Mourners crossed the broad front stoop, descended the three shallow steps, and disappeared around the corner, returning to the Meeting Street parking lot. A few headed up the sidewalk on foot. No one smiled. No one laughed. Very few spoke to one another.
The last to leave the church was Opaline Drucker, Miranda pushing her in an old-fashioned cane-back wheelchair. The Pomeranian dozed in her lap.
Opaline flapped one knobby hand to indicate her desire to join us. Her dress was gray patterned with lavender flowers. Her maid was dressed entirely in black.
Three feet out, the gnarled hand rose to signal a stop. Opaline’s lips were curled down at the corners, the lower one sucked in over her teeth. The clear-water eyes showed none of the emotion revealed by her mouth.
Drucker nodded to Gus, ignored Capps. Lifting a small silk purse from beside her hip, she squeezed the tiny bird whose wings formed the clasp, withdrew an envelope and extended it toward me. My name was penned on the front in no-nonsense script. Blue ink. It smelled of roses.
“You disregarded my wishes. Still, I owe you, Miss Night.”
“I’m sorry the outcome wasn’t—”
Drucker flapped the envelope, impatient. I took it, now understanding Peter Crage’s warning. Erratic. Oh yeah.
“My granddaughter is alive. For that I thank you.”
The red riding helmet had done its job. Seeing that my roundhouse blow had knocked Stella unconscious, Hoebeek had ordered the snipers to hold fire. Her team had managed to remove the vest and deactivate the IED. Mercifully, the RV gawkers had reacted to sirens, not to gunfire sending lead into Stella’s brain. I’ll never know what caused the pops. Firecrackers? Motorcycle backfires? My overwrought neurons?
“She will have the very best legal representation available.”
I said nothing.
“The finest psychiatric care money can buy. If the doctors make her whole again, God be praised. If not, I will embrace whatever these monsters have made of her.”
I recalled that one moment when my gaze locked with Stella’s. And, later, after her arrest, I’d observed some of her interrogations. Defiant, she’d admitted to the attempt at accessing her grandmother’s bank account. I’d heard the loathing in her voice, seen the hatred in her eyes. While pessimistic about a recovery, I wished her the best.
“Do you like my new memorial?” Indicating the stone at our backs. “The Tennyson quote was once Stella’s favorite. One day she will approve. Mary Gray and Bowen will rest in peace knowing it lies above them.”
“It’s lovely.” What people say at such times.
“I wish you peace, Miss Night.” Eyes crystal-clear nothing.
I nodded.
“If you need help managing the money, Mr. Crage can advise you. It’s what he does. He does it well.”
“My brother helps me with financial matters.” A glance at Gus. “He does it well.”
A week later, Gus motored out to Goat Island. Though I wasn’t running marathons, my wounds were healing—the concussion, the bullet hole in my shoulder, the cuts and bruises on my face. I still looked like hell. That morning I’d received the mother lode of cheese from my goatly neighbor. I said thanks. I think it frightened her.
I’d walked down to the dock. Gus had produced a six-pack of Coors from the cooler on his boat. We’d talked it all out, watching the dusk slowly wither into night. Now we were just sitting, bare feet dangling, toes working the warm salt water.
The sky was dark, the waterway a deep strip of shimmery black. The silence felt comfortable. Until Gus grabbed my inner child by the throat.
“Would it help you to go back there?”
“Back where?” Unsuspecting.
“The house where everyone died. Where Mama died.”
My skin prickled and my breath started going glitchy.
“I saw a documentary on Jonestown—”
“They didn’t die.” Words snapping sharp before I could stop them. “They killed themselves. They killed one another.”
“Yes.”
“The sick son of a bitch stockpiled cyanide.” So many years, and still I couldn’t utter the name he’d chosen for himself. “I saw invoices, remember?”
“Yes.”
“They lay in a circle and drank poison because he told them to. They used syringes to squirt cyanide down kids’ throats.”
“Yes.”
“They torched themselves because he said it would purify their souls.” I kicked out at a tangle of seaweed floating on the current. “And we let it all happen.”
“No, Sunnie. We didn’t let anything happen. Our plan was solid.”
“It was stupid.”
“Naïve, yes.” Gus, patient. We’d hashed this over so many times. “We should have had two nights. He jumped the schedule by a day to catch everyone off guard. To eliminate any window for second thoughts. We couldn’t know that. We should have had time to alert the police.”
“But we didn’t.”
“We never had the chance.”
“So they made the Crossing.” Waggling my hands in the air. “Crossing to what? Drawers in a morgue.”
“Rise above your storm, girl.”
“He used to put me in a box, Gus. Burn me. Make me kneel on salt until my knees bled.”
“You had it the worst.” Gus was watching me intently, assessing my level of crazy. Or letting me vent.
“I was his red-haired miracle. His little Immanuel.” More finger waggling. “I doubt the fuckwit even knew what that meant.”
Gus waited for me to go on.
I didn’t.
A boat putted by. An owl hooted high up in the trees. A fish breached the surface, channel marker glinting red on its scales.
“Sorry.” After a lot of deep breathing. “I know it was torture for you being powerless to help me. And I know you mean well. But I can’t.”
“Okay.”
More silence, now not so comfortable. This time I broke it.
“How long have you been thinking about this?”
“Awhile.”
“Have you ever gone back?”
“Just once, right after, to dig up the money.”
“How’s that going?”
“Exceedingly well.”
“Bahamas?”
“Don’t ask.”
A beat, Gus’s words boiling in my brain. One image.
“Do you remember the snapshot of the dead woman?” I asked. “The picture I found in his satchel?”
“Yes.”
“I think he had her killed because she had doubts.”
“I think so, too.”
“I asked questions.”
“You did.”
“He wanted me to die first. To set an example for the others.”
“We had to leave, Sunnie.” After a pause. “Reconsidering?”
“No.”
My past is like a snare. It allows me to move some, but never break free. No way I’d risk granting my childhood any more power.
“You know what really bothers me?” Gus asked after another long gap.
“What?” Guarded.
“American Pharoah. It’s spelled wrong.”
“The name was submitted like that in an online contest. The misspelling made it onto the horse’s registration form.” Bothered me, too. I’d looked it up.
“And the rest is history.”
“Busy week at the marina?” I asked.
“A few charters.” Gus drained the last of his beer and stood. “One of which sets out at dawn tomorrow. I’d better head into town.”
That night, lying in bed, hoping to dream of nothing more menacing than a squirrel at the window, my thoughts spiraled down a white rabbit hole into a maze of riddles.
Was Gus right? Would going back help me face what had happened? The bizarre life I’d lived before Beau took us in? Would it help calm the rage? Help keep the monsters in check?
I saw three faces floating in the dark. Stella. Kerr. My own pale oval with its serpent
ine mark.
How had I survived? Sure, I’m damaged. I live alone with no permanent phone or Internet account. I have a scar I refuse to fix. I dislike being touched and have a temper that’s my own worst enemy. I use icy showers and grueling workouts to escape stress and trick my brain into making me feel strong. To kick-start endorphins or whatever the current psychobabble is. Yeah, I have my crazies, but I’ve managed to cling to my identity. To not lose myself.
Kerr also lived a childhood overshadowed by madness. Like me, she resisted being sucked into the sick vision of others. Into her mother’s delusion. Was her resilience a product of low intelligence? Of passivity? I ran away. Had Kerr endured by retreating into her own small world?
Stella traveled the opposite path. She broke. Succumbed to the brainwashing and embraced the creed of Jihad for Jesus. Why did Stella lose herself while Kerr and I did not?
Could time heal the girl who’d stood on a sunny boardwalk with her mother and brother? Could doctors resurrect the person she’d been? Or was hope of resurrection unrealistic?
Why had I felt such a visceral pull to Stella? Memories of the searing anguish caused by fanaticism? The fact that she had no daddy? Kerr and I had grown up fatherless, too. The flaming red hair?
Or had Stella been the attraction at all? Was Beau’s take on me closer to the truth? Had I been drawn by the lure of the adrenaline rush? By the thrill of the hunt?
Like Alice, only puzzles. No solutions.
Sergeant Edwin A. Maddux, USMC, taught that life is a rat’s nest of noise and chaos and chance. No logic. Just one single steadfast truth. Screw up and there’s no way back.
I believed him.
My monsters still tug. But Beau’s prediction was spot-on. Searching for Stella has changed me.
I’m no longer certain the sarge had it right.
For
Hazel Inara Reichs,
born July 20, 2015
As usual, I owe many thanks to many people.
Major Donald F. Burbrink II of the Louisville Metro Police Department patiently answered endless questions. Tom Schneider was my go-to expert on everything Chicago.
My sincere thanks to my agent, Jennifer Rudolph-Walsh, and to my meticulous and skillful editors, Jennifer Hershey and Susan Sandon.
I also want to acknowledge all those in the industry who work so hard on my behalf. At Random House in the United States: Gina Centrello, Kara Welsh, Kim Hovey, Scott Shannon, Susan Corcoran, Cindy Murray, Debbie Aroff, Cynthia Lasky, Beth Pearson, and Anne Speyer. Across the pond: Aslan Byrne, Glenn O’Neill, Georgina Hawtrey-Woore, and Sonny Marr. At Simon and Schuster, north of the forty-ninth: Kevin Hanson. At William Morris Endeavor Entertainment: Sabrina Giglio, Erika Niven, Tracy Fisher, and Raffaella De Angelis.
I appreciate the support of my tireless assistant, Melissa Fish.
Any errors in the book are all my fault.
To my readers, I hope you enjoy reading about Sunday Night as much as I enjoyed creating her. Thanks for making the effort to find me at my signings and appearances, to visit my website (kathyreichs.com), to share your thoughts on Facebook (kathyreichsbooks), to follow me on Twitter (@KathyReichs) and Pinterest (kathyreichs), and to tag me in your photos on Instagram (kathyreichs). The stories I write are all for you. Thanks so much for allowing me to do what I love.
BY KATHY REICHS
Two Nights
The Bone Collection (novellas)
Speaking in Bones
Bones Never Lie
Bones of the Lost
Bones Are Forever
Flash and Bones
Spider Bones
206 Bones
Devil Bones
Bones to Ashes
Break No Bones
Cross Bones
Monday Mourning
Bare Bones
Grave Secrets
Fatal Voyage
Deadly Décisions
Death du Jour
Déjà Dead
YOUNG ADULT FICTION (WITH BRENDAN REICHS)
Trace Evidence
Terminal
Exposure
Code
Seizure
Virals
Spike (novella)
Shock (novella)
Swipe (novella)
Shift (novella)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KATHY REICHS is the author of eighteen New York Times bestselling novels and the co-author, with her son, Brendan Reichs, of six novels for young adults. Like the protagonist of her Temperance Brennan series, Reichs is a forensic anthropologist—one of fewer than one hundred and fifteen ever certified by the American Board of Forensic Anthropology. A professor in the Department of Anthropology at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, she is a former vice president of the American Academy of Forensic Sciences and serves on the National Police Services Advisory Council in Canada. Reichs’s own life, as much as her novels, is the basis for the TV show Bones, one of the longest-running series in the history of the Fox network.
kathyreichs.com
Facebook.com/kathyreichsbooks
Twitter: @KathyReichs
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Kathy Reichs, Two Nights
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