Miles and miles away from the city. The man closed his eyes and listened to the stream. The fly hit the water delicately, cast with a fluid motion of the wrist. His hands were cold, but he did not like the feel of gloves against his skin when he was fishing. The three thin scars four inches long crossing the back of his right hand glistened white. The night was turning into day, and the quiet of the woods gave it their blessing.
He looked like a regular guy out for some camping and a little fishing. A short, neat haircut and good, expensive gear on the ground by his boots. Nothing an incidental hiker would look at twice, nobody anybody would remember for more than five minutes. Under his right trouser leg, the small revolver in his ankle holster was a familiar weight he hardly noticed anymore. The man knew little about blessings.
He cast the line into the water once more, his eyes following the long, slow arc, and knew then that that was very probably all the peace the world would ever grant him.
The shots of the hunters above him on the mountain did not startle him at all.
It was 12:45 p.m. when Madison stirred. She was a little stiff from falling asleep on the sofa—nothing a long, hot shower and a strong cup of coffee couldn’t take care of. She pulled on a pair of chinos, a dark denim shirt, and a tan padded suede jacket. She set the sneakers she’d worn on the stakeout by the closet in her bedroom and picked up some black ankle boots instead. The holster went into a locked safe under the bed.
The deal was that if Alice was off duty, she wouldn’t carry her gun into Rachel’s house. They had both agreed that it would not be healthy for Tommy to get used to the sight of a gun on her belt while she was having coffee in their kitchen.
Madison walked to Rachel’s in seven minutes. Over their twenty-year friendship their homes had never been farther apart than fifteen minutes on foot, which meant everything when you were thirteen.
On Blue Ridge a few houses had already put up their Christmas decorations, and colored lights winked from behind curtains. Alice’s father had never been much for that sort of thing. Her grandparents, though, had decided that she should have the biggest tree in Seattle for their first Christmas together, and she had loved it.
Rachel’s house was crammed with relatives. Neal’s brothers with their wives and kids, aunts and uncles, cousins Alice hadn’t met for years. Several children were parked in front of the television playing video games. Adults sat on the sofas and stood by the buffet table. Ruth, Rachel’s mother, made sure everyone was fed and watered to capacity.
Rachel had steered Alice through the front rooms, and they had ended up sitting on the stairs by the first-floor landing, holding their plates on their laps.
Once, when Alice was still in uniform, she had worked the case of a missing nine-year-old boy. The day they found him, buried under some bushes in the playground, Rachel had sat with her in Alice’s dark house for hours. Now that she was in Homicide, Madison did not sit with the lights off anymore.
Rachel took a sip from her wine and looked at her friend.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
“Fine. I slept like a rock last night. How was your week?”
“Okay. Term’s over, no major dramas. I’ll spend the holidays marking a pile of essays.”
Rachel taught classes twice a week at UW, in the psychology department. “What about you? Any dreams lately?”
Rachel was the one person in the world who knew.
“Every few months. It’s not too bad.”
“The woman I told you about is really good, if you want to talk to someone.”
“I’m okay. I’m used to it.”
“I don’t think it does you any good just to live with it.”
“It’s not a big deal anymore.”
“For Chrissake, girl, you do have a psychology degree.”
“I know. Amazing, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, right. By the way, Tommy wandered off in the supermarket again. I found him sitting on the floor in the cereal aisle, playing with the boxes. It’s the second time in a month. Did you catch your guy last night?”
“Nope. Just a thirteen-year-old girl who held up four cops in a convenience store with an unloaded gun.”
“Jesus.”
“Almost got herself shot over a couple of Mars bars.”
“You were there?”
“Yes. She’s with Social Services now.” Madison took a sip of wine. “Her name is Rose.”
“Pretty,” Rachel said.
A couple of hours later Madison was on the sofa with Tommy, Rachel’s six-year-old, reading one of his books aloud. It was a collection of Native American myths written for children; Tommy knew it by heart, but he liked to be read to.
The fire was crackling in the fireplace, and they had Tommy’s quilt on their lap. After five minutes without being interrupted by his little voice, she realized that he had fallen asleep.
Madison’s gaze went to the wall above the fireplace. It was what they called “the family wall.” Photographs of the Levers and the Abramowiczes going back generations. Alice had always had her favorites: Rachel’s Russian grandparents on their wedding day, Rachel and herself on the steps of the apartment they’d shared in college, the black-and-white portrait of an unknown boy in his best Sunday suit.
Alice didn’t have any photographs of her parents. She liked being on the wall with the rest of Rachel’s folks.
Somebody was playing Bach next door, the beauty of the structure coming through in spite of the useless piano lessons.
Madison looked at the fire for a while longer, then got up slowly so as not to wake the child. Tommy didn’t stir. After thank-yous and good-byes she walked home, had a quick look inside her fridge, and went into the bedroom. Before she even realized what she was doing, she put on her holster with her off-duty piece, closed the safe, and left the house.
At the supermarket she picked up fruit and vegetables, cheese from the deli counter, and fresh bread. The store was already in full Christmas swing, and a tape of carols was playing around the clock.
She was standing by the poultry case when she noticed the man, a skinny white guy in a denim jacket. He was shifting his weight from one foot to the other and looking over his shoulder at the security guard, who was talking with the young woman at the checkout.
His clothes looked all right, and his hands were both in sight. He looked toward the exit again; the guard was still deep in conversation. At that moment the man was joined by a woman and a small child. Madison picked up some pieces of chicken and went to pay. The things we see in people . . . Madison didn’t know a cop who didn’t automatically keep an eye out for the guy wearing a coat on a summer day.
Back at home she pulled on sweatshirt and pants and ran for forty-five minutes around the neighborhood. Her nose stung in the freezing cold. Detective Sergeant Kevin Brown was on her mind. Starched white shirts and raincoat. She would learn from him, whether he liked it or not. She’d be right there where the job was.
She cooked her dinner with the news on and ate out of the pan, watching a Sports Night rerun. Just before going to bed, she took her gun out and cleaned it completely, dry-fired it a couple of times, reloaded it, and put it under the bed. She fell asleep at 9:30 p.m. and dreamed no dreams till morning.