The Rest of Her Life

By Zoe Carbonopsina

Discovering she has terminal cancer, Jill searches for a way to give her final days and life meaning and to create her legacy. In this story of how we give value to our lives, and of how we must take responsibility for our actions, the unusual path Jill chooses leads to conflict with friends, family and the law, and forces her to deal with events that turn her plans upside down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zoe Carbonopsina
• Release date: Feb 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301856749

Book preview

Part One

Crime

1

Late June

Of course it'll be irreversible, she snapped again at her reflection, annoyed as much by her own vacillations, she knew, as by the resilience of the difficult question. Dissatisfied suddenly with her wardrobe options as well, she threw the white slacks on the bed and snatched the cobalt miniskirt off its hanger. But life and the march of time were always irreversible, she reminded herself, calming a little as she felt the silky fabric slide across her legs.

She appraised her slim image. The smooth skin still flowed lightly over her delicate cheekbones, and her complexion, olive even in winter, had always been a source of pride: she'd been raised in the Fifties, when Sun and Tan were still a happy couple. Tonight she even found herself liking her slender, slightly sharp nose. Her finger traced one dark eyebrow, rising in a crisp little arc before it swept gracefully outward. She tested her smile and found it, as always, slightly skewed, the right half a little perkier than the noncommittal left.

The ensemble she'd finally resorted to was a little old, but sexy enough, she decided. The sleeveless white blouse flattered her sleek arms, and she liked the way the arc of the lapis-and-silver necklace chased her modestly scooped neckline. The various blues paid moody homage to her new wreath of platinum hair.

The dangly silver earrings Kevin had bought her in New Orleans would complement the necklace, she knew, but they seemed too risky tonight. What if one pulled out, got left behind?

At this reminder of her real agenda she felt the old anxiety welling up. She fingered the thin bright hoops for half a minute before replacing them with the tiny silver studs.

With a sigh she turned away from the mirror and reviewed her nylon travel bag — blue too, she realized now. She had a change of clothing inside. The cigarettes, cologne, and latex gloves were already in her purse. Was there anything else she needed to bring?

The gun. How could she have forgotten, unless it was a kind of subconscious self-sabotage? Retrieving the .22 pistol from its hiding place, she loaded it as she'd practiced, wrapped it in a handkerchief, and nestled it carefully in her purse, beneath the other props.

That final task completed, she sat down on the couch, its black naugahyde chilly against her bare legs. She stared vacantly for a minute at the empty wall across her small apartment, thinking of the .38 the salesman had urged on her. With a sigh she finally forced herself to stop second-guessing, closed her eyes, and ran through her plans one last time, trying to relax and remember everything Mac had taught her about the hunt.

.

She arrived at the Pizza Hut parking a little before nine. Staring low into the indigo sky, she tried to imagine the twilight not as the start of her dark mission, but as the harbinger of dawn, when this night would finally be over. She raised her head further and scanned the darkening sky, but could pick out only a few early stars through the trees. There was no moon. She moved back into the shadows, feeling safest there — though not really very safe at all. She glanced at her watch: it was still too soon.

A moment later a black car turned into the dim parking lot and stopped abruptly, fifty feet from her. Ten minutes early, her watch told her, but there was no doubt: it was Reg Madison. Glad now that she'd anticipated his testosterone-fueled eagerness, she watched him climb out and survey the other cars. He was dressed the same as the other night, when she had watched him from these same shadows: jeans and a dark jacket, and the battered black cowboy boots. He glanced at the restaurant, perhaps wondering whether to go in or not. She saw him raise his arm to check his own watch in the greenish glow of the overhead security light, rest his gaze again on the restaurant entrance, light a cigarette.

She forced herself out of the comforting shadows and began her slow walk toward him. Traffic whizzed by on Colorado Boulevard. Hi, lover, she purred at the halfway point. Fancy meetin' you here.

Mona? Jeez, you look great. He stubbed the cigarette out on the light post and flicked it away. But why are you limpin'?

I sprained my ankle yesterday on the stairs. But don't worry, honey, she smiled shyly, slyly. It won't slow us down none.

She approached Madison, extending her left hand tentatively toward his. He grasped it roughly and pulled her against him, pressing his free hand against her buttock.

She eased herself free of his embrace and took a half step backward, buying herself a moment to look him over. His face, weather-beaten from his outdoor job, was framed by dark hair that sprawled over his collar, wavy but shapeless. A few ash-colored hairs sprouted in the chin of his short, dark beard. His eyes were small and close-set, and less dark than she had expected. It was a spare face — as lean as his body used to be, she guessed, before the beer began to catch up with him.

I was wondering, she said cautiously, trying not to sound too aggressive, could we maybe could go to your place? She gazed up at him, as if for guidance.

Sure. But why not yours? You said it's close. Mine's pretty far away, and it's just a bachelor's pad. Messy, you know?

I got a roommate, and things, uh, wouldn't be cool tonight, she said, curious just how forceful she could be with him. She stared at his eyes, wondering which one was real. I was hoping we might want some privacy. She ran her tongue suggestively over her lips, as she imagined she was supposed to, hoping the gesture didn't look as silly as it felt.

What's in the bag, Mona?

I brought some things in case you don't wanna let me go home. But that's your decision, she added hastily.

You got it, he conceded with a grin. So let's go. Where's your car?

I don't have one tonight, she told him. It's in the shop. Starter problem. I walked over.

She lowered her head. Are you disappointed?

No, Mona, I like you just fine. You're a knockout. He gestured to his left. This one's mine. You ready?

As she walked around to the passenger side she slipped a latex glove on her right hand, trusting that in the dark, preoccupied with his fantasies, Madison wouldn't notice. The bucket seats provided a welcome excuse for not snuggling up to him. From a safe distance she dutifully ran the fingers of her naked left hand over his chest, gently teasing him as she moved slowly down to his thigh.

Do you mind me touchin' you? she asked.

No, I like it, Mona. I like it a lot. His right hand was suddenly on her neck, his fingers straying upward through her hair. She arched her neck, as if welcoming his touch.

A couple of minutes later he broke the silence. You're quiet. You never were on the phone.

Oh, lover, I always get shy at first, in person. The phone's somethin' you can hide behind, but face to face is different. I'm sure it'll pass as we get to know each other. She smiled with wistful innocence and used her hand to keep him interested. I know you'll take good care of me.

You said you had a son, he said, stopping his hand at the base of her neck.

She was silent a moment before she understood. I do, she said. He lives with his father.

He nodded without speaking, staring straight ahead.

I'll introduce you sometime, she finally offered.

I'd like that, he said quickly, resuming the massage. I like kids.

As they crossed Federal she suddenly exclaimed, Hey, I got a good friend who lives near here. Could we maybe, please, drive by there? I'd like to see if she's painted her house yet.

Let's see, she continued a moment later. You turn right here, then take the next left. That's it. Slow down. She peered out carefully at a nondescript ranch-style house they were passing in the dark. There was a moon after all, she suddenly realized: a gleaming cold crescent dangling in the western void, between day and night, barely above the somber mountains.

No, it's still the same, she said, tossing a tinge of disappointment into her voice. White. She told me she was gonna paint it some really strange color — purple, I think — and I wanted to see how it looked. Maybe she changed her mind. Or maybe she just hasn't got the money together yet. She turned toward Madison and offered him a small apologetic smile.

But the new lie had served its purpose. They were now on the street she wanted, a quiet family road that dead-ended against an empty field a block past the last house. She had a clear view of the descending crescent moon, confronting them, its horns tilted at the ready, like some bright bull, or devil.

Honey, can you roll up your window? she asked, running her hand across his round little belly. I'm a little chilly. You'd rather have me hot, wouldn't you, lover?

Madison grunted agreement and cranked the window. Let's keep you perkin', Mona. His hand slithered off her neck onto her left breast, pressing it hard. She saw the DEAD END sign looming in the headlights. He began to crank the steering wheel counterclockwise with his other hand.

She let her own left hand creep down toward his thigh. Reg, honey, if it's OK with you, let's stop here. I'd like to do somethin' special for you.

What you got in mind? His hand probed further south.

Anythin' you want, honey. I got some ideas, but you tell me what you'd like. You're the boss. Didn't you never go parkin' in high school?

Yeah, but that's been a long time now.

Well, I did too, now and then. Not too often, though. Didn't want to ruin my reputation, she laughed. But I'll tell you somethin'. Cars aren't the most comfortable places, but I've never found nothin' sexier.

Are you serious? he asked, his fingers now up in her hair, playing with the curls.

Why don't you just park over there, sweetie, she said, pointing toward the spot where the street ended, and I'll show you how serious I can be. She imagined her finger leading her further, beyond the barrier, to some distant unknown land; to a particular and terrifying future that hunkered out there somewhere in the gloom. It wasn't the future she really wanted, but she knew by now that what she wanted was out of the question.

As she lowered her hand she felt the fear creeping up again, like a centipede stubbornly working its way across her neck. But fear of what? Of Madison? Of the consequences?

Or of herself? This wasn't the way she'd been raised...

But to even acknowledge the doubts would be fatal, she reminded herself. She had to do it, now, if she was ever going to.

Her fingers pried her purse open; she leaned away from him as her hand found the hard metal.

You're the boss, Mona, Madison replied, sliding the car against the curb just in front of the barricade. She waited as he flipped the lights off and pushed his seat back, and waited again while he looked her over expectantly. Her heart was pounding; her hands lay weak against the gun.

She had backed up against her door, but now she stretched her arms out toward him, wrists together, a white handkerchief clasped awkwardly between her hands. Madison leaned toward her, his own arms reaching for her in response. It was time, she knew.

But still she hesitated, unable to slash through those last bonds linking her with her old life. Finally, she forced herself to reach deep into that red place within her, into the tiny churning firestorm of raw and latent anger she had only recently come to know. She could, she knew now. For Danny.

The white fabric in her hands vaporized in a flash that nearly blinded her, and she sensed him jerk backward. He didn't move again. He didn't speak; he didn't even moan.

As she lowered the steaming gun, the fear she had managed to control surged in her gut, like a famished animal lunging at meat. Her dry mouth felt as if she had been chewing fiberglass. She fought the rising panic by steadying her breathing and forcing herself to focus one by one on the tasks next at hand.

She reached into her open purse and slipped on the second latex glove. Reaching across to Madison's body, she felt for his carotid pulse.

None. Good — no need for more shots. She prayed that no one had heard that one. But with only a .22, the car windows closed, and a block to the nearest house, maybe it'd be okay.

No blood on my clothes. Good. No need to change. Oh, god — his window. Is that blood? No, it doesn't look red. Brains? Christ, what have I done? What am I doing?

But she got no further in her fumblings. The searchlights that were suddenly glaring in at her through the windshield froze her instantly, a doe on a lonely highway.

2

Late May

Accustomed by now to the leg cast, Jill alighted from the car without difficulty. Resting her shoulder momentarily against its open door, she gazed pensively at the ragged evening silhouette of the Rockies for a long moment. Then she shifted her attention to the Rodeo Room's dusty parking lot.

Submerged in a disarray of pickups and old Chevys, the small white building looked like she imagined a blue-collar bar should. Good: Friday night at a place like this was probably her best chance to catch a bunch of the boys together. Gripping her crutches firmly, she raised her blonde head and stared for a courage-gathering moment at the cheerfully illuminated entrance. Then, with a resolute inhalation, she commenced her trek across the parking lot toward her objective.

After winning a struggle with the heavy door, she hoisted herself into the tavern. Pausing on the perimeter to let her eyes adjust to the dim light, she nervously surveyed the sea of male faces that had turned from the bar, appraising her entrance. The background hum faded almost immediately, usurped by a silence that seemed to radiate outward from her. She offered a hesitant smile for their inspection, knowing she looked a decade younger than her 45 years, and hoping the poor light might grant her another five.

Her moment of calculated deference to her audience past, she wove her way, with a silky grace she guessed would stake a permanent claim on their attention, through the shimmering waves of thick silver air to a booth along the far wall. She maneuvered herself gingerly into a position of relative comfort, extending her stiff leg almost to the end of the bench and leaning her back against the wall. She smoothed her skirt chastely over her knees, and then wondered if modesty was a mistake in a place like this.

She ordered a beer and began to look around, cautiously at first, afraid to meet anyone's eyes. The decor was golden brown: rough varnished wood walls and tables, and a high ceiling with joists exposed. The music was slick C&W, the usual songs of rambunctious lament, though most were too new for her to recognize. She drummed her fingers self-consciously on the table in time to the heavy beat, waiting for something to happen. Reaching for her bottle, she realized suddenly that here there were no free nuts.

As the song ended she stopped her tapping and looked down, inspecting her slim hands self-consciously, taking unnecessary care and time. Her nails, painted red for the first time in she couldn't remember how many months, were firm and surprisingly long: long enough even to be feminine. But the veins on the backs still stood out boldly, greenish blue in this odd light. Like worm tunnels, her little brother had teased her when they were teenagers. Her ex-husband used to call her hands authentic and honest, and knowing him, she supposed he'd meant it as a compliment. Tonight, though, they just looked worn to her.

Finally she recognized a song — Tear-Stained Letter, somebody's documentation of the dangers of not reading the handwriting. Catchy beat again. She finished her beer alone, wondering, as the minutes ticked by and her contact lenses began to burn from the acrid smoke, if she were making the right decision.

But she forced herself to outwait her doubts. Occasionally she summoned the courage to return momentarily someone's curious gaze, hoping — most of the time — that she seemed approachable. But success tonight wasn't crucial, she reassured herself: she hadn't yet reached the point of no return.

Suddenly Jill heard a crash, a glass bottle shattering on the floor near the bar. Though different, the sound drew her back instantly to the moment, three weeks before, when another noise — a sharp crack reverberating across a corner of Washington Park — had altered her life forever. That particular sound had been a brittle report: not like a gunshot, but more like crisp campfire kindling snapped over a knee. It had not been wood that was breaking, however.

In the fading early-May light she had sprawled awkwardly but without a cry, in searing pain, felled like a small tree in a single blow. When she looked up she had seen the face of the young female jogger she had just passed bent over her, a look of concern etched onto her face.

Jill had sat up slowly, mutely, on the grass and stretched her legs cautiously out in front, surprised at how quickly the initial pain had subsided. Gently she began to knead her strong right thigh, but grimaced and stopped immediately when her probing fingers rekindled the fiery pain. She closed her eyes and leaned back a little, propping herself on her elbows. A moment later she yielded completely and lay back, with a small groan of despair, on the thick cold grass. She lay the back of her left hand across her forehead. The woman jogger was saying something she couldn't focus on.

She caught then the fragrance of lilacs, a mild sweetness pressing softly down on her from the overhanging boughs. For an irrelevant, hyperaware instant she felt disappointed at the whiteness of the little flowers she saw poised above: the violet ones — real lilacs — were so much prettier. The sadness of sunset, she thought then, as she felt her slender arms, dotted with beads of perspiration, growing cold in the evening gloom. The dying of another day.

Then someone in the burgeoning curious crowd laid a sweatshirt over her torso, and she felt the chill begin to abate.

Yeah, I'm OK, but it hurts, she finally responded to the questioning murmurs. I felt something snap.

The woman nodded in solemn sympathy. I know, she said. I heard it as I passed you.

Can you stand up? someone asked.

In response she reached out her hands for support, and two men pulled her carefully to her feet. She balanced her weight on her left foot, barely letting her right touch the ground. Slowly she shifted some weight to the pendent leg, but stopped almost immediately as the dull pain sharpened, as though a saw were being drawn through flesh and bone. She grimaced again and shook her head in frustration.

Let me sit down, she commanded, feeling her stomach start to reject the insistent lilac smell.

The two men held her hands as she lowered herself gently to a sitting position on the ground. How can we help you? one asked.

My house is a couple of miles from here, she replied, unwilling to ask directly for aid. I don't think my family is home anyway. Kevin, she remembered, had taken the kids to the laser show at the planetarium.

It might be a stress fracture, the young woman volunteered. I heard about something like that one time. One you could hear.

If it is a fracture, a tall man put in, you probably shouldn't walk on it, even if its just a stress fracture. I've got a car, and can take you to the hospital.

Jill nodded indecisively, grateful for their offers but feeling a measure of Norwegian guilt for the trouble she was causing. She felt herself being lifted to her feet again, her arms wrapped around two male necks. They helped her out of the park, her right leg dangling free, bent at an oblique angle at the knee. Her toes hung suspended, just above the ground. A bolt of agony shot through her hip and across her torso each time the damaged limb moved.

The tall man and the young woman supported Jill as she slid into the front seat. She leaned her head back against the headrest and fought off nausea. Her whole body was suddenly ice, and her hands were trembling.

Do you care which hospital? asked the man.

Jill had shaken her head and closed her eyes in frustration. She had felt exhausted then, more tired than ever before. Even worse than during the oddly weary weeks preceding her fall. Her little body had shivered relentlessly, despite the donated wrap, during the ten-minute drive to the emergency room.

.

Trapped in the unhappy memory, Jill was unaware of his presence until his shadow engulfed her. He did not speak immediately, and even when she twisted her head she couldn't make out his back-lighted face. He shifted position then, perhaps understanding her problem, and she finally saw him. His face was a ruddy summer-tan color, round and unlined, with eyebrows sun-bleached to near invisibility. She scanned his blue plaid shirt, his jeans; his black Caterpillar gimme cap.

Buy you another beer, Miss?

She forced a smile at the beefy man. Got to start sometime, she thought. Sure, she said cheerily. Thanks.

With a slack wave of his bottle hand the giant indicated the booth's other bench.

Have a seat, she responded, taking his wordless gesture for a question. He slid in without doffing his cap and shyly returned her forced smile. He was blond, neither handsome nor ugly, and seemed somehow harmless, like a good-natured Swede. His eyes and cautious mouth suggested sympathy. She found herself liking the look.

He was Mac, he said, and she introduced herself without hesitation as Mona. The initial pleasantries, including the inevitable explanation about her leg, came easily, so they continued chatting about themselves for a while. He worked as an auto mechanic; she briefly described her job in an environmental laboratory (mostly desk work, she explained, and no, the cast wasn't much of a problem). Fearful he might find it intimidating, she didn't tell him she had a Master's degree in chemistry and ran the lab.

But soon the conversation began to fade, prairie grassland thinning westward into sage. Fearful that the growing silences would scare him away, she found herself grateful for the brief distraction when he ordered himself another beer. But as those few words followed the waitress away into the smoky air, she groped for some new topic that might interest him.

I'll bet a guy like you likes hunting, she said, venturing tremulously up to the edge of the question that had led her to this foreign shore. She lowered her eyes as she spoke and twisted her silver ring. When she heard his voice she raised her head and forced herself to stare into his brown eyes.

Sure do. His answer was eager and delivered with a smile, a goofy grin like a happy child's. I hunt in the fall. Always have. Just deer an' elk now, but I used to shoot ducks, too. Got me a good bull last year. Been huntin' since I was ten. My Dad was the best shot I ever saw.

At that point, apparently having exhausted his quota of words, Mac let his shy smile try to hold up his end of the conversation. Gradually — unexpectedly — she felt her nervousness dissipating as his congeniality started to insinuate itself. But feeling comfortable with him was beside the point, wasn't it? she cautioned herself.

Do you ever do any target shootin'? she asked, imitating his soft country intonation. She noticed again the smooth golden hair darting out beneath the edges of his cap. She twisted the ring some more.

Naw, he replied, dismissing the idea with a flap of his left hand. That's no fun for me. Just shootin' the gun ain't that great. There's a lot more to huntin' than just killin' things.

Like what? she asked, her curiosity whetted a little by his enthusiasm.

Like the chase an' the wait when you're huntin' game. The excitement a trackin' an' earnin' your kill. Stalkin' the game... that's the best part for me. I was in Nam an' got a taste for it.

She recoiled from the crude images his words conjured: jungle vines and dim, dappled light. A ripping burst from a machine gun; moans from the not-yet-dead. Silence...

Do you know how to shoot a handgun? she finally asked, feeling her fingers relax a little.

He laughed amiably. Sure do. Learned all that stuff in the army. Still got a pistol. Never do it no more, though.

Look, Mac. I just bought a handgun for self-defense. I took a class to learn about basic safety, but I've never shot it. Would you show me how?

Sure, Ma'am. Be glad to. Just tell me when.

How's Sunday?

She watched Mac pretend to think it over a moment. Don't think I got nothin' important on, he said, laughing good-naturedly, as if to indicate the absurdity of making plans on a weekend.

She reached for her purse and started to pull herself to her feet. Mac, I'm really sorry, but I've got to go. I don't have a telephone right now, 'cause I'm just movin', she lied, so you can't call me. Give me your number and I'll phone you Sunday mornin'.

Mac reached in his shirt pocket, pulled out a battered business card, and wrote some digits on the back. Here's where I work, an' here's my home number. Don't call too early, though. I ain't no early riser. He grinned.

How's eleven? Then we could go in the early afternoon.

OK, Mona. I'll be waitin'.

Do you know a place?

Don't worry, Ma'am. I'll take care'v it.

Mac shook her hand awkwardly when she offered it. He accompanied her to the door and propped it open with his meaty fist while she launched herself on the crutches down the two steps to the ground.

I'll walk you to your car, he told her. Wouldn't want nothin' to happen to you 'til you're ready to take care'v yourself. He offered her another sheepish grin, which she now found easy to return.

She waved as she edged her car onto Federal Boulevard, and in the yellow light of the parking lot saw him touch the bill of his cap in response. A few moments later, when the Rodeo Room had faded from her rear-view mirror, she ripped off the curly white wig, and with a deep exhalation shook her own dark hair free.

3

Late June

It took only a moment for her to realize that the blinding glare wasn't a searchlight, but rather the reflection of headlight beams off the orange safety tape pasted on the barricade in front of Madison's car. By then, however, her heart was pulsating wildly again, a jackhammer out of control. A glance back through the rear window revealed a car approaching slowly, maybe two blocks away. If she tried to run now she'd be fully visible to whoever was coming.

Her mind was flooded with berserk and terrifying images, panicked thoughts, and long, complex questions, all reduced to synapse pixels. Police? So quickly? Who heard the shot? What should I do?

In the couple of seconds it took those images to flash through her mind, the oncoming car had already narrowed the distance. She looked desperately for signs it was a police cruiser, but could make out nothing against the raging beams. If it's the police I'm dead, she thought with a calm irony that she found, to her surprise, almost welcome.

The car made a sudden left turn and glided soundlessly to a stop in the last driveway. There was no light rack on its roof, she noted with relief. A male figure emerged from the vehicle and she heard a soft sound as his car door closed. A few seconds later the front of the house flared briefly as the house door opened to a bright room, and then quietly faded as the door closed, like the end of some minor nova. Dark silence descended once more on the street, like a benediction on a sacrificial altar. She began to breathe again, sucking in the acrid gunpowder air in short gasps.

In a few seconds, fighting off the sickly sweet smell of his congealing blood, she'd composed herself enough to resume putting things in order. The gun went in her purse. She opened the pack of cigarettes she'd bought, scattered a few of them on the floor on the passenger side, and stuffed the rest back in her purse. She felt around for Madison's wallet. Stripping out the money and credit cards, she tossed the leather carcass into the tall grass, hoping to mimic a robbery. From her purse she extracted her other last-minute purchase, a bottle of inexpensive aftershave, and unscrewed the top. Wrinkling her nose at the cloying musk, she dabbed a bit on the headrest on the passenger side.

During her final check of the car her eyes were drawn again in grim fascination to Madison's mangled face. His mouth, indistinct in the pale residual glow of the distant street light, looked like it might have been about to frame a question. She gathered her purse and travel bag and closed the door quietly, not offering him an answer.

Outside, in the clean, fresh air, she peeled off the latex gloves and stuffed them and the credit cards in a baggie in her purse. Madison's few dollars went in her own wallet — well, why waste the money? She paused one last time to see what she had forgotten. Remembering the wig, she stripped it off quickly and put it in the travel bag. Then she began her hobble down the desolate road toward Federal Boulevard.

.

She dumped the baggie of incriminating debris in the first trash barrel she saw on Federal, and caught the southbound 31 bus. One transfer took her east on Colfax to the city center; a second carried her beyond. She walked the last mile south to her car, regretting with each step having left the evidence so close to the murder scene. Would they search trash barrels? Why hadn't she carried it on the bus with her and dumped it downtown?

Once in her car she followed her instincts, which led her back across town to the South Platte River. There she steered south, paralleling the stream for a couple of miles until, sensing she'd driven far enough, she turned the car into the lot of a deserted industrial building and stopped.

She limped across the silent road to the bike path, where she paused a few moments, making certain there were no witnesses. She extracted the gun from her purse but then hesitated, suddenly unsure again. Finally, forcing herself, she heaved it toward the stream. Her eyes followed it through the ambiguous light until it vanished, midway along its slow arc. Moments later a sad little splash, a delicate silvery echo like the tinkle of a pan fish jumping, came sailing back to her on the light breeze. She gazed upward to the dim city stars and listened for a while to the invisible river, trying to purge Madison's ruined face from her memory.

She was afraid to let anyone see her now: the staccato heartbeat, the tightness in her diaphragm, the quivering hands and lips would all be obvious, even to a casual bystander. Even she could smell her sour fear. And yet the terror she now felt emerging seemed odd: on the bus she hadn't felt self-conscious, despite the rheumy squinting appraisal of the other three passengers, their toothless sucked-in mouths working to the arcane rhythms of their own minds. Maybe then she had still been propelled by the adrenaline rush, she thought, a cocktail potent enough to have enabled her to shoot a man point-blank between the eyes. Now, crashed from her high, she felt as exhausted as a Channel swimmer; as trivial as a tiny chunk of flotsam washed up on a lonely beach.

But she was even more terrified of being alone right now, trapped between her bleak thoughts and the harsh midnight shadows. Even as an adult, in the secure comfort of her own home and family, the darkness had always seemed full of footfalls. They would be loud and heavy tonight, she knew.

So she continued driving the main streets for hours, tempted not at all by sleep. It was, she knew, an unsatisfactory compromise, between meeting the world in the reassurance of Hemingway's clean well-lighted place, and sequestering herself in the dark impregnable shelter she craved but knew she wouldn't find.

The foothills above Golden had once been her favorite solo retreat, but she was surprised to discover she had no desire tonight to leave the city lights and drive into the mountains. Those days were so long ago, it seemed — back when life was normal. So instead of heading into the pristine country to cleanse herself, she perversely drove and then redrove the length of East Colfax. Perhaps it was an act of atonement, she finally decided, finding herself empathizing with the derelicts and the tawdry adult theaters. She felt she was peeping for the first time into the lives of the subterraneans, as she'd long thought of them.

No, she was more than just peeping in, she corrected herself. She was coming home to them. To a new home, perhaps even a kind of hospice. She was now one of them — the nonpersons you saw only in areas like this, and then mostly after dark. But somehow it comforted her tonight, this pit of squalor she'd fallen into. It was a part of her world now, at least for whatever time she had left.

Around two she realized that hers was one of the few cars on the streets besides the police cruisers. Desiring no contact with them, she decided the lesser risk was to confront the remains of the night in her small second-floor apartment on Capitol Hill. She would finally have the pleasure of being truly alone with — of finally becoming intimate with — her jumbled thoughts and desolate images.

.

She put on some quiet classical music, lit a lavender-scented candle, and sat inertly in the familiar semi-darkness, staring out the screened window. The citron street lights were brighter than she remembered, and their globes, half-hidden among the branches of old elms, seemed nearer her window. Nothing much seemed to be happening out there, although she recognized a backfire, a shout; a squeal of tires from perhaps blocks away. Once she heard a firecracker. Or maybe it was a gunshot, she finally decided in her new awareness, for there was a spate of distant shouting right afterward.

She sat that way for a long time, drinking three slow beers in a gritty search for sleep. Finally, her weary brain suffused with alcohol, she undressed and crawled naked into bed. And then she remembered nothing more, not even a wisp of a dream, for a welcome couple of hours.

4

Early May

An hour after they finished the MRI, Dr. Ian Carlile returned to Jill's examination cubicle in the emergency center. He wasn't smiling, she noticed, and his icy blue eyes scared her. He sat down in the guest chair near the entrance and pulled the curtain closed.

The MRI confirms that there's a tumor right where your femur fractured, he said. It's probably a pathological fracture, in which the tumor is directly involved. The tumor appears to be within and attached to the bone, and thus probably weakened the bone at that location.

He paused a moment and scratched his jaw beneath his dark beard.

So it's bone cancer? she asked.

Not necessarily. In fact, I think it's not. I'm not an expert, but I wonder if it's not a chondrosarcoma.

What's that? I never heard of it.

'Chondro' refers to cartilage, so it's a cancer that originates in cartilage. It can spread to nearby tissue, such as bone. So it can become a cancer in or of the bone, but it's not what people commonly call bone cancer.

How bad is it?

Well, like other cancers, there are different stages. Chondrosarcomas are relatively uncommon. That's why I don't have much personal experience with them, and I'm not certain about the diagnosis. A proper diagnosis will require a biopsy, I'm pretty sure, but before a biopsy is performed, there are a couple of other things that should be done. Or at least one. We need to do a full-body MRI to see if there is any evidence of metastasis. And we might want to do a bone scan, which might be a better way to look for metastases from chondrosarcomas.

You didn't tell me how bad it is.

I'm sorry. As I said, there are several different stages of any cancer, and we don't know yet the stage of yours. There are also several types of chondrosarcoma, some of which are more aggressive than others. I'm not experienced enough to say much more, other than that it's potentially serious.

Jill thought this over for a few seconds. She wanted him to leave her room and come back with good news.

OK, so what's the next step? she eventually asked.

Well, since your fracture had no dislocation, we don't need to do any surgery or anything radical. We simply put you in a good cast and send you home tonight. Someone from here will call you tomorrow to set up an appointment for the full-body MRI and the biopsy, and whatever else the specialist thinks is necessary.

Who's this specialist?

I don't know who it will be, but he or she will undoubtedly be an orthopedic oncologist. A doctor who specializes in tumors involving the bones. Not just bone cancers.

She looked up into his pale eyes. He gave her a small, warm smile and touched her hand briefly. Stay strong, he said, and then turned and left her alone.

5

Late June

Well, it sure as hell wasn't a professional, Detective Art Gallatin said as he finished giving the corpse a quick once-over through the clear half of the driver's-side window. Male, dark brown hair, gray-blue eyes, brown beard flecked with gray. Probably forties. Medium height and build. Apparently killed by a single small-caliber bullet, slightly off center in his forehead. Exit wound at the back, with plenty of blood and other tidbits following the bullet. At least not one I'd have hired. He took a chance getting that shot.

He backed his bulk awkwardly away from the window and addressed the sergeant. What've we got, Ken?

The car's registered to a Reginald Madison. The victim's ID's missing, but it's probably Madison — the description from the license bureau is consistent. We'll check his prints. Strawn's gone up to have a look at his apartment. It's not far from here.

What do you make of it? Gallatin asked, squinting against the hellish solar glare off the car's trunk. He took a step east to improve the angle.

On the surface, it looks like a robbery. The victim's wallet was tossed outside, minus credit cards and money. They're checking it for prints now. Looks like the killer was inside the car with him and shot him from the passenger seat. There seem to be some powder burns on his face. As you saw, the back of his head's splattered across the window. The bullet, when it exited his head, cracked the window but didn't pass through. It must still be in the car.

Gallatin nodded, frowned, and stripped off the latex gloves. Wiping the perspiration from his forehead with his lower sleeve, he stared up in dismay at the cloudless ultramarine canopy above the Rockies. Though only midmorning, it was already hot, especially out here in the sun. Even with the low humidity he could feel rivulets of armpit sweat snaking down his sides.

He turned and surveyed the area. A weedy field lay to the west beyond the road's abrupt termination, the optimistic green of spring already falling victim to summer drought. The middle-class subdivision to the east ended where it had in the Seventies, a football field from the crime scene. To the north and south he saw more houses, all at least a couple of hundred yards away. Unusually lonesome for suburban Denver, he noted.

What else? he asked, running his pudgy fingers absently over the broiling black hood of the old car. Then, noticing the dirt he'd accumulated, he dusted his hands together, but only managed to smear the grime. He glared briefly at the offending digits and let them fall to his side, where they continued to fidget. With a comprehensive sigh he turned to the sergeant.

There's a lot of junk in the car, he heard Morrow continue. Some cigarettes spilled on the floor of the passenger's side that might belong to the killer. It's hard to tell what might be important. We'll catalog it all. There is one thing, though. The smell.

Smell?

There's a strong odor of perfume or something on the passenger seat.

Gallatin walked around the car, waited while the still-gloved Morrow opened the door, and took a whiff. That is strong, he agreed. Doesn't smell like perfume to me, though. It's more like a man's cologne or aftershave. Have the lab check it out.

Yes, sir. Anything else?

Just your opinion on one thing, Gallatin said, hoping the implicit compliment might inspire Morrow, a good man but one in need of occasional prodding. Why here? Did the killer force him to drive here, or did he come here of his own free will?

Morrow shrugged a little, so Gallatin gave him a hint. I could see why the killer might have forced him here. They weren't likely to be disturbed on a dead-end street like this. But what if he came voluntarily, not realizing he was in danger? What could have lured him here?

Well, obviously money or sex would be good first guesses, Morrow offered after a few moments. And you could add drugs, which might have to do with money if he's a dealer.

They were interrupted at that point by one of the other investigators, who approached them carrying a brown paper bag. I found this under the driver's seat, he said, extending it like a sacrificial offering. It's child porn.

Gallatin put his gloves back on, slid one of the magazines out, and glanced at it with extreme disgust. Find out about the victim, he ordered Morrow in a voice that came out sharper than he intended. Check with vice to see if he's got any kind of record. I've got a feeling there's more to this than a simple robbery.

6

Early May

It was time for talk, Jill knew, but not yet the time for family talk. So she didn't tell Kevin about Dr. Carlile's