Forest Park was pretty in the summer. A light breeze tickled the leaves. The creek hummed and churned, birds chirped.
Archie sat on the ground near where they had found Heather Gerber’s corpse. He’d worked tirelessly on that case. His efforts had led to identifying the Beauty Killer’s signature, to the formation of the BK Task Force. Henry had thought it was because Heather was Archie’s first homicide. But it wasn’t that. It wasn’t even because Heather was a prostitute and a runaway and there was no one to care but Archie.
It was her ring. It had been embedded in the swollen flesh of her broken hand. A silver Irish Claddagh ring, worn on her right hand with the heart facing outward, away from the body, indicating that she was still looking for love.
He got up, brushed the dirt off his pants, and headed for the car. Henry was waiting in the driver’s seat, listening to the radio.
“You ready?” Henry asked.
Archie strapped on his seat belt as Henry pulled out of the park’s parking lot. He still had pain from his swollen liver, and he was exhausted all the time. But Fergus had him down to five pills a day. “Yep,” he said.
“So,” Henry said. “Have you punished yourself enough for your sins?”
Archie looked at Henry. Henry raised his eyebrows. “How much do you know?” Archie said slowly.
“I let you go,” Henry said. “That night at the Arlington. I figured you’d try some crazy-ass shit plan to catch her, and I let you go because I thought it was our best chance.” He waited. Archie didn’t say anything. “Is there anything you want to tell me?” Henry said.
Archie shrugged. “No,” he said.
“Seriously?” Henry said.
“I don’t believe you,” Archie said. “You’d never let me use myself as bait.”
“Yes I would,” Henry said.
“No you wouldn’t.”
“This from a guy who shtooped a serial killer.”
“I thought we weren’t going to talk about that.”
Henry snorted. “So, twenty-eight days,” he said, changing the subject. “Long time.”
“Will you come and visit me?” Archie asked.
“Yeah,” Henry said. “And Debbie said she’d bring the kids.”
Archie searched for the words to express what he wanted to say. “You know, you can ask Debbie out. If you want to.”
Henry drew back his head and looked at Archie like he was insane. “Why would I do that?” he asked.
Archie shrugged. “You two would be good together,” he said.
“I’ve been seeing Claire for the past few months,” Henry said. “We wanted to tell you. But it’s against policy and we weren’t sure what you’d think about it.”
“I thought Claire was gay.”
“Because she has short hair?”
“I guess,” Archie said.
“Progressive.”
“I’m happy for you guys.” Archie thought about Henry’s five marriages. “You’re not going to marry her, are you?”
“I don’t think my last divorce was ever legalized.”
“Nice.” Archie leaned forward and tried the AC. It blasted to life. “You got the AC fixed,” he said.
Henry cleared his throat. “Different car.”
They didn’t mention Gretchen. Archie turned and looked out the window. They were going over the Fremont Bridge. Archie could see Mount Hood and Mount St. Helens, huge on the horizon. The city looked green and beautiful.
Gretchen was smart. She was far away by now.
But Archie wasn’t worried.
He touched his pants pocket where his new cell phone was. It had the same number.
And he knew it was just a matter of time before she called.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to my husband, Marc Mohan, and our daughter, Eliza Fantastic Mohan; you are my two guys. Thanks also to my superhero agent, Joy Harris, and her left brain, Adam Reed, at the Joy Harris Literary Agency; Nick Harris at the Rabineau Wachter San-ford & Harris Literary Agency; my editor, Kelley Ragland, and her assistant, Matt Martz; Andrew Martin, George Witte, Sally Richardson, Matt Baldacci, Matthew Shear, Steve Troha, and the talented marketing team and sales force at SMP; my foreign publishers and editors, especially Maria Rejt and Katie James at Pan Macmillan; also Freddy and Pilar DeMann at DeMann Entertainment; Karen Munday at the Portland Audubon Society; Patricia Cain and Philip Miller for their medical expertise; Chuck Palahniuk, Suzy Vitello, and Diana Jordan for helping me unpack my depravity; Lisa Freeman for teaching me how to use a hypodermic (that’s going to come in handy someday, I know it); Barry Johnson and my other friends at The Oregonian; my elementary school librarian and Nancy Drew supplier, the late great Beti McCormick; our contractors, Amy Frye and Eli Lewis, because, after eight months, they are finished, and I miss them; and to every reader who’s ever e-mailed or wrote, especially the ones I never responded to (I meant to, I swear, you have no idea). Special thanks to my friends, who put up with me even though I don’t return calls, don’t e-mail, and almost never leave the house. I am going to name corpses after all of you.