The pins came out easily, their way having been carved out long ago with frequent use. As he took the pictures down, a strange weight settled on him. The case was over, paperwork done. The only thing left to do was to wait for the eventual subpoena from the U.S. Attorney's office.
As he packed the last piece of evidence, he looked into the box before he put the lid on top. The amount was pitifully small, indicative of the brevity of the case and the anonymity of the victim. She had no family to speak of, no credit cards or other financial records aside from a small savings account. In fact, the only reason she had caught anyone's attention was that she had been late for work that morning, deviating from her nearly obsessive routine.
He completed entering the evidence into lockup and pressed the elevator button. She must have been cold. The thought came unbidden, and Don's unease presented itself as annoyance. He punched the button again impatiently, and uttered a mild oath when the damn thing finally arrived. Relieved to see the car was empty, he nearly leapt in and jammed the door close button.
Moments later, he was seated at his desk taking care of some minor housekeeping: answering e-mails, going through the snail mail that threatened to consume his desk, listening to his backlogged phone messages. She must have worried about her dog. He blinked his eyes and shook his head, trying to refocus his thoughts to safer occupations. A voice broke through the miasma.
"… so we expect to see you at seven. Don't forget the merlot." The clock confirmed his suspicions that seven had long since come and gone. On an impulse, he replayed the message. The voice was comforting, its familiarity grounded him. He'd make up for the absence of the merlot somehow.
All too soon, he completed his labors. In one of the rarest instances of his career, there was nothing for him to do. It was uncharted territory; the shield was down. He was honor-bound to stop by the house. Nothing could delay it any longer.
But I can't take her there. The thought gave him pause. Where had that come from? He quickly gathered his suit jacket and turned off his computer. Lights off and door locked, he fled from the building.
He reached his SUV and slammed the door harder than really was necessary. He supposed it was to reassure himself that he wasn't dreaming. I'm cracking up. He turned the key in the ignition and did his best to leave the parking structure with a modicum of restraint. It was all he could do not to shove his foot through the floor in an attempt to outrun his head.
He prowled the streets of LA restlessly, searching for absolution from a crime of conscience. Every turn provided no solace, no escape. Did she feel this desperate? The SUV screeched to a halt in the middle of the street as he fought to control the emotions that rose like a tide of malevolence and threatened to consume him.
For some moments he just sat, grateful that at this time of night the streets were absolutely deserted. He couldn't go to his apartment, his bastion of solitude. The refrigerated beer and mind-numbing infomercials held no enticement tonight. And we've already established that I can't take her home. This time he obeyed his gut; LAPD's traffic division would wonder about the skid marks that would become evident in the morning.
He had the presence of mind to activate his flashing lights. If he was going to drive like a bat out of hell, there was no reason to alarm other motorists unnecessarily. He didn't know where he was going. He only had a sense that he had to flee, he had to get away. He turned onto the freeway onramp and sped along the deserted road, the empty lanes feeling cavernous and alien.
He didn't know how far north he had driven, but when he saw the signs indicating access to Los Padres National Forest, he followed them to the exit and eventually to the park. He picked a road that went uphill and drove. As the elevation increased, he swallowed to equalize the pressure in his ears.
Finally, the road ended in a broad, gravel cul-de-sac. A brown sign with yellow lettering announced that he'd reached the summit of Cobblestone Mountain, elevation 6,730 feet. He parked nowhere in particular and shut off the engine. Scrubbing his hand over his face, he wondered why he'd come here.
The night air was cool on his face as he stepped out of the vehicle. The stars were close and bright, and there was no interference from the moon or city lights. The air smelled of pine and the night closed around him like a veil. What made Eames choose her?
"No!"
He wasn't aware that he'd voiced his opposition until the hills threw it back to him. He kicked at the dirt in frustration. He couldn't afford this. It had been hard enough on his team, and he'd had one hell of a time convincing them that he was fine. He couldn't give in to her.
He remembered the interrogation. Once he got through Wilhelm Eames' psychotic babblings and focused his attention, the suspect gladly gave up the location of the missing woman. A demon named Cabiccinus had convinced him to save her. Eames had followed the winged, three-legged demon's instructions to the letter, right down to the Amana brand freezer.
"Why did you choose her, Eames?"
"I didn't," giggled the loon. "Cabiccinus. . ."
He shook his head to erase the memory. The rest of the interrogation had devolved into a dogmatic rant tinged with gibberish. Fortunately, Eames was a first-timer; his sloppy work was the only reason they caught him as tried to flee on a train from Union Station. We wouldn't catch them if they weren't stupid, he remembered saying.
He paced back and forth, never out of sight of his SUV. The coroner's report entered his mind: Cause of death, tox screen, evidence of fluids. Did she ever imagine that she would lie on a steel slab while carefully detached people photographed every portion of her body?
"Stop it," he pleaded in a whisper.
He squeezed his eyes shut and chiseled at the lock again in his mind. The lid opened and there she was, big as death. Her fingernails torn to bloody stumps, deep scratches clawed in the interior of the freezer.
Don't think.
Her big green eyes, slightly oversized from asphyxiation, the tattered clothing barely concealing legions of contusions and lacerations, her terror plain for all to see.
Why weren't you faster? Why didn't you save her? Amanda Wright wanted to live! How did people like Eames slip through the cracks? How was it that they were allowed to roam free and prey on women that only existed in the realm of their workplace?
"WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?" he screamed to the sky. And then he knew why he had undertaken his desperate flight, why he'd found the highest place he could. In order to fight with God, one had to be a little closer to Heaven.
The only answer was his agonized echo, repeating his accusation in a decrescendo across the hills and down to the sea. He had no one to blame except himself. You know the fault lies with Eames. He committed the crime.
"What the hell is wrong with me?" he asked himself in a tortured whisper. And then, because he couldn't vocalize anything anymore, he hit the elevation sign. He battered it as Eames had battered young Amanda Wright. He struck a blow for every victim he hadn't been able to save. A river of sweat ran down his back and his hands became numb, and still he kept on.
A stream of blood dripped into the dirt and appeared black in the early morning light. He noticed it and stopped hitting the sign. It now stood at an awkward angle, a testament to the storm it had weathered. He looked about guiltily in the light of the pre-dawn, searching for a witness to his vandalism. He found none.
The sky continued to lighten, and he stared east in time to see the upper curve of the sun crest the horizon. In the light of day, he couldn't hide his transgression. He turned away and caught his reflection in the glossy black of the SUV. The man that stood before him was a wreck, clothing a wrinkled mess, eyes red and raw from lack of sleep.
Eames and people like him are why I made you. The notion snapped him from his reverie. Where had that come from? Was he really going nuts? Without knowing why, he turned back to the sunrise. It was the most beautiful thing he had seen in a very long time.
And then Don sat down and cried.