Good Morning, Killer - April Smith [124]
“Sir, I’m curious to know what’s going on with you, and if there’s some way I can help.”
He held up a hand. “Ana,” as if we were old pals, “stop. I know exactly what you’re doing.”
“What am I doing?”
“Trying to create a psychological profile of me.”
“Give me a break,” I said, “I can’t even spell it.”
He smiled. “I know I’m a freak.”
Then, for some reason, he took off his shirt.
I did not like that, at all.
I did not like seeing the thin, hard physique and the pinched nipples. I didn’t know what that message was supposed to be.
“So you and your friends in the FBI have been looking for me?”
Did he need more strokes?
“You’re a priority, sir.”
“I’ll bet you didn’t think it would go down like this.”
I acknowledged my situation: “Fantasies are perfect. Life is not.”
He smiled at that, too.
“There’s my baby. Now she’s getting up.”
Bridget’s eyes had opened to a dull stare. The blood on her face had flaked dry.
When the phone rang again, he went to answer quickly.
“Bridget!” I hissed. “Are you okay? The police are here. We’re going to get you out.”
Then Brennan came back, pouting.
“They said no.”
“No to what?”
“All I wanted was to see my sister.”
“They wouldn’t let you see your sister?”
He shook his head. Hard-asses. They had probably admonished him for breaking contact. Tried to reestablish the rules. I was hungry and my head was throbbing. In despair, I could only support the choices they had made.
“That’s it, then. They’re not going anywhere. As long as we’re here, they’re here.”
“You told me to tell them what I want.”
“Yes, but you have to give them something in exchange.”
“You see, it’s all a stupid game, like Russia and the United States.”
“What’s going on with Bridget?”
She was awake but not moving. Pink froth gathered at her mouth.
“She’ll be paralyzed for a little bit longer,” he said, kicking her leg. “Then she’ll be fine.”
“The difference between you playing their game or not,” I said quickly, to distract him, “is you on death row, or not.”
Bridget had begun to moan.
“I love my sister.”
“Let me talk to them. I want to tell them what an exceptional job you’ve done in keeping everyone safe.”
He looked up with sad eyes, meant to uncork my sympathy. If you had met Ray Brennan on the street, your heart would have been touched by his core loneliness.
“My sister understands. She forgives my sins.”
“Right,” I stuttered, imagining what role his sister had played—or been forced to play—in this tragic madness. “She knows who you are.” I tried to wet my lips. “You’re a good person who … who … I don’t know, sir, but something happened … Something really bad … But it happens to all of us, in some way. Did you know that?”
Big fat tears of humiliation and exhaustion had escaped and were rolling down my face. If I could crawl over to where he was sitting in the other metal chair and embrace him, he would stab me in the heart.
“—It happens to us all.”
“Like you and your boyfriend?”
“Me and Andrew,” I confessed.
“Andrew.” His lips began to quiver as if I had held out a sweet. “You miss him?”
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t you who did it.”
“No,” I said, and he agreed: it wasn’t him who did things, either.
He watched me, with bright and curious eyes.
“Do you think,” he asked, after a moment, “God forgives everybody?”
I sniffed and wiped my nose on my shoulder.
“Yes,” I said, “yes I do, and I think, sir, that now we’re really friends, okay? Because you and I have been to places none of these other people are going to see … So let’s help each other out, as friends.”
His eyes, behind the oval lenses, still held the question.
“Yes,” I declared with all my soul, “God forgives you, but you have to ask. You have to show God you’re sorry. I know you’re sorry, so—let’s show him. Let’s walk out of here … like you know your sister would want you to do.”
“I have work,” he said uncertainly.
“Let’s help each other