Shadow Man (28 page)

26

I
AM IN
the passenger seat of Callie’s car, praying we’ll survive getting to our destination in Ventura County. Callie is driving down the 101 freeway like a madwoman, breaking the sound barrier. I can only hope that the others are behind us. Leo had found the address belonging to the registered owner of the Red Rose Internet domain, and Callie had raced out the door before any of us could react. All I could do was run after her.

I look at her. She’s terror and danger, all rolled up together.

“Talk to me, Callie,” I say as I grip the armrest on the door.

“Look in my wallet,” she growls. “It’s in my purse.”

I grab the wallet and open it. I know what she wants me to find the moment I see it. It’s a small picture. A black-and-white, the kind of baby photo they take at the hospital. It shows a newborn, eyes squinched shut, head still a little bit cone-shaped from having fought through the birth canal.

“I was fifteen,” Callie says as she makes a hairpin turn, tires squealing. Her voice is tight. “Fifteen and silly and stupid. I slept with Billy Hamilton because he managed to charm the skirt off me and he smelled so good. Isn’t that funny, honey-love?” she says, bitter. “That’s what I remember about Billy. He smelled good. Like sun and rain, mixed up together.”

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169

I don’t reply. None is needed.

“Billy knocked me up, and it was a scandal like no other in the history of the Thorne household. Or the Hamilton household, for that matter. My dad almost disowned me. My mom went to church and stayed there for days. An abortion was out of the question—we were a good Catholic family, you know.” The words are biting, full of sarcasm and pain. “The dads got together and worked it all out. That’s how things went then in upscale Connecticut. Billy had a future, I might have one—though of course I was tainted now.” She grips the steering wheel. “They decided I’d finish out that year being homeschooled, have the baby quietly, and it would be put up for adoption. The homeschooling would be explained with a cover story—I was going through treatment for severe allergies, which required a few months of isolation. That’s what they decided, and that’s exactly what happened. The timing was perfect. I had her over the summer, and I was ready to go back to school the next year like nothing had happened. Which is almost how it was. Like it hadn’t happened.” Another hairpin turn, more squealing tires. “I wasn’t allowed to go out, and Billy was warned to keep his mouth shut under pain of death.” She shrugs. “He wasn’t a bad one. He did keep his mouth shut, and he never treated me badly after that. The whole thing just sort of . . . went away.” She nods at the picture in my hand. “But even though I was stupid and silly, I knew it wasn’t right to pretend it was just a dream. One of the nurses took that picture for me. I forced myself to look at it at least once a month. And I made some decisions.” Her voice is low, earnest. I can imagine her, sitting alone in her room, taking a silent oath. “I was never going to be stupid and silly again. I was done being Catholic. And that was the last time that lifechanging decisions were going to be made on my behalf by anyone.”

“Jesus, Callie.” I don’t know what else to say.

She shakes her head, once. “I never tried to find her, Smoky. I didn’t feel it would be right to. I mean, I knew she had been adopted. I did know that much. Beyond that, I decided that she needed to be allowed to live her own life.” She laughs, a painful laugh, like a knife cutting metal. “But I guess what they say is true, honey-love. You never get to stop being a parent, not even if you’ve given up your child. She runs a porn site, and she’s probably dead because I’m her mommy. Isn’t life a hoot?”

170

C O D Y M C F A D Y E N

Her hands are shaking on the wheel. I look down at the photo again. This is what she’d been looking at when I came out of that bathroom. Callie, crass and irreverent and quick-tongued, so full of unbreakable confidence. How many times a year did she pull out this picture, look at it, and feel the sadness I’d seen on her face?

I look out the window. The rolling hills whip past us, along with the occasional exit sign. The day is engorged with sunlight gold, the sky perfect and cloudless. This is the kind of brightness people think of when they hear the word
California
.

Fuck perfect skies and sunlight. Some part of me wants to scream right now. Because reality keeps knocking down those pins, boy: Matt, Alexa, Annie, Elaina . . . now Callie. Instead, I try to put the force of what I’m feeling into my words.

“Listen to me, Callie. She might not be dead. They might just be screwing with you.”

She doesn’t respond. Looks at me for a moment. Her eyes are filled with despair. She drives faster.

We arrive in Moorpark about thirty minutes after we’d pulled away from the office, thanks to Callie’s race-car driving. It’s a small but growing city near Simi Valley and Thousand Oaks, a mix of middle and upper-middle class, and we are in the center of the suburbs. We pull up to the house. It’s a two-story, painted white with blue trim. Everything is quiet. A neighbor across the way is mowing his lawn. The banality is surreal. Callie jumps out of her car, gun at the ready. A redheaded death machine driven by fear.

“Fuck,” I mutter, getting out to follow her. This is all wrong. I look down the street, hoping to see Alan or James barreling after us, but the surburban quiet prevails. I follow Callie to the door. The neighbor who’d been mowing his lawn has turned off the mower and is backing away, eyes agoggle.

Callie pounds on the front door without hesitation. “FBI!” she yells.

“Open up!”

There is silence. Then we hear footsteps coming to the door. I look at Callie. Her eyes are wide, nostrils flaring. I see her hands grip her weapon tighter.

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171

A voice comes through the door. Female. “Who is this?”

“FBI, ma’am,” Callie says, finger poised outside her trigger guard.

“Please open the door.”

I imagine the hesitation on the other side, can feel it. Then the knob turns, the door opens, and—

I am looking at Callie’s daughter, alive, eyes wide and frightened at the sight of the guns in our hands.

She’s holding a baby in her arms.

27

W
E’RE INSIDE, CALLIE
seated in the living room, head in her hands. I’m in the kitchen on my cell phone, talking to Alan.

“Nothing here,” I say. “He was messing with Callie.”

“James and I are about ten minutes out. You want us to keep coming?”

I look into the living room, at Callie and her daughter. The air is tense, filled with fear and the exhaustion of post-adrenaline rush.

“Nooo . . . I think the fewer people here, the better. Get back to the office. I’ll call you.”

“Got it.”

He hangs up. I take a deep breath and walk into the emotional cyclone. Callie’s daughter, whose name is Marilyn Gale, is frenetic and pacing, patting the baby on the back as she stops and starts, stops and starts. Patting more for her comfort than the baby’s, I think. God, she looks like Callie. Something she doesn’t seem to have noticed herself yet. A tad shorter, a touch heavier, her features a little softer. But the red hair is distinctive. And the face and figure have the same model-quality beauty to them. The eyes are different. Billy Hamilton’s ghost, I muse. It’s Marilyn’s anger that reminds me most of Callie right now. She’s pissed, the over-the-top pissed that sudden fear can create.

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“Do you want to tell me what’s going on here?” she shrills. “Why two FBI agents show up at my door with their guns out?”

Callie doesn’t respond. Her head is still in her hands. She looks drained.

I’m going to have to do the talking for now. “Do you want to sit down, Mrs. Gale? I’ll explain everything, but I think step one is to try and relax.”

She stops pacing and glares at me. It’s almost enough to make me think genetics does play some part in personality. I see Callie’s steel shining out from those angry eyes. “I’ll sit down. But don’t ask me to relax.”

I give her a weak smile. She sits. Callie still hasn’t lifted her head from her hands.

“I’m Special Agent Smoky Barrett, Mrs. Gale, and—”

She interrupts. “It’s Ms., not Mrs.” She pauses. “Barrett? You’re the agent who was attacked by that man six months ago? The one who lost her family?”

I flinch inside. But nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

This, more than anything, seems to drive the fear from her. She’s still not happy, but her anger is tinged with compassion. The cyclone subsides. Just little flashes of lightning on the fringes now. “I’m sorry,”

she says. She seems to notice my scars for the first time. Her gaze on them is measured and careful, but not repulsed. She looks right into my eyes, and I see something there that surprises me. Not pity. Respect.

“Thank you,” I say. I take a deep breath. “I’m in charge of the section of the LA branch of the FBI that deals with violent crimes. Serial murders. We’re after a man who has already killed one woman that we know of. He sent an e-mail to Agent Thorne that indicated you were a target.”