The Portmans' backyard rolled down a gentle slope to a dark, secret world guarded by ancient oak and hickory trees. When younger, Mary and Gillian, and later Fiona, had played in those damp, mossy, mysterious woods, often remaining until the mosquitoes and lightning bugs came out and their mothers called them home.
The house was searched from top to bottom, bottom to top. Then the teenagers, boys and girls, went running into the woods, calling Fiona's name. Mary laughed and spun around addressing the trees, telling her friend to come out, quit hiding—the joke was over and everybody was going home.
"We're going to open your presents if you don't show up!" Mary threatened. "We're going to take them back home with us!"
The oak leaves were deep enough to disguise the terrain. Mary would think she was on flat ground, but then she would step into a hole and sink to her knees. Sometimes tangled tree roots tripped her and sent her sprawling.
She thought about the place where she and Fiona used to play, a tree house her father had made. Briefly disoriented, she finally found the tree. It looked different, not so welcoming.
"Fiona!"
Mary circled the tree, looking upward into the spiraling branches. A heavy, black, snaking root snagged her foot, pulling her down into another pile of leaves. Mary put out her hands to catch herself, one palm connecting with something strange, something solid yet soft.
There, almost under her, was the body of her best friend.
Mary stared, still hoping it was a joke, a trick.
Fake blood. Almost Halloween.
Fake blood, fake blood, fake blood.
Fiona was lying on her stomach, her face in profile, her blue lips parted, one eye open, unfocused, staring at nothing, at no one. Dried blood clung to her nostrils, to the side of her face, fanning out like thick black cat whiskers.
And Mary knew, with a certainty that would become the driving force in her life, with the certainty that evil was the polar opposite of goodness and that it could lurk in the most innocent of places, that Fiona was dead.
The airplane wheels hit the ground, bringing Mary back to the present. The jet engines reversed, and hydraulic brakes engaged. The craft bobbed in a heavy, ungainly way, awkward now that it was no longer airborne.
The FASTEN SEAT BELTS sign went off. Metal seat belts clicked, and passengers began moving about, gathering up their belongings, preparing to disembark.
People often accused Blythe Cantrell of having found the secret of eternal youth. Maybe it was Mary's mother's penchant for constant change that kept her young, and the fact that she was a lifelong learner, always immersing herself in something new. There is so much to experience, she said.
Her hair was a different color and style from the last time Mary had seen her, gone from a red bob to something shorter and multicolored in shades from white to brown. She wore a gauzy skirt that fell to her knees in bright colors, her toenails painted red in brown leather sandals. She was adorable, and she looked about twenty-eight.
If her life had gone differently, Mary might have flown to Minneapolis unannounced so she could surprise her mother. But the practical Mary had called first. She'd told Blythe she'd rent a car, but Blythe had insisted upon picking up her daughter at the airport.
It was a strange thing, hugging a mother who was much smaller than her child. Mary let herself be pulled into her arms, careful of her injured shoulder, which was aching.
Together they took the escalator to the baggage area. In the congestion of people, they made small talk.
"They've added a new terminal, more parking, more places to eat," her mother said.
"I've always liked this airport." But then, Mary liked all airports. Airports brought you back, but better than that, they took you away. She'd spent a large part of her life in airports and on planes. Always moving on to the next case.
They gathered her luggage, one large bag and one small, and headed for parking. A few minutes later they were exiting the ramp and getting on 494.
A major problem with the Twin Cities, Mary remembered, was getting from point A to point B, and then finding a place to park once you finally arrived. Everybody traveled by car because they were either too cool for buses or knew the buses became mired in traffic like everything else.
"They're finally putting in the light rail," Blythe said, jockeying for position so she could hit the next exit ramp.
"They've been talking about it since the sixties."
"Eventually, the tracks will extend from Northfield to Saint Cloud."
Mary figured they'd all be dead by the time that happened, but she didn't want to dampen her mother's enthusiasm.
It was said that Minnesota had two seasons: winter and construction. Even though it was early October, roadwork was still in full swing, and they had to take detour after detour. At a stoplight, a bumper sticker on a nearby car brought back a memory. "Remember the summer we went to Disney World?" Mary asked.
"I didn't want to go," Blythe said with a smile.
She hadn't approved of the place, calling it a "giant, sterile, artificial wasteland of the mind and soul," but Gillian had begged and begged, and one summer Blythe had finally broken down and taken them to Florida. Until then their vacations had been planned to invoke thought and provide mind expansion. To Blythe's chagrin, the trip to Disney World had been wonderful, and she'd later admitted that sometimes it was good simply to enjoy the moment.
Their street ended in a cul-de-sac—there was no way to avoid going past Fiona's house.
"Do the Portmans still live there?" Mary asked.
"They divorced, but Abigail won't sell the place." Blythe pulled the car into the driveway, cutting the engine. The river birch that Mary and Gillian had planted when they were in Girl Scouts had grown as tall as the house.
Except for a neglect that betrayed the absence of a man and the lack of things men did—like keeping the window trim painted and maple seeds from sprouting in the soffits—the house looked much like everyone else's on the block, all stucco-sided Tudors. But when you stepped inside, you entered the world of Blythe Cantrell. A flower child who'd refused to become a yuppie, Blythe spent her time creating her own unique brand of pottery, which she fired in a studio that used to be the garage. During the snow-bright, bitterly cold Minnesota winters, Mary and Gillian had spent time in the studio with their mother, slicing air bubbles out of clay while Blythe spun her foot-driven potter's wheel.
Inside the house were plants that reached the ceiling, oriental rugs spread over hardwood floors, antique furniture, and weird lamps that cast muted orange light. On the walls hung various pieces of art that Blythe had purchased over the years from struggling artist friends. The eclectic disarray flowed into the kitchen, where Blythe poured some iced tea and produced a plate of scones. She put everything on a tray and carried it to the little bistro table in front of the sliding doors that overlooked the lush, overgrown backyard and deck.
Her daughter, her tall, beautiful, stoic daughter, stood looking out at the bird feeders. Her face was pale, and it seemed as if she might be in pain, but Blythe knew if she asked, Mary would never admit to such a weakness.
Blythe's husband, a war correspondent, had been killed while covering an uprising in South Africa. Mary was eleven at the time, and had adored her father. It had been hard on them all, but they'd come out of it eventually. Then Fiona was killed. Her death marked the beginning of an awful change in Mary. A change that intensified six months later, when Gillian began writing and visiting Gavin Hitchcock—the imprisoned man who'd killed Mary's friend.
Why had Gillian done it? Blythe still wondered. Out of spite? To get Mary's attention? Or did Gillian, who had known Hitchcock since grade school and had befriended him since junior high, really believe her child-hood friend was innocent?
It was hard to remember what Mary had been like before Fiona's death. Blythe often had to think hard, to pull the old Mary to the front of her mind so she could see her the way she used to be.
When Mary had announced her plans to become an FBI agent, Blythe had rejoiced because at least she'd finally wanted something. It meant she was looking toward her future once more. But as years passed, Blythe wondered if it had really been the best thing for Mary. Sometimes feeding an obsession only led to self-destruction.
Mary eased out of her dark, knee-length coat and hung it over the back of the chair. Under it she wore a short-sleeved white blouse and a black leather shoulder holster and gun.
"Is something wrong with your arm?" Blythe asked, noticing how carefully her daughter moved.
"I injured it during a raid," Mary said a little too casually as she sat down. "A stupid mistake."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"It wasn't anything."
Blythe suspected her injury was more serious than she let on. That's the way Mary was—quiet and secretive.
Blythe had visited her daughter in Virginia several times, yet no matter how often Blythe saw her with a weapon strapped to her tall frame, she could never get used to it. She'd never allowed guns in her house, never allowed her girls to even pretend to have a gun.
Blythe had always thought of Mary as strong and capable, fearless. But at the moment she looked exhausted and vulnerable.
"Is it so awful being here?" Blythe blurted out. It hurt to know her daughter didn't want to come home. "Good things happened here. A lot more good than bad. Don't ruin those memories for yourself."
Mary looked up. "It's hard," she said quietly.
Blythe was surprised by her admission and felt her eyes begin to tear. She blinked rapidly. "I know. I just want you to be happy."
"I'm not sure I'm the kind of person who can be happy."
Blythe pulled her tea nearer and began drawing patterns in the condensation on the glass. "You used to be happy. When you were little you were happy. Always laughing. I think you have the capability to be happy again if you allow yourself the luxury."
"It's the curse of violent-crime agents. We spend so much time around death and evil. Pretty soon everything is bad."
"Have you ever thought of doing something else?"
"Please. Don't start that again."
Blythe glanced at the clock. It was later than she'd thought. She reached across the table and squeezed her daughter's hand. "Mary, Gillian's coming over." She braced herself for an unpleasant reaction.
Mary stared at her in disbelief. "She isn't living here, is she?" she asked, demonstrating the first real emotion she'd shown since stepping off the plane.
"No, she has an apartment in Dinkytown."
Mary dropped back against her chair in relief. "What about Hitchcock?"
"When he got out of prison, Gillian helped him find a place in St. Paul. The Midway area, I believe."
Mary nodded and pursed her lips. "No surprise there." She leaned forward, her gaze suddenly intense. "You know he did it, don't you? You know he killed Fiona."
"Of course he did. I think deep down, Gillian must know it, too. She doesn't talk about him much. It upsets me. I don't like her hanging around somebody like that. I've always tried to be open-minded and embrace everyone, but ... a killer? ... I can't do it."
"When will she be here?"
Blythe looked up at the clock again. "Soon. You have to talk to her, sweetheart. She's your sister."
Mary reached for her coat, as if to get something out of the pocket, then stopped.
"Still smoking?" Blythe asked.
"No, but I'm seriously thinking of taking it up again."
Chapter 3
Gillian stood staring at the red front door of her mother's house, afraid to go in.
Mary was home.
Gillian turned and took two steps toward her car, then stopped, curbing the impulse to get the hell out of there. Detective Wakefield was always telling her to face her fears head-on. She was an adult now. A cop now. There were things she had to tell Mary— things her sister wasn't going to like.
Gillian took a deep breath and pushed open the door. "Hi, Mom! It's me!" Even though her heart was hammering, the greeting was her usual.
"In here!" Blythe shouted from the direction of the kitchen.
She found her mother loading the dishwasher. "She's outside."
Gillian followed Bythe's glance. Her older sister was standing in the backyard, hands in her coat pockets, studying the fall flowers and vines that lined a wooden fence.
"How does she seem?"
"Different. A little different, I think."
Gillian knew she was the reason Mary hadn't been home in five years. That knowledge sometimes made her feel physically ill. There hadn't been any huge fight. No confrontation. Just an initial aloofness that Gillian had figured Mary would eventually get over. Time passed. Holidays came and went. Mary didn't return.
Frightened as she was to finally be coming face-to-face with her sister, she also saw it as an opportunity to begin to patch things up. Gillian opened the sliding glass door and stepped outside. The day had been warm for October, but the sun was going down, and the air suddenly smelled like fall.