whole thing goes back way before. Grant Carson probably hired this Nick guy to kill Elise if she got out of line. There was some kind of arrangement. So Nick shows up and doesn’t tell Carson. He’s the very cause of Elise’s pulling away, and he knows he’ll be tapped by Carson to be the solution. It’s ingenious.”

“Wait, what?”

            “Yeah. They knew each other, Carson and Nick. Have you done any research on Will Carson’s marriage to Elise? I did five minutes’ worth after he left my office. It was a shotgun deal, elopement. You can bet old Grant wasn’t too happy. But there was a kid. You know there’s a kid, right?”

            “Rose,” Jane says, not looking up from her pad.

            “Rose. That’s why he let Elise stay around, I’m guessing. Although the creep was probably hoping for a son.”

“I’m still not getting how Carson and Nick know each other.”

            “Easy. Elise told the old man about him.”

            Jane looks up. She’s starting to get a sense of how twisted this whole thing is—at least Cavanaugh’s version. “So that’s why she thought Nick was dead all those years. She asked Grant Carson to take care of it.”

            “Now you’re getting there.”

“But he didn’t.”

            “He didn’t. But judging by his appearance, Carson’s thugs might’ve given him some rough treatment. That’s a guess, mind you. The thing about the scars.”

            Ms. Jane doesn’t seem concerned with the scars. “So Nick lives on.”

            “Nick lives on, unbeknownst to Elise. And for all those years she goes about her life with Will. Then one day he shows up, the same creep but even creepier. I don’t know what happened, but it sent her spiraling. This in turn precipitates Grant Carson into asking Nick to kill her.”

“Slow down.”

            “That’s why everybody was so thrown. She was drifting. The old man says get rid of her. Nick shows up to kill her, but he can’t. I’m thinking Elise is the one thing in this world that hombre has a soft spot for. Elise says, ‘Thanks for not killing me.’”

            “But,” Jane says. “Thanks for not killing me isn’t quite enough. She can’t just go on living her life, knowing that this animal is out there. Knowing that her father-in-law hired a hit on her.”

“Exactly why there’s a bit of tragedy in her story. Although, you could argue that she was swallowed by the darkness the day she asked Mr. Carson to have this guy killed. I’m no judger of souls. I’m just looking at the clues and evidence we have.”

            “Keep going.”

“So what happened? Will Carson goes to me for a divorce. He got advice to go to me from his dad. But it was the Nick guy pulling the strings. Rhine probably told old Carson I’d be the perfect guy to take the fall if Elise met with an unfortunate accident. This thing goes back fifteen years—anyway—I bet he’d been set up on me for weeks or months. Got in with the local PD. Found out about my family shit. Might be why he decided to carry out this whole plan when Elise and Will moved down here. The night Elise planted the knife was the same night he had Josh Ratliff call my sister and fuck up her world. That was a power play directed at Elise from Rhine. In case she was going soft for me.” Cole rubs his hair and the filth makes a halo around his head. “But getting back to the main thing, I was a sideshow, the perfect distraction for Nick’s plan. Elise and Will moved down here around six months ago, by the way. Guessing you can trace a lot of the PD’s bullshit back to around that time.”

“We’ll check into it.”

            “Please do. I’ve thought this through,” Cole says.

            “But what’s Nick’s ultimate plan? There’s obviously a lot of death and destruction, but to what end?”

            “One step at a time. So he’s Augustus in this Triumvirate. Before anything pops off, he’s got Elise thinking he’s going to kill Mr. Carson, Mr. Carson thinking he’s going to kill Elise and frame me.”

“So the old man knew about Will coming to you? You’re sure?”

            “Almost positive. Like I said, I was meant for the frame. It’s why the cops jumped at my name. Horace said there was somebody pushing the bosses in the PD hard to come down on me. That’s Grant Carson. And that’s why you’re really here. The corruption. That and the bombs.”

“But she wouldn’t know? Elise, I mean.”

            “Why would she? That wasn’t part of the plan with her. In a situation where everyone was thinking they were in control, Nick was the one with his hand on the stick.”

            “There’s still a ton of holes.”

            “That’s why you have Chapel. He was running point on the “good side of the law” for this Nick guy. Betcha that jerkoff will spill crap we haven’t even thought of if you offer him anything resembling the possibility of parole. He’s grateful to be alive. If he’s not, he should be.”

“We’ll see. Move back a few steps. How’d you even come by this theory?”

            “It was fluid. Letterer got a call to come to my house and look for a knife the very night I was hosting Elise. Elise being there in the first place had my wheels turning. And like I said, it was too sloppy. I couldn’t put it together at the time, because I’d only just heard about Rhine. The more I learned about his ability, the less likely it seemed that he would choose that night and that way to set me up. He had his own plan for me. Something exact. Like I said, that’s why Chapel didn’t understand it.”

“Why’d she do it?”

            Cole’s frustrated. “We’ve gone over this. You have to realize, the father of her kid was murdered. Remember, Elise was hoping for Grant Carson’s severed head. It was the wrong Carson head. She was pissed. In shock.”

            “If this is true,” Jane says, “you’re right. I don’t know whether to pity or despise this woman.”

            “I’d say both. Think of her as the Germans that didn’t like the Nazis but donned the uniforms anyway.” Cavanaugh smiles a weird smile. “The knife. She must’ve got it off him right after the first murder. Rhine probably gave it to her with a smile. Can you imagine? There’s some things I can’t tell you for sure, but I’m in the ballpark.”

“Continue,” Jane says. As the conversation moves on, Cole feels like they’re making progress. He likes Ms. Jane and her simple tone. She’s elemental in her pursuit of the facts. “And about those Germans. Always hated them.”

            “Well. There’s your answer about how to feel.”