Sarah Armstrong: Singularity Part 6

"Maggie, Id rather be home with you. I really would. But I cant come home tonight. Its important that Im here."

"I know, its just that, sometimes I wonder..." she said.

"Wonder what?"

"Why cant you be like other moms and get a job in an office or something? One where youre home every night?"

I didnt know what to say. All I could do was ask again, "Whats wrong, Magpie? Is everything all right in school?"

Again, Maggie was silent.

"Maggie, listen, I love you dearly. You are, barring no one, the most important person in the world to me. If I could, Id drive home this very minute. Theres nothing Id like more than to be with you. But I cant. For at least one more day, Im needed here. But I will be home soon, probably tomorrow."

"For how long before you have to go away again?" she asked.

Dodging a question I couldnt answer, I suggested, "Lets do something special this weekend, a whole day together, just the two of us. Well leave Gram at home and make it a mother-daughter day. All right?"

It was a tempting offer, but Maggie wasnt in the mood to jump at anything that let me off the hook.

"Cross-your-heart promise?" she said, doubtfully.

"Cross-my-heart promise," I repeated. "Now put Gram back on the phone, honey. Sleep tight."

"You, too," she said, her voice sad and distracted. Whatever bothered Maggie when wed begun talking was still there.

"Sarah Jane, when are you coming home?" Mom asked.

"As soon as I can. Probably tomorrow night."

"The truth is that Im worried about Maggie," she said, her voice low so Maggie wouldnt hear. "Its not just that she seems sad. Shes doing odd things."

"What?"

"Oh, nothing dangerous or bad, just odd," Mom said. "Like what shes done to her room. I asked her why she wanted the Christmas lights, but she just said she wanted to look up at night and see stars. Shes strung them all over the ceiling."

"Maybe shes telling you the truth," I said. "Maybe she just likes to look at them."

"Could be, dear," she said, sounding unconvinced. "But somethings troubling that girl."

"Kiss Maggie good night for me, Mom," I said. "Ill be home tomorrow, and well talk."

With fifteen minutes before dinner, I hung up the telephone and turned on the television until it was time to meet David. I tried to focus on a fuzzy sitcom, hoping the inane chatter would occupy my mind. It didnt work. I couldnt stop thinking about Maggie. It didnt help to explain I needed the job to support us. I couldnt lie to her. The absolute truth: if I wanted to, I knew I could find another job, maybe one that didnt pay quite as well, but certainly one that allowed me to be home every night. Yet, despite the fact that I would do almost anything in the world to make my daughter happy, I knew I wasnt ready to change my life, even for her, not right now. Too much had already changed for both of us.

Minutes later, someone knocked on the door. David was early. I wondered, for just a second, if hed ironed a shirt for the evening. But when I opened the door, he stood there, rumpled as ever, holding his suitcase.

"We need to head back to Houston, now," he said. "Itll be all over the news in the morning. Scroggins and Nelson are bringing in Priscilla Lucas, charging her with solicitation of murder."

Ten.

I dont understand how you can do this," I argued, every muscle in my body tense with anger. "We had an agreement. You said youd wait. Dont you realize what weve got here?"

We were in Galvestons courthouse, a forty-year-old building with diamond-shaped windows that was slated to be replaced by a new courthouse still under construction. I briefly wondered if the county would relocate both the outdoor monuments to the new courtyards plaza: a plaque honoring Norris Wright Cuney, a freed slave who in 1867 cared for victims of the islands yellow fever epidemic, and a monument to the Confederacy, a robust soldier carrying a banner over the inscription GLORY TO THE DEFEATED. Inside his chambers Judge Wilford McLamore, a rotund light-skinned black man with one eye that turned slightly in, whittled at his gums with a flat wooden toothpick. Wed interrupted his dinner and he didnt look pleased.

"Seems to me weve been through all this," he insisted, brushing his teeth with his tongue then sucking back to reclaim a loosened tidbit. "What weve got are two viewpoints that dont necessarily disagree. Agent Scroggins and Oliver here, sorry Detective Nelson, have explained that you may have a lead to the actual killer. Well, bravo. But I dont much see that makes a hill of beans difference as far as Mrs. Lucas and this arrest warrant goes. Theyre not saying she killed her husband and that woman herself. Theyre saying she hired someone-maybe your man-to do it. Theyre not charging her with murder. Its solicitation of murder."

"What makes a difference is that were looking at a serial killer, not a hit man," I said, straining but failing to regain my composure. "Serial killers do not kill for money."

"Hit men are serial killers," argued Nelson, his face tight and red with anger. He was furious. The Lucas case was the biggest collar of his career, the kind that could finally earn him the sergeants badge he coveted. He acted as if David and I were trying to s.n.a.t.c.h it away from him. "Hit men kill multiple victims over a span of time. Maybe this time the guy figured he might as well bring in some bucks doing what he enjoys."

As I fumed, David took over.

"Judge, theres a reasonable a.s.sumption the man who killed Louise Fontenot may also have committed the Lucas and Knowles murders. For the sake of argument, lets a.s.sume thats true," he said, remaining remarkably cool, I thought. "First, we have no evidence anyone paid for the Fontenot murder, which raises the question, is this guy a hit man? Id argue that it suggests hes probably not. Louise Fontenot had no money. She had no family, no one to profit by her death. Why would anyone pay to have her brutally murdered? Second, we have no evidence linking Priscilla Lucas with the killer. In a courtroom, were going to need that link or we have no case."

"We all know that, and we know that itll take time to develop that evidence," interjected Scroggins, his balding head glistening under the fluorescent lights. "But in the meantime, weve already got a perfectly good circ.u.mstantial-evidence case against this woman. First, she had motive: they were divorcing and fighting over custody of the children and the control of more than a billion dollars. Second, she refuses to tell us what she argued about with the dead woman the night before the murders, even to admit she was in her apartment. Third, she had the means, withdrew a hundred grand three days before the murder, and wont account for what she did with it. Fourth, and this is something Nelson and I just tracked down late this afternoon, less than a month ago, she was overheard confiding to a close friend that shed pay anything, give up her entire fortune, to get her husband out of her life, forever."

"Come on," I wailed. "Thats your evidence? Have you ever been through a nasty divorce, Ted? Ever wish your ex-wife was out of the picture? You arrest everyone whos ever uttered those words and half the state of Texas will be locked up."

"Lucas was overheard during one of her Junior League volunteer days at the downtown homeless shelter," Scroggins continued. "And this wasnt a whisper. She wanted to be heard. She wanted to get the word out. She was shopping for a killer."

My experience, everything I believed in contradicted their theory, but I had to admit Nelson and Scroggins were painting a d.a.m.ning portrait of Priscilla Lucas.

Perhaps sensing my confusion, David asked, "Judge, how far do we want to reach here? Do we want to jeopardize our case by rushing to make an arrest? Theres no need for that."

At that, the judge pulled his round body up onto two thick legs, and I sensed the argument had ended and we had lost.

"Why arrest Mrs. Lucas now?" David argued. "We have no indication sh.e.l.l flee. To the contrary, shes a respected member of the community with family and business connections both in Houston and on the island. Why not continue investigating and wait until weve got solid evidence before we make an arrest?"

The judge seemed to consider that, searching all four of our faces for the answer. A frown pulled at his mouth.

"Well, Lieutenant Armstrong, Agent Garrity, this is all real interesting, but I left my wife and a slice of pecan pie at home and youve told me nothing I didnt already know," he said, finally. "These two officers have developed what Id label sufficient probable cause. The district attorney agrees. The warrant stands. When theres something new to report, call me, but not at dinnertime."

It was nearly nine when the meeting ended, and I called home and checked on Maggie. Mom said she was sleeping. The only good news coming from tonights events was that Id be home to surprise her at breakfast.

We left Galveston and took the causeway back to the mainland. In the distance, I saw the small towns that border the coastline, where residents live in an uneasy alliance with miles of petrochemical plants, so vast they stretch into the horizon. Jungles of gray-and-silver pipe illuminated by eerie yellow lights, their stacks belch steam into the air, some burning off escaping gases in flames that look like torches against the night sky. More than once in my memory, one or another of these plants exploded in a fury of destruction, leaving a charred skeleton, where search parties combed for the remains of the dead. Lawyers got rich suing for the grieving families, but little ever changed. On the Gulf Coast, livelihoods depend on the well-paid jobs supplied by these plants. Even if it were possible, few residents truly want them to leave.

On the drive into Houston, we silently licked our wounds from the battle wed so miserably lost. I wondered where Priscilla Luca.s.s children would be when she turned herself in. Would they see their mother on television, arrested for their fathers murder? Of course there was the hope, vague at best, that no one would tip off the television stations. But my guess was that Nelson and Scroggins wanted the circus, the excitement of a big arrest live on the morning news.

Before leaving Galveston, David and I had decided to have dinner in Houston. Wed settled on Campinettis, a neighborhood Italian place near the house hed rented in the Heights, one of the citys oldest neighborhoods lying just northwest of downtown. As I drove past Houstons tailored skysc.r.a.pers, some still lit for the night with cleaning crews readying offices for the next morning, I realized neither of us had spoken during the entire drive. I felt grateful for the quiet. Too many people were compelled to fill every available minute with useless words. That David was comfortable with silence spoke well of him.

When we arrived at the restaurant, just before ten, Papa Campinetti, a man stooped with age, informed us theyd stopped serving dinner and that the grill was shut down and cleaned, something we might have expected.

"I guess we should have had dinner in Galveston," I said, as we walked back to the Tahoe.

"Why not my place? Ill make pasta and pour you a gla.s.s of wine," David offered.

"I should get home. I havent seen Maggie since yesterday morning."

"Shes sleeping," he said. "You have to drop me at my house anyway, and I dont know about you, but Im famished."

He was right. I couldnt remember being so hungry, and Maggie wouldnt know until morning that Id come home early. I had no reason to hurry, but my hands felt a bit clammy when I thought about being alone with David.

"Youre not planning any dancing, are you?" I asked, with a nervous laugh. "I didnt wear my steel-toed work boots."

"Aw, that hurts," he said, raising his hand to his chest as if blocking a blow. "I may not be John Travolta, but in the kitchen I channel Rachael Ray. Give me a chance to show you."

"Thats an interesting prospect," I said. "Do you dress for the part?"

David laughed, one of those deep laughs that sound vaguely dangerous. "You afraid?" he asked. I wondered if I should be.

"Im not sure," I admitted. "But Im willing to give it a try."

Like much of Houston, the Heights failed the continuity test. Without zoning, factories, stores, and homes formed a haphazard patchwork. Motorcycle repair shops and m.u.f.fler manufacturers intermingled with single-family homes on streets shaded by arcs of live oaks or lined with thirty-foot palms. Two-bedroom houses that would be described in a real estate ad as "handymans specials" sat next to beautifully restored Victorians, with maids quarters over the garage. David lived in a small frame bungalow a few miles from the restaurant, and I pulled into the driveway and parked in front of the garage. It was one of those houses people in the north with bas.e.m.e.nts really cant understand-no slab, perched on foot-high pilings, leaving just enough room underneath for the neighborhood cats to breed. A porch ran the length of the front, and David had two wood-slat rockers facing the street. Painted a rich tan and trimmed in white, the house had a farmhouse look, which made the view of the sleek downtown skyline surreal.

Once inside, he poured two gla.s.ses of a dry cabernet and then banged about in the kitchen, pulling out pots, boiling water, while I circulated through the living room and dining room. Unlike his tousled appearance, the house was well cared for and organized, neatly kept. Books on shelves lined the walls, many of them travel guides, China, Russia, Thailand, and New Zealand. The furniture was dated but comfortable, the brown corduroy couch worn but clean, and the heavily carved oak tables appeared old enough to have been inherited. Black-and-white photos lined the walls, matted and framed, many of a young boy with thick blond hair, freckles, and Davids dimple in his chin.

"Did you take these?" I asked when he walked into the room.

Sipping his wine, he nodded.

"Theyre good."

"Thanks. Its a hobby. The kids my son, Jack. Hes fourteen now and lives with his mother. We divorced about ten years ago."

"Im sorry."

"Me, too," he said, with a shrug. "Jans a great gal, an elementary school teacher. We thought wed stay married forever. She just couldnt deal with the job. Too many hours on the road, too much time for her to sit alone and worry."

"I was lucky that way with Bill. Since we both worked for the department, we both understood," I said. "Do you see Jack often?"

"Every chance I get. But they moved from Houston a few months back, just after my transfer here finally came through. Pretty ironic," he said, with a shrug. "I move in, set up a bedroom for the kid for weekends, and her husband gets an unexpected transfer a month later to Denver. If I didnt know better, Id wonder if it was plotted. But it wasnt. Just a bad break. Her husbands in computers, software. Nice guy. Jack loves him."

"I cant imagine being separated from Maggie. Shes kept me going this last year," I said, instantly regretting my words as I saw sadness wash over Davids face.

"Jack and I are okay," he said, with a half-smile and a resolution to his voice that confided this was something he considered often. "The hours I work, I wouldnt be able to spend as much time as Id like to with him even if he lived in Houston. Its funny. One of the reasons I asked for the transfer from Quantico was that this job came with a.s.surances of more free time."

"Hasnt worked out that way?"

"Howd you guess? But enough of that. Now back to dinner," he said, rubbing his palms together, as if in great antic.i.p.ation. "The bad news is the only bread in the house is old and hard as a floorboard, but theres pasta and I added mushrooms and artichoke hearts. Sound good?"

"Extraordinary."

"Then, lets eat."

We filled our plates with steaming linguini David tossed with olive oil, basil, and parmesan cheese, and then sprinkled on the artichokes, mushrooms, pine nuts, and capers. At the dining room table, stacks of unread newspapers pushed to the side, we twirled the long strands of pasta on our forks, washing it down with the heavy, dry wine. The food was comforting and the house felt warm and inviting. David laughed easily, and I decided that when he smiled he could easily have been described as handsome. We talked about our kids, Mom, his ex-wife. We didnt talk about the case or our jobs. It felt good for once, pretending to be normal people with normal lives. Afterward, I cleared the dishes and David rinsed them and put them into the dishwasher. He added soap and turned it on, filling the kitchen with the sound of rushing water.

"Lets go sit in the living room," he said, picking up the wine bottle.

The time pa.s.sed quickly as we listened to music and talked. David told me about the trip hed taken through Italy, four weeks by car, alone, including a week in a stone house in Tuscany, with a view of a village where every hour the baptistery bells rang and every morning old women draped in black shawls shuffled over cobbled streets to ma.s.s. Before long I looked at my watch and it was well after midnight.

"I need to go," I said, not really wanting to.

It had been a long time since Id been so relaxed with a man, and all evening long, Id had the urge to simply rest my head on his shoulder. But now when he leaned forward, now that I knew that in moments his lips would be on mine, I didnt know what to do or say, how to react. My body wanted to be touched, and I craved mindlessness, to just not think. I felt Davids hands on my shoulders, and I became aware of his body surrounding me, his heavy warm smell, and I yearned just to be free of the past long enough to let myself be with him.

Ever so slowly, his lips met mine, with a long, firm, hungry kiss, the kind I remembered from what seemed like a lifetime ago.

Confused, I pulled away.

"Sorry," he said, with a guarded smile. "I guess you didnt..."

"No, I did," I admitted. "I thought, I thought I was ready, but..." Suddenly tongue-tied, I searched his face, wondering what he was thinking.

"Sarah, I dont want you to feel uncomfortable," he said. "Im attracted to you. I have been since our first meeting, but I know its only been a year. Too soon?"

Again the room fell quiet. I could feel my body reacting to his closeness, the rush of the wine flushing my cheeks, the slight tingle that remained on my lips.

"You know for the longest time, I just waited for Bill to come back," I said, needing David to understand. "Every time I heard the door open at the house, every time the garage door went up. When the phone rang, I thought, 'Oh, its Bill. Hes home now and Maggie and I will be all right again. Life will be normal, good and whole."

Lost in my thoughts, I paused, hoping David would interrupt and keep me from saying more. When he didnt, I went on. "All the dead bodies Ive seen, youd think I, if anyone, would understand death. Ive touched it. Ive smelled it. Ive lived with it. But I dont understand. I just dont understand."

My words trailed off, and I no longer trusted my voice.

"I know," he said, softly wiping away a tear that trailed down my cheek.

My body, reminded of all it had lost, ached for more. I didnt know if I felt relief or disappointment when David suddenly sat back, expanding the distance between us. Moments pa.s.sed and neither of us spoke, unable or unwilling to break the silence, each lost in our own thoughts. Finally, he rose to his feet, grasped my hands, and pulled me up with him. For the briefest instant I wondered if hed kiss me again. I wanted him to, and I was afraid that he might. Instead, he walked away, leaving me alone, standing beside the couch, waiting, for what, I couldnt say.

When he returned, he held my blazer and purse.

"Tomorrow, we need to rea.s.sess these three murders," he said, for the first time bringing up work. "We have a lot of questions to answer."

That night, at home, I stood before the bathroom mirror, just as I had in the motel, staring at my own image. David had said that hed been attracted to me from our first meeting, that day in the captains office. I wondered how he could be. What I saw staring back at me was a plain, tired woman. I ran my fingers through my hair and thought about adding highlights and getting a good cut. Something not so harsh around my face, something to camouflage the wrinkles the last year had etched around my eyes. Maybe some new clothes. I couldnt remember the last time Id gone shopping. A vague sense of guilt gnawed at me, but when I thought about Bill, I reminded myself again that he was gone and that he wouldnt be coming back. I couldnt bring him back, no matter how hard I tried. Still, I couldnt quiet the ball of anxiety in my chest.

In my old blue nightgown, I let myself into Maggies room. She slept peacefully in her bed. Above her hung a web of hundreds of white lights, Christmas tree lights claimed from the garage and hung in a haphazard pattern that crisscrossed the ceiling. In the dark room, they shone like stars borrowed from the sky. I thought about Moms words, that Maggie was acting strangely. Yet the lights didnt strike me as odd. I found them comforting.

For nearly an hour, I sat on the floor beside my daughters bed, watching her sleep, her chest steadily rising and falling. At times, I looked up at her make-believe stars, and I thought about what shed told me on the telephone earlier that evening, about singularity, the dense vortex of a black hole, where stars are greedily sucked in and crumbled into dust, never to be seen again.

Eleven.