Killer (27 page)

“I don’t work nights.”

“I seem to remember you showing up at my hotel room at three in the morning to check on your client,” I say.

“That was different.”

“Okay then, I’ll fight crime on my own. And then I’ll come here and mess up your bed with you, late at night, after I’ve vanquished the bad guys.”

“When will you sleep?”

“When does Batman sleep?” I say, and she laughs and I take her in my arms and kiss her deeply and we make love until the Roman shades on her bedroom windows turn iridescent blue with the pre-dawn light.

And then we sleep.

FINAL CHAPTER

“We see the past through tears, which render events into perfection. But our everyday lives assault us with the imperfect present—moment by moment, endless and indifferent—the only eternity we know. But in lonely moments we are haunted by what has passed, and helplessly beguiled toward a future perfect tense.”

From
Killer Unmasked

With these words, I concluded the
Killer
series. My publishers were graciously willing to let me off the hook for the fourth book, in light of the circumstances. But I knew I had to finish it, to put the final nail in the coffin. The chapter of my life that began with Sara’s death, so long ago, had to be put to rest. I changed Laurie Vonn’s name, changed her circumstances, and ended the series with the death of Killer—from a shotgun blast through his throat, fired by Katherine Kendall.

The publicity surrounding the events regarding David Doyle Harris catapulted sales of
Killer Unmasked
into the stratosphere. In three months,
Killer Unmasked
sold more copies than all three of the previous books combined. I instructed Joel to privately distribute all of my profit from the sales of the book among Laurie Vonn and the families of Caitlin Stubbs, Sharon Belton, and Beverly Grace.

I went to Sara’s grave for the first time since her funeral, on one of my trips to Los Angeles to have my wrist and hand rebuilt. I left flowers and said goodbye. I sent her things to her mother, who never responded. It is just as well.

I sold the cabin and moved to the city—I’m not going to tell you where. But one of the many things that have changed in my life since I killed David Doyle Harris ten months ago is that I no longer crave isolation. I enjoy the friends I am slowly coming to know, and Nicki and I are together pretty much all of the time. I even got a dog. A ragged terrier of dubious ancestry. And instead of trooping through the woods and ruminating over ruins, I walk my terrier, Joe, through the streets of the city—sometimes alone, sometimes with Nicki, but always with a pocketful of doggie treats and ridiculous plastic gloves people use to pick up dog droppings.

I attend writer’s conferences and speak sometimes and give interviews and book signings. The initial fury of media attention about David Doyle Harris lasted until the next big scandal took over the cable news, and I have settled into a routine that begins with work each day, then a workout at the gym down the street, and ends with a meal with Nicki and occasionally friends.

My new apartment is large and full of windows and light. The view of the city is spectacular and I like my neighbors and they seem to like me. The apartment has a bedroom, a guest room, an office, a large living room with a fireplace, and a spacious, brand new kitchen where I am perfecting my culinary skills through trial and error and Nicki’s unvarnished opinions. Melvin comes by whenever he’s in town, and one night after dinner at my place he took a sip of his favorite single malt and sat on the couch across from Nicki and me and said, “So what are you gonna write about now, Jackie? Now that you’ve killed the killer.” He gives me an arch smile.

“I’m working on an idea right now,” I say. “In fact, I was planning to call you in the next week or so to pick your brain.”

“Funny you should say that,” Melvin says. “I was thinking of calling to ask you the same thing.”

“Why would you want to pick my brain?” I ask, surprised.

Melvin tilts his head and lifts his eyebrows—his version of a shrug. He is not generous with compliments and he thinks for a while before he says, “Bureau’s full of good guys. Smart, thorough…but they’re Boy Scouts. Sometimes they’re not the most imaginative people on earth. You’re a good guy, but you’ve got that dark, crazy thing going on in that head of yours. I don’t know anybody who knows how to think like a bad guy like you can. And there’s a case we’re working where you might have some insight.”

“Wow,” I say. “Do I get a badge and a gun?”

Nicki glares at me.

“No badge, no gun,” Melvin says. “Maybe a library card, if you’re good.”

“Hell, I got one of those already,” I say. “What’s the case?”

“Three homicides, all women. Actresses…sort of. Actually, I thought of you because you might know something about one of them from your old days knocking around Hollywood—” Melvin is just warming to his subject and for a moment a trickle of memories from that time spill from somewhere in my head. But Melvin stops when he sees the look on Nicki’s face.

“We can talk later,” Melvin says, looking at the storm clouds gathering in Nicki’s eyes. “I think I’m already in trouble.”

“Yes, you are,” Nicki says. “Don’t encourage him. He thinks he’s Batman.”

Melvin laughs.

“I’m talking about reading books and briefs, not flying around like the caped crusader,” he says.

“Stick to the library,” Nicki says to Melvin with a level look. And even fearless Melvin seems smaller all of a sudden.

“I wouldn’t dream of dragging him out into the real world of desperados,” he says to her. “Sorry, crusader,” he says to me.

“Your loss,” I say to him. “Like you said, I did kill the killer.”

“Yeah,” Melvin admits. “You did.”

“You don’t know him,” Nicki says to Melvin. “He’s inclined to run off like an idiot, thinking he can solve crimes and catch bad guys single-handed.”

“Yeah,” Melvin says. “And run from the cops and the FBI and think he can actually get away with it.”

“Who, me?” I say.

* * *

It is quiet in my apartment, but I can see plenty of life streaming outside my windows whenever I feel the need, which is frequent. My office is well-lighted and lined with books, and I will spend the next chapter of my life here, hopefully filling the shelves of fine bookstores everywhere. No one may yet confuse me with John Updike, but I have new ideas and new books to write. Always, always books to write. Because although my apartment is full of sunlight during the day and laughter and love come evening, when the moon rises and the friends go home, after Nicki falls asleep in my arms, my thoughts turn to the hole in my life, and what memories may come. Because memories don’t always obey, and the demons are always, always just around the corner.

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