Shadow Man (7 page)

7

W
E’RE SITTING INSIDE
a Subway sandwich store, and I’m watching in fascination as Callie fills her apparently hollow leg with a footlong meatball sandwich. I’ve always wondered how she does it. She can pack away more food than a linebacker, and yet she never gains a pound. I smile, thinking maybe it’s those five-mile jogs she does, every morning, seven days a week. She licks her fingers loudly, smacking her lips with such enthusiasm that two older ladies shoot us a look of disapproval. Satisfied, she sighs and settles back, sipping on her Mountain Dew through a straw. It strikes me that this, right here, is the essence of Callie. She does not just watch life go by, she devours it. She gulps it down without chewing, and always goes back for more. I smile to myself, and she frowns, shaking a finger at me.

“You know, I brought you to lunch because I wanted to tell you how pissed off I am at you, honey-love. No returning my calls, not even an e-mail. Not acceptable, Smoky. I don’t care how fucked up you are.”

“I know, Callie. And I’m sorry. I mean it—I’m really, truly sorry.”

She stares at me for a moment, an intense stare. I’ve seen her give it to a criminal or two, and I feel I deserve it. It passes and she smiles one of those radiant smiles, waving her hand. “Apology accepted. Now for the real question: How are you? I mean, really. And don’t lie to me.”

I stare off for a moment, stare at my sandwich. Look at her. “Until
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37

today? Bad. Real bad. I have nightmares, every night. I’ve been depressed, and it’s only been getting worse, not better.”

“Been thinking about killing yourself, haven’t you?”

I feel the same jolt, at a lower frequency, that I felt in Dr. Hillstead’s office. Here, I somehow feel more ashamed. Callie and I have always been close, and whether spoken or expressed, there is a love there. But it’s been a love based on strength, not weeping on each other’s shoulders. I am afraid that this love would lessen or disappear if Callie had to pity me. But I answer.

“I thought about it, yes.”

She nods and then is silent, looking off to something or somewhere I can’t see. I feel a prick of déjà vu; she looks as Dr. Hillstead looked, trying to decide which fork in the road to take. “Smoky, there’s nothing weak about that, honey-love. Weakness would be actually pulling the trigger. Crying, having nightmares, being depressed, thinking about killing yourself, those things don’t make you weak. They just mean you hurt. And anyone can hurt, even Superman.”

I stare at her and am at a loss for words. One hundred percent lost, I can’t think of a thing to say. This is just not what Callie does, and it has caught me by surprise. She gives me a soft smile.

“You know, you have to beat it, Smoky. Not just for you. For me.” She sips her drink. “You and I, we’re alike. We’ve always been golden. Things have always gone our way. We’re good at what we do—hell, we’ve always been able to be good at anything we put our minds to, you know?”

I nod, still speechless.

“I’m going to tell you something, honey-love, something philosophical. Note it on your calendar, because I’m not one to get deep in public.” She puts down her drink. “A lot of people paint that same, tired old picture: We start out innocent and bright-eyed, and then we become jaded. Nothing’s ever quite as good again, blah, blah, blah. I’ve always thought that was a pile of poop. Not all lives start out innocent and Norman Rockwell, now, do they? Ask any child in Watts. I’ve always thought it’s not so much that we learn that life is shit. It’s that we learn that life can hurt. Does that make sense?”

“Yes.” I’m mesmerized.

“Most people get hurt early. You and I—we’ve been lucky. Very, very lucky. We see the hurt, doing what we do, but it’s never been us. Not really.
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C O D Y M C F A D Y E N

Look at you—you found the love of your life, had a beautiful child, and you were an ass-kicking FBI agent, a woman no less, all on the rise like a bright, shooting star. And me? I haven’t done so bad either.” She shakes her head. “I’ve managed not to get too full of myself, but the truth is, I’ve always had my pick of the guys, and I was lucky enough to have a brain to go with the bod. And I’m good at what I do at the Bureau. Real good.”

“You are,” I agree.

“But, see, that’s just it, honey-love. You and I have never really experienced tragedy. We’re alike in that way. Then all of sudden, the bullets stopped bouncing off of you.” She shakes her head. “The moment that happened, I couldn’t be fearless, not anymore. I was afraid, really afraid, for the first time in my life. Ever. And I’ve been afraid ever since. Because you are better than me, Smoky. You always have been. And if it can happen to you, it can damn sure happen to me.” She sits back, puts her hands flat on the table. “End of speech.”

I have known Callie for some time. I have always known that she has depths uncharted. The mystery of those depths, glimpsed but not revealed, has always been a part of her charm for me, her strength. Now the curtain has parted for a moment. It’s like the first time someone lets you see them naked. It is the essence of trust, and I am touched in a way that makes me weak at the knees. I reach over and grab her hand.

“I’ll do my best, Callie. That’s all I can promise. But I do promise that.”

She squeezes my hand back, and then pulls it away. The curtain has been closed. “Well, hurry it up, will you, please? I enjoy being arrogant and untouchable, and I blame you for the lack thereof.”

I smile and look at my friend. Dr. Hillstead had told me earlier that I was strong. But for me, it is Callie who has always been my private hero when it comes to strength. My crass-talking patron saint of irreverence. I shake my head. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I say. “I have to use the restroom.”

“Don’t forget to put the lid down,” she says.

I see it when I exit the bathroom, and what I see tells me to stop. Callie isn’t aware of me yet. Her attention is focused on something in her hand. I step to the side, so that the doorway blocks her view of me a little, and stare.

Callie looks sad. Not just sad—bereft.

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I have seen Callie be scornful, gentle, angry, vengeful, witty—any number of things. I have never seen her sad. Not like this. And I know, somehow, that it has nothing to do with me.

Whatever she holds in her hand is bringing my hero to something just short of grief, and I am shocked.

I am also certain that this is a private thing. Callie will not want to know that I have seen her this way. She may only have one face to show the world, but she chooses what parts of it to show. She hasn’t chosen to show me this, whatever
this
is. I go back into the bathroom. To my surprise, one of the older women is there, washing her hands, and she glances at me in the mirror. I look back, biting a thumbnail as I think. Come to a decision.

“Ma’am,” I say, “can you please do me a favor?”

“What’s that, dear?” she asks, not missing a beat.

“I have a friend outside . . .”

“The rude one with the awful eating habits?”

Gulp.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What about her?”

I hesitate. “She . . . I think she’s having a private moment right now. Because I’m in here, and she’s alone. . . . I—”

“You don’t want to surprise her in that moment, is that it?”

Her instant and perfect understanding makes me pause. I stare at her. Stereotypes, I think again. So useless. I had seen an uptight, judgmental crone. Now I see kind eyes, wisdom, and a well-honed appreciation of the ridiculous. “Yes, ma’am,” I say, quiet. “She—well . . . she’ll always be crass, but she’s got the biggest heart I know.”

The woman’s eyes soften and her smile is beautiful. “Many great people have eaten with their hands, dear. Leave it to me. Wait thirty seconds and then come out.”

“Thank you.” I mean it; she knows it.

She leaves the bathroom without another word. I wait for a little more than thirty seconds and follow. I peek around the corner and now my eyebrows raise. The woman is standing by our table, shaking a finger at Callie. I walk toward them.

“Some people like a quiet lunch,” I hear the woman saying. Her tone is reprimand as a weapon, as an Olympic sport. The kind that has the
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C O D Y M C F A D Y E N

ability to make you feel ashamed rather than angry. My mom was world-class at it.

Callie is scowling at the woman. I can see the storm clouds building, and I hurry over. The woman is doing me a favor; better not let it become fatal.

“Callie,” I say, placing a warning hand on her shoulder. “We should get going.”

She scowls harder at the woman, who looks about as intimidated as a dog sleeping on its back in a patch of sun.

“Callie,” I say again, more insistent. She looks at me, nods, stands up, and puts on her sunglasses with a haughty flourish that fills me with admiration. 9–9–10, I think, a near-perfect score. The Olympics of the ice queens is a heated one this year, and the crowd is roaring. . . .

“Can’t get me out of here fast enough,” she says with disdain. She grabs her purse and inclines her head to the woman. “Good day,” she says.
Drop dead,
her voice implies.

I hurry us out. I shoot one last glance over my shoulder at the woman. She gives me another one of those beautiful smiles. The kindness of strangers rears its bittersweet head once again. The drive back is entertaining, with Callie at a slow boil. I nod and murmur at the right places as she mutters about “old bats” and

“wrinkly, raisined people” and “elitist mummies.” My private thoughts are filled with that sad look, so alien to see on my friend’s face. We arrive back at the parking lot, near my car.

I’ve decided it’s enough for today. I’ll go and see the Assistant Director some other time.

“Thanks, Callie. Tell Alan I’ll be by again sometime soon. Even if it’s just to say hi.”

She shakes her finger at me. “I’ll tell him, honey-love. But don’t you dare ignore any more phone calls. You didn’t lose everyone who loves you that night, and you have friends beyond the job. Don’t forget that.”

She squeals off before I can reply, having gotten in the last word. This is Callie’s hallmark, and it makes me feel nice inside to have been the victim of it.

I get into my car, and I realize that I had been right last night. Today had been the day. I wasn’t going to go home and blow my brains out. How could I? I couldn’t even pick up my gun.

8

I
HAVE A
terrible night, a kind of Greatest Hits of bad dreams. Joseph Sands is there in his demon suit, while Matt smiles at me with a mouth full of blood. This morphs into Callie at the Subway shop, looking up from her sad piece of paper, pulling out her gun, and shooting the Subway lady through the head. She then goes back to slurping on her straw, but her lips are too red and too full, and she catches me watching and gives me a wink like a corpse closing one eye. I wake up, shivering, and realize that my phone is ringing. I look at my clock. It’s five in the morning. Who’d be calling now? I haven’t gotten any early-morning calls since I went on leave. I can still feel the dream bouncing around inside my head, but I push the images away and take a moment to stop shivering before I grab the phone.