Glass Houses (31 page)

But she did. In her heart she knew.

“Didn't Thom tell you?” said Anita. “He's no longer freelancing. He's using that leave for its intended purpose.”

They shook hands and Birdie watched all their hard work and research disappear down the street.

“I'll be damned,” whispered Birdie.
He's the smart one
.

Back upstairs, Thom erased black marker from the dry erase board.

“What about tick tock?” said Birdie. “Sunday?”

“I haven't forgotten. There's one last thing I need you to do.”

fifty-five

Birdie turned on the
11:00 p.m. news and perched on the edge of the couch next to Thom. A graphic in big red letters read:
Developing News.

“Good evening. You saw it here on our six o'clock broadcast. There is so much to this fast-developing story … in late-breaking news, law enforcement officials have confirmed that the recent murders of city attorney, Dominic Lawrence, and his family might be related to the homicides of four other people in the Southland. Authorities issued the brief statement late this evening, but would not confirm rumors of a serial killer on the loose. A source close to the investigation did say homicide detectives are working around the clock and have identified more than one person of interest in the murders. While the unnamed source offered no details of the murders, the source did clarify the department is certain the victims were expressly targeted and the general population is not in danger. We'll be monitoring the situation and update you as information becomes available.”

“There's frenzied activity going on in the PAB tonight,” said Thom, clicking off the TV. “People on high alert. A department under pressure. Affidavits are being written. Search warrants will be served. Evidence will be discovered and an official taskforce will be in place to sift through it all. The arrest of the killer or killers is eminent. No need to kill again and risk detection.” He placed his hands behind his head and leaned back. “Not a bad day's work.”

“Wonder how the reporter found out?”

“Most likely an anonymous tip from a trusted source to a colleague.”

“Hum. At least the press has something new to focus on instead of our family.”

“A nice side effect.”

“Indeed.”

fifty-six

Saturday, May 19

Birdie sprinted the last
few yards to the lip of the ridge. She threw up her arms and danced a jig, then sat on a rock to catch her breath. She sucked on the water tube, washed the grit from her throat.

She cupped her mouth and yelled down the trail. “Come on slowpoke.”

A red-tailed hawk drifting overhead amused her attention while she waited.

Thom slowly came into view, panting, bent over, hands on his knees.

“Oh, Jesus, save me.”

He gave Birdie a weak high-five, then slumped to the ground with a thud and billowing dirt.

“You call this fun?” He wiped his face and neck with a bandana.

“The best kind. When I'm back here in the hills, or in the desert, or in a forest, I'm forced to push back all the melodrama and concentrate on my footing, the environment. I reflect on how small and imperfect I am. It's like church without the congregation to compete with. He hears my voice above the din. I haven't done much meditation lately and I needed this.”

Thom nudged his cousin in a gesture of understanding and support. “I suppose I needed it, too.”

“So many people consider this landscape as nothing more than scrubby brush, but the chaparral is so vibrant. Highly flammable, of course. But after a fire? The terrain bounces back, regrows quickly. The black sage, sugar bush, manzanita, sumac, yucca, the buckwheat. It all comes back stronger than ever.”

“Like us Keanes.”

“Hm-mm.”

“I can't believe I made it to the top intact.”

“Hey, Thom? I hate to break it to you, but we're not done yet. We're only halfway. We still have to hike down.”

“
Yeah
, downhill.”

“Hard on the knees. Trust me, we still have a journey.”

“Oh, cheer up. See that?” He pointed seaward. “The marine layer is retreating. I think May Gray is finally over and we're gonna have some sun.”

“I hope so. I really hope so.”

fifty-seven

Sunday, May 20

As if in premonition
Ron's eyes popped open. Breath labored. Did he wake from a bad dream? If so, he didn't remember. He reached out to touch Birdie's hip, felt the warmth of her skin beneath the sheet. Her slight movement palliative. The dying embers from the bedroom fireplace cast a warm glow on her cheek. She lay stretched out on her side, fingers and toes curling around the mattress edge as if holding on. The pillow between her legs a psychological stop sign.

Still, each week brought a new improvement.

Gone were the flannel pajamas with the scissored cuffs (because she didn't like anything touching the ligature scars). Nearly gone were the fights with the covers and the moaning.

Yet, she still required light. The fire a compromise. Ron threw off the sheet and got up to lay another log. He didn't want her to awaken in the dark, disoriented.

Father Frank had told him that Birdie needed the light because
it represented the peace and warmth of heaven. When she rediscovered
that in herself she'd flip the switch of her own accord. Until then …

The cell on the dresser lit with an incoming call. Ron scooped it up before it began to vibrate and palmed it against his stomach. He checked the caller ID as he ran downstairs then continued to the garage where he slumped to the floor.

“Hello, Noa,” he answered.

“My brother.” No happiness behind the words.

Ron waited as his friend took a breath before delivering the bad news.

“She has his name and location.”

Ron dropped the phone and covered his face, fingers pressing into his eyes. He wished he could place a capstone on his feelings. Hold back the revival of uncertainty.

His three favorite things were right here: the Pacific Ocean, his Craftsman house, and Birdie. The ocean was his sustenance. The place where he drew upon earth's energy to supply him with the strength, will, and discipline to become a better man. The right man. The house was his sanctuary. The place he relied on for shelter, safety, and serenity. Birdie was everything else. The thrumming heartbeat of his life. The nails that held the parts together. The promise.

And he was always fearful of losing that last.

“I know you're still there, brother,” said Noa's voice from the floor.

Ron picked up the phone and wiped his eyes.

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“Forget to call me?”

“I worry. What are you going to do?”

“I've been thinking about warfighting.”

“Which aspect? The philosophy, the doctrines?”

“Everything.”

“So … in the progression of conflict you've moved past observation and are currently in orientation?”

“Yes. I'm making an estimate of the situation.”

“Next up, decision.”

“Then action.”

“Let me remind you of something … the function of war is to impose our will on our enemy. That requires violence or the threat of. He's not yours.”

“Oh, yes he is. He's the friction that has become a constant in my life.”

“Brother, I'm your second. As such, I've already gone over every scenario since I last saw you. They all have one outcome. Loss. Listen to me, your feelings for Birdie are not a weakness. Your emotions are inflamed by a love that has eluded you for forty-four years and you're still trying to come to grips with a simple word for a complicated device that's screwed up mankind.”

“Screwed up is right.”

“If the great poet laureates can't figure out the pulse that resonates in all humankind, how can a simple man profess to know anything about the great mystery of love?”

“This from a man who gets involved with married women to avoid it.”

Noa cleared his throat. “Enough philosophy. What of diplomacy?”

“An understanding with Birdie is fruitless. That battle was already fought and lost.”

“What about with him? Could you negotiate a deal with him?”

“That depends on who gets to him first.”

“Keep in mind that in every campaign there is no division between offense and defense. They are necessary components of the other. Remember what Sun Tzu wrote in
The Art of War
, ‘He will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight.'”

“He also said, ‘The general who wins a battle makes many calculations in his temple before the battle is fought.' I told you, I'm in orientation. I haven't made a decision.”

Noa blew out a frustrated breath. “You've had enough death in your life. I don't want you to kill him.”

“I understand.”

“So tell me you won't.”

“I wish I could.”

the end

acknowledgments

I thank Robert Bub and Scott Smith of the LAPD who continue to be sources of inspiration and on whom I rely for the procedural matters and the inside view. Thanks to Ron Bowers who takes the time to answer my legal questions. I am solely responsible for alterations of fact in service to the story.

To my disbanded drinking group with the writing problem: Linda Cessna, Anna Kennedy, Kurt Kitasaki, Doug Lyle, Rob Northrop, and Theresa Schwegel, I miss you all and the valuable lessons you've taught me over the years.

To my new writing group: Sandy Battista, Craig Strickland, Laurie Thomas, Donna Todd, Anne Van, and Barbara Varma, thank you for your professional critique, laughter, and friendship.

I remain indebted to my literary agent, Kimberley Cameron, who is always accessible and supportive of the writer's dream and vision.

To the staff at Llewellyn/Midnight Ink: thank you for your support and expertise, especially Terri Bischoff who will always have a special spot in my heart and Connie Hill for making the task of editing so easy and enjoyable.

Thanks to Todd Moysychyn who loaned his name to a man he most certainly is not.

A special thank you is reserved for my ever-faithful and reliable family, Scott, Brenna, David, my parents and, first fans, Pat and Margie. You all have my love and admiration forever and ever.

about the author

Terri Nolan is a novelist and freelance crime reporter. She lives in Southern California. Visit her at www.terrinolan.com.

Author photo by Tanni Tronsen.