"Got it."
He hangs up. I take a deep breath and walk into the emotional cyclone. Callie's daughter, whose name is Marilyn Gale, is frenetic and pacing, patting the baby on the back as she stops and starts, stops and starts. Patting more for her comfort than the baby's, I think. God, she looks like Callie. Something she doesn't seem to have noticed herself yet. A tad shorter, a touch heavier, her features a little softer. But the red hair is distinctive. And the face and figure have the same model-quality beauty to them. The eyes are different. Billy Hamilton's ghost, I muse. It's Marilyn's anger that reminds me most of Callie right now. She's pissed, the over-the-top pissed that sudden fear can create.
"Do you want to tell me what's going on here?" she shrills. "Why two FBI agents show up at my door with their guns out?"
Callie doesn't respond. Her head is still in her hands. She looks drained.
I'm going to have to do the talking for now. "Do you want to sit down, Mrs. Gale? I'll explain everything, but I think step one is to try and relax."
She stops pacing and glares at me. It's almost enough to make me think genetics does play some part in personality. I see Callie's steel shining out from those angry eyes. "I'll sit down. But don't ask me to relax."
I give her a weak smile. She sits. Callie still hasn't lifted her head from her hands.
"I'm Special Agent Smoky Barrett, Mrs. Gale, and--"
She interrupts. "It's Ms., not Mrs." She pauses. "Barrett? You're the agent who was attacked by that man six months ago? The one who lost her family?"
I flinch inside. But nod. "Yes, ma'am."
This, more than anything, seems to drive the fear from her. She's still not happy, but her anger is tinged with compassion. The cyclone subsides. Just little flashes of lightning on the fringes now. "I'm sorry,"
she says. She seems to notice my scars for the first time. Her gaze on them is measured and careful, but not repulsed. She looks right into my eyes, and I see something there that surprises me. Not pity. Respect.
"Thank you," I say. I take a deep breath. "I'm in charge of the section of the LA branch of the FBI that deals with violent crimes. Serial murders. We're after a man who has already killed one woman that we know of. He sent an e-mail to Agent Thorne that indicated you were a target."
She goes pale at this, clutches her baby to her chest. "What? Me? Why?"
Callie looks up now. I hardly recognize her. Her face is haggard, drawn. "He goes after women who run personal pornography sites on the Internet. He sent us a link to your Web site."
Puzzlement replaces fear on Marilyn's face. Not just puzzlement. Out-and-out shock. "Huh? But . . . I don't have a Web site. I certainly don't have a porn site, for God's sake! I'm going to college--well, I'm on maternity leave right now. This is my parents' second home; they're letting me stay here for now."
Silence. Callie stares at her, taking in her confusion. Realizing, as I did, that it's the kind of bewilderment that can't be faked. Marilyn is telling the truth.
Callie closes her eyes. Some form of relief floods her face, mixed with just a trace of sadness. I understand. She's relieved that her daughter doesn't do porn. But now she knows there's only one reason that Marilyn has gotten Jack Jr.'s attention. Limp-kneed relief combined with soul-racking guilt, my favorite.
"Are you sure it was me this--man was talking about?"
"We're sure," Callie says, quiet.
"But I don't run a porn site."
"He has other reasons." Callie looks at her. "Were you adopted, Ms. Gale?"
Marilyn frowns. "Yes, I was. Why do you . . ."
Her voice trails off as she looks at Callie, really looks at her for the first time. Her eyes widen and her mouth falls open. I can see her examining Callie's face, can almost hear her doing the comparisons in her head. See in her eyes when the revelation hits.
"You . . . You're . . ."
Callie smiles, a bitter smile. "Yes."
Marilyn sits there, stock-still, stunned. Emotions fly across her face. Shock, wonder, grief, anger--none of them able to find a home. "I--I don't know what to . . ." In a single quick motion, she stands, clutching her baby. "I'm going to go lay him down. I'll be right back." She whirls away, moving up the stairs to the second floor of the house. Callie leans back, closes her eyes. She looks like she could sleep for about a zillion years. "That went well, honey-love."
I turn to her. Her face is weary and haunted. Depleted. What can I say to her? "She's alive, Callie."
This simple truth seems to hit home. A profundity similar to the one she'd given me in the hospital. Callie's eyes open and she looks at me. "How very sunny optimist of you," she says with a smile. I hear nervousness in her voice, but I'm encouraged.
We hear footsteps coming back down the stairs. Marilyn comes into the living room. She seems to have taken the time upstairs to compose herself. She looks cautious now, thoughtful. Maybe even a little intrigued. I marvel at the speed of her recovery for a moment, then remember who her mother is.
"Can I get you something? Water or coffee?"
"Coffee would be good," I say.
"Water for me," Callie says. "I don't need any more stimulants in my system right now."
This draws just a hint of a smile from Marilyn. "Coming right up."
She goes into the kitchen and comes back with a serving tray. Hands me my coffee and indicates the creamer and sugar. Hands Callie her water and takes a cup of coffee for herself. She sits back, tucking her legs under, holding the cup in two hands as she regards Callie. Now that the initial shock is gone, I can see her intelligence. It's in the eyes. And her strength. It's not the same strength that Callie has, not quite as hard. Almost a mix of Elaina and Callie. Mom and steel.
"So you're my mom," she says, getting right to the point. Very Callie.
"No."
Marilyn frowns. "But . . . I thought you said--"
Callie holds up a hand. "Your mom is the one who raised you. I'm the one who gave you up."
I grimace at the pain I hear in her voice. The hint of self-loathing. Marilyn's frown smooths out.
"Fine. You're my birth mother."
"Guilty as charged."
"How old are you?"
"Thirty-eight."
Marilyn nods to herself, looking off, adding it up. "So you were fifteen when you had me." Takes a sip of coffee. "That's young."
Callie says nothing. Marilyn looks at her. I don't see any anger there, just curiosity. I wish that Callie would notice it.
"So tell me all about it."
Callie looks off. Sips her water. Looks back at Marilyn. I try to be still and unnoticeable. It's funny, I think. We show up, guns drawn, with a story about a serial killer. But what Marilyn wants to know about first is her mother. I wonder at this, wonder whether it says something good or ridiculous about us as human beings. Callie starts speaking, slow at first, then picking up speed, telling the story of the charming Billy Hamilton and the overbearing Thornes. Marilyn listens, not prompting, sipping her coffee. When Callie finishes, Marilyn is quiet for a long time. She whistles. "Wow. That sucks."
I grin. Definitely very Callie. Mistress of the understatement. Callie remains silent. She's the picture of someone waiting for judgment to be passed. Marilyn waves a hand, a gesture of dismissal. "It wasn't your fault, though." She shrugs. "I mean, it sucked. But you were fifteen. I don't blame you." It comes out as an abrupt statement. Callie looks down at the coffee table.
Marilyn catches her eye. "No, really. I don't. Look, I did get adopted, by great people. They love me, I love them. I've had a good life. I guess it should all be more momentous somehow--and it is, don't get me wrong--but I haven't spent twenty-three years feeling betrayed or hating you." She shrugs. "I don't know. Life isn't all straight lines and square pegs. From what I can see, it's been harder for you than it has been for me." She's quiet for a moment. When she starts speaking again, her voice is tentative. "I did wonder about you sometimes. And I have to admit, the truth is better than what I imagined. Almost a relief, really."