I want to prosecute Judge Pierce, but I’ll never get him. I want to prosecute EJ Jenrette and MVD for blackmail. I doubt I’ll get that either. But Chamique’s lawsuit is going well. Rumor has it that they want her out of the way quickly. A seven-figure settlement is being bandied about. I hope she gets it. But when I peer into my crystal ball, I still don’t see a great deal of happiness for Chamique down the road. I don’t know. Her life has been so troubled. Somehow I sense that money will not change that.
My brother-in-law, Bob, is out on bail. I caved in on that one. I told the federal authorities that while my recollections were “fuzzy,” I do believe Bob told me that he needed a loan and that I approved it. I don’t know if it will fly. I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing or the wrong thing (probably the wrong) but I don’t want Greta and her family destroyed. Feel free to call me a hypocrite—I am—but that line between right and wrong grows so blurry sometimes. It grows blurry here in the bright sunshine of the real world.
And, of course, it grows blurry in the dark of those woods.
Here is the quick yet thorough update on Loren Muse: Muse remains Muse. And I’m thankful for that. Governor Dave Markie hasn’t called for my resignation yet and I haven’t offered it. I probably will and I probably should, but as of right now, I’m hanging in.
Raya Singh ended up leaving Most Valuable Detection to partner up with none other than Cingle Shaker. Cingle says that they’re looking for a third “hottie” so they can call their new agency “Charlie’s Angels.”
The plane lands. I get off. I check my BlackBerry. There is a short message from my sister, Camille:
Hey, bro—Cara and I are going to have lunch in the city and shop. Miss and love you, Camille
My sister, Camille. It is fantastic to have her back. I can’t believe how quickly she had become a full-fledged and integral part of our lives. But the truth is, there is still a lingering tension between us. It is getting better. It will get better still. But the tension is there and unmistakable, and sometimes we go over the top in our efforts to combat it by calling each other “bro” and “sis” and saying that we “miss” and “love” each other all the time.
I still don’t have Camille’s entire backstory. There are details she is leaving out. I know that she started with a new identity in Moscow, but didn’t stay long. There were two years in Prague and another in Begur on the Costa Brava of Spain. She came back to the United States, moved around some more, got married and settled outside Atlanta, ended up divorced three years later.
She never had kids, but she is already the world’s greatest aunt. She loves Cara, and the feeling is more than reciprocated. Camille is living with us. It is wonderful—better than I could have hoped—and that truly eases the tension.
Part of me, of course, wonders why it took so long for Camille to come home—that’s where the majority of the tension comes from, I think. I understand what Sosh said about her wanting to protect me, my reputation, my memories of my father. And I know that she understandably was afraid of Dad while he still breathed.
But I think that there is more to it.
Camille chose to keep silent about what happened in those woods. She never told anyone what Wayne Steubens had done. Her choice, right or wrong, had left Wayne free to murder more people. I don’t know what would have been the right thing to do—if coming forward would have made it better or worse. You could argue that Wayne still would have gotten away with it, that he might have run off or stayed in Europe, that he would have been more careful about his killings, gotten away with more. Who knows? But lies have a way of festering. Camille thought that she could bury those lies. Maybe we all did.
But none of us got out of those woods unscathed.
As for my romantic life, well, I am in love. Simple as that. I love Lucy with all my heart. We are not taking it slow—we plunged right in, as if trying to make up for lost time. There is a maybe unhealthy desperation there, an obsession, a clinging-as-though-to-a-life-raft quality in what we are. We see a lot of each other, and when we’re not together I feel lost and adrift and I want to be with her again. We talk on the phone. We e-mail and text-message incessantly.
But that’s love, right?
Lucy is funny and goofy and warm and smart and beautiful and she overwhelms me in the best way. We seem to agree on everything.
Except, of course, my taking this trip.
I understand her fear. I know all too well how fragile this all is. But you can’t live on thin ice either. So here I am again, in Red Onion State Prison in Pound, Virginia, waiting to learn a few last truths.
Wayne Steubens enters. We are in the same room as our last meeting. He sits in the same place.
“My, my,” he says to me. “You’ve been a busy boy, Cope.”
“You killed them,” I say. “After all is said and done, you, the serial killer, did it.”
Wayne smiles.
“You planned it all along, didn’t you?”
“Is anyone listening in to this?”
“No.”
He puts up his right hand. “Your word on that?”
“My word,” I say.
“Then, sure, why not. I did, yes. I planned the killings.”
So there it is. He too has decided that the past needs to be faced.
“And you carried it out, just like Mrs. Perez said. You slaughtered Margot. Then Gil, Camille and Doug ran. You chased them. You caught up to Doug. You murdered him too.”
He raises his index finger. “I made a miscalculation there. See, I jumped the gun with Margot. I meant her to be last because she was already tied up. But her neck was so open, so vulnerable…I couldn’t resist.”
“There are a few things I couldn’t figure out at first,” I say. “But now I think I know.”
“I’m listening.”
“Those journals the private detectives sent to Lucy,” I say.
“Ahh.”
“I wondered who saw us in the woods, but Lucy got that one right. Only one person could have known: the killer. You, Wayne.”
He spreads his hands. “Modesty prevents me from saying more.”
“You were the one who gave MVD the information they used in those journals. You were the source.”
“Modesty, Cope. Again I plead modesty.”
He is enjoying this.
“How did you get Ira to help?” I ask.
“Dear Uncle Ira. That addle-brained hippie.”