Cody McFadyen - The Face of Death

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D E A T H

A L S O B Y C O D Y M C F A D Y E N

S h a d o w M a n

D E A T H

Cody McFadyen

B A N TA M B O O K S

NEW YORK

TORONTO

LONDON

SYDNEY

AUCKLAND

A Bantam Book / June 2007

Published by Bantam Dell

A Division of Random House, Inc.

New York, New York

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Grateful acknowledgment is given for permission to reprint the following:

Self-Pity by D. H. Lawrence, from THE COMPLETE POEMS OF

D. H. LAWRENCE by D. H. Lawrence, edited by V. de Sola Pinto & F. W. Roberts, copyright 1964, 1971 by Angelo Ravagli and C. M. Weekley, Executors of the Estate of Frieda Lawrence Ravagli. Used by permission of Viking Penguin, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Self-Pity by D. H. Lawrence, copyright The Estate of Frieda Lawrence Ravagli. Reproduced by kind permission of Pollinger Limited and the Proprietor.

All rights reserved.

Copyright 2007 by Cody Mcfadyen

Book design by Ellen Cipriano

Bantam Books is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data McFadyen, Cody.

The face of death / Cody McFadyen.

p. cm.

eISBN: 978-0-553-90377-5

1. Government investigatorsFiction. 2. Women detectives

Fiction. I. Title.

PS3613.C438F33 2007

813'.6dc22

2007004712

www.bantamdell.com

v1.0

For Brieanna,

my Little B

A C K N O W L E D G M E N T S

To Liza and Havis Dawson, as always, for the great support, advice, encouragement, and representation. To Danielle Perez and Nick Sayers, my editors at

Bantam and Hodder respectively; this was a tough

book, and they refused to let me call it done till it was done. To Chandler Crawford for her great foreign representation. Finally, to my family and friends for putting up with me while I wrote this book. I dont know about all writers, but I know this particular writer can be hard to live with when the writing is going rough.

D E A T H

Down at the

Watering Hole

( W H E R E T H E D A R K T H I N G S D R I N K )

I DREAM OF THE FACE OF DEATH.

Its an ever-changing face, worn by many at the wrong time, worn by all eventually. I have looked into this face, over and over and over.

Its what you do, dummy.

A voice in my dream tells me this.

The voice is right. I am in the Los Angeles branch of the FBI, and I am responsible for hunting the worst of the worst. Child killers, serial killers, men (and sometimes women) without conscience or restraint or remorse. Its what I have done for over a decade and if I havent seen death in all its guises, Ive seen it in most. Death is endless and erosive. Its unfettered face wears on a persons soul.

Tonight, the face changes like a strobe in a fog, moving between three people I once knew. Husband, daughter, friend. Matt, Alexa, Annie.

Dead, dead, and dead.

I find myself facing a mirror with no reflection. The mirror laughs at me. It hee-haws like a donkey, it lows like a cow. I hit it with my fist and the mirror shatters. A purple bruise blossoms on my cheek like a rose. The bruise is lovely, I can feel it.

My reflection appears in the mirror shards.

The voice again: Broken things still catch the light. I wake from this dream by opening my eyes. Its a strange thing,

C O D Y M c F A D Y E N

going from a deep sleep to full awareness in the space of a blink. But at least I dont wake up screaming anymore.

I cant say the same for Bonnie. I turn on my side to look at her, being careful not to jostle. I find she is already awake, staring into my eyes.

Did I wake you up, honey? I ask.

She shakes her head. No, shes saying.

Its late, and this is one of those times where sleep still beckons. If Bonnie and I are willing, it will draw us back down again. I open my arms to her. My adopted daughter moves close to me. I hug her tight, but not too tight. I smell the sweetness of her hair and darkness claims us with the whisper of an ocean tide.

A

When I wake up, I feel great. Really and truly rested, in a way I havent for a long time. The dream has left me feeling cleansed. Gently scoured.

I feel unrushed and distant and peaceful. I dont have anything in particular to worry about, which is strange; worry is a phantom limb for me. This is like being in a bubbleor maybe the womb. I go with it, floating for a little while, listening to my own white noise. This is a Saturday morning, not just in name, but as a state of being. I look over to where Bonnie should be, and see only rumpled sheets. I cock an ear and hear faint patterings. Ten-year-old feet, moving through the house. Having a ten-year-old daughter can be like living with a fairy. Something magical. I stretch and it feels glorious and catlike. Just one item is needed to make this morning a thing of perfection. As I think it, my nose twitches.

Coffee.

I bound out of bed, and head down the stairs to the kitchen. I note with satisfaction that Im wearing nothing but an old T-shirt and what I call my granny panties, along with a pair of ridiculous fluffy slippers in the shape of elephants. My hair looks like it just went through a hurricane. None of it matters, because its Saturday, and no one else is here but us girls.

Bonnie meets me at the bottom of the stairs with a cup of coffee. T H E F A C E O F D E A T H

Thanks, munchkin. I take a sip. Perfect, I say, nodding. And it is.

I sit down at the dining table, sipping my coffee. Bonnie drinks a glass of milk, and we look at each other. Its a very, very comfortable silence. I grin.

This is some great morning, isnt it?

She grins back, and that smile steals my heart again, nothing new. She nods.

Bonnie does not speak. Her muteness is not a result of any physical defect. Its the result of her mother getting butchered while she watched. And of the killer then tying her to her mothers corpse, faceto-face. She was there for three days like that. She hasnt spoken a word since.

Annieher motherwas my best friend in the world. The killer came for her to hurt me. At times, I know that Annie died because she was my friend. Most of the time I dont know this. I pretend it isnt there, something just too huge and dark and crushing, a shadow the size of a whale. If I were to know that truth too often, it would break me.

Once, when I was six, I was angry at my mother for some reason. I cant even remember why. I had a kitten that Id named Mr. Mittens, and he came up to me with that empathy animals can have, knowing I was upset. Mr. Mittens approached me with unconditional love, and my response was to give him a little kick.

He wasnt hurt, not permanently. Not even temporarily. But he was never really a kitten again. He would always flinch first when you went to pet him. To this day, if I think about Mr. Mittens, Im consumed with guilt. Not just a twinge, but a feeling of pure awfulness, a kind of crippling of the soul. It was an evil act. I did permanent harm to something innocent. I never told anyone what I did to Mr. Mittens. Its a secret I plan to take to my grave, a sin Id rather go to hell for than confess.