Fireproof (32 page)

The first time it was sleeping pills. Then pills and alcohol. Five years ago when Maggie was in Nebraska, working a case, Kathleen decided to use a razor blade for a change of pace. Her therapist at the time called the cuts hesitation marks. After all, if she was really serious she would have cut vertically, slicing the veins open instead of across.

It had been three years since her last attempt. Julia Racine had been there that time, too. At a restroom sink in a Cleveland park, just before a rally for a religious organization.

Later Maggie asked Racine what it was that she said to convince her mother to stop. Racine told her, “I said I was already in a shitload of trouble with her daughter and maybe she could give me a break.” Of course Kathleen had laughed at that. She could relate. For the last twenty years she had felt like she was in a shitload of trouble with Maggie, too, because she had constantly let her down.

Maggie realized that ever since her father’s death, her mother had exchanged and swapped out her addictions like they were fashion trends, from Johnnie Walker to Valium to sex, then religion and health food and back to Johnnie Walker. The other day when Maggie walked in on her mother trying to get rid of Patrick, she recognized the signs that her mother was drinking again without needing to smell it on her breath.

When Maggie finally got to the hospital, a nurse in the ER directed her to intensive care. In intensive care a unit secretary told her she’d need to wait for the doctor and pointed out a lounge at the end of the hall. In the lounge, Maggie found Julia Racine.

Her sweatshirt had so much blood on it that Maggie thought Racine had been injured, too. Even when she realized it all belonged to her mother, when Racine looked up, Maggie asked, “Are you okay?”

It was the first time she had caught Racine speechless. The younger woman simply nodded and ran her fingers through her hair, leaving it more spiked than usual.

She shrugged and said, “I hate hospitals.”

Sam knew she had done the right thing, telling Agent O’Dell and Patrick about Wes Harper. After Jeffery’s fit in her driveway last night something still nagged at her. Especially after she listened to a couple of his voice messages. The time stamps with him asking her to meet him at the shop fires last night were long before Sam heard the sirens while at the restaurant. How did Jeffery always know so far in advance?

After her mother and Iggy were in bed, Sam had plugged in the tape from the warehouse fires and started reviewing the footage, wanting to make sure it was Wes Harper in the crowd. That’s when it all seemed to come together. Harper was the firefly, and somehow he’d been getting messages to Jeffery. Maybe Jeffery didn’t even know it was Harper. Whatever was going on between the two of them, Sam was glad she’d shared the film footage with Agent O’Dell.

She wasn’t sure why she didn’t tell Jeffery about Harper. Even when he called her, excited—saying they were “back in the saddle,” was how he put it. He had managed to get an exclusive interview with someone who Jeffery said had intimate details about the fires.

This “someone” wanted to meet Jeffery in a remote place, “a
safe house” was what Jeffery called it. And he was willing to go on camera, but only with Jeffery and Sam present. No one else. Jeffery said he wouldn’t even give him the address until they arrived at the location where he insisted they leave their cars.

Sam was certain Jeffery’s “someone” was Wes Harper. And as she drove and started seeing familiar territory, she wasn’t surprised at his choice of meeting place.

Although she arrived early, Jeffery was already parked exactly where he’d instructed her. When she pulled her car up behind his SUV, he had the liftgate up but he was in the backseat. It looked like he was changing his shoes. He was in shirtsleeves, rolling them down and buttoning his collar.

As she got out of her car, he stuck a hand out the door to wave his acknowledgment. She pulled out her shoulder bag and waited at the front of her car. When he stepped out of his vehicle, he still didn’t even have a tie on yet and she saw him unzipping a garment bag. Why had he waited to get dressed out here?

With the SUV parked right under a lamppost and with the liftgate open, she could see the mess inside. It looked like he had, at least, put down black trash bags to line the inside of the trunk space. Evidently he had spent the weekend doing some yard work, gathering up his recyclables, and washing his SUV. He had several stacks of newspapers, aluminum canisters, the jug of pool cleaner Sam had noticed the other day, a pile of old rags, and a red five-gallon can of gasoline.

Funny, she hadn’t thought of Jeffery as doing those kinds of household chores, but it made sense. The man was so picky he’d never find anyone to do the job to his satisfaction.

“I’ve got the address,” he told her, holding up a piece of paper. “It’s only about two blocks from here.”

The day had been sunny but the night was crisp. The walk would be no problem but Jeffery seemed out of breath already. As they got closer to the meeting house, Sam realized why Wes Harper had picked this spot. Patrick had said Harper had asked about his sister. Now Sam realized it had probably been more than a casual inquiry. Was Harper the man in the ball cap Sam had seen stalking Agent O’Dell’s house that night in the rain?

The homes in this neighborhood were on one- to two-acre lots, treed lots with huge pines that offered enough privacy that Sam couldn’t really see O’Dell’s house, though she knew it was right next door.

Maggie sat on the sofa next to Racine, leaning forward, elbows on her knees, her body tense, nerves twisted, head pounding.

“Hospitals remind you of your mother,” Maggie said, and Racine nodded again, staring at the muted television in the opposite corner.

Maggie tried to remember what kind of cancer had taken Julia’s mother from her when she was nine or ten. She did remember that the woman had died in a hospital.

“I don’t understand why she called me,” Racine said, almost in a whisper, all the typical smart-ass wisecracks tucked away. This was Racine raw, unguarded, her defense barrier destroyed by exhaustion and perhaps a bit of shock, though Maggie knew she’d never admit it.

“Because she knew you’d call me” was Maggie’s only response.

She wasn’t sure she understood why her mother did what she did, let alone could she explain it to someone else.

“There was so much blood.” Again a quiet, calm tone. “I beat the frickin’ ambulance there. I tried to clamp her wrists with my hands. Then I tried to use hand towels as tourniquets.”

Racine was staring at her hands like she could still see the
blood, though it had obviously been washed off. Maggie understood the shock of it—someone you know. Her blood still warm and splattered on your skin, your clothes. Both she and Racine had witnessed countless bloody murder scenes, and yet nothing prepared you for finding someone you knew—a colleague, a friend, a family member. Nothing prepared you for that moment, that helpless feeling.

“I remember the first time I found her,” Maggie said, elbows still on each knee, but now her chin rested in her hands, her pounding head suddenly heavy. “She had just taken a bunch of pills and washed them down with vodka. I didn’t know what was wrong with her. She was unconscious on her bed. One side of her face was caked with vomit. I’m not sure how I even knew to call 911.”

With little coaxing that night could come back to her as vivid as if it were last week, and Maggie didn’t want to revisit it just now. Nor did she want to tell Racine all the details. Like the fact that it wasn’t her mother’s first attempt and she wasn’t alone. One of her male friends practically knocked Maggie over trying to leave their apartment. He hadn’t called 911 or considered the fact that Maggie was only fourteen. Some things were better left hidden in the dark corners where they belonged.

All her mother’s therapists—and there had been too many to count—always said it was a scream for help or attention. That Kathleen really didn’t want to kill herself. Maggie disagreed. Her mother wasn’t looking for attention. She was looking to punish herself.

It had taken Maggie years to understand that, because for a long time it felt like her mother was trying to punish her. And no matter what the reason or excuse for Kathleen O’Dell’s suicide
attempts, there was one thing Maggie was certain of. One of these times her mother would probably succeed by sheer accident.

Maggie took a deep breath and sat back. She desperately wanted to change the subject.

“How’s your dad?” she asked Racine, staying on common ground. While Racine had saved Maggie’s mother from self-destruction, Maggie had once upon a time saved Luc Racine from a serial killer. She thought about the kind, gentle man often but hesitated to ask about him, knowing his Alzheimer’s disease rarely brought good news.

“He’s starting to forget my name.” Racine crossed her arms and slouched down even more into the sofa next to Maggie.

“It’s the disease. You can’t take it personally,” Maggie said, now regretting her cheap excuse to change the subject at the expense of Racine.

“He never forgets the fucking dog’s name.”

This time Maggie didn’t say anything. Instead she put her arm around Racine, squeezed her shoulder, and pulled her in against her. Racine’s body went limp as if finally relinquishing the tension of the day, and she slid down enough to lay her head on Maggie’s shoulder.

They sat there quietly, side by side. The beeping of monitors from the intensive care unit stayed muted in the background.

“You think maybe you should call Ben?” Racine asked, again almost a whisper.

“I don’t know what to do about Ben,” Maggie said, a bit surprised with herself for letting her guard down. She discussed her personal life with only two people—Ben Platt and Gwen Patterson. Julia Racine was nowhere near the list of possible additions. At the moment she was too exhausted to care. “Ben wants kids.”

“Just because his ex-wife started a new family.” A statement, not a question. Racine had met Ben’s ex. Maggie shrugged, even though Racine couldn’t see it. “You don’t want kids?”

“I never imagined myself a mother.”

“Me either,” Racine said, easily and without hesitation. “Rachel says it’s because I never got a chance to be a kid.”

“What do you think?”

“I think it’s because I hate kids.”

Maggie smiled and contained a laugh because she knew Racine was serious.

“Doesn’t Rachel have a daughter?”

“Yeah, CariAnne. She’s a pain in the ass. Always has too many questions. Always on my case about using the fucking f-word. Last fall she puked all over my favorite shoes. Cole Haan, driving loafers. I loved those shoes. Couldn’t get the smell out of the leather. Had to throw them out.”

“So what happened?”

“Bought a new pair.”

“No, silly. I mean what made you change your mind?”

Racine’s turn to shrug. “She’s a part of Rachel. How can I love Rachel and not love her child?”

A man appeared, filling the doorway. He was dressed in khakis and a sports jacket.

“Are you Kathleen O’Dell’s daughters?”

His voice was deep and authoritarian but his eyes gentle. His hands were the size of catcher’s mitts and Maggie caught herself staring at them, thinking they could have easily clasped around her mother’s wrists and stopped the bleeding.

“I’m Maggie,” she finally said, standing. “This is Julia.”

She didn’t bother to correct him, that they weren’t both Kathleen’s
daughters. After stopping one suicide attempt and witnessing the aftermath of a second, Julia had earned the right to be called Kathleen’s daughter, though it came wrapped in burden rather than honor.

She offered her hand to shake his and immediately saw his eyes take notice of the scars on her own wrist.

“No, it doesn’t run in the family.”

He didn’t look convinced, but Maggie didn’t think she needed to explain how months ago a killer had tied her hands together with zip ties. How the plastic had cut deep into her skin while she tumbled down rock ledges and ran through a dark forest at night. So deep had the ties cut into her wrists that when she finally sliced herself free she had to dig the plastic out of her flesh. Of course, it left scars and she didn’t need to explain.