“Many of them do develop self-deception to an art form,” Callie says.
Except the ones who have no shame about what they are. Nothing I saw painted Dali in that light. He knows what he is, and he’s not worried about the next life.
“None of that is going to get us anywhere right now,” I say. “Let’s focus on what Leo told me. He thought Hollister was the one who tipped Dali off.”
“Sounds like we need to have a little private chat with Hollister,” Alan says.
“Leo also said that we should have a really good computer tech examine whatever server or servers Hollister used at his job. He said we might find something.”
James nods, thoughtful. “Perhaps Dali made a mistake. It’s almost impossible not to leave any footprints in the digital age. Maybe he knew that and knew his only option was to hide it really, really well, by enlisting the aid of those who could.”
“I don’t follow.”
He waves me off. “Supposition. Let Callie and me get a tech on this. We’ll chase the warrants. You and Alan should go and interview Douglas Hollister.”
“Who died and made you boss?” Alan grouses.
“Am I wrong?”
“No, James,” I say. “It’s the correct division of labor. Let’s get on it.” My cell phone rings. “Barrett,” I answer.
“Who the hell cleared you to get back on the job?” AD Jones.
“That would be me, I guess, sir.”
“Too fucking soon, Smoky.”
“Sir—”
“Get your ass up here.”
I put the phone back into its holster. “I have to see the AD, Alan. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
“Good luck,” he calls after me.
“Jesus Christ” are AD Jones’s first words when he sees me.
“Just me, sir,” I joke, taking a seat in one of his leather chairs.
He rose as I came through the door. He sits down now. He regards me long enough to make me feel uncomfortable.
“Take a picture, sir. It’ll last longer.”
I get a sour look. “All flippant bullshit aside, Agent, what are you doing back here? I read your debrief, what there was of it. You just finished four weeks of incarceration and torture, culminating in the partial amputation of your little finger. Not to mention that you’re balder than a billiard ball and pregnant to boot.”
“Thanks a lot for that, sir.” I’m losing my sense of humor about the hair loss.
He rubs his face with both hands. Sighs deeply. When he looks at me again, I see a man trying to get himself under control, to be reasonable. “You’re on mandatory leave, Smoky.”
“That won’t stop me, sir.”
Anger rises in his eyes. He tamps it down. “Why?”
“Because I’m not crazy now, but if I don’t work on getting him, I really will be. That’s the bottom-line answer.”
He tries on a sympathetic face. It doesn’t sit well on him; that’s not how this man is built.
“I understand, Smoky. I really do. But I’m sorry. You’re on paid mandatory leave until you get clearance from a shrink to return to work.”
Rage sweeps over me, leaving me a little bit dazed by both its suddenness and its fury. I do my best to bite it back, but some of its fire and bile leaks into my voice.
“Can’t follow that order, sir.” The words sound like rock grinding against rock.
He points a finger at me and shouts, “You’ll fucking follow orders or I’ll have you escorted off the premises!” So much for sympathy.
“Go fuck yourself,” I shout back, jumping up.
I hear myself speaking from a distance. It’s me, yet it’s not.
Rein this in now, or something’s going to happen here that you can’t take back.
AD Jones hits his feet as well. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him this angry. It strikes me that this reaction is probably based as much on fear for me as anger at my defiance.
“Give me one good reason to keep you on the job!”
I explode inside. It’s all internal. It’s as though I’m in the meadow again, but this time the light is atomic. A mushroom cloud rises, and the winds erase the living.
This rage, I realize, is for Dali, not the man in front of me.
“Because, sir.” My voice shakes. I grip the desk and look into his eyes. “Because he came into our world and he took two of us away and one of us is never coming back. He has to answer for that. Nothing is going to stop me from going after him.”
I watch him struggle. He wants to destroy something right now, but it’s not me. He slumps back down in his chair. “Fuck it and fuck you. Get out and catch him, then.” He doesn’t look at me. “If you screw up, you’re fired.”
My mouth opens in surprise. I’m angry again, rage thrums. “Fine.”
He doesn’t seem to care.
No other response is forthcoming, so I turn and leave the office. A final glance back catches him looking after me. I’m shocked at the sadness I see in his eyes. It’s as if he’s already mourning my loss.
Why? Does he know something I don’t?
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
“Rough one?” Alan asks me as I drive. He’d offered to take the wheel, but I need the control and the speed.
“He wanted me to stay at home. Ordered it, actually.”
“And?”
“I refused. He gave in.”
He looks doubtful. “Just like that?”
I grip the steering wheel with my nine good fingers. The injured one throbs. “No. He said if I screw it up, I’m fired. Can you get a couple of Advil from my purse?”
He hands me two pills after a little bit of searching. He offers no wisdom but silence. We watch together as the road disappears beneath us. The sky is what California is always so ready to offer up: hopeful, blue forever, blessed by the sun.
We pull into the prison parking lot. It’s about half full. A handful of people, mostly women, some pulling children along, head either to or from their cars. No one looks very happy.
“Up place,” Alan observes. “Gotta love a prison.”
It’s true. The sky here somehow seems less blue. The sun frowns, shining not quite as bright. “Good place for him.”
“True,” he agrees. “And others like him. Look, when we’re done with this case, I’m out. I’m retiring.”
I swivel my head in shock. “Retiring? Why?”
Alan peers at me with a mix of pity and … what? Disbelief? Yes. “Why? Are you serious?” He indicates his arm in the sling. “It’s happened again, Smoky. I got shot. Leo got part of his brain carved away. You lost half a finger and spent time getting tortured while you’re pregnant, for Christ’s sake!” He shakes his head once, vigorously. “No more. Price is too high. You should think about the same.”
“Quitting? No. Never.”
“Why? What’s so important about this job that you can’t just walk away? You’ve done your part, sure as shit.”
I twist my hands on the wheel and think about my answer. “It used to be because I know that evil exists. You understand? I’m not talking about morality or religion. I’m talking about an understanding. A certainty. There are people out there who exist—who exist—to hurt others. I know that. Can’t unknow it. Have to do something about it.”
“I follow that.”
My finger is really starting to throb. I hope the ibuprofen kicks in soon. “Now? Truth? It’s all I know. I’m afraid of being left alone with myself. If I don’t have the job, I’ll have to spend too much time with me. What’ll happen then?”