Great. Thanks for that thought, Charlotte.
A pair of Homer Winslow watercolor marine prints adorned the walls—nice choice—and the queen-size bed was covered by a navy chintz bedspread that had lost its sheen a few years back. So long as there was a mattress under the chintz, he didn’t care.
As tired as he was, he was even hungrier. He’d skipped breakfast, intending to grab something at the airport, and then there had never been another opportunity to eat. It all felt like a million years ago—which was probably the last time he’d had a real meal. You didn’t join the FBI if you were looking for eight hours a night and regular meal times.
He unpacked his carryall, stared at the ball of wrinkled shirts, and realized he’d have to see about finding a laundromat, assuming this case didn’t wind up tomorrow. What were the chances of that?
Everyone knows there was more than one Huntsma—
What the hell had she meant?
He washed up in the tiny bathroom, splashing cold water on his face until he was gasping for air. Drying off with one of the bleach-scented towels, he eyed his reflection. Unsurprisingly, he looked haggard: green eyes shadowed, face drawn. Too many memories—and the good memories were just as painful as the bad memories. Which is why he had never wanted to come back to Kingsfield.
Anyway. He was here, and he’d have to make the best of it. He had bigger problems to worry about. Like his reaction to finding himself at the wrong end of a semi-automatic. Just remembering turned him cold and then hot with humiliation.
Jesus Christ. What a total, fucking disaster that had nearly been. What had happened to him?
The eyes staring back from the mirror were wide with horror.
It was okay. McEnroe was safely behind bars, and Jason’s weapon was safely stowed in its holster. Everything was okay. Everything was fine. He would never make that mistake again.
He changed his shirt—only noticing for the first time the bruises and scratches he’d collected in his tussle with McEnroe—shoved his wallet in his jeans, and stepped outside his room.
Two doors down, Kennedy, a tall shadow in the gloom, was locking his own door. Jason’s heart sank.
Kennedy glanced over at Jason. “You want to grab something to eat?” he asked after a couple of beats.
He was clearly as thrilled about the idea of breaking bread with Jason as Jason was at the thought of spending another hour in Kennedy’s dour presence, but since they were both obviously on their way out to eat, it would be too pointed to refuse.
“Sure,” Jason said politely.
“There’s a Chinese place within walking distance. It’s pretty good. They stay open late.”
Staying open late being one of the main things LEO looked for in a restaurant.
“I like Chinese.” Jason fell into step with Kennedy as they walked down the exterior hallway.
Most of the rooms were dark. Below them, the brightly lit pool was an empty aqua rectangle. Kingsfield held few if any tourist attractions. The kind of clientele interested in what Kingsfield was best known for—a series of grisly killings—were not people you wanted to attract.
Kennedy smelled of shampoo and aftershave, so he must have taken time for a quick shower and shave. In contrast, and despite the clean shirt, Jason felt grubby and rumpled.
He followed Kennedy down the open stairs to the courtyard, and they went out through the white iron arches.
Jason didn’t feel like talking about the case, and he couldn’t seem to think of anything neutral to say. Kennedy, seemingly immune to social pressures, strode briskly, aloof as usual.
The streets of Kingsfield were quiet. There was no traffic and very few pedestrians. Lights glowed behind curtained windows and old-fashioned streetlamps were haloed in golden haze. The spearpoint tips of wrought iron railing fences cast militant silhouettes on the pavement as Jason and Kennedy walked past the tidy rose gardens and venerable houses. This did not look like a town where anything bad could ever happen, and yet behind all those shining Kinkadeian windows the topic of conversation tonight would be the latest terrible thing to befall them.
“Now that’s a full moon,” Jason said. “It almost looks like…” He was going to say it looked like Julius Grimm’s 1888 study in oil of the moon and its surface, but realized in time how that would sound to Kennedy, and finished with, “unreal.”
Kennedy glanced at the silver ball slowly rising behind the church steeple, as though verifying for himself that Jason had not g
ot this wrong too.
He grunted.
What had happened in Wisconsin? Kennedy didn’t wear a ring. Was there a Mrs. Kennedy? Did he have kids? A cat? A home? Or did he just live on the road, traveling from scene of horror to scene of horror, trying to make sense of the senseless?
He seemed so completely and coldly self-contained. Had he always been like that, or had the job made him so?