“Jackie Brown and Chinese takeout on Christmas Eve,” Evelyn said. “I think tonight confirms us as fully fledged heathens.”
She and Mars had just finished watching the Jackie Brown video while eating garlic green beans and beef in black bean sauce from Shuang Cheng. Evelyn had called him at his apartment and asked if he’d mind getting takeout instead of having salmon. So he’d stopped in Dinkytown on his way over. He thought by arriving at the restaurant just after five, he’d beat the crowd of Asian and Jewish families who showed up at Shuang Cheng on Christian holidays. But the restaurant was already almost full, and there was a line at the takeout desk. There was something reassuring about finding so many secular souls gathered together on Christmas Eve.
“Next to any character written by Elmore Leonard,” Mars said, “I don’t feel at all like a heathen. I feel like Frances McDormand playing the sheriff in Fargo. The actor who played the bail bondsman in Jackie Brown? A perfect Elmore Leonard antihero. I liked Travolta and Hackman in Get Shorty, but I liked them the way you like movie stars giving good performances. The bail bondsman was just—in his skin. It was like the camera found him by accident. Perfect.”
Evelyn, sitting next to Mars on the couch, stretched her legs, carefully propping her heels on the coffee table between
the white cardboard takeout boxes. “I don’t remember the first Elmore Leonard book I read—I just remember that I read fifty pages before I realized this slimeball character I kept waiting for someone to arrest was the book’s hero. But what was really kind of amazing was that by the end of the book, I absolutely accepted him as the hero. I’ve wondered ever since if reading Elmore Leonard hasn’t changed my moral compass in some fundamental way.”
They sat silent for minutes, both of them in identical positions, feet up on the coffee table, staring forward at the wall in front of them, against which a gigantic thirty-seven-inch television and VCR were centered. There were bookcases on either side of what Rita called “the entertainment center.” The bookcases were filled with Rita’s romance novels and Hummel figurines that Mars recognized as being identical to those in a foster home where he’d lived in the third grade. Over the bookcases on either side of the television were intensely romantic prints of houses in snow-covered woods, golden lights shining through curtained windows onto the snow. In one of the pictures, a sleigh filled with fur-robed people approached the brightly lit house. A wreath hung on the door of the house and the colored lights of a Christmas tree were barely visible behind the window.
For Mars, the juxtaposition of the Hummel figurines that he associated with one of the four foster homes he’d lived in growing up and the idealized houses in the framed prints that were perfect images of his boyhood dreams of what a home should be, raised two questions.
First, why was it that this house—which in its style and contents was so like the house he and Denise had lived in when they’d been married—didn’t give him the same, breath-suppressing, walls-closing-in sense of horror that his and Denise’s house had given him from day one?
Second, why was it that the houses in the prints, which came pretty close to matching his boyhood ideal of “home,” should be something that as an adult he would find so unappealing? He made a mental note to give more thought to
those questions in the future, with no real expectation that he would in fact do so.
To Evelyn he said, “Explain to me how it is that you and Rita manage to get along so well as housemates. I can’t see that you’ve got anything in common.”
Evelyn considered the question for a moment before saying, “Well, the easy answer is, ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’ But it’s more than that. I’ve told you before, when I was released from jail, I didn’t have any place to go. And of everybody I knew, the only person I felt comfortable calling was Rita. She wasn’t part of the set I’d fallen into …” Evelyn looked sideways at Mars. He’d known from the first the gruesome details of Evelyn’s “set.”
“ … And Rita wasn’t really part of the academic world. I mean, she was the senior secretary in the English Department at the U, but she made it a point of not being part of the academic world. It’s really how she’s always managed to maintain her control of everybody in the department. She has a real genius for making pointy-headed academics feel like bungling idiots. And she’s so good at what she does, the whole department depends on her. You get on Rita’s bad side, and you’re not going to get copies of stuff made when you need it, she’s not going to put in a good word for you on conference appointments, she won’t go the extra mile in scheduling meetings with students and advisors—there’re just a million ways she can make the life of an assistant prof or a graduate student harder or easier.
“With me, she recognized on sight that I hadn’t bought in to the whole academic thing. I started by having this stupidly romantic view of what being an academic meant. I thought it was all about forming young minds and achieving greater understanding of Self and the World We Live In …” Evelyn rolled her eyes. “Man, was I off base. Once I realized how far off base I was, I got real cynical, real fast. It was my cynicism about being a graduate student that appealed to Rita. I think she saw me as an ally. She certainly recognized that I didn’t need to be reminded every day how insignificant a thing a graduate student was. But I owe her. Without Rita,
I would never have been kept on as a graduate student after I crashed and burned year before last … .”
“And living here?”
“For Rita, I’m not sure. I think her prickly personality has kept her a little isolated, a little lonely. I’m company. She has a very maternal streak, actually—‘controlling’ is what people in the English department say. But I think she likes having somebody to take care of. And while you’re right—we don’t have the same tastes in much of anything”—Evelyn glanced up at the framed prints over the bookcases—“we respect each other and are considerate of one another. Which is a lot—more than you get in most relationships.”
Her words hung in the air. Then she said, “For me, of course, it’s cheap. I genuinely like Rita, and given that I go to England in less than two months, finding a place on my own doesn’t make a lot of sense. Which reminds me—I dropped the ball on grilling salmon tonight because it took me forever to pin Rueben down on my recommendation letters to the University of Sussex. By the time I got that done, the grocery store was closed. So, no salmon.”
“Rueben being Rueben Gill, your—what’ya call him, your thesis advisor?”
“The same,” Evelyn said, her voice tired. “Rueben is pathologically disorganized. I’ve given him letters to be sent twice before. All he needed to do was sign them. He lost them both times. So I had to wait until he came in—which wasn’t until after four—then hang around until he could focus long enough to find his glasses and a pen and sign the letters. If I hadn’t gotten them mailed before he left on holiday, I might be leaving without approval for library access in Sussex.”
Mars felt twinges of something uncomfortable at the prospect of Evelyn’s leaving. He put the discomfort on the list of things that required further consideration, along with why Denise’s house gave him the heebie-jeebies and Rita’s didn’t and why his childhood definition of “home” had no meaning in his adult life. For now, he said, “How does Rueben get away with it?”
Evelyn grinned. “In academia? Like, somebody’s going
to notice?” She was quiet for a bit before saying, “That isn’t altogether true—or fair. I think Rueben has paid a price for being sloppy—although my guess is sloppiness is the least of his problems. He’s one of a roving band of itinerant academics that move from university to university, never getting a tenured appointment, taking what’s available, wherever it’s available. I suppose it isn’t surprising that someone like Rueben wouldn’t be motivated to do much more than show up. What is it that Woody Allen said—and I don’t think this is from a movie—‘Eighty percent of success is just showing up’? That could be Rueben’s motto.”
“It’s looking like that’s all that mattered with our victims in the Beck case. They had ancestors who ‘just showed up’ at Gettysburg one hundred and thirty-seven years ago.”
“You haven’t found anything else that explains why these guys would be the victims—I mean, as opposed to any other descendent of the First Minnesota.”
Mars shook his head. “If I could find out why Beck, why Rowe, this investigation would take off like a rocket. I’m still hoping Nettie will find out something about the last two numbers on Beck’s arm.”
Evelyn gave a self-conscious shudder. “The idea of someone just cruising silently around, stalking victims—and the victims having no idea they’re vulnerable. Terrifying.”
“Everyone’s spooked on this one. The chief went totally off the rails when he got back today. And I’ve never seen him lose his cool. By the end of the day he was quoting the Old Testament: ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth …’”
“Meaning these are revenge killings?”
Mars nodded. “I think that’s a sure thing. But knowing that doesn’t explain how the perp is selecting victims. I somehow can’t believe he’s going after just anyone who had an ancestor fighting at Gettysburg with the First Minnesota.”
Evelyn shifted on the couch. “Anyway. What I meant to say before. I apologize for screwing up our grilled salmon dinner.”
“Well,” Mars said, “I hold no hard feelings about missing our salmon dinner. Shuang Cheng’s hit the spot.”
Evelyn pulled herself up. “I know what we need. A little Christmas music.” She walked over to the entertainment center and sorted through a rack of CDs. She smiled, pulling one out. “This is incredibly hokey and just right. ‘The Three Tenors Sing Christmas Classics.’” She bent over and looked in the cabinet again. “Or, an equivalent emotional experience would be to watch Rita’s only video, which is The Sound of Music.”
“I can’t believe this,” Mars said. “Just last night, Nettie asked me if I was interested in hearing about ‘cool coincidences, ’ and when I said, ‘Those are a few of my favorite things,’ she played our movie-line game. You’ve heard us do it—we remember a bit of movie dialogue that fits whatever it is we’re doing, then the other one has to name the movie and scene the dialogue came from …”
“I’ve heard the two of you do it. I’ve never been exactly sure what it was all about.”
“The point is, as soon as I said, ‘Those are a few of my favorite things,’ Nettie said—”
“Oh—I do get it,” Evelyn said. “Then Nettie said, ‘The Sound of Music, the scene where Julie Andrews sings to the Von Trapp kids during a thunderstorm.’”
“You got it,” Mars said. “And now, for the second time in two days, The Sound of Music comes up. Maybe one of the only movies ever made that I haven’t seen. Your bringing it up now is a coincidence because Nettie mentioned it last night, and the first mention of The Sound of Music was related to a coincidence. Which, I think, means that this is the third coincidence in two days related to The Sound of Music.”
“Life is strange,” Evelyn said. She held up the three tenors CD and the video. “Which is it?”
“I can’t handle any more coincidences related to The Sound of Music. Let’s go for the tenors.”
They were in the kitchen doing dishes when the three tenors swung into the John Lennon, Yoko Ono song, “So This Must Be Christmas.”
“I love this song,” Evelyn said. “It makes me want to waltz.”
“You’re in luck,” Mars said. “I went to a Catholic boys’ school in the eighth grade. Among my many personal accomplishments attributable to Our Mother of Perpetual Grace is my ability to waltz.”
“You can’t be serious.” Evelyn looked startled.
“Just watch me.” Mars put the dish towel down and walked into the living room. Surveying the room, he said, “Space is an issue. Waltzing properly requires space. Would Rita freak out if I moved some furniture?”
“She would if she were here to see it. But if we move everything back, so she never knows it happened, I think she’d survive.”
Mars moved all the furniture back against the walls of the living room, while Evelyn reset the CD. At the first strains of “So This Must Be Christmas,” they began a slow, swooping waltz around the room.
Mars was about to waltz Evelyn through the kitchen and back into the living room when his cell phone rang.
“Ohhhh,” Evelyn said. “I have the worst feeling that I’ve just had my first and last waltz with you …”
“The Last Waltz. Robbie Robertson is being interviewed by Martin Scorsese, and Robertson explains how they chose The Last Waltz as the name for the final concert.” He looked at the caller ID screen on his phone, then punched the talk button.
“Another musical,” Evelyn said.
“Not a musical,” Mars said, “a concert movie. Big difference.” To his cell phone he said, “Nettie, why the hell are you still in the squad room?”
“And ruining my waltz,” Evelyn said to no one in particular as she walked back into the kitchen.
Nettie said, “I think I found the last two numbers, Mars. One number, really. It’s not one and nine. It’s nineteen.”
“I’m listening,” Mars said, forgetting to be mad, his heart pounding harder and faster than it had when he’d been waltzing.
“Okay. I’m looking at the Cornell University records for
the Gettysburg Campaign. There’s a table that shows ‘killed’ and ‘wounded’ during the three days of the Battle of Gettysburg for the Army of Northern Virginia. It breaks the figures down by command—meaning it shows corps, divisions, brigades, and regiments. Under Pickett’s Division, it shows Garnett’s Brigade, and the Twenty-eighth Virginia was under Garnett’s Brigade. The table shows that nineteen members of the Twenty-eighth Virginia were killed during the three days of the Battle of Gettysburg. I know that’s not just the third day, when the flag was captured, but—”
“No,” Mars said, “I agree with you. It fits. It makes perfect sense that someone would be looking to avenge the members of the Twenty-eighth who died. The flag represented all of them, not just the ones who died on the third day. I think you’ve got it …”
“Rex Harrison to Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady when she pronounces ‘the rain in Spain’ correctly.”
“What is it with all this musical stuff? We’re in a rut, here.”
“So you’re okay that we have figured out the last numbers.”
“Yeah. Good to go. It was maybe even worth it that you worked on Christmas Eve.”
“I thought you’d be more excited.”
“I am excited. It’s great to have this resolved. It’s just that I was hoping it would help us explain why Beck was the victim. We’ll just have to keep working that.”
“Are you and Evelyn having a nice Christmas Eve?”
“Yeah. Great. We were waltzing when you called.”
“Oh, right,” Nettie said, not considering for a minute that he was serious.
After getting Nettie’s call, Mars began some serious pacing.
“What is it?” Evelyn asked.
Mars stopped. “I really can’t put off any longer figuring out why Beck was the victim. I’d hoped that would fall out of the numbers, but it didn’t happen.”
“Explain again what the numbers meant …”
“Nettie found records documenting that nineteen members of the Twenty-eighth Virginia died during the Battle of Gettysburg. So, what we’ve got, when you put all thirteen numbers together, is a message that commemorates the Twenty-eighth Virginia’s participation in the Battle of Gettysburg where nineteen men died and where the Twenty-eighth regimental flag was captured on the third day.” Mars resumed pacing.
“You’re so tense,” Evelyn said. “Relax. Ideas come when you’re not trying so hard.” Evelyn lay down on the couch in the living room, putting her stocking feet up on the back of the couch, watching Mars. Then she said, rising up to balance herself on her elbows, “It’s what the chief said, Mars.”
He looked at her without understanding.
Evelyn said, “An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth … your perp is going to kill nineteen descendants of the First Minnesota Volunteers who fought at Gettysburg.”
The knot in Mars’s stomach tightened and a chill swept over him, running lightly over his neck and down his back.
“My God,” he said, dropping down to the couch. “It makes perfect sense, especially as our guy is into ritual.” He leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. “But, damn it, we’re still left with the unmanageable question: how is he selecting the nineteen victims?”
Evelyn closed her eyes and concentrated. “Couldn’t you look for similarities in Beck and Rowe, then match that to other descendants?”
Mars guffawed. “Let me tell you about that option. The director of the History Center has calculated that there’s something like seventy thousand descendants of the First Minnesota at this point in time. Just to identify that population—not to mention matching characteristics to the two known victims—would take twenty-five researchers working twenty-four hours a day more than two years.”
Evelyn stretched her lower lip in a grimace. “I see the problem.” She continued to think. “So what you need to do is come up with known criteria that will narrow the population of potential victims to a manageable number.”
“That’s it,” Mars said. “But I’m not sure what you mean by ‘known’ criteria.”
“Well, as an example, that the killer is only going to target males. I think that would be a pretty reasonable assumption. In my mind, racists are often chauvinists—and given that we think he may be doing the eye-for-an-eye bit, it would make sense that he’s going to go after men, not women. And besides, Mars. Your perp is going to have the same victim selection problem you’re having. And he probably has a lot fewer resources to solve the problem than you do. He’s going to have to start with some really simple rules of selection. Those rules should be as obvious to us as they are to him.”
“That is absolutely right,” Mars said, getting up and pulling on his jacket. “It’s been there all along. Staring me in the face. While I’ve been eating Chinese and waltzing to Christmas carols.”