Rage Against the Dying

Twenty-four





It’s true, if sex between an investigating agent and the defense counsel on the same case was known, it could cause a mistrial and get both fired. But I didn’t like the thought of going there, just yet. I was still steamed about Coleman blowing me off at the jail, let alone not telling me she’d been taken off the case. Our Pure as the Driven Coleman, screwing the public defender, bringing in Sigmund without authorization, taking case files out of the office … I had my doubts about whether she could be trusted at all; she reminded me too much of me.

All that wasn’t enough for me to throw her under the bus by blowing a whistle on her and Hughes. I pictured Coleman playing some kind of secret agent game. In my defense I must stress it was for this reason it had not yet occurred to me that she might be in danger.

For now I was focused on getting all the facts before I made an accusation that would make her lose her job. She was trying too hard to do the right thing. I phoned her cell, but it wasn’t turned on. I e-mailed her that I’d had it and would be at her office to have it out with her the next day, but no response.

“O’Hari, what’s wrong?”

Carlo and I were sitting on the back porch before dinner, having a glass of an inexpensive but passable Malbec and enjoying the nice wet-dog smell of the desert due to some rain over the mountains in the distance. A bit of breeze brought the early-evening temperature into the high seventies.

I had finally gotten in touch with Zach Robertson on my way back from the jail. He had sounded as upbeat as he could get and eased my mind, so I didn’t berate him for not returning my calls before. He said he had been taking care of having Jessica’s body cremated and asked if I would spread her ashes on top of Mount Lemmon. I agreed.

“That’s great,” he said. “I researched the area and that’s the highest mountain near the city. Jessica liked mountain hiking.”

The conversation rambled a bit.

“When are you heading home?” I had finally asked.

He paused, and then said, sounding a little cagey or apologetic, “Tomorrow. I have one of those early-morning flights.”

“You weren’t going to say good-bye?” Sigmund and now Zach, I thought. What was it with these guys? “How are you getting to the airport?”

“Uh, taxi.”

“At least let me pick you up. What time?”

“No need.”

“I insist, Zach.”

I heard him put his phone down, so I must have caught him in his room. He came back on shortly. “My flight leaves so early, six fifty.”

“Fine. I’ll see you at five thirty tomorrow,” I had said.

Carlo put his life of Wittgenstein on his lap. My own Clive Cussler had been resting on mine for some time. It wasn’t exciting enough to help me escape from real life. He reached over and lightly cupped my hand in his own. “What’s wrong, O’Hari?” he said again.

So I told him. Oh, not about a man who was about to serve a life term for having sex with a mummy. Not about the serial killer who had obsessed me for the past thirteen years; who was likely still on the loose; and, if Sigmund’s conjecture was solid, who might very well be killing even now. Not about how I suspected that someone had tried to have me killed and, failing, would try to do it again. And certainly not about killing Gerald Peasil and how I covered it up because I was still certain the Perfesser couldn’t live with knowing what I was capable of.

Leaving out the gory bits, I told Carlo about a father who lost his child and who couldn’t come to terms with her death. And how I couldn’t stop feeling responsible for it all.

Carlo listened without speaking, without trying to quick-fix things. When I was done he slouched down in his chair a bit as if feeling the weight of it and said, “Life is so damn hard.”

“You got that right. It sucks.”

“And then you die?” He appeared to give that some thought, then shrugged. “I don’t think of myself as a Pollyanna, but I have to say I’ve seen blessing come out of pain before.”

“Careful, Perfesser, you’re sounding a lot like a priest.”

“Maybe.” Carlo swirled the rest of his wine around and breathed in the scent. “Trying to derive meaning from hardship isn’t exclusively Christian. There’s Viktor Frankl. And I like what someone once said: ‘there’s a crack in everything, and that’s how the light gets in.’”

I pointed to his book. “Wittgenstein?”

He shook his head. “Leonard Cohen.”

And as with Sigmund, who already knew so much about me, I wished I could tell Carlo everything. I could feel the words expand in my chest and it took all my power to keep them there. I summoned a grin and flipped my fingers in the sign of the cross. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned; my last confession was forty-five years ago,” I said.

“Sorry, when you took me on as a husband you gave up the possibility of me as your confessor. You’ll have to find another priest.”

“You’re not really a priest anymore, are you?”

Carlo’s tone turned, not serious, but more thoughtful, as if I’d made him remember. “Actually yes, I am. I’ll never be able to make that stop.” Then he turned so he could see my reaction when he asked, “What about you, honey? Can you stop being a secret agent?”

“We’re called special agents.”

He gave a gentle smile. “Well then, can you stop being special?”

We both knew what he was talking about, and neither of us knew the answer. I heard the land line in the kitchen ring. Carlo took a sip of wine and said, with a little resignation, “We could let them leave a message.”

I left him to go answer the phone, thinking it was Coleman and not wanting to miss the opportunity to tell her off for letting me think she still had any control over the Lynch case and standing me up at the jail. It wasn’t her.

“Brigid,” Max Coyote said, his voice a tad more mournful than usual. “I’d like you to come down to the medical examiner’s office tomorrow, let’s say two o’clock.”

“Why?” I asked, “Did you find something out about that other body they found in the car?”

“No, it’s something else I want you to see,” he said. And disconnected.