When he got to Dyer’s house, he checked the name on the mailbox, then rang the doorbell. When no one answered, he peered through the window, saw lights inside and things he remembered: pictures of Dyer as a rookie and the day he made detective, leather furniture and Oriental rugs, rowed guns that looked the same as the last time they’d gone hunting together as partners and friends. That was hard to see because it reminded Adrian of laughter and hot sun, of quiet competition and bourbon drinks and dogs that lay panting and wet when the birds were rowed on the tailgate and the last gun put away in the back of the old truck. It drove home the sad fact that he and Francis had been friends, once; and it reminded him of the trial and disappointment, and of the unpleasant truth that had split them apart.
Everything Francis had said at Adrian’s trial was true. Julia had a face that could drive a man to do bad things, and Adrian was, in fact, obsessed. He’d fallen so hard and fast that even now the memory dizzied him. But, it was more than the face. It was visceral, electric, needful. They’d both been unhappy, and their first meeting delivered a shock of energy so strong it could have lit the city. Recognition. Desire. The need that even now he felt. They’d fought it, and not just because they were married. Her husband worked for the county and was helping with an embezzlement case that ran into the six figures. Money had been disappearing for years: $5,000 here, $10,000 there. The total was $230,000 at best count. Real money. A serious case.
After a week, it barely mattered.
After a month, he was lost.
Adrian slumped on the porch, feeling her death as if it had happened days ago and not years.
“Ah, Julia…”
It had been so long since he’d allowed the luxury of remembrance. It was hard in prison because it made him soft when he could not afford it. Besides, she was dead, and death was forever. So, where did that leave him now? Out of prison and alone, sitting before an empty house and suddenly full to bursting.
Thirteen years!
They filled him up, all those years, all the suffering and pain, the hours to think of things he’d lost and pieces that didn’t fit.
“Francis!”
He beat again on the door; knew it was pointless.
So, wait for him.
“That’s your advice, old man? Wait for him?”
’Less you plan to beat the door down or converse with an empty house.
Adrian took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. He was here for information, an exchange of words. That meant Eli was right. No violence.
“All right, then. We wait.”
Adrian found a dark place on the porch and sat with his back against the wall. He watched the empty street and tried to let the anger go. But what else was there?
Answers?
Peace?
You don’t look so good.
Adrian’s lips twisted in the dark. “I don’t feel so good, either.”
You can handle this, son. You’re bigger than this.
“I’m an ex-con talking to a dead man. I don’t know anything anymore.”
You know my secret.
“They’re watching me.”
Not right now they’re not. You can walk this very second. Go anywhere you want. Have anything you want.
“Maybe I want to kill them.”
We’ve discussed that.
“If I don’t kill them, they’ll find me.”
That’s the inmate talking.
“I don’t want to be alone, Eli.”
He’s coming.
“Don’t leave me.”
Hush, boy. The voice flickered, faded. Motherfucker’s right there.
Adrian opened his eyes as Francis Dyer stepped onto the porch. The suit was dark gray; the shoes glinted. He kept a shooter’s stance, weapon level as he checked the corners, the yard.
Adrian showed his hands. “Just take it easy, Francis.”
“Who were you talking to?”
“Myself. It happens.”
Dyer checked the corners again. His weapon looked like the same revolver he’d always carried. “What are you doing here?”
“I have questions.”
“Such as?”
“Where’s my wife?”
Tension showed on Dyer’s face; turned his fingers white on the gun. “That’s why you’re here?”
“Part of it.”
Adrian started to push himself up, but Dyer didn’t like it. “You sit until I say. Hands, again.”
Adrian took his hands from the decking and showed his palms.
“This is my house, Adrian. My home. Convicts don’t show up at a cop’s home. That’s how they get shot.”
“So do it.” Adrian put his hands on the floor; slid his back up the wall until he was standing. It was a small victory. He took it. “Where’s my wife?”
“I don’t know.”
“The farm’s burned. Liz says she disappeared.”
“I’m surprised she didn’t leave sooner.”
The revolver didn’t budge. Adrian studied the narrowed eyes, the tight lips. Catherine and Francis had been close. Hell, before the murder and the trial, they all had.
“You were her friend.”
“I was her husband’s partner; that’s different.”