Eames set the yellow legal pad on the desk in front of her and stared at Brady's careful script. A birthday gift? How could he know that Bobby's birthday was coming up. She was deeply unsettled by Brady's seemed familiarity with her partner, and she could derive no comfort from the fact that the man was going to die in six hours.
Ross had given this "gift" to her, trusting her to know when the right time would be to show it to her partner. Well, now was definitely not the right time. She leafed through the pages, reading the details of each victim Brady had claimed. What a son of a bitch, she thought, feeling no remorse whatsoever for the impending execution.
As she continued reading the pages before her, she wondered just how far inside Brady's head Bobby had gotten. His grasp of psychology was impressive and she reflected that he would have made a very good psychologist. His ability to get inside the criminal mind was particularly unsettling, and she recalled something Declan Gage had said last fall. He could have gone either way. Instead of being partnered with a brilliant investigator, she could have found herself matching wits with an equally brilliant criminal mind. She shuddered reflexively at the thought, eternally grateful that somewhere along the way Bobby had been convinced to be a cop. If it was to Declan Gage she owed that gratitude, so be it. She was more grateful for having Bobby as her partner than she was resentful for the serial killer Gage had unwittingly turned his daughter into.
He could have gone either way. Was that a testament to the fundamental goodness of his gentle nature? To the fact that he had overcome an abusive childhood to become a kind, affectionate man? Or to the stubbornness she continually butted heads with? Was he a good man just because it was his nature, or was it because he was determined not to become the man his father had been or the one he had predicted his son would be? Either way, she decided it didn't matter. He was who he was in spite of, or maybe because of, the influences in his young life, and she loved him for the man he was today.
She flipped the pages of the pad back down and slid it into her top drawer. She would give it to him, but not today, or tomorrow, or maybe even next week. When he came back to work, then she would hand it over. Right now, he needed time to grieve. And part of her wondered if any of his grief would be spared for the serial killer who was scheduled to die that night. She had never been able to predict his sympathies.
Night had descended on the city by the time she left the squad room and headed for her car. When she got there, she leaned against it and pulled out her phone, calling Goren, to see how he was doing. On the last ring before it switched to voicemail, he answered. "Goren."
He sounded exhausted, defeated. "How are you doing?"
"I'll be fine, Eames."
"That's not what I asked. I want to know how you're doing right now."
He was silent for a long moment. "I-I'm numb. I don't know what to do with myself."
"The captain sends his condolences. He said to take as much time as you need, and he means it."
There was a moment of silence before he said, "Tell him I said thank you."
"I will. Are you still at Carmel Ridge?" She prayed the answer would be no. How good could it have been for him to sit in his mother's empty room all this time?
"No. I'm...on my way home."
Another thing she was grateful for was that his mother had not lived with him. Then home would never have been his refuge. "Did you eat?"
"I'm not hungry."
"You should eat something anyway."
"Eames, I'm okay."
"Would you like me to come over?" This time she hoped the answer would be yes, although she knew it would not.
"No. I'm just going to try to sleep. I have to go to the funeral home tomorrow...m-make some decisions."
"Is your brother going to help you?"
"Help me?" He sounded genuinely confused. "With what? It's over, Eames. She's gone. There's no 'help' left."
She understood what he meant. Frank had not been there all this time. Everything had fallen to Bobby. The entire burden of their mother's illness had fallen on his broad shoulders and over the last year, he had buckled under the strain. Now he was coming out on the other side, and she wondered what it was going to do to him. Without his mother to worry about and care for, he was free in a way he had never been before in his life. She couldn't help but wonder how that freedom would affect him.
"Is there anything I can do for you?"
He started to speak, but stopped. Finally he said, "No, thank you, Eames. I..." In her mind's eye, she could see him shake his head. "Go home. I'll talk to you soon. Good night."
She looked at the screen on her phone. Call ended. She couldn't understand why he rejected every offer of help and support she gave him. But if she shoved it down his throat, he would choke. So...maybe he just needed to be spoonfed. Tomorrow, she would find out what funeral home he trusted to prepare his mother for her final journey to the grave. And she shuddered again at the thought of his grief. Keep the world at arm's length; don't let anyone in. It was time for her to begin her search for the chink in his armor, for the one small weakness that would bring the wall tumbling down and let her into his heart.
Her mind would not stop racing, and by the time she got home, she was still worried about Bobby, so she called him again. Once again, he answered on the last ring before it went to voicemail. "What is it, Eames?" he asked, his voice quiet.
"Are you home?"
"Yes, I'm home. You can rest easy. I'm not going anywhere until morning."
"What are you doing?"
"Why are you checking up on me?"
"Because I'm worried about you."
She heard his breath huff in frustration. "Stop it. Don't worry. I'm a big boy and I can take care of myself."
"Bobby, your mother just died. It's acceptable if you don't want to be alone. It's okay to let me know that it hurts. You don't have to deal with this alone."
"She was my mother. I dealt with her life on my own. I can deal with her death. Good night, Eames."
He wasn't giving her any chances to talk him into anything. She would have to talk face to face with him, so he couldn't hang up on her. He might still try to shut her out, but her words would reach his ears and he would hear what she had to say, whether he gave any indication or not.
I dealt with her life on my own. She laid back in her bed and sighed sadly. Yes, he had, but only because that was his choice. She had always offered her support. How many times had she been his guide through stormy waters, whether he realized it or not? She had steadied him when he faltered, guided him back from the edge of a very dark chasm more than once, and stood by him, even when he tried to send her away. He was difficult, of that there was no doubt, and he was hurting. Like an injured and cornered bear, he would be dangerous, wanting to be left alone to lick his wounds in private, but she was not afraid of him. He might lash out at her, but she was prepared for it, and she was not afraid to put him in his place.
Holbrook Funeral Home. It had not been difficult to find out where he'd had his mother taken. And there was his car, so she knew he was there. She told Ross she had some business to take care of and it had not been a lie. Bracing herself for a potential hurricane, she steeled her emotions and went into the building.
A short balding man in a dark suit approached her after she came through the doors. "May I help you?"
His voice could best be described as mousy, pitched much higher than she had expected. In any other setting, it would have been comical. No wonder he became a mortician. This environment did not lend itself to levity. "I'm looking for Robert Goren."
"Ah, Mr. Goren is in the office with my brother. Come this way."
She followed him down a hallway to a plush, well-appointed office. "Excuse me, gentlemen," he interrupted. "This young lady is looking for you, Mr. Goren."
With a frown, Goren turned in his seat, getting to his feet when he recognized his partner. "Eames...what are you doing here?"
Before she could answer, he looked at the man behind the desk. "Please excuse us for a minute, Mr. Holbrook."
"Of course. Take your time."
Unlike his brother, the other Mr. Holbrook was tall, with a thick head of hair and a deep voice. The contrast between them was stark. Goren took her elbow and led her partway down the hall. "What's up?" he asked.
She met his eyes, steeling herself for his reaction. "I wanted to see you, Bobby. I needed to see for myself that you really are all right."
He looked tired, maybe a little hungover, but he did seem all right. There was a profound sadness in his eyes, but she expected that. "See?" he said. "I'm fine. Now go on back to work. Call me later."
"Are you sure? I can stay for a little while..."
"That's not necessary. I'm just finalizing the arrangements. Mom took care of most of this herself a long time ago."
"Isn't there something I can do? Don't you think she would appreciate any part I would take in this?"
Her question gave him pause. He closed his eyes and she had an overwhelming temptation to touch his cheek. But he was so wound up, she was afraid that if she did, he would shatter into a thousand pieces. So she contented herself with brushing her fingers over his hand.
He opened his eyes in surprise and she noticed a fine tremor that coursed through his body. "O-okay..." he said, giving in by making a small concession. "Come into the office and you can choose the memorial verse."
In her mind that was a huge concession. The casket was going to be buried under six feet of soil, along with what she wore and any personal mementos Bobby saw fit to bury with her. But the memorial verse...that was what people would take with them. Years from now, it would be what they would remember Frances Goren by. Eyes moist, she nodded and he led her back to the office, warm fingers gently gripping her upper arm. And she knew that whether he realized it or not, he was reaching out, seeking contact. So she stayed close.
He held the chair for her, gently guided her into it, gentleman that he was. Then he sat beside her. She noticed that he shuffled the chair just a little closer to hers. She was close enough to touch, and that was good enough for him. "Mr. Holbrook, this is my partner, Alex Eames. She will choose the memorial verse."
The mortician looked surprised. "Are you certain, Mr. Goren? That is a very personal decision."
Goren nodded. "I'm sure. If I trust her with my life, I can trust her with this."
"Very well." He handed her a small booklet, filled with verses and designs. "Look through these, Ms. Eames." He returned his attention to her partner, and she heard a slow staggered breath from him, too soft for anyone but her to hear, even in the solitude of the funeral home. She focused her attention on the booklet, but moved her hand, surprised to find his so close. She gently closed her fingers around his hand, surprised when he turned it over and gripped hers firmly. She felt tears of relief flood into her eyes and she blinked them away. So far, he was not rejecting her support. That could very well change in a matter of hours, but for now, she would give anything he was willing to take.
She put a lot of thought into the choice she made, and she knew he would approve. It was the poem What is Death, by Henry Scott Holland:
Death is nothing at all
I have only slipped away into the next room
I am I and you are you
Whatever we were to each other
That we are still
Call me by my old familiar name
Speak to me in the easy way you always used
Put no difference into your tone
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow
Laugh as we always laughed
At the little jokes we always enjoyed together
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was
Let it be spoken without effort
Without the ghost of a shadow in it
Life means all that it ever meant
It is the same as it ever was
There is absolute unbroken continuity
What is death but a negligible accident?
Why should I be out of mind
Because I am out of sight?
I am waiting for you for an interval
Somewhere very near
Just around the corner
All is well.
Nothing is past; nothing is lost
One brief moment and all will be as it was before
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!
After reading it, he looked at her, and she could see in his eyes that he approved. "Uh, would you please excuse us one more time, Mr. Holbrook?"
"Of course."
He guided her back into the hall and tipped his head to look into her face. "Thank you, Eames," he said gently. "I couldn't have done better. You can go back to work now. I'm all right. I'll call you later."
"Are you sure, Bobby?"
He nodded. "She took care of things before she died, set everything up the way she wanted it. What you just did...that would have been the most difficult thing for me to do, and I appreciate that you were willing to make that decision. Go on, before Ross starts calling. I don't want you in trouble because of me."
"Promise you'll call?"
"I'll call."
On an impulse, she leaned in and kissed his cheek. "I'm here if you need me," she whispered into his ear.
"Thank you," he murmured in reply.
She watched him head back into the office, and she left the funeral home to return to the squad room.
When she was done at work, she called him. He didn't answer, and that worried her. She called again when she got to her car. No answer. Knowing she would never sleep if she did not know he was all right, she headed toward his apartment.
He didn't answer the door, and she hesitated to use the key he had given her for emergencies. She wasn't certain this constituted an emergency, and she did not want to intrude on his privacy. His car parked outside both reassured her and increased her anxiety; why didn't he answer?
Finally making her decision, she found the key and opened the door. As she looked around the normally tidy apartment, her mind hunted for a word to describe it...disheveled, that was it...like Bobby had been for the past few weeks as his mother's health had taken its final decline. He'd had precious little time for anything but work and his mother, and the usual meticulous care he took of his living space had suffered neglect. A box of take-out was still on the coffee table, along with an assortment of empty beer bottles and an overfilled ashtray.
She walked slowly down the hallway. His bedroom door was open partway, and she gently eased it open until she could see the bed. He was laying on the bed, on his stomach, breathing deeply. She smiled sadly. Walking into the room, she noticed an empty bottle on the floor next to the bed and she softly sighed. She slipped his shoes off and covered him with a blanket. Stopping beside the bed, she ran her hand through his hair. He didn't move. Leaning down, she kissed his temple. Picking up the bottle, she left the room.
Back in the living room, she gathered the empty bottles and the take-out container, which she would not even hazard a guess as to its age, and carried them into the kitchen. The bottles went into the nearly full recycling container which sat in an open area beneath a counter next to the refrigerator. She threw the carton in the garbage, emptied the ashtray and cleaned the coffee table. She washed the dishes that were in the sink, mostly coffee cups, and cleaned the counters and the table. Satisfied with the restored state of his apartment, she sat down on the couch and considered what to do.
She wanted to stay, but she realized that might not be a popular decision when he woke in the morning. Reluctantly, she left him to sleep and headed home to Rockaway, reassured that he was safe at home. The next few days would be busy ones for him, as he would spend the days and evenings at the funeral home for his mother's wake. She fervently hoped Frank would show up. He owed Bobby—and their mother—at least that much.
She had checked with the funeral home, and the "viewing" was scheduled for the next three days, from nine to two and five to nine. She had let Ross know and she'd called Jimmy Deakins, to tell him. She had also taken it upon herself to call his old squad, in case any of his former squadmates had any desire to offer their condolences. The captain assured her that he and several of his detectives would be there one evening. Logan, she knew, would be there every night, and so would she. Regardless of whether Frank put in an appearance or not, Bobby would not be alone as he said good-bye to his mother.