My Soul to Keep Part 26

Jessica nodded, gazing at Reyes, but she involuntarily looked downward at the mention of Peter's name. She couldn't distance herself from his death, no matter how much time pa.s.sed. "Well, you know I'd love to help," Jessica said softly.

Reyes whipped a notebook out of his breast pocket and absently flipped through the pages. "I'll update you. Basically, we've sc.r.a.pped the random attack theory. We believe someone was waiting in the car and probably knew when to expect him. And the wound was very clean, ritualistic. That leaves trying to figure out who would have the best motive to kill Donovitch."

Sy exhaled ruefully. "There's probably a club. He was a good reporter. Good reporters make enemies."

Sy had a point. In about a week, when her story on the drug dealers ran, Jessica could count on a few high-ranking enemies herself, including the county's deputy housing chief. Leaving the country for a while wasn't such a bad idea, after all.

"I don't know anything beyond what I told the other detective a long time ago," Jessica said.

"I've seen your statement. This is about something else," he said, finally stopping at a page in his notebook, which he scanned quickly while he spoke to her. "In trying to get a handle on what Peter might have been working on, we pulled e-mail messages he sent and received for a couple of weeks prior to his death. We're getting down to the nit-picky stuff now, but you never know where you're going to get a break. I'm sure you know what I mean."

Jessica lowered her eyebrows, confused. "E-mail? You mean you read Peter's messages? Aren't those private?"

"Jess..." Sy said in a calming tone. "The circ.u.mstances are extreme. E-mail is the newspaper's property. We read it if we have to."

"As I'm sure you know," Reyes went on, "the last message he sent was to you. *Mr. Perfect is a trip.' That sounded like a code name for something, and we wondered what it could mean."

Jessica looked back at her editor, and was amazed to find him watching her with a sober expression, waiting for her response. Was she the only one outraged that Peter's privacy was being violated? Not to mention hers? These cops were desperate, playing spy games to feel useful, exercising pointless authority.

She hoped Sy hadn't seen the messages too. Lord, she and Peter had exchanged more than a couple of unflattering messages about Sy, meant as jokes. With Peter dead, the barbs would sound blunt and cruel. It wasn't right to unearth them.

But, Jessica decided, maybe she was overreacting. If she were in Reyes's place, wouldn't she have checked Peter's e-mail too? Her judgment was clouded by their friends.h.i.+p, that was all. Sy had asked her a couple of times if she wanted to help cover Peter's murder investigation for the paper, and she'd always said no. Now, she understood why she couldn't.

"Do you remember that message?" Reyes asked.

Jessica blinked. "I remember it. I saw it a few weeks later, when I came back from taking some time off."

"You did mention something about getting a silly message from Peter. I remember now," Sy said.

"We're curious," Reyes went on. "Donovitch sent it late at night, probably right before he walked out of the building."

Jessica half smiled. "Well, I hate to blow any theories, but there's nothing glamorous about the message. Mr. Perfect was our nickname for my husband, David."

Sy nodded, illumination was.h.i.+ng over his face. He chuckled to himself. "Mr. Perfect ..." he repeated, amused. "Good one."

Reyes's expression didn't change as he gazed into Jessica's eyes. "I see. Well, that makes sense now. So, do you happen to know if your husband might have run into Donovitch?"

"Run into him when?" Jessica asked.

"That night," Reyes answered, glancing back down at his notes. "The guard says ... He came up at about nine-fifteen with a plate of food for you. Something like that. Left about an hour later. Does that sound familiar?"

"I wasn't here," Jessica said, the first words to emerge from her jarred mind. "I don't know."

"Well, your husband was here. Nine-fifteen, the guard says. So, I guess you were out on a story or something?"

Jessica's lips parted, then she closed them. She glanced back at Sy, whose hands were folded in front of his jaw, hiding his mouth. What the h.e.l.l was happening here? This was an interrogation, not a conversation. Never mind this business about David being here, which she didn't know about. She didn't like the questions. She shouldn't say anything else now. She shouldn't have said anything at all.

"I don't think I can help you," she said.

Reyes smiled, his face still friendly. He extended a blue-embossed business card, which she took. "I understand. You weren't here. Could you do me a favor, though, and ask Mr. Perfect to give me a call? Just loose ends."

"I'll mention it," she said.

Reyes flipped his notebook closed. "So ... I understand you and your family are moving to Africa soon. You must be excited."

"Yes," Jessica told Reyes coolly. "We're very excited."

Once again, Jessica shot a glance at Sy, whose face looked stony. Sy shrugged, his eyes apologetic. Later, he would tell Jessica he hadn't liked Reyes's tone either. He'd thought he only wanted her for casual chitchat. Even though Sy told her to forget it, Jessica thought he must have something ugly on his mind.

She didn't forget it.

She spent a half-hour on the telephone b.i.t.c.hing to David about the cop's smug demeanor, how the interception of Peter's e-mail made her feel violated, how the cop treated her like she was a conspirator in something.

Be very careful what you say to him, David, she warned. The paper's surveillance tape was lousy, but some people were insisting they could tell it was a black man climbing into Peter's Mustang. ("That's why we can't see him," she overheard one guard say, and another piped up, "Too bad he didn't smile.") The more time pa.s.sed, the more likely they would start grabbing at any wild theories they could.

She felt protective of David. Lately, she'd begun to view him as a sort of visitor to their modern world. It was as though Reyes was trying to lay a trap for him, and all because he wanted to bring her a plate of food. It was ridiculous.

David tried to calm her down, telling her it was no big deal. He asked for the cop's number, saying he'd be glad to call him and tell him everything he knew, which wasn't much.

"Well, okay," Jessica said, a little less agitated. "Anyway, Peter was in the library. I'm sure you didn't even see him."

"No, I did see him for a moment," David said. "Jess, listen, the lady just arrived to look at the house. We'll talk about this when you get home, all right, sweetheart?"

It wasn't until three hours later, driving home, that Jessica's irritation with Reyes dissipated enough for her to examine something else-even bigger-twisting the pit of her stomach: David had been at the paper the night Peter was killed, and he'd never mentioned it to her. Not once.

He'd had a conversation with their friend in his last hour of life, and he'd never thought to bring it up even as an anecdote.

Now, she understood MR. PERFECT IS A TRIP.

Peter saw David bringing her food, got a laugh out of it, and shared a joke with her, expecting her to sign on and see his message later that night. Hadn't she mentioned to David at least once how much that message confused her? She must have. How could he not say anything?

Jessica was on the verge of whipping herself into full anxiety, nearly bearing down on the Lexus ahead of her on Biscayne, until she remembered that David had no idea who Mr. Perfect was. She'd never shared the nickname with him because he might think it was sarcastic. Of course David wasn't purposely trying to keep anything from her. She shouldn't let that cop's att.i.tude taint hers.

h.e.l.l, hadn't David for weeks been telling her volatile secrets that most people would never trust anyone enough to disclose? He had trusted her not to freak out and bolt. He had trusted her not to betray him and sell his story to The National Enquirer. How could her own trust in David be so fragile? Especially when she and her daughter were about to start an entirely new life with him?

"It was thoughtless not to say anything," David said in bed that night, wrapped around her from behind. When he spoke, she felt the warm air from his lips between her shoulder blades. "But you were so distraught. It never crossed my mind to mention it before we heard the news, of course. It was such a routine meeting. And after ... I suppose I thought it would upset you needlessly. I wish I'd seen something, like I told that Reyes gentleman, but I just didn't. So why bring it up?"

Jessica's eyes grew teary as she imagined Peter in his cartoon-inspired tie, laughing and smiling with David. What would have happened if David had waited just a few more minutes and the two had walked out together? Would David have been attacked too? Or would Peter's a.s.sailant have been scared off?

It was so random. It scared her that it was all so senseless. And it hurt. Her anger with David hurt. And her anger with Reyes. And especially her anger with the faceless killer. The anger had nowhere to go. "You should have told me," Jessica said, sobbing.

David's grip tightened around her middle, and he rested his forehead against the nape of her neck. "I'm sorry, Jessica. I didn't mean to hurt you or cause you discomfort. I wish I could go back and change it. I'd change all of it. Honey, I wish I could make it so it never happened."

I'm sorry, he kept saying. I'm sorry.

37.

Jessica's dream was peaceful.

She was standing at the foot of the knoll, staring up at the cave, which was casting a splendid, tranquil white light. She saw the tall silhouette of her father centered in the cave's mouth. And Peter beside him? They waved, and she felt washed in joy. I won't be going there, she called to them. They nodded. They understood. Hold tight to Kira for me, her father's voice said, and the dream was over.

It was when Jessica woke up that her nightmare began.

She flung the bedsheets away from her skin. It was so G.o.dawful hot. She touched her cheeks, her abdomen, and realized she was damp with perspiration. David s.h.i.+fted beside her, rolling away, but he was still snoring lightly. Glancing at his curled form, Jessica's heart plummeted to her stomach. She felt like she would vomit.

Four o'clock in the morning, the oak grandfather clock said in the moonlight. If David hadn't silenced its mechanism, the clock would be tolling right now.

Jessica couldn't sleep. Unconscious thoughts, free to roam while her defenses were weak, were surfacing in her anxious brain.

You know, like a flooring knife. For linoleum.

Again, Jessica felt a constricting in her throat that warned her she might be physically sick. Her heartbeat was in a fury. Weakly, she climbed out of bed and searched for her shoes beneath the frame. Once her sneakers were on, she walked quietly into the bathroom, closed the door, and flicked on the light above the sink.

She did not recogize the wild, red eyes she saw in the mirror. These were a stranger's eyes. The eyes of a woman wondering, for the first time, if her husband was a murderer.

David had never really liked Peter.

David had probably been the last person to see Peter alive.

David had a linoleum knife.

"Oh, my sweet Jesus ..." Jessica whispered. She doused her face with a cool stream of water from the faucet. This must be what fainting feels like, she thought, or diving from an airplane. You're falling, and where will you land?

Okay, she thought, steadying herself by curling her fingers over the rim of the sink, let's be logical here. There's no evidence, just a bunch of crazy notions. So what if the guards thought it was a dark-skinned man on the tape? She'd seen the tape herself, and all she could make out on the grainy image was a faint gleaming on the chrome when the killer opened Peter's door.

And why would David do something so vicious? Just to prevent them from writing their book? No way. He would need more motive than that. David had been coming around on the book anyway.

The new voice from the recesses of her psyche shot her down. You think he came around on the book, the voice said. You don't know that man. That man mutilated his own insides with a hunting knife. That man was born in an era your history cla.s.ses never even taught you about. He told you himself he slaughtered men in the Civil War. The whole time you've known him, you haven't even been calling him by his given name, which you can barely p.r.o.nounce. You don't know the first thing about that man.

That man, the voice kept saying.

But what about David? Who was he? Was he real at all?

"Oh, my Lord ... sweet Jesus ..." Jessica whispered. What had she been thinking to stay with him? To agree to go away with him, and to drag Kira along? She must be certifiably insane.

Then, just when she needed to most, Jessica remembered her Scriptures, the words of Jesus in the Book of Mark. Why are ye so fearful? How is it that ye have no faith?

The work of G.o.d had unfolded in Jessica's own hands, which had been soaked in David's blood from the wound healed by a miracle. She alone had witnessed this, and there was no disputing what she had seen. She'd been chosen to see. And David had been chosen to show her. So, despite the slander of others, and her own weakness of mind, she must not let go of her faith. It was all she had.

Besides, there was a simple way to make her doubts vanish. She could find David's toolbox and hold the linoleum knife for herself. A killer would have disposed of his weapon.

Then, she could go back to sleep.

Downstairs, the darkened living room was crammed with packing boxes, and Jessica carefully felt her way around the stacks on the floor. Some boxes would be s.h.i.+pped to Africa, and others would go to charities. David packed each day while she was at work, despite her protests that she wanted to help. He'd packed his books and most of his music first. The shelves on the wall where he'd kept his CDs were bare, and already the house looked like it belonged to someone else.

In the kitchen, moving cautiously, Jessica turned on the dim light above the stove and opened the drawer where they kept the Durabeam flashlight. When she lifted the flashlight, an old ice pick clattered to the floor, making her jump. Kneeling, she glanced up, tense, to see if David would come.

She heard a sound on wooden stairs. She waited, still kneeling. Then Teacake, his plumelike tail standing straight up, came running into the kitchen. He mewed.

"Please hush," Jessica whispered, relieved, her heart flying.

With Teacake leaping ahead, Jessica unlatched the door leading to the screened-in back porch and tipped outside into the humid night air. The moon was nearly full, making the river flicker in white. She almost didn't need a flashlight on a night like this. When she navigated through the foliage to the shed, her cat didn't follow. He sat in the gra.s.s and watched her slip inside from a distance.

The first thing Jessica noticed was the scattered dried lizard skeletons on the concrete floor, at least a half-dozen. The reptiles' eye sockets were empty, eaten away by ants. Had David put some poison down? Good thing she didn't believe in omens, Jessica thought, or the wispy lizard bones would have spooked her right back into the house.

"Okay," she said aloud, to rea.s.sure herself with her own voice, "Where's that toolbox ... ?"

The large toolbox was bright red and would be hard to miss, but she didn't see it on the worktable beneath David's carpenter's ap.r.o.n. She didn't see it on the plastic patio table or the folding chair in the middle of the floor. Now what? Was it in the car?

Then, she spotted it. The toolbox was near the stepladder in a far corner of the shed, beneath a paper bag folded down at the top. The bag was heavy to lift, but she moved it aside and carried the toolbox to the table to examine it.

Jessica didn't recognize half of the tangle of tools she found. Wrenches big and small, duct tape, screwdrivers. She took them out one by one and laid them aside, burrowing her way down. A knife! But it wasn't the right one; it was smaller, without the hooked tip. d.a.m.n. Where was the linoleum knife?

It wasn't in the toolbox. Jessica wiped perspiration from her forehead. More hurriedly, growing nervous, she searched the work-table, pulling out the plywood drawers and digging through them. Plenty of nails and small gadgets, but no linoleum knife. She scanned the various tools-his saws and shears-that hung from hooks on the wall. d.a.m.nit. Everything but the knife.

By now, Jessica was more frustrated than frightened. Her eyes and body were craving sleep, and she began to think of how ridiculous it was to rummage through her husband's things at four in the morning. She'd make up a reason to ask about it later.

"Would that make you happy, Columbo?" she asked herself aloud. She shouldn't have let Reyes get to her. Since she was fully awake now, her fears in the bathroom seemed alarmist. Ridiculous. It was only her mind still freaking out about David's immortality, she decided. The spells were less frequent now, but they still came.

As she replaced the toolbox, Jessica glanced once again at the folded paper bag. She hadn't checked inside, and the knife had probably been there the whole time. She lifted the bag, bringing it out to the stream of light from the overhead bulb.

The bag was filled with bottles. No wonder she couldn't find the ammonia last week. And here was the bleach. She lifted the bottles out of the bag one by one. Rat poison? Maybe he'd used that on the lizards. She also found a tin can of paint thinner and a half-empty bottle of rubbing alcohol. What in the world ... ?

At the bag's bottom were three plastic syringes. Two were empty, but one was quarter-filled with a dark-red liquid. She lifted the third syringe and examined it in the light; the liquid inside, which was the consistency of a watery syrup, swept around the syringe's barrel as she turned it over in her hand.

The liquid was warm.

Suddenly, she knew. David's blood.

Jessica's mouth fell open. She gazed at the blood with awe. Why had David drawn this blood?

No, she had not found what she'd come looking for. But she'd found something else, something even more valuable. Her hand, grasping the syringe, began to tremble.

"Who are you, David? What are you?" she whispered.

Finally, she resolved, she would know.

"Excuse me? We must have a bad connection," Alex said.

"Quit playing. I'm serious," Jessica said, gazing around the newsroom to see if anyone could hear her. It was lunchtime, and no one was within earshot of her desk. She repeated herself, speaking slowly. "I'm going to bring you a blood sample so you can run some tests on it. But this has to be absolutely secret. You can't tell anyone you have it. No one can see you with it. And you can't show anyone the test results."