Читать книгу Dark Matter - Cameron Cruise - Страница 13

Seven balanced two bags of groceries as he walked up the path to the house. “Dinner has arrived!” he called out loudly.

Nick, his eleven-year-old nephew, burst out the door, an enormous smile on his face. That smile made Seven’s heart just stop right there in his chest.

Jesus, Ricky. What you’re missing….

He handed one of the bags to Nick and tousled his blond curls. “I’m cooking.”

“No, you’re not.”

Beth was already standing at the door, holding it open. She was wearing jeans and a lacy white blouse, her blond hair loose around her face. As he passed, he gave her a peck on the cheek. “I’m cooking,” he said again.

She shut the door and followed him into the kitchen. “No, you’re not.”

The three of them stood in the modest kitchen, unloading groceries. Just a year ago, Beth had been an upscale harbour wife, involved in all the right charities, taking classes in interior decorating. The kitchen of their waterfront home in Huntington Harbour had been her masterpiece: granite counters, two built-in Subzero refrigerators, top-of-the-line Viking equipment. Now she stood in a kitchen not much bigger than the galley of what had once been Ricky’s fifty-five-foot yacht.

He remembered the day Beth finally looked at him, her brown eyes tired and flat. Her words chardonnay-slurred, she’d told him, “Let them have it. I can’t make up for what Ricky did, killing their son. If this is what they want,” she said, signaling to the house and beyond, “they can have it. They can have every penny.”

She’d been talking about Scott’s family. After Ricky had pleaded guilty to the murder of his lover, Scott’s family had filed an unlawful-death suit.

She’d been drunk at the time; Seven had no idea if she’d meant what she’d said. But the next day, she’d called her attorney and made the arrangements. A week later, Beth started AA.

The last ten months had brought on more changes. The five-hundred-dollar cut and color in Beverly Hills had given way to Lady Clairol and a local salon in Seal Beach. Sweater sets and slacks worn with ballet flats from Neiman’s and Bloomie’s were downgraded to jeans and dresses from Target.

The funny thing—she looked younger. Hipper. More alive. She’d been working at a friend’s real-estate firm. Next month, she was going for her broker’s license.

“Look at this.” He held up some filet mignons and portabella mushrooms. He had a bag of prewashed mescaline greens and three potatoes, each practically the size of Nick’s miniature Nerf football.

“I’m telling you guys. Even I can’t blow this,” he said with a grin.

Mother and son gave each other a look.

“What?” he asked.

Beth picked up the steaks and the mushrooms. She gave Seven a pat on the cheek. “There’s beer in the refrigerator.”

Nick headed for the sink with the potatoes. “Mom, can you preheat the oven?”

“What?” Seven asked again. “Hey, that thing with the pot pies, that was a fluke. I swear, I think the thermostat was broken or something. No way those things would have gone up in flames otherwise.”

Forty minutes later, they were seated around a small glass table in the kitchen, the steaks perfect, the mushrooms divine, the potatoes slathered with sour cream and butter. A delicate vinaigrette had been tossed into the salad.

They’d let him wash the “prewashed” salad.

Still, it felt good, looking around the table. Nick was starting middle school in the fall and was excited as all get-out. He’d tested into the higher math classes, although English wasn’t looking so good. Hearing the enthusiasm in his voice, Seven felt a hard knot in his throat. Ricky had always been the brains of the family.

Like father, like son.

But Seven could only see the good things in Ricky’s son. His brother’s blond hair and green eyes—the athletic build that soon would bring the attention of too many girls. Already, Beth complained about the phone calls.

“Nicky,” she said, scrunching her nose in distaste. “They call him Nicky. Is Nicky there?” she mimicked in a breathy, nervous voice of a preteen girl.

“Mom!”

They were having a good old time teasing poor Nick. It was the kind of evening Seven hated to end.

So he’d offered to drive them down to Main Street. On Tuesday nights, the area was closed off to traffic. Street musicians and booths selling anything from jewelry to produce made for a loud and colorful walk ending at Cold Stone Creamery.

Nick hooked up with friends from school. Beth and Seven had taken a table in the corner, giving the kid some space.

Beth looked down at her cherries and chocolate chopped into French vanilla ice cream. “I am truly going to regret this come morning.”

“Nah,” Seven said, digging into his Heath-Bar-Crunch-studded chocolate.

“Seven, I have gained almost ten pounds.”

He shrugged. “It suits you.”

And it did. Those years playing the perfect wife, with perfect hair and nails, perfect body and perfect tan, she’d looked almost plastic. A Barbie doll his brother kept on display.

She shook her spoon at him. “Thanks, but no thanks. I need to lose at least five of those.”

They settled into comfortable silence, every once in a while, glancing over at Nick. His nephew looked damn happy, laughing and playfully punching one of the other boys in the arm. Here at last was a boy who wasn’t thinking about his father the murderer.

He’d been watching Nick, smiling to himself, when Beth caught him off guard, asking, “Bad day?”

Seven used his napkin to wipe his mouth, giving himself some time. “Yeah.”

“You want to talk about it?”

He pushed away his empty ice cream cup. “Not particularly.”

He focused again on the bits and pieces of other people’s lives. There was a young couple at the next table with a crying baby. Both parents huddled over their offspring, the father shaking plastic keys, the mother offering a pacifier, acting as if world peace hung in the balance. A couple in their late sixties fed each other spoonfuls of ice cream. Sitting here with Beth and Nick, he could almost believe it was still possible. Marriage, kids. That happily ever after. The world was a good place and people didn’t snatch kids like Nick and dump their bodies in the marsh.

“Erika and I have this bet,” he said, changing the subject. “Who has the better vocabulary? Just the other day she hit me with ‘Sounds like ursprache.’”

Beth frowned. “Ursprache?”

He leaned forward. “The general translation she gave was something like: ‘Sounds like bullshit.’ I looked it up in the dictionary. It means a protolanguage or something.”

Beth nodded as what he’d just said made perfect sense. “Well, that clears it up.”

They both laughed.

She played around with her ice cream in a way that made him think she had something more to say. He gave it a minute.

She switched ice cream cups, giving him her half-filled one for his empty cup. He didn’t hesitate, picking up the spoon and digging in.

She said, “Laurin called.”

Laurin, Seven’s ex-wife, now mother of twins with a doting accountant husband.

“Really,” he said carefully.

“She wanted to know how I was doing. It was…awkward.”

“I’ll talk to her.”

Beth put her hand on his. “That’s not necessary. It’s just that…” she sighed, “she should have stuck by you.”

Seven glanced down at the ice cream. Of course, Beth wouldn’t get it. To her, he was some kind of knight in shining armor.

That wouldn’t be his ex-wife’s take on things.

“She was a cop’s wife, Beth. It’s not an easy life. The work, it starts to take over. Suddenly, you don’t have anything in common with normal people. You start cutting them off. There’s stuff you can’t talk about. Pretty soon, your only friends are fellow officers.”

“Gee, I wonder if that’s anything like being married to a prominent surgeon and finding out he killed his gay lover.”

Their eyes met. Yeah, Beth was no stranger to his kind of alienation.

“Laurin didn’t give up on me. I gave up on us.”

But Beth shook her head. “You are a good man, Seven. I know there was a time when I asked for too much. I was devastated and lonely and you were my great big shoulder to cry on.”

“Beth—”

She squeezed his hand. “No, let me say it. You were gentle in your rejection. And now, you are my dearest friend and possibly the closest thing to a father my son will ever have. I guess I just need you to be happy. I don’t want you to give up, you know? I see how you are with me and Nick. You deserve your own family. A wife, a couple of kids.” She sat back, smiling. “And then there’s the fact that you’re not getting any younger.”

Again, they both laughed.

“If only it could be that easy,” he said. “Swear to God, I look in the mirror and I see a big red D for divorce right there on my forehead.” He picked up his spoonful of ice cream and winked. “I think it scares the babes away.”

But Beth didn’t laugh. “I might be joining you there. Adding that big red D on my forehead.”

Seven stopped eating, the spoon halfway to his mouth. He knew she’d been thinking about it. “Really.”

“It’s twenty to life, Seven.” Her brown eyes looked serious. “And the whole Scott thing.” She shook her head. “I have to think about Nick. I have to think about my own happiness.”

He put the spoon down. He asked, “Is there someone else?”

She shook her head. She smiled and looked over at her son. “I’m not alone,” she said. “And I have time.”

Seven watched her, thinking about the accusations Erika still slung in Beth’s direction and how wrong she was. Beth wasn’t that woman anymore. She was over the whole I need you, Seven, please love me, Seven.

The weird part? He wasn’t sure he was. Beth had been only too right when she’d said he’d gently let her know he could never go there—Nick was screwed up enough. How would he handle his uncle moving in if he and Beth became involved?

But it had been nice, someone needing him. Loving him.

His cell phone sounded.

“That’s the third time tonight,” Beth said. “Someone’s avoiding his calls.” She cocked an eyebrow. “I’m guessing it’s a woman.”

“It’s just work,” he said.

She shook her head. “It’s a woman. If it were work, you wouldn’t hesitate to answer, Mr. Cop.”

“Wow,” he said, finishing the ice cream. “I’m impressed.”

Thankfully, Nick came bouncing over just then. Beth immediately took her son’s hand and headed for the door.

Seven could only sigh in relief as he followed them out.

Half an hour later, he sat reclined in the Barcalounger he’d inherited from his dad, his cell phone unopened in his hand. His mother had remodeled recently and dissed his dad’s favorite chair. His father had begged him to save the closest thing to a family heirloom that he possessed. Seven had taken the chair gladly.

Seven was still mulling over Beth’s message: Don’t give up.

Immediately, an image of Gia came to mind. He’d always had this thing about Jennifer Connelly, so maybe he saw a resemblance that wasn’t really there. Still, at the moment, he wasn’t thinking about the actress. He was thinking about the Brothers Grimm.

Skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, hair as black as ebony.

And then there were her eyes, a deep fathomless blue.

Beth wanted him to be happy, to marry and have children of his own. But what if the woman he wanted was off-limits?

Just then, the phone in the kitchen sounded off like an alarm. Time’s up!

“Shit.”

He rocked forward in the Barcalounger and stood. This time he didn’t hesitate, heading for the kitchen. Beth was right; he’d avoided Gia’s calls long enough.

Without glancing at the caller ID, he picked up. “Bushard.”

“You’re not answering your cell now?” Erika asked in an irritated voice. “I’ve left you five messages. Jesus, Seven. It’s not like we have a dead body or anything.”

A little of that tension eased from around his chest.

“Sorry,” he said. “I must have turned it off by accident.”

He heard a grunt of disbelief on the other end. “Right. Because that’s so easy to do. Listen, do you have dinner plans tomorrow?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Good. House of Brews after work. Your treat.”

She hung up.

He stared at the handset. “Sure, Erika. No problem. And by the way, isn’t it always my treat?”

Not that he cared. The last year, Erika had been his touchstone—the one person who could slap him across the face and tell him to snap out of it…even as she covered for him at work.

He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and headed back into the front room. He might not have ESP, but he knew what his partner wanted: a nice little chat about the FBI and a certain psychic.

Well, he had a couple of questions of his own. Like why in hell his partner hadn’t given him the heads-up about Special Agent Carin Barnes.

He dropped back into the Barcalounger. It still smelled like cigars, his father’s hidden vice. Seven didn’t smoke, but he was far from free of vice.

Gia.

It had been ten months, five days and nineteen hours since he’d last seen her.

For a moment, he let his mind drift to all those months ago. Without Gia, they never would have broken open the fortune-teller murders. The fly in the ointment: her help came with a price. Seven had shot the murdering whack job Gia had been hiding from the last twelve years, fearing for her life and the life of her child.

Seven took a long sip from the beer. No matter how many times he told himself he didn’t believe in her “psychic” abilities, there’d been something truly bizarre about how the whole thing had gone down. Like she’d known exactly what was going to happen. That it would be Seven who’d pull the trigger and save the day. The thing was, she hadn’t bothered to share any of it, letting him walk in blind.

Of course, she wouldn’t see it that way. There was probably some secret code for psychics: Don’t let the minions in on the details. Just pull the strings and let the puppet show go on.

Unfortunately, she’d been sleeping with this particular puppet. Apparently, she could trust him for sex but that was about it. When he’d nailed her with the truth—that she’d used him—she hadn’t even bothered to deny it. She’d just let him walk away.

With a sigh, he took out his cell phone. He checked to see that indeed, he had several messages from his partner.

And one from Gia.

Somehow, he didn’t think she was calling about unrequited love.

There was this anecdote about Enrique Fermi, a physicist for the Manhattan Project, the first guy to create a nuclear chain reaction in the 1930s. The story went that Fermi would be meeting a great general. Being the scientific type, Fermi asked what made the man great. The reply came that, if the guy won five consecutive battles he was one fine general.

Only, Fermi quickly figured out that statistically a significant number of all generals win five battles consecutively just by pure chance. Using math, Fermi flushed down the toilet the man’s definition of greatness.

So here Seven was thinking, throw in a little statistics and just about anything, even a call from Gia, could be coincidence.

It was a good argument, Fermi’s. But Seven didn’t buy it. Not this time.

A fourteen-year-old girl lay dead in the wetlands. She’d been bound and most likely drugged. And she wasn’t alone. Two other vics had been found just the same way.

And here they were again. Erika and him, Special Agent Barnes and Gia, playing the serial-killer merry-go-round.

Her number highlighted on the LCD screen, he punched Send.

She picked up on the first ring, almost as if she were waiting right there next to the phone. He couldn’t help but smile. That impeccable timing of hers. Uncanny, that was another word he’d used on Erika: suggesting the operation of supernatural influences.

“Gia,” he said, trying to sound imperturbable, another word he’d just learned. “You called?”