Redemption Road: A Novel (11 page)

“Go on.”

“I received a radio call from dispatch asking me to check out reports of suspicious activity at an abandoned house on Penelope Street. The report indicated activity in the basement, possible screams. I would not normally take a call like that, but it was a busy night. The department was stretched.”

“Stretched, how?”

“The battery plant closed that day—three hundred jobs gone in a city that can’t afford to lose three. There was rioting. Some burned cars. People were angry. The department’s resources were strained.”

“Where was Detective Beckett?”

“He’s married with kids. He needed the time.”

“So, you went alone to a dangerous neighborhood, then into an abandoned house where screams had been reported?”

“That’s correct.”

“You didn’t call for backup?”

“No.”

“Is that normal procedure?”

“It was not a normal day.”

Marsh drummed his fingers on the table. “Were you drinking?”

“That question is offensive.”

Marsh slid a paper across the table. “This is the incident report completed by your commanding officer.” He glanced at Dyer. “It says you were disoriented after the shooting. At times, nonresponsive.”

Elizabeth flashed back to the moment in question. She was sitting on the curb outside the abandoned house. Channing was in the ambulance, wrapped in a blanket, catatonic. Dyer’s hands were on Elizabeth’s shoulders.
Talk to me,
he’d said.
Liz.
His eyes faded in and out.
Jesus Christ,
he’d said.
What the hell happened in there?

“I wasn’t drinking. I wasn’t drunk.”

Marsh leaned back and studied her. “You have a soft spot for young people.”

“Is that a question?”

“Especially those who are helpless or abused. It’s reflected in your files. People in the department are aware of it. You respond with great passion to young people in distress. You’ve intervened with authorities, used force on multiple occasions.” Marsh leaned forward. “You feel a connection to those who are small and young and unable to care for themselves.”

“Isn’t that part of the job description?”

“Not if it interferes with the job.” Marsh opened another folder and began to spread out photographs of the dead men. They were glossy, full color. Crime-scene photographs. Autopsy photographs. They stretched across the table like a fan of cards: blood and blank eyes and shattered bone. “You went alone into an abandoned house.” He touched the photographs as he spoke. “There was no power. Reports of screams. You went alone into the basement.” He straightened the edges of the photographs until he had a perfect line. “Did you hear anything?”

Elizabeth swallowed.

“Detective Black? Did you hear anything?”

“Dripping water. Rats in the walls.”

“Rats?”

“Yes.”

“What else?”

“Channing was crying.”

“You saw her?”

Elizabeth blinked, the memory collapsing into something dimmer. “She was in the second room.”

“Describe it.”

“Concrete. Low ceilings. The mattress was in the corner.”

“Was it dark?”

“There was a candle on a crate. It was red.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes and saw that, too: melted wax and flickers of light, the hallways and doors and shadowed places. It was as real as in her dreams, but mostly she heard the girl’s voice, the broken words and prayer, the way she begged God to help her, please.

“Where were the Monroe brothers at this time?”

“I don’t know.” Elizabeth cleared her throat. “There were other rooms.”

“And the child?” Marsh pushed a photograph forward. It showed the mattress, the wires. Elizabeth blinked again, but the room around her remained blurry. Only the photograph was sharp. The mattress. The memory. “How was Channing?”

“She was as you might imagine.”

“Frightened, of course.” He placed a single finger on the photo of the mattress. “Wired to a mattress. Exposed. Alone.” He removed the photographs, touched two that showed the dead men, their bodies broken and bent and shredded. “These are the ones that interest me the most.” He pushed them toward her. “The bullet placement, in particular.” He touched one man and then the other. “Both knees shot away.” He slid forward a close-up of the shattered knees. “Multiple shots to the groin. Again, both men.” Another close-up hissed across the table, this one an autopsy photo, stark and bright. “Did you torture these men, Detective Black?”

“It was dark.…”

Another photograph slid across the table. “Titus Monroe. Shot in both knees, both elbows.”

“Not intentional.”

“But painful. Nonfatal.”

Elizabeth swallowed, nauseous.

Marsh noticed. “I’d ask you to look at each photograph.”

“I’ve seen these.”

“These are not random injuries, Detective.”

“I thought they were armed.”

“Knees. Groins. Elbows.”

“It was dark.”

“Eighteen shots.”

“The girl was crying.”

“Eighteen shots placed to cause maximum pain.”

Elizabeth looked away. Marsh leaned back, his eyes blue and cold. “Two men are dead, Detective.”

Elizabeth turned her head slowly, her own eyes so flat and emotionless they, themselves, looked dead. “Two animals,” she said.

“I beg your pardon.”

Her heart beat twice. She spoke with care. “Two
animals
are dead.”

“Liz! Jesus!”

Marsh held up a hand as Dyer seemed to lurch forward. “It’s okay, Captain. Stand where you are.” He turned his attention back to Liz, hands spread on the table. “Did you torture these men, Detective?” He lifted a bloody photograph, placed it gently in front of her. Elizabeth looked away, so he put down two more. They were autopsy photos, close-ups. The wounds were immediate and full color. “Detective Black?”

Elizabeth stood. “We’re done here.”

“You’re not excused.”

She pushed back her chair.

“I’m not finished, Detective.”

“I am.”

She turned on a heel.

Hamilton stood, but Marsh said, “Let her go.”

Elizabeth pulled open the door and was outside before Dyer could touch her arm or say a word to stop her. She pushed through the crowd of watching cops, through friends and rivals and faces that seemed strange to her. The room faded to gray as people muttered words she didn’t care about or understand. Everything was
the basement.
It was stone and fabric, screams and blood. She heard her name, but it wasn’t real. The world was gun smoke and wire and the twine of Channing’s fingers.…

“Liz!”

Slippery skin and pain …

“Liz, damn it!”

That was Beckett, still distant. She ignored the brush of his fingers, and only in the fresh air did she realize he’d followed her down the stairwell. There were cars and black pavement, then Beckett’s fingers on her wrist.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Liz, look at me.”

But, she couldn’t. A car had leaked oil onto the tarmac. Sunlight turned the puddle into melted iron, and that was exactly how she felt: as if all the hardness had been drawn from her bones, as if she, too, were melting away. “Don’t call me, Charlie. Okay? Don’t call me. Don’t follow me.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know,” she said; but that was a lie.

“Maybe you should talk to Wilkins.”

“Don’t go there, either.” Wilkins was the department shrink. Every other day he called. And every other day she declined his services. “I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that, but you look like a strong wind will lift you off your feet.”

“I’m fine.”

“Liz…”

“I have to go.”

She got in the car and drove to the abandoned house where Channing had been held captive for forty long hours. She wasn’t sure why she’d come, but guessed it had to do with photographs and dreams and the way she avoided this bit of town. The structure was a shell under the darkening sky. It sat far back from the road, part of it crushed by a fallen tree, the rest of it obscured behind saplings, milkweed, and high grass. She could smell it through the open window, a whiff of rot and mold and feral cat. The house next door was empty. Three more on the street were dark.

The city was crumbling, she thought.

She was crumbling.

At the porch, she hesitated. Yellow tape fluttered at the door. The windows were boarded up. Elizabeth touched flaking paint and thought of all the things that had died on the other side of the door.
Five days,
she told herself.
I can handle this.
But her hand shook when she reached for the knob.

She stared at it, disbelieving, then snapped her fingers shut. She stood for a long minute, then retreated in disarray for the first time since pinning on a badge. It was just a place, she told herself. Just a house.

Then why can’t I go inside?

Elizabeth got back in the car and drove, houses flicking past, sun dropping behind the tallest trees. It was only as the road bent in a long, slow curve that she realized she wasn’t going home. The houses were wrong, the ridgelines and the views. But, she kept driving. Why? Because she needed something. A touchstone. A reminder of why she’d become a cop in the first place.

When she found Adrian, he was ten miles out of town in a burned-out building that used to be his home. It sat under tall trees at the end of a half-mile drive, a once-fine farmhouse now little more than ash-heap walls and a bone of chimney. She stepped out under a spinning sky, and the wind, on its lips, carried the faintest taste of smoke.

“What are you doing here, Liz?” He stepped from the gloom.

“Hello, Adrian. I’m sorry for just showing up like this.”

“It’s not really my house, is it?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then, what?”

“Prison. Thirteen years.” She ran out of words because Adrian was the one who’d made her what she was. That made him a god of sorts, and gods terrified her. “I’m sorry I didn’t visit.”

“You were just a rookie. We barely knew each other.”

She nodded because words, again, were inadequate. She’d written him three times in the first year of his incarceration, and each one said the same thing.
I’m sorry
.
I wish I could have done more.
After that, she’d had nothing else to offer.

“Did you know…?” She turned both palms to finish the sentence.
Did you know your house was burned, your wife gone?

“I never heard from Catherine.” His face was a slash of gray in the gloom. “After the trial I never heard from anyone.”

Elizabeth rolled her shoulders against a final rush of guilt. She should have told him years ago that his wife had left, his house had burned. She should have gone to the prison and told him face-to-face. She’d been unable to bear it, though, the thought of him locked up, diminished. “Catherine left three months after your conviction. The house sat empty for a while, then one day it burned. They say it was arson.”

He nodded, but she knew it hurt. “Why are you here, Liz?”

“I just wanted to check on you.” She left the rest unspoken: that she was looking at murder charges of her own, that she was hoping for insight, and that she might have loved him, once.

“Would you like to come inside?”

She thought he was joking, but he picked his way through scrub and rubble until orange light touched his skin. It was the old living room, she saw. The floor was gone, but fire burned in the fireplace and made sounds as it settled. Adrian added wood, and the light spread. Around her, she saw ash, swept back, and a log dragged in as a seat. Adrian’s hands were stained, too; and Gideon’s blood still showed black on his shirt. “Home sweet home.” He said it flatly, but the hurt was there. His great-great-grandfather had built the house. Adrian grew up in it, then deeded it to his wife to cover his legal bills, if necessary. It had survived the Civil War, his bankruptcy, and his trial. Now, it was this shell, tumbled and damp beneath trees that had seen the sweep of its history.

“I’m sorry about your wife,” Elizabeth said. “I wish I could tell you where she was.”

“She was pregnant when the trial started.” Adrian sat on the log; stared at the fire. “She lost the baby two days before the verdict. Did you know that?” Elizabeth shook her head, but he wasn’t watching her. “Did you see anyone out there?”

“Out there?” She indicated the fields, the drive.

“There was a car, before.”

He seemed adrift and vague. She squatted beside him. “Why are you here, Adrian?”

Something flickered in his eyes, and it looked dangerous. Anger. Intent. Something sharp and cruel, and then suddenly gone. “Where else would I go?”

He lifted his shoulders, and the vagueness returned. Elizabeth looked deeper, but whatever she’d glimpsed was gone. “A hotel. Some other place.”

“There is no other place.”

“Adrian, listen—”

“Did you see something out there?”

It was the same question in the same voice; but if he was worried about something in the night the worry didn’t show. The fire consumed his attention, even as Elizabeth stood. “Was it horrible?” she asked, and meant prison. He said nothing, but his hands twitched, and scars glinted like ivory in the light. Elizabeth thought of her youth, and of all the times she’d watched him move through the world: the way he stood at his desk and at the range, how he’d worked a witness, a crime scene, the bureaucracy. He’d worn confidence like a smile, and it was strange to see him so still and quiet, his eyes withdrawn beyond the smoke. “Would you like me to stay awhile?”

His eyes drifted shut, and she knew the answer was no. This was a communion, and she, in his mind, was just a kid he’d once known. “It was nice of you to come,” he said, but the words were false.

Go away,
he meant.

Leave me to suffer in peace.

7

Ramona lost track of time in the blackness of the silo. Her world was damp earth and heat and concrete walls. The door was a metal square that gave a fraction of an inch before the lock outside clanked.

“Somebody…”