we giggled and talked about the future, about the plans for her wedding. It was like being back in high school.
I was her maid of honor, and she was mine. She moved up to San Francisco with Robert, while Matt and I stayed in LA. Things drifted, S H A D O W M A N
47
but we’d always manage to find time every six to eight months to place a call, and whenever we did, we were back there again, that first day we’d played hooky, free and young and happy.
Robert was a flake, who eventually left her. Some years later, I ran a background check on him, hoping to find that he was failing and miserable in his life. I found instead that he had died in a car accident. Why Annie had never shared this with me, I still don’t know. When I started working for the Bureau, and by that I mean really working, the time between calls drifted to a year. Then a year and a half. I agreed to be her daughter’s godmother but am ashamed to say that I met her child only once, and she never met mine. What can I say? Life moved on, the one thing it always does.
Some might judge that. I don’t care. All I know is that whether it was six months or two years, whenever we talked, it was like no time had passed at all.
About three years ago her father died. I went up there right away and stayed for over a week, helping. Or trying to. Annie was older and drained and full of pain. I remember being struck by a single irony: Her agony and her age had made her more beautiful than ever. The night after the funeral, after she’d put her daughter to bed, we sat on the floor of her bedroom, and she cried in my arms while I whispered into her hair. I did not hear from her when Matt died, but I didn’t wonder about this. Annie had this quirk: She abhorred the news, whether in print or on TV, and I never called to tell her what happened. I still don’t know why. I thought about Annie on my way to the Bureau offices. I thought and I wondered at my reaction to her death. I felt sad. Devastated even. But it didn’t seem as monumental, emotionally, as it should be. I’ve just arrived, and I just realized that I’ve lost all of my youth now. The love of my youth, the friend of my youth. It’s all gone. Maybe losing Matt and Alexa was just too much. Maybe that’s why I don’t feel as much as I think I should about Annie.
Maybe I just don’t have any more pain to give.
“What the hell are you doing here, Smoky?”
It’s SAC Jones, my old sponsor. Except now he’s Assistant Director Jones. I’m surprised to find him here. It’s not that he’s not dedicated or 48
C O D Y M C F A D Y E N
hesitates at stepping into the trenches; it’s that he simply doesn’t need to be here, and his dance card is never empty. What’s so urgent about this case?
“Callie called me, sir. She told me about Annie King and mentioned that the killer left a message for me. I’m going with.”
He shakes his head. “Oh no you’re not. No fucking way. Aside from the fact that she’s your friend, which means you can’t touch this case with a ten-foot pole, you are not cleared to go back to work.”
Callie is trying to eavesdrop, and Jones notices this. He gestures me toward his car, lighting a cigarette as we walk. Everyone’s out in front of the Bureau offices, getting ready to head to the Van Nuys private airport. He takes a deep drag and I watch him, wistful. I forgot to bring my own.
“Can I have one of those, sir?”
His eyebrows arch in surprise. “I thought you quit.”
“I took it up again.”
He shrugs and gives me the pack. I pull out one of the cigarettes, and he lights it for me. I, too, take a nice, long puff. Yum.
“Listen, Smoky. You know how it goes. You’ve been around long enough. Your shrink keeps the content of what you guys talk about in complete confidence. But he does submit a report, once a month, giving an overview of where he thinks you’re at.”
I nod. I know this is true. I don’t take it as any kind of violation. It’s not
I was her maid of honor, and she was mine. She moved up to San Francisco with Robert, while Matt and I stayed in LA. Things drifted, S H A D O W M A N
47
but we’d always manage to find time every six to eight months to place a call, and whenever we did, we were back there again, that first day we’d played hooky, free and young and happy.
Robert was a flake, who eventually left her. Some years later, I ran a background check on him, hoping to find that he was failing and miserable in his life. I found instead that he had died in a car accident. Why Annie had never shared this with me, I still don’t know. When I started working for the Bureau, and by that I mean really working, the time between calls drifted to a year. Then a year and a half. I agreed to be her daughter’s godmother but am ashamed to say that I met her child only once, and she never met mine. What can I say? Life moved on, the one thing it always does.
Some might judge that. I don’t care. All I know is that whether it was six months or two years, whenever we talked, it was like no time had passed at all.
About three years ago her father died. I went up there right away and stayed for over a week, helping. Or trying to. Annie was older and drained and full of pain. I remember being struck by a single irony: Her agony and her age had made her more beautiful than ever. The night after the funeral, after she’d put her daughter to bed, we sat on the floor of her bedroom, and she cried in my arms while I whispered into her hair. I did not hear from her when Matt died, but I didn’t wonder about this. Annie had this quirk: She abhorred the news, whether in print or on TV, and I never called to tell her what happened. I still don’t know why. I thought about Annie on my way to the Bureau offices. I thought and I wondered at my reaction to her death. I felt sad. Devastated even. But it didn’t seem as monumental, emotionally, as it should be. I’ve just arrived, and I just realized that I’ve lost all of my youth now. The love of my youth, the friend of my youth. It’s all gone. Maybe losing Matt and Alexa was just too much. Maybe that’s why I don’t feel as much as I think I should about Annie.
Maybe I just don’t have any more pain to give.
“What the hell are you doing here, Smoky?”
It’s SAC Jones, my old sponsor. Except now he’s Assistant Director Jones. I’m surprised to find him here. It’s not that he’s not dedicated or 48
C O D Y M C F A D Y E N
hesitates at stepping into the trenches; it’s that he simply doesn’t need to be here, and his dance card is never empty. What’s so urgent about this case?
“Callie called me, sir. She told me about Annie King and mentioned that the killer left a message for me. I’m going with.”
He shakes his head. “Oh no you’re not. No fucking way. Aside from the fact that she’s your friend, which means you can’t touch this case with a ten-foot pole, you are not cleared to go back to work.”
Callie is trying to eavesdrop, and Jones notices this. He gestures me toward his car, lighting a cigarette as we walk. Everyone’s out in front of the Bureau offices, getting ready to head to the Van Nuys private airport. He takes a deep drag and I watch him, wistful. I forgot to bring my own.
“Can I have one of those, sir?”
His eyebrows arch in surprise. “I thought you quit.”
“I took it up again.”
He shrugs and gives me the pack. I pull out one of the cigarettes, and he lights it for me. I, too, take a nice, long puff. Yum.
“Listen, Smoky. You know how it goes. You’ve been around long enough. Your shrink keeps the content of what you guys talk about in complete confidence. But he does submit a report, once a month, giving an overview of where he thinks you’re at.”
I nod. I know this is true. I don’t take it as any kind of violation. It’s not
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