The Poet (35 page)

“Did it say he was BSS?”

“No, just FBI. But it doesn’t matter. CNN must’ve taken the feed off the local channel. Wherever he is, if our guy saw it, we could have a problem.”

“How come? It’s not that unusual for the FBI to take a look at cases like this. The bureau’s always sticking its nose in.”

“The problem is it plays to the Poet. We see it in almost all of the cases. One concept of the gratification these kinds of killers seek is seeing their work on TV and in the papers. In a way it allows them to relive the fantasy of the incident. Part of that infatuation with the media extends to the pursuers. I get the feeling that this guy, the Poet, knows more about us than we do about him. If I’m right, then he’s probably read books on serial killers. The commercial dreck and even some of the more serious work. He may know names. Bob’s father is in many of them. Bob himself is in some. So am I. Our names, photos, our words. If he saw that on CNN and recognized us, then he’ll assume we are right behind him. We may lose him now. He might go under.”

Ambivalence won the night. Unable to decide what or where we wanted to eat, we settled for the hotel’s restaurant. The food was okay but we shared a bottle of Buehler cabernet that was perfect. I told her not to worry about the government per diem because the newspaper was paying. She ordered cherries jubilee for dessert after I told her that.

“I get the feeling that you’d be happy if there were no free media in the world,” I told her when we were slowing down on the dessert. The implications of the CNN report had dominated the conversation during dinner.

“Not at all. I respect the media as a necessity in a free society. I don’t respect the irresponsibility that you see more often than you don’t.”

“What was irresponsible about that report?”

“That one was marginal but it bothers me that they used our images without bothering to ask what the ramifications could be. I just wish that sometimes the media would concentrate on the larger picture or story, rather than go for the immediate gratification every time.”

“Not every time. I didn’t blow you people off and say I’m writing my story. I went long-term. I went for the larger story.”

“Oh, very noble, coming from somebody who extorted his way into the investigation.”

She was smiling and so was I.

“Hey,” I protested.

“Can we talk about something else? I’m tired of all of this. God, I’d love to just be able to lie back and forget about it for a while.”

There it was again. Her choice of words, the way she looked at me as she said them. Was I reading it correctly or only reading what I wanted to read?

“Okay, forget about the Poet,” I said. “Let’s talk about you.”

“Me? What about me?”

“This stuff going on with Thorson is like a TV sitcom.”

“That’s private.”

“Not when you guys are staring daggers across the room all the time and you’re trying to get Backus to take him off the case.”

“I don’t want him off the case. I just want him off my back and I don’t want him out here. He always finds a way to sneak in and try to take over. You watch.”

“How long were you married?”

“Fifteen glorious months.”

“When did it end?”

“Long time ago, three years.”

“That’s a long time for hostilities to linger.”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

But I sensed she did. I let a little time go by. The waiter came and refilled our coffee cups.

“What happened?” I asked softly. “You don’t deserve to be unhappy like that.”

She reached up and tugged gently on my beard, the first time she had touched me since ramming my face into the bed back in Washington.

“You’re sweet.” She shook her head. “It was just the wrong thing for both of us. Sometimes, I don’t even know what we saw in each other. It just didn’t work.”

“How come?”

“Just because. It was a just-because type of thing. Like I said, we both had a lot of baggage. His was heavier. He’d worn a mask and I didn’t see all the rage behind it until it was too late. I got out as soon as I could.”

“What was he angry about?”

“A lot of things. He carries a lot of anger. From other women, relationships. I was his second failed marriage. The job. Sometimes it came out like a blowtorch.”

“Did he ever hurt you?”

“No. I didn’t stay long enough for him to try. Of course, all men deny the woman’s intuition, but I think if I stayed it would have come to that. It was the natural course of things. I still try to stay away from him.”

“And he still has something for you.”

“You’re crazy if you think that.”

“There’s something there.”

“The only thing he has for me is a desire to see me unhappy. He wants to get back at me for being the cause of his bad marriage, his bad life, everything.”

“How’s a guy like that keep his job?”

“Like I said, he’s got a mask. He’s good at hiding it. You saw him at the meeting. He was contained. You also have to understand something about the FBI. They don’t go looking to bust their agents. As long as he did the work, it didn’t matter what I felt or said.”

“You complained about him?”

“Not directly. That would’ve been cutting my own throat. I’ve got an enviable position in the BSS but make no mistake, the bureau’s a man’s world. And you don’t go to the boss to complain about things you think your ex-husband might do. I’d probably end up on the bank squad in Salt Lake City if I tried that.”

“So what can you do?”

“Not much. Indirectly, I’ve dropped enough hints on Backus for him to know what’s going on. As you can tell by what you heard today, he’s not going to do anything about it. I have to assume that Gordon’s dropping hints in his other ear. If I were Bob, I’d just sit back like he’s doing and wait for one of us to fuck up. The first one to do it gets shipped out.”

“And what would constitute a fuck-up?”

“I don’t know. With the bureau you never know. But he’s got to be more careful with me than him. Prevailing factors, you know. He’s got to have his shit together if he’s going to try to move a woman out of the unit. So, that’s my edge.”

I nodded. We had come to a natural end to that branch of the conversation. But I didn’t want her to go back to her room. I wanted to be with her.

“You’re a pretty good interviewer, Jack. Pretty sly.”

“What?”

“We’ve spent the whole time talking about me and the bureau. What about you?”

“What about me? Never married, never divorced. I don’t even have plants at home. I sit behind a computer all day. It’s not in the same league as you and Thorson.”

She smiled and then giggled a bit girlishly.

“Yes, we are a pair. Were. Do you feel any better after the meeting today, about what they found in Denver?”

“You mean what they didn’t find? I don’t know. I guess it’s better that it looks like he didn’t have to go through that. There is still nothing to feel better about, though.”

“Did you call your sister-in-law?”

“No, not yet. I’ll do it in the morning. Seems like something that should be discussed in daylight.”

“I’ve never spent a lot of time with the families of the victims,” she said. “The bureau always gets called in later.”

“I have… I’m the master of interviewing the fresh widow, the now childless mother, father of the dead bride. You name it, I’ve interviewed it.”

We were quiet a long moment. The waiter came by with his coffeepot but we both passed. I asked for the check. I knew it wasn’t going to happen with her tonight. I had lost the nerve to pursue it because I didn’t want to risk her rejection. My pattern had always been the same. When I didn’t care whether a woman rejected me, I always took the chance. When I did care and knew rejection would cut me, I always held back.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I lied. “My brother I guess.”

“Why don’t you tell that story?”

“What story?”

“The other day. You were about to tell me something good about him. The nicest thing he ever did for you. What made him a saint.”

I looked across the table at her. I knew the story instantly but thought about it before speaking. I could’ve easily lied and told her the nicest thing he did was just love me but I trusted her. We trust the things we find beautiful, the things we want. And maybe I wanted to confess to somebody after so many years.

“The nicest thing he ever did was not blame me.”

“For what?”

“Our sister died when we were kids. It was my fault. He knew. He was the only one who really knew. And her. But he never blamed me and he never told anyone. In fact, he took on half the guilt. That was the nicest thing.”

She leaned forward across the table with a pained look on her face. I think she would have made a good, sympathetic psychologist if she had followed that path.

“What happened, Jack?”

“She fell through the ice at the lake. The same place where Sean’s body was found. She was bigger than me, older. We’d gone out there with our parents. We had a camper and my folks were making lunch or something. Me and Sean were outside and Sarah was watching us. I ran out on the frozen lake. Sarah ran out after me to stop me from going too far out, to where the ice was thin. Only she was older and bigger and heavier and she fell through. I started screaming. Sean started screaming. My father and some other people there tried but they couldn’t get to her in time …”

I drank from my coffee cup but it was empty. I looked at her and continued.

“Anyway, everybody was asking what happened, you know, and I couldn’t … I couldn’t talk. And he-Sean-said we had both been out on the ice and then when Sarah came out it cracked and she fell through. It was a lie and I don’t know if my parents ever believed it. I don’t think they did. But he did it for me. It was like he was willing to share the guilt with me, make it easier by half.”

I stared into my empty cup. Rachel said nothing.

“You might’ve made it big as a shrink. That’s a story I’ve never told anyone.”

“Well, I think telling it might’ve just been something you felt you owed your brother. Maybe a way of thanking him.”

The waiter placed a check on our table and thanked us. I opened my wallet and put a credit card down on top of it. I can think of a better way to thank him, I thought.

After we stepped off the elevator I became nearly paralyzed with fear. I couldn’t bring myself to act on my desire. We moved to her door first. She pulled the card key from her pocket and looked up at me. I hesitated, said nothing.

“Well,” she said after a long moment. “I guess we start early tomorrow. Do you eat breakfast?”

“Just coffee, usually.”

“Okay, well, I’ll call you and maybe if there’s time we can grab a cup.”

I nodded, too overrun with the embarrassment of my failure and cowardice to say anything.

“Good night, Jack.”

” ‘Night,” I managed to say before walking off down the hall.

I sat on the edge of the bed watching CNN for a half hour, hoping to see the report she had mentioned or anything to take my mind off the disastrous end of the night. Why is it, I wondered, that it is the ones who mean so much that are the hardest to reach out to? Some deep instinct told me that the moment in the hall had been the time, the right moment. And I had ignored it. I had run from it. And now I feared that my failure would haunt me forever. Because that instinct might never come back.

I don’t think I heard the first knock. Because the one that raised me from my dark reverie was very loud and surely not the first effort. It had the urgency of a third or fourth knock. Jarred by the intrusion, I quickly turned off the TV and went to the door, opening it without looking through the peephole. It was her.

“Rachel.”

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“I, uh, thought I’d give you a chance to redeem yourself. That is, if you wanted to.”

I looked at her and a dozen responses went through my mind, all engineered to neatly put the ball back in her court and make her make the move. But the instinct came back and I knew what she wanted and what I needed to do.

I stepped toward her and put an arm behind her back and kissed her. Then I pulled her into the room and closed the door.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Almost nothing was said after that. She hit the light switch, then led me to the bed. She put her arms around my neck and pulled me down into a long, deep kiss. We fumbled with each other’s clothes and then decided wordlessly to just take off our own. It was faster.

“Do you have something?” she whispered. “You know, to use?”

Crestfallen by the consequences of my inaction earlier, I shook my head no and was about to offer to go to the drugstore, a trip that I knew would destroy the moment.

“I think I might,” she said.

She pulled her purse onto the bed and I heard the zipper of an interior pocket opening. She then pressed the plastic condom package into my palm.