The Gift of the Darkness (2 page)

Brown looked the girl straight in the eye. “Juvenile Court is closed for the weekend, and you'll have to spend twenty-four hours in a cell with drunks and all kinds of violent offenders.” The girl blinked twice. “I don't think you want that.”

The kid swallowed hard; obviously it had been a bad night all around.

“All right.”

She moved a couple of steps in the direction of the door, her unwavering gaze on the two cops in front of her. She bent down and put the gun on the floor, eyes still on them, poised to flee.

Spencer's arm got her around the neck, and Dunne snapped cuffs onto the thin, pale wrists. It was over in seconds. The girl yelped. She tried to fight them off, without energy or hope, tears already streaming down her cheeks. Spencer let go of her. Madison knew he had a boy her age. She breathed in deeply and fastened the leather strap back into place on her holster, heart still drumming.

“It's not loaded.” Dunne said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” The clerk popped his head up from behind the
counter, evaluated the situation, and put in his two cents' worth. “Who's paying for the candy?”

Brown went over to the till and put a bill on the counter.

They walked the girl down the steps; she would ride with Brown and Madison, with Spencer to babysit her in the back. Dunne would drive the other car.

“Are you taking me to jail?” she asked nobody in particular.

“You're coming to the precinct, so we can talk about how you ended up in possession of this.” Spencer pointed at the gun.

The girl sort of flopped, as if all her energy had left her, and she hadn't had much to start with. Spencer and Madison held her up, not to restrain her but to make sure she would not collapse and split her head on the concrete.

The wind had brought some light rain, shaking the trees for all they were worth and washing a thin layer of damp leaves over the street. It was still pitch-black all around them except for the few lampposts glowing orange and the neon lights of the Night & Day. As they were helping her into the car, the girl looked up.

“Do you have, like, a newspaper or something?”

Her voice was less than a whisper.

Madison saw the dark patch on her pants. “I'll get some paper towels in the store.” She started up the steps. “Would you like a hot drink?”

The kid thought about it for a second.

“Coffee. Black.”

The car heater made the sharp smell of urine almost unbearable, and they rode with the windows down. The kid sat in the backseat with Spencer, holding the coffee cup with the tips of her fingers and drinking in small sips. They just couldn't shut her up now. It was not an uncommon reaction: her name was Rose, no last name, thirteen years old, no permanent address. She had seen a guy dropping a heavy brown paper bag into a trash bin in Pike Place Market, and she had hoped for leftovers. The piece had been wrapped in a tea towel.

“You pointed a gun at two cops,” Spencer said. “That's a full ten on the Dumb scale.”

“You
knew
it was unloaded, right?” Madison said.

“What do you think?” There was a one-second delay in the answer.

“Maybe and maybe not.” Brown drove quickly, with the occasional glance in the rearview mirror. “Either way, we got ourselves a problem. We're Homicide. We can't keep you in our precinct, since you didn't kill anybody.” He paused. “You didn't kill anybody, did you?”

“No.”

“That's good. But we can't let you go, either, 'cause you just waved your piece in our faces, and that put you right in our jurisdiction.”

If Brown had wanted to put the fear of God into the girl, he was doing it well. Madison gave her between two and four weeks, since she had left wherever she was coming from.

“What we'll have to do is call somebody from Social Services to come pick you up,” Brown continued in a steady monotone. “And they're going to be pissed off, because it's five in the morning, on a Sunday, no less, and they have already had a week full of this crap. And one of us is going to have to stay behind with you, call your family, write a report on how you got the gun, and what happened. And wait for somebody to get you off our hands. You understand? You could be dead now, kid.”

“And your word is jackshit on a cracker,” the girl muttered.

Forty-five minutes later Madison sat at her desk in the squad room, typing. The others had gone home with mumbled thanks after she had volunteered to stay on. The girl was wearing a pair of clean tracksuit bottoms Madison had in her locker and eating a chicken sandwich rescued from the fridge next door. Madison hoped the “best before” date was merely a suggestion—it had smelled okay.

A few phone calls had been made, and Shawna Williams was on her way from Social Services.

Madison pulled the sheet of paper out of the printer and put it on the side of her desk. She stood up and stretched; the midnight-to-eight tour was all out, and she and the girl were alone.

It was a grim room: desks, lamps, chairs, and a few filing cabinets, all in a charming shade of gunmetal gray. Brown's desk was opposite hers; he kept a paperback copy of
Moby-Dick
in a drawer as a sign of hope. One day, he had told her, people might stop killing one another long enough for him to read it. It hadn't happened so far.

Rose was oblivious to the decor; she was concentrating on a donut and a mug of hot chocolate. A detective had brought the mug from home; on the side it read
I've walked Mount Rainier
.

Exhausted as the girl was, Madison could see that the food and cocoa had done her good. A smart kid could travel a long way, but not in winter: if the street didn't kill you, the cold and the rain would.

“Are you sure there's nobody you'd like to call? You can call long-distance, or I can find the number for you if you have a name.”

The girl shook her head. Madison knew what Rose was seeing: an adult with good warm clothes, three meals a day, and the keys to an apartment—maybe even a house. Rose didn't want to explain herself to such a person. Madison understood that better than Rose would ever know.

“I remember the first time I was in a police station,” Madison said as she picked up an apple from her desk and took a bite.

The girl was too tired to even pretend that she was interested.

“I was twelve years old. Ran away from home. County police picked me up near the Canada border, north of Anacortes. I was gone for a week before they found me.”

“Bullshit.”

“Nope. One week. It was August and very hot, not like now.” Madison was matter-of-fact. “We were living on an island; one day I just took the ferry.”

“This is just something you're making up. I bet you tell this story to all the kids you pick up.”

The girl seemed very small just then and closed up like an angry little fist.

“Morning, Detective.” Shawna Williams walked into the room, an African-American woman in her early forties. They had met for
the first time when Madison was still in uniform. She looked down at the blond girl.

“Who's this, then? May I borrow your interview room?”

“Be my guest. Help yourself to coffee.”

“Who made it?”

“I did.”

“You make coffee like it's the last cup you'll ever drink.”

“You say that like it's a bad thing.”

“Only if you want to live past forty.”

“I'll bear that in mind.”

“You do that,” she said, and she poured herself a cup. “Let's go.”

Madison and the girl nodded a sort of good-bye to each other; she extended a business card toward Rose.

“You find another gun . . .”

The girl put the card in her pocket and went off down the dimly lit corridor. Shawna's warm tones bounced off the walls, but Madison could not hear the words anymore. Somebody somewhere would have to investigate how the girl had gotten the gun and whether it had been used for anything less than legal, but not till tomorrow.

At 6:00 a.m., Madison slipped her jacket on, straightened the papers on her desk, turned off her lamp, and prepared to leave. Howard Jenner, the desk sergeant, waved, the phone's receiver cradled on his shoulder. Two detectives walked up the steps with a drunken man in handcuffs; he looked at Madison as she walked past.

“Sweet dreams, honey.” His voice was like a broken bottle.

The rain had stopped, and the sky was wide above her.

Alki Beach was deserted at that time of day. Madison parked in her usual spot and climbed into the backseat. She peeled off her slacks and pulled on sweatpants and a faded Sonics sweatshirt. She had never liked the idea of leaving her weapon in the car, in case some bright thief decided her four-year-old Honda was worth stealing. She got out, adjusted the holster under her sweatshirt, and rolled her head from side to side. The muscles above her shoulder blades were tight; it was cold and damp, and she would need to warm up pretty quickly.
She leaned on the car with one hand, grabbed one foot and pulled it up high behind her, then did the same with the other.

She started toward the water's edge with a gentle jog, and after a couple of minutes she put some speed into it and really dug into the ground. In a while the world would just be the water lapping and her feet hitting the sand.

In the near-complete darkness of the Hoh River Trail, a three-hour drive from Seattle, a man races through the woods, a blur through the trees. It is the thirty-seventh time he has run that stretch, the twentieth in darkness. Fast enough to keep him alive for the time he will need, slow enough for his ultimate purpose. He reaches the bottom of the bank and checks his watch.
Twenty-three minutes
. He lifts his face to the open sky, shivering in the sudden breeze, and his colorless eyes find a smattering of stars.
How long does it take to be good?

Chapter 2

Alice Madison drives into the first light of the morning. Her own car smells fresh—not perfumed, just very clean and slightly leathery—and Madison drives it at the legal speed limit. From the speakers Arcade Fire blasts “No Cars Go” loud enough to knock any thoughts about what happened in the convenience store right out of her.

When news of her transfer to Homicide had come through, Brown and Spencer had done the usual checks. It was an unofficial tradition: a few phone calls here and there, and even Madison's college records could have been pulled from the University of Chicago. What they learned was what they needed to know; the rest would take care of itself soon enough.

Alice Eleanor Madison was born in Los Angeles and had attended six different schools in six different cities before she arrived in Seattle at thirteen and apparently decided to stay put. University of Chicago, degree in psychology and criminology, magna cum laude. Sailed through the Police Academy and, Spencer was pleased to add, in the sixty-seconds hand-strength test held an above-ninety average for each hand, with a Model 19 Smith & Wesson.

“Just what we needed.” It was Brown's only comment.

She was single, drank little, didn't smoke, and paid her bills on time. She socialized occasionally with other cops but mostly kept herself to herself.

Dunne's contribution to the background check was the fact that Madison had been asked out by at least seven of his acquaintances in other precincts and politely turned down every one of them, even the unmarried ones.

For the past four weeks Madison had been working flat out, keeping her eyes and ears open, her years in uniform only the foundation of the house she wanted to build. Between them Brown, Spencer, and Dunne had forty years on the job, twenty of them in Homicide. It was like being in school again.

Three Oaks was a tree-lined neighborhood on the southwestern edge of the city limits. Two- and three-story houses nestled behind Douglas firs, boasting well-tended gardens and two-car garages. Behind the houses the lawns sloped down to the waters of the Puget Sound. Small neat piers for boats and a narrow pebble beach ran along many properties, Vashon Island a dark green strip across the water. It represented quiet wealth; professionals bought in or inherited from their parents. Madison had inherited from her grandparents.

This early on a Sunday the streets were empty, and only a few keen birds dared break the silence. Madison turned into Maplewood Avenue and some yards later into her driveway. For just one heartbeat she thought she saw someone in one of the first-floor windows, but she knew it was only the shadow of a tree.

She parked her car next to her grandparents' Mercedes. It had not been driven now for over a year, and Madison didn't notice it any more than she did the trees around her or the rocks that lay under the fallen leaves. It was simply landscape.

A padded envelope was propped up against the door, nothing written on either side of it. Madison smiled; it felt soft and full to the touch. She let herself in and opened the little catch on the back of the manila. The note inside it read, Brunch is at 12. Come when you can. See you later. Rachel.

Madison dug into the envelope and took a bite off a chocolate chip cookie.

Shawna Williams had thanked her for waiting with the kid, even after the girl had pointed a gun at her.

Vague shapes were only beginning to form through the large windows onto the patio at the back. Madison sat down on the sofa and looked out at the lawn and the water. She leaned her head against the back.

Her mind flashed back to the girl gripping a gun for dear life. Rose. Madison knew with complete certainty what she would have done if the kid had tried to take a shot at Brown. It didn't surprise her but filled her with a dull ache. What would Shawna Williams make of that? she wondered.

Her beach run had used up the last of her energy, just as she had hoped it would; she closed her eyes, fell into the dream, and Alice Madison, twelve years old, woke up with a start in her childhood bedroom in Friday Harbor.

The moon is high outside the open window, as always, a warm breeze brushes her cotton sheets, and her heart beats rabbit fast. She knows what's coming. The Mickey Mouse clock on her bedside table reads 2:15 a.m., as always, and her eyes slowly focus in the gloom.

Her mother died five months earlier, and in her grief Alice can barely breathe. Her books stand in rows on the shelves, her clothes folded neatly on the chair, her bunny slippers by the bed. She knows what's coming. The floor in the hall creaks, and her head whips around to her closed door. Someone is in the house. Her father works nights, and she does not expect him back till dawn.

Her eyes blink, and she forces herself to think.
It could be Dad
. No, the light in the hall is off. He would have turned on the light; he would have checked in on her. Dad would not creep around in the dark. Her nails press into her palms through the sheets. Someone is moving from room to room, heavy steps trying to be light, going into her parents' room.

Her baseball bat is under the bed, and she reaches for it quickly without taking her eyes off the door.

He's in the hall again. Alice is afraid to move and afraid to stay where she is. She is frozen, with one bare foot on the cold floor and the rest of her still under the sheet, the bat now gripped in both hands. The steps pause in front of her room, and time stops: 2:18 a.m. Alice doesn't make a sound, doesn't blink, doesn't move, doesn't breathe. Then a dog barks nearby, and Madison wakes up in her empty house in Three Oaks, her holster digging into her side and her heart still drumming.

She was used to the dream, like a scar when you rolled up a sleeve: ugly, permanent, and private. The dream didn't always end there; sometimes she would get to the point where the bat would swing, and the crashing of glass would wake her, but not this time.

Less than half a mile away, James Sinclair has not moved for hours and cannot feel the first light across his body. Shadows form, lengthen, and melt away. Silence, like smoke, has reached into the corners of the room.