Cold Springs(74)

In the foyer, the voice-mail button was blinking on the phone. Chadwick hit redial, tried Mallory's birthday for the pass code, and was rewarded with four new messages—one from a real estate client, one from a reporter asking about the Laurel Heights scandal, one from an FBI special agent named Laramie, confirming an appointment for the next morning. The last message was the shortest, a voice Chadwick recognized as Emilio Pérez, saying simply, “Everything's cool. I'll call you.”

Chadwick hit the save button, hung up the phone. He turned on the living room lights and noticed the blank space on the wall—a space where he was sure a framed painting had hung that afternoon. He went over, touched his finger to a nickel-sized hole. It could've been where a mounting hook had ripped loose. Or it could've been a bullet hole.

He scanned the floor—found a wet spot by the fireplace where the carpet had been scrubbed. And another, closer to the stairs.

Chadwick's throat tightened.

At the base of the stairs, he heard music, very faint, like a television going softly in one of the bedrooms above.

He went upstairs, wishing for the first time in years that he carried a gun.

In the master bedroom, the television was playing a cartoon. John's bed was made, fresh pajamas neatly folded on the pillow. Nothing out of place that Chadwick could see. No sign of a struggle. On the nightstand was a picture of Mallory at about six years old. Chadwick could tell, from the brilliance of her gap-toothed smile, it had been taken before Katherine's suicide.

Chadwick walked to the bathroom, flipped on the light.

There was no shower curtain on the rod, only a few rings. A small red puddle glistened on the tile floor. Chadwick had just put his shoe in it.

He stepped back, making a red spot on the beige carpet.

Chadwick backed away, left another bloody print, fainter than the first.

His survival instinct was telling him to get the hell out.

A sudden burst of music from the television cartoon startled him. Marimbas, trumpets, a loud “Ha-ha!” He reached to turn it off, but his hand froze.

On the screen, fish danced in swirls of bubbles.

Sebastian the Crab was singing “Under the Sea.”

Chadwick made it to the bed just as his legs failed him.

He saw himself nine years ago, ejecting a video cassette of this movie, cracking it against the mantel after all the police had gone, tipping over the television and ripping cords out of the wall and picking up the black leather chair and throwing it against the wall until the Romos next door started shouting curses and pounding on the Sheetrock.

Now he stared at the “on” light of the DVD player, the flashing green circular icon that meant continuous replay.

He could barely pull out his cell phone.

His finger hovered over the 9 for 911, but he didn't dial it. He knew who that would summon—John Zedman's local police. John Zedman's lackeys.

Instead, he scrolled back through his recent calls, to an Oakland number he had dialed two weeks ago—Sergeant Damarodas, the only homicide detective he knew.

18

Floodlights.

Mallory knew that wasn't right. There was no stadium in the woods—nothing brighter than stars and the campfire. But when she woke up to Leyland's voice, rain drumming on the canvas roof of her pup tent, there were blinding lights outside, down toward the river, like a goddamn UFO had landed.

“Move it!” Leyland was yelling. “This is your lucky day, Zedman! Show me your enthusiasm!”

“Yes, sir!” Mallory croaked.

It couldn't be five o'clock yet. Mallory's body told her she hadn't slept at all.

She struggled into her clothes—damp and sour from yesterday, still smelling of horse—then she stumbled out to find the line. Morrison, Smart and Bridges were already at attention, standing in the freezing downpour, letting the rain drip off their noses.

Something is wrong, Mallory thought.

She spotted Olsen, a half-dozen other counselors and white levels, even Dr. Hunter—all with grim faces, all wearing fatigues. Too many people.

Fear kicked Mallory in the gut. Had her team messed up somehow?

“Fall in, Zedman!” Leyland yelled.

Mallory joined the line, forced herself to stand straight, eyes forward, trying not to blink in the rain.

“Black levels!” Dr. Hunter said. “Who is responsible for getting you here?”

“We are, sir!”

“Who is responsible for getting you out?”

“We are, sir!”

“First step is accountability,” Hunter chanted. “You are the problem. You are the solution. You must accept that. You must take the blame if you fail. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Are you accountable?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Are you ready to move on?”

This was a new question—not part of their litany—and the black levels hesitated. It sounded as if Dr. Hunter was offering them a choice, and choices were not something black levels trained for.

Mallory answered first. She shouted, “YES, SIR!”

“That's funny,” Hunter said. “Rain must be affecting my ears. I didn't hear you all. Are you ready to move on?”

This time they all shouted, “YES, SIR!!!”

“We will see,” Hunter said. “Eyes front.”