concerns you.”
“What? What’s happened?” She doesn’t speak for a minute, and I’m getting pissed off. Little shivers still spasm through me as I hold the phone. “Dammit, Callie. Tell me.”
She sighs. “Do you remember an Annie King?”
My voice is incredulous. “Remember her? Yeah, I remember her. 42
C O D Y M C F A D Y E N
She’s one of my best friends. She moved to San Francisco about ten years ago. We still talk on the phone every six months or so. I’m her daughter’s godmother. So yeah, I remember her. Why?”
Callie is silent again. “Damn,” I hear her whisper. She sounds like she was punched in the stomach. “I didn’t know she was a friend. I thought she was just someone you used to know.”
I feel dread filling me. Dread, and knowledge. I know what’s happened, or at least I think I do. But I need to hear Callie say it before I will believe it. “Tell me.”
A long sigh of surrender, then: “She’s dead, Smoky. Murdered in her apartment. The daughter’s alive, but she’s catatonic.”
My hand has gone nerveless with shock, and I’m in danger of dropping the phone. “Where are you now, Callie?” My voice sounds small to me.
“At the office. We’re getting ready to go to the scene, going on a private jet in an hour and a half.”
I sense something through my shock, a heaviness at Callie’s end. I realize that there’s something else she’s not telling me.
“What is it, Callie? What are you holding back?”
A hesitation, and then she sighs again. “The killer left a message for you, honey-love.”
I sit for a moment, silent. Letting these words sink in. “I’ll meet you at the office,” I say. I hang up before she can respond. I sit on the edge of my bed for a moment. I put my head into my hands and try to weep, but my eyes stay dry. Somehow, it hurts more that way.
It’s only six o’clock by the time I arrive. Early morning is the best time to drive in LA, the only time the highways are uncrowded. Most of the people driving are up to no good, or on their way to no good. I know these early mornings well. I’ve driven through fog and the gray light of breaking dawns many times, toward scenes of bloody death. As I am now. All the way there, all I can think about is Annie. Annie and I met in high school, when we were both fifteen. She was a soon to be ex-cheerleader, I was a reckless tomboy who smoked pot and enjoyed fast things. In the hierarchy of high school, our paths were not destined to cross. Fate intervened. At least I always thought of it as fate. S H A D O W M A N
43
My time of the month arrived in the middle of math class, and I had put up my hand, grabbed my purse, and rushed out the door to the bathroom. I was blushing as I went down the hallway, and hoping that no one else was there. I had been getting my period for only eight months, and the whole thing was still an excruciating embarrassment to me. I peeked in, saw with relief that the bathroom was deserted. I ducked into one of the stalls and was preparing to take care of my problem when a sniffling sound made me freeze, pad in hand. I held my breath, listening. The sniffling repeated itself, only this time, it broke into a quiet sob. Someone was crying, two stalls over from me. I have always been a sucker for things in pain. When I was young, I even considered being a veterinarian. If I came upon a hurt bird, dog, cat, or any other walking, crawling, living thing, it would end up coming home with me. Most of the time, the things I brought home didn’t make it. But sometimes they did, and the few victories in this regard were enough to keep my crusade alive. My parents thought it was cute at first, but it went from cute to annoying after the umpteenth trip to the emergency vet. Annoyed or not, they never discouraged me from these Mother Teresa–like efforts.
As I got older, I found that this concern extended to people as well. If someone got bullied, while I wouldn’t step in and rescue them
“What? What’s happened?” She doesn’t speak for a minute, and I’m getting pissed off. Little shivers still spasm through me as I hold the phone. “Dammit, Callie. Tell me.”
She sighs. “Do you remember an Annie King?”
My voice is incredulous. “Remember her? Yeah, I remember her. 42
C O D Y M C F A D Y E N
She’s one of my best friends. She moved to San Francisco about ten years ago. We still talk on the phone every six months or so. I’m her daughter’s godmother. So yeah, I remember her. Why?”
Callie is silent again. “Damn,” I hear her whisper. She sounds like she was punched in the stomach. “I didn’t know she was a friend. I thought she was just someone you used to know.”
I feel dread filling me. Dread, and knowledge. I know what’s happened, or at least I think I do. But I need to hear Callie say it before I will believe it. “Tell me.”
A long sigh of surrender, then: “She’s dead, Smoky. Murdered in her apartment. The daughter’s alive, but she’s catatonic.”
My hand has gone nerveless with shock, and I’m in danger of dropping the phone. “Where are you now, Callie?” My voice sounds small to me.
“At the office. We’re getting ready to go to the scene, going on a private jet in an hour and a half.”
I sense something through my shock, a heaviness at Callie’s end. I realize that there’s something else she’s not telling me.
“What is it, Callie? What are you holding back?”
A hesitation, and then she sighs again. “The killer left a message for you, honey-love.”
I sit for a moment, silent. Letting these words sink in. “I’ll meet you at the office,” I say. I hang up before she can respond. I sit on the edge of my bed for a moment. I put my head into my hands and try to weep, but my eyes stay dry. Somehow, it hurts more that way.
It’s only six o’clock by the time I arrive. Early morning is the best time to drive in LA, the only time the highways are uncrowded. Most of the people driving are up to no good, or on their way to no good. I know these early mornings well. I’ve driven through fog and the gray light of breaking dawns many times, toward scenes of bloody death. As I am now. All the way there, all I can think about is Annie. Annie and I met in high school, when we were both fifteen. She was a soon to be ex-cheerleader, I was a reckless tomboy who smoked pot and enjoyed fast things. In the hierarchy of high school, our paths were not destined to cross. Fate intervened. At least I always thought of it as fate. S H A D O W M A N
43
My time of the month arrived in the middle of math class, and I had put up my hand, grabbed my purse, and rushed out the door to the bathroom. I was blushing as I went down the hallway, and hoping that no one else was there. I had been getting my period for only eight months, and the whole thing was still an excruciating embarrassment to me. I peeked in, saw with relief that the bathroom was deserted. I ducked into one of the stalls and was preparing to take care of my problem when a sniffling sound made me freeze, pad in hand. I held my breath, listening. The sniffling repeated itself, only this time, it broke into a quiet sob. Someone was crying, two stalls over from me. I have always been a sucker for things in pain. When I was young, I even considered being a veterinarian. If I came upon a hurt bird, dog, cat, or any other walking, crawling, living thing, it would end up coming home with me. Most of the time, the things I brought home didn’t make it. But sometimes they did, and the few victories in this regard were enough to keep my crusade alive. My parents thought it was cute at first, but it went from cute to annoying after the umpteenth trip to the emergency vet. Annoyed or not, they never discouraged me from these Mother Teresa–like efforts.
As I got older, I found that this concern extended to people as well. If someone got bullied, while I wouldn’t step in and rescue them
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