Rusty Nail

“Hello?” His voice was groggy.

“How’d the colonoscopy go? You eating a big plate of nachos yet?”

Long pause. I heard hospital sounds in the background. A nurse talking. A doctor being paged.

“They found something. A tumor.”

I momentarily ran out of words.

“Jesus, Herb.”

“Took a biopsy. Won’t know until later.”

“Are you okay?”

“No. I gotta go.”

He clicked off.

I stared at the phone, unsure of what to do. Go visit him? Herb, though cuddly on the outside, was a classic stoic. Dropping by would cause embarrassment, and possibly anger. But still, a tumor was a serious thing.

I closed my eyes. I’d had partners prior to Herb, but never one I’d cared about. Benedict was like a big brother. If Herb died…

The phone rang. I screwed a cap over my feelings and answered, hoping it was Herb.

“Did the Feebies just drop by?”

Bains.

“Yes, Captain. Evanston brought them in.”

“I want you off this.”

“You gave me forty-eight hours.”

“I said to keep a low profile. With those two involved, it’s only a matter of time before the Weekly World News is camped outside the station. You’re off.”

“Captain-”

“Off.”

I hung up the phone and took a deep breath. That didn’t do a damn thing, so I took another, and another.

Something inside of me, some little internal switch, had been flipped, and I wasn’t sure who I was. I thought about Herb, and my mom, and my ex-husband, Alan, and Latham, and my job, and my life, and where I’d been and where I was headed.

I thought about how hard I tried to remain in control, and what little good it did. Control didn’t matter. Fate didn’t care about how hard you tried, or how well pla

Fate had its own agenda.

I was forty-six years old. My job, the thing I devoted my life to, was in trouble. My best friend might be dying. My mother was in a coma. And I had screwed up the one thing that I did have some control over; I loved a great guy, and I blew it. And if I wanted to admit it, to take the hard inward glance that made me ask why, I knew the answer.

Deep down, I wanted to be miserable. I wanted to be miserable, because that’s what I deserved, because I hated myself.

Which was a pretty crummy way to live. And not something I wanted to continue.

I picked up the phone, dialing from memory.

“Hello?”

“Hi Latham, it’s Jack. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for hurting you. I know a lot of time has passed, and I’m sure you’ve moved on, but I haven’t. I still love you. Can I come over?”

“Who is this? Do I know you?”

The voice wasn’t Latham’s.

“Ah, hell.” I disco

“You’ve reached Latham Conger, I can’t come to the phone, please leave a name and number and I’ll get back to you.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Say something, Jack.

The silence stretched.

Open your mouth.

Dead air, each passing second like a kick in the gut.

Dammit, woman, do you want to be miserable your whole life?

“Latham, it’s Jack. I’m sorry for everything. I love you. I’d like to see you again. Please call.”

There. I did it. I actually did something for myself. It brought a small smile to my face.

But my shoulders bunched up again when I realized I’d be up all night, waiting for him to call.

Once again, control was out of my hands.

CHAPTER 7

I STOPPED BY Henderson House on the way home from work, but there had been no change. Mom hadn’t opened her eyes again. I sat with her for an hour. No talking this time, just holding her hand.

Twice I checked my cell phone, to make sure it was on. It was.

After a pillow fluff, I turned to leave and had a good startle seeing Tony Coglioso standing in the doorway. His eyes seemed glazed, far away.

“Tony?”

“Hi, Jack. How’s she doing?”

“The same. How about your dad?”

“The same.”

I wondered if I should apologize for barging in on him yesterday, and then thought that maybe he was the one who should apologize for being so rude, and finally accepted that neither of us needed to say the s word because, hey, our parents were dying.

“You look nice,” Tony said, not quite focusing on me.

I figured I looked like hell, but thanked him anyway.

Tony smiled. “See you soon.” Then he walked off.

Strange. Maybe he was drunk, or high on something. Or maybe he stopped by to ask me out, checked the merchandise, and decided to pass.

I fluffed Mom’s pillow again, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and headed to the elevator. No Tony in the hall, no Tony in the lobby, and no Tony in the parking lot. It didn’t matter. My mind was on Latham, not Tony, so I didn’t dwell.

After a quick check to make sure my cell phone hadn’t accidentally switched off during my walk to the car, I headed home.

Mr. Friskers gave me a warm welcome, howling and ru

I made di

Next to the TV, still in the Jewel bag, were the Kork videotapes.

They might as well have been blinking like a beacon.

You were pulled from the case, Jack. You don’t need to watch more people being tortured. You’ve got enough on your plate as it is.

I put on a game show, but stared at the bag. I switched to a cooking show, but kept looking at the bag. I tried a sitcom starring the stand-up comedian du jour.

That damn bag kept demanding my attention.

I crawled out of bed. Picked up the bag and carried it into the kitchen.

Mr. Friskers had his face crammed in his bowl. He hissed at my interruption of his gluttony. I hissed back and set the bag on the counter, next to the sink. The cat ran up and swiped a claw at my leg.

I jumped back, knocking the bag over and spilling files onto the floor. My ankle sprouted three shallow cuts, not too far from the other set of shallow cuts that had already healed, but lower than the fresh cuts a few inches higher.

“Dammit, cat!”

It was always my left leg too. He’d clawed me a dozen times, but never on the right leg. Sadism, with an agenda.

I tore off a paper towel, dabbing it at the blood while picking up papers with my free hand. My fist closed around the Diane Kork file, and I paused.

An image, unbidden, flashed into my head, of the first time I’d seen Diane Kork, half naked and bleeding in Charles Kork’s basement. I remembered her pleading, crying face. Her ugly wounds, weeping blood. And something else. Something familiar.

I paged through the file, but there weren’t any pictures of her wounds. Made sense; the case was closed, and evidence was no longer needed.

But I did have images of Diane. Videotape #12, “Slipping the Knife to the Wife.”

“You’re off the case, Jack,” I said aloud.

I didn’t listen to myself.

I found tape #12 and took it into the bedroom. I hit Play and then Fast-forward, cycling through Diane being tied up, up to the scene where he sliced off her clothes.

I paused the tape.

The image jittered, two lines of snow framing the edges of the screen, but I could clearly see what I’d been looking for: a heart-shaped tattoo, the size of a dime, on Diane’s hip bone just below the bikini line.

I stared for a moment, then went back to the kitchen and dug out the copy of the tape of the latest murder – the original was still at the lab.