“How can you be sure it was Wizard?”
“He's the one who vouched for Rolly's tattoo! And he already has the Dirty Dog tattoo. That's what Maggie was drawing when she was killed.”
“It still doesn't confirm he killed her.”
“You're saying you don't think he did it?” asked Jack incredulously.
“I didn't say that, but it would never stand up in court.”
“Court! What the hell does court have to do with anything? None of this will stand up! We can't use this! We don't even have grounds for a search warrant! Who's talking about court?”
“So what do we do then?” asked Danny, his voice cracking. “Do you set yourself up as judge, jury, and executioner? What if it wasn't Wizard? Okay, I'll admit Rolly had a hand in it, but what if it wasn't Wizard? It's just ⦠could you live with there being any doubt as to who did kill Maggie? Wondering if a third person was there, maybe another dealer, and Wizard only saw what happened.”
Jack didn't respond for a moment. He sat on the floor, breathing like he had run a marathon. Eventually his breathing returned to normal. “Okay,” he said. “You want more proof? I'll get it for you!”
The sound of birds chirping outside told Danny that now was not the time to ask how.
Jack picked up one of the handguns and walked out of the bathroom and over to a plant in the living room. He looked back at Danny. “Are you going to help?”
Danny looked down at the remaining two guns.
This is wrong. Everything I'm doing is wrong.
“Forget it, I'll do it myself,” said Jack, plunging the barrel of the gun into the dirt.
It was daybreak when Jack pulled alongside Danny's car in the office parking lot.
“So we take tonight off? That's what you said.”
Jack nodded. His face looked grim.
“You're not going to do anythingâ¦?”
Jack shook his head and said, “In my heart, I know you're right about needing more proof. I'm convinced about Rolly, but Wizard, or whoever they were meeting, is another story. Our friend gets back from the ride today. We'll meet him first thing tomorrow morning.”
“You've already got a game plan, don't you?”
“I know what I'd like to do, but I don't think you'd want to hear about it.”
Danny sucked in a deep breath. “Christ, Jack, we're supposed to be cops, for God's sake.”
“So what do
you
suggest?”
“We've got a good informant. Let's get a wiretap for
drug trafficking. It might lead to some dealer up the Valley that we don't know about.”
“Then what? They're not dumb enough to say anything over the phone. If we run wire we'll have to bring more people into it, which means more risk for our friend.”
“What's your plan, then?” asked Danny nervously.
“Turn up the pressure on our friend.”
“Too much pressure and he's liable to do something stupid.”
“I've decided to chance it. I'll call him tonight and set up an early morning meet. I'll pick you up at five-thirty tomorrow morning. If he hasn't received any heat over those fifty keys, then I'm going to put the screws to him.”
“Hope you know what you're doing. This could get pretty hairy.”
“Hairy is okay. It's bloody that you have to watch out for. But you're right, so let's take today off. Do something special with Susan. You owe it to her. She's a great lady.”
“I know.”
“We've got almost twenty-four hours. I plan on spending it with Natasha.”
“That's right! Today is the big day,” Danny said, lightly punching Jack on the arm.
“She's just meeting Liz and Ben.”
“Don't be nervous. They'll like her. Susan and I do.”
“I'm not nervous. Good night!”
It was noon when Natasha walked into her bedroom and gently shook Jack's shoulder. “Come on, sleepyhead, breakfast is ready.”
Jack groaned and looked at the clock on Natasha's dresser. “Why so early?”
“It's not early. Besides, I'm keyed up. Think I need to expend some energy,” she said, reaching under the sheets and running her hand up the inside of his thigh.
“It's only my sister and her husband.”
“Oh? So it's not a big deal?”
Jack reached for Natasha's head and pulled her face close to his. He smiled and said, “Yeah, it's a big deal. At least Liz thinks so. Speaking of which, you better have an appetite. Her Sunday dinners are always great.”
“Is that the way to your heart? Through your mouth?”
Jack grinned, then said, “Not necessarily. Your hand may have found another way.” He kissed her as her bathrobe fell to the floor.
As they finished breakfast and started clearing dishes, Jack thought about their visit to the farm ⦠and about Marcie. What type of image did The Suit portray to others? What would his profile consist of? He decided to tell Natasha about The Suit. How he provided the bikers with secret police information and the ugly details of his attack on Marcie.
Natasha's face expressed her horror. “Give me a minute to think about it.” She was quiet as she slowly collected her thoughts. She saw the grim look on Jack's face as he stood drying the same dish over and over again. Finally she said, “He's sick. Really sick.”
“All those years of medical school and you tell me he's sick? Incorrect answer, doctor! I want something more professional. A psychiatric profile to help identify him.”
“I know. Just hang on.” She drained the kitchen sink before taking the towel from Jack's grasp and tossing it
on the counter. “Hold me a sec.” She wrapped her arms around his waist. He saw that she had tears in her eyes.
“I'm sorry,” he said softly. “I shouldn't be talking to you about my work, let alone this.”
“No, it's okay. I knew something appalling had happened to her. I just didn't know how awful.” She wiped her eyes with her fingers, then continued, “Psychiatry is not my field of expertise, but considering what he did to Marcie, I would say you're looking for someone in a position of power or authority.”
“Like a policeman?” Jack said it as a question but meant it more as a statement.
“Perhaps. It's no coincidence that the mask he wore was of the president of the United States. This is a guy who wants absolute power. He likely portrays a perfect, strong image, yet deep down inside he is very insecure. He would detest feeling like anyone had any power over him. The type of person who would strongly object to something as benign as, say, a seat belt law, because he would feel that it implies that someone has power over him by telling him what to do.”
“So I'm looking for a guy who doesn't wear a seat belt?”
“He might wear it, only to present a perfect image, but would despise the nuance of power that he believes it holds over him.”
“Ah, that makes it easier,” said Jack bitterly.
“I'm sorry. I'm just telling you what â”
“No. Don't be sorry. I appreciate what you're telling me, it just upsets me that I don't know who he is. I wonder if he's ever sought treatment?”
“He might have if he had been caught and thought it would keep him out of jail. In reality, I suspect that he is so twisted that he doesn't see himself as the perverted, sick animal that he is. He has a psychopathic personality.
Someone without a conscience. He would stridently defend his belief that it is okay to molest children, except he knows it would tarnish his image or perhaps get him caught.”
“So your final diagnosis isâ¦?”
“He's like a rabid dog. I don't believe there is any cure for someone like that.”
“Maybe a bullet.”
Jack cringed as soon as he said it.
She's a doctor. She saves lives.
Natasha's face was without expression. She chose her words carefully. “Killing him would be like eradicating an infectious disease. You would be doing society a favour. The risk is contamination â that you could become infected and be viewed as having rabies yourself.”
The meaning of her words was not lost on Jack, but a more important issue crowded his brain. He realized he was afraid of something that had never bothered him before. He thought about what he was going to do tomorrow â and became afraid of dying. The prospect of not being with Natasha⦠He felt a strong desire to tell her how much he loved and admired her, but the timing wasn't right. Talking about murder and molestation ⦠it wasn't a topic for love.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“I'm thinking that my ethics could never become infected, as long as I have you as my guiding light. Having you makes me think that I would never want to face ⦠quarantine.”
“Good. Promise me you'll keep it that way.”
“I promise.”
Natasha hugged him. He felt her warm face on his neck and held her there for a long time.
Late that afternoon, Jack watched as Natasha, Liz, and Ben chattered like long-time friends. Marcie sat in the living room as well, but she was mostly silent, keeping her thoughts to herself. When Liz excused herself to check on dinner, Jack followed her into the kitchen.
“Need a hand with anything?” he asked.
“No, I was just checking. Everything is under control.”
Jack stayed and looked at his sister.
Liz smiled, then whispered, “I think she's great. Intelligent, beautiful, charming. Witty with a good sense of humour. Yes, I like her. Is that what you came in to find out?”
Jack grinned.
“She also seems open and honest. I can tell that Ben likes her, too.”
“Thanks, sis, it means a lot to me that â”
“Anything I can do to help?” Natasha asked.
Jack spun around quickly. “Uh, no. Liz and I were just coming back to sit down.”
“Oh? Talking about me, were you?”
A laugh escaped from Elizabeth's lips, then she said, “Add perceptive to the list!”
Liz and Natasha took delight in announcing that Jack was blushing when they returned to the living room to join Ben.
Jack changed the subject by asking, “Where's Marcie?”
“She went to the barn to toss a couple of bales down for the animals,” Ben replied. “She shouldn't be long.”
“How are you all doing? It's been two weeks.”
Ben and Liz exchanged glances, then Ben said, “She's a really good kid. A hard worker. Maybe working too hard. It's like she's always underfoot.”
“Sounds like she's trying to please you.”
“She's been volunteering for everything, from helping Liz in the house to wanting to help me on the farm. On top of that, she's doing about three hours of homework every night.”
“She's a bright kid,” said Liz. “I've been checking with the school. She's missed the first six weeks, but they said that at the rate she's going, they expect her to catch up soon.”
“What about the psychologist?”
“She's had two meetings so far. Now she's scheduled for one a week.” Liz looked at Natasha and said, “I talked to the psychologist; she said that Marcie has post stress disorder.”
“PTSD,” replied Natasha. “Post-traumatic stress disorder. Yes, I'm sure that diagnosis is correct. Considering her history, she may need a lot of counselling.”
“That's what we were told.”
“So what's the problem?” asked Jack. “I feel like you're holding something back.”
Ben and Liz exchanged another glance, then Liz said, “Don't get me wrong on this. We both think she's a really great kid.”
“That's what you've been telling me on the phone. What's changed?”
Ben cleared his throat, then said, “Last Thursday ⦠maybe I overreacted, but Liz was pretty upset.”
“It's not Ben's fault,” said Liz. “I was the one who overreacted. I went in her room and she was drawing pictures on sheets of paper. Not nice pictures. Pictures of people crying and sticking needles in their arms. Then I realized that the sheets of paper were ones that Maggie had drawn pictures on. On the other side. I started to cry and that's when Ben came in.”
“I yelled at her. Told her to keep her damn hands off stuff that wasn't hers. I apologized to her later, but she
acts like she doesn't hear. Not rude. More like her mind is elsewhere. She's hardly spoken to us since. Not working much anymore, either. Stays in her room a lot.”
“She was expressing her feelings through the drawings,” said Natasha. “It's actually a good sign. The therapeutic value of art is well recognized and respected.”
“Maybe, but not on Maggie's pictures,” said Ben.
“I know she feels really bad,” said Liz. “This morning she gave me a little glass mouse. She used to have it in her room. I told her to keep it, but she just acted indifferent. It's there ⦠on the fireplace mantle.”
Natasha saw the cute crystal mouse peeking out from the mantle over the large stone fireplace. “Why don't you buy a big scrapbook for her to use?” she suggested.
“I did,” said Ben. “I gave it to her yesterday, but I don't think she's used it.”
Jack looked at Natasha and she gave a slight nod of her head. “We'll go talk with her.”
“We're not upset with her now,” said Liz, “but she's been real quiet ever since. I'd appreciate it if you would tell her that we're not angry. She acts like she doesn't believe us.”
A few minutes later, Jack and Natasha climbed a ladder inside the barn leading to an open trap door in the loft. Marcie was batting a rope back and forth that was hanging from the open doors at the end of the loft.
“Hey, Marcie! What ya doin'?” asked Jack.
Marcie looked startled. “Just playing,” she said.
“You looked like you were in pretty deep thought,” said Natasha. “Is there something bothering you?”
“No.”