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It was very late on Saturday evening by the time the team returned to New York City after wrapping up the Folger-Dennison LDSK case in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. Too many people were dead, too many families broken, but Kyle—the 17-year-old accomplice of Folger’s—was alive. Jess had been able to talk him down before he committed suicide at the site of his mother’s fatal car crash or before he tried to commit suicide by cop. Both had been distinct risks.
Kateri had not changed her mind about going to her grandparents for Sunday dinner, even though Byron LaCroix would be there, so she rode back with Clinton to his apartment in Queens. My truck is at his place anyway, and I don’t want to have to take public transportation from the Bronx to Queens just to get it and then come right back to my place. Seeing her adopted grandparents and Tali, who will be disappointed if I don’t come, I think, and remembering Angelyne’s life as well as paying her respects at her aunt’s grave were more of a draw for Kateri than the presence of Jess’ father was the opposite. I won’t judge the girlfriend until I’ve met her. I probably should feel sorry for her, hooking up with a man like Byron LaCroix.
Could a leopard change its spots?
It was one of life’s 24-million-dollar questions. Or whatever the sum of money is in that saying. From all of her experiences, Kateri was doubtful, though she had to admit that she had a much harder life than many, and all of those experiences colored her judgment when it came to things like this. It makes me suspicious and a pessimist, sometimes, a lot of times.
It was past 10pm when Clinton and Kateri reached Queens and past 11pm by the time she collapsed into bed. The last three days had been long, hectic, and exhausting, and Kateri was almost so tired she hurt. Her room was not too hot and not too cold, the perfect sleeping temperatures. Her bed was comfortable, the covers soft. Her pillow here was not too mushy and not hard as a rock. Everything was prime for sleeping, and she was so tired, but Kateri found herself staring up at the ceiling for a long time after she climbed into bed before she finally went to sleep.
Anxiety and bad memories were terrible enemies. Sometimes Kateri’s mind was her own worst enemy, and nights were the worst time, the most frequent time for that to happen when there was nothing to do but lie in bed and think as you were trying to go to sleep. Key word is ‘trying’ on such nights. It was so easy for her mind to latch onto a thought or a chain of thoughts—in this case, Byron LaCroix generally and the parallels between his behavior with the over-extravagant gifts and how abusers won back their victims—and promptly start to spiral from there. NOT thinking about something was next to impossible. Try not thinking of a pink elephant. Even trying to crowd out the intrusive, anxious thoughts was not always possible.
A shining example of humanity, Byron LaCroix was most certainly not.
A good parent to Jess and his sister Louise, he had most certainly not been.
A great grandparent and an example for Tali, nope … not so far. Sending cards once or twice a year and never visiting doesn’t count toward Grandparent of the Year.
But an all-around ogre … parallels and similarities don’t make him an ogre or a creep. People can change, even people like him.
The risk for Kateri was when her past experiences started coloring her judgment of people and events in the present, not just informing her judgment.
Sometimes Kateri could come home from a long and trying case and be asleep about as soon as her head hit the pillow, or so it seemed. Tonight? Well, Saturday ticked into Sunday, and the numbers on the clock were quickly rolling toward 1am before Kateri finally dozed off into a fitful sleep.
Anxiety, bad memories, and intrusive thoughts following on the heels of a rough case did not make for a good night’s sleep, either. Her dreams were dark. Several times she woke up with the last vestiges of nightmares evaporating around her and with a strangled gasp dying in her throat. Every time that happened, Kateri lay still for a few minutes, listening as she regulated her breathing back to normal—sniper breathing, which she had learned from Clinton—checking to see if she had made enough noise to disturb her father. The bedroom doors were shut, so she would have had to make more noise, and each time there were no sounds of Clinton moving about that followed.
By the time that her room started to grow light a little before 7am, Kateri was tired of lying still in bed and staring at the ceiling, which was not that particularly interesting. Even though she still felt quite tired, she had been awake for over half-an-hour and just knew that she was not going back to sleep. Even after a long case, I can survive on five or six hours of sleep for one night. Please let it just be one night. She pushed herself upright and rubbed at tired eyes and then got up. Ingrained habit had her making her bed up neatly. Then it was time to begin the day. I think Rakeni’s still in bed. Haven’t heard him yet.
Sunday dinner was at 1pm.
They were due at the family farm by noon in order to drive to the cemetery together to pay their respects at Angelyne’s grave before coming back for lunch.
Depending on when exactly they needed to leave, Kateri had at least four hours to fill. Or kill.
Mass and a long run would eat up a good chunk of that.
Clinton lived in the neighborhood of Woodside in western Queens. It was one of the cheaper areas of Queens and was bordered on the north by Astoria, one of the much more expensive neighborhoods. Woodside was an interesting area with large Irish-American and Asian-American populations and many interesting sights to see. Kateri had spent enough time at her father’s place to accumulate a handful of favorite sights and find several good routes for her daily runs, routes which she alternated on a near daily basis.
Predictability in her line of work was dangerous.
A couple of miles away from Clinton’s apartment building was Most Precious Blood Roman Catholic Church, an about-a-century-old church with a multicultural group of parishioners from very diverse walks of life. It was a massive church built entirely from stone on the exterior. The church always made Kateri think of churches that were more fitting to Europe or monasteries than the middle of Astoria in New York City. She had been there a couple of times before, and more significantly, they offered mass in English at 8am. Many other parishes did not offer mass quite that early, and today Kateri wanted a run and then mass—say a prayer and light a candle for Angelyne—and then wanted to get on home.
Kateri dressed quickly. There would be time to change clothes before it was time to leave for the farm, so she put on pants that were better suited to running than her usual cargo-pants and running shoes instead of hiking boots. Her phone said that it was currently in the mid-50s—it would reach a high in the low-70s later once the sun actually rose more—so she dressed in a long-sleeve T-shirt with her favorite gray fleece jacket over it. Running would keep her warm.
I need to leave a note for Rakeni. Kateri remembered as she was lacing up her shoes. Once she had finished, she fished around in her duffle-bag until she found her small notebook on which she scrawled random things that could relate to work, her personal life, and everything in between. Most of what was written inside ended up not being in English, and she found a blank sheet on the reverse page of a sheet of scrawled Spanish sentences. One fruit of the ongoing pandemic was that it had given her a lot of time at home to study, and her elementary Spanish had greatly improved over the spring and summer until she could hold basic conversation. More to go.
Off on a run and then to mass. Be back later. Kateri wrote and then scrawled her name at the bottom along with the time. 7:07am. An energy bar was quickly excavated from the box in her duffle bag, and gnawing on that—I can eat it and still go running and not make myself sick—she stuffed her personal phone in her pocket, grabbed her mask, and crept out of the apartment.
Rakeni’s still asleep.
Once Kateri had eaten the last bite of her energy bar on the front steps of the apartment complex, she tossed the wrapper in a nearby trash can. After stretching quickly, she turned left and broke into a run, moderating her pace to one that she could keep up for a while, even when tired. There were some other people out already at just past 7am on a Sunday morning, but not a lot. Some were runners like Kateri. Others were on their way to who-knew-what. A couple of faces Kateri thought she recognized from having passed before on her runs.
Running was not always successful at exorcizing her demons or driving out the last remaining vestiges of the night’s nightmares, but running burned off stress, at the very least. The act of running—keeping an eye on where she planted her feet, watching for cars and other runners, modulating her pace and her breathing—helped provide a distraction, too, with the burn of her muscles and the pounding of her footsteps giving her something else to focus on for a time.
Leveraging her mental map of Queens that was getting quite good, though not as good as hers of the Bronx, Kateri kept her jogging route in Astoria so that by a little before 8am she had circled back to Broadway and 37th Street. Worshippers were still filing into the church, almost cathedral-like in size, and Kateri followed them inside, trotting up the six steps from street level as she glanced up at the adjoining tower from the top of which rose a large crucifix.
The homily was solid, if not the best she had ever heard, and the music a little too modern for mass in Kateri’s opinion, but it was still comforting to sit in mass and repeat the familiar prayers. When the service had finished, Kateri stayed in her seat and continued her prayers until most of the people had left. Then she went to a nearby alcove-shrine dedicated to Mary, the Sorrowful Mother. It contained a small copy of Michelangelo’s Pieta, depicting the Holy Mother cradling the body of her Son in her lap after the Crucifixion. Kateri crossed herself and lit two votive candles, one for her parents and one for Angelyne. Bowing her head, she began to murmur prayers that were sadly all too familiar.
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May their souls and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.
Amen.
Kateri curled her fingers around the crucifix that hung from her rosary.
O God, Who has commanded us
to honor our father and mother,
have compassion in Thy mercy,
on the souls of my father and mother;
forgive them their sins, and grant that
I may see them in the joy of eternal brightness.
Through Christ our Lord,
Amen.
A few tears trickled down her cheeks, and she wiped them roughly away on the cuff of her jacket sleeve.
God our Father,
Your power brings us to birth,
Your providence guides our lives,
and by Your command, we return to dust.
Lord, those who die still live in Your presence,
their lives change but do not end.
I pray in hope for my family,
relatives and friends,
and for all the dead known to You alone.
In company with Christ,
Who died and now lives,
may they rejoice in Your kingdom,
where all our tears are wiped away.
Unite us together again in one family,
to sing Your praise forever and ever.
Amen.
Four years since Angelyne had been killed in combat. A lifetime since her parents had died.
Je vous salue, Marie,
pleine de grâce:
le Seigneur est avec vous;
vous êtes bénie entre toutes les femmes,
et Jésus, le fruit de vos entrailles,
est béni.
Sainte Marie, Mère de Dieu,
priez pour nous, pauvres pécheurs,
maintenant et à l'heure de notre mort.
Amen.
Kateri murmured a quick prayer for Tali and Jess, for her father and grandparents on what was sure to be a difficult day, especially with Byron LaCroix’s presence. Then she crossed herself again and murmured a few final words.
Gloire au Pére, au Fils et au Saint-Esprit.
Comme Il état au commencement, maintenant et toujours pour les siècles des siècles.
Amen.
It was about 9:30 in the morning by the time Kateri returned to Clinton’s apartment. He was sitting at his desk in the living room doing something on his laptop but looked up immediately as she entered. He looked somewhat better rested than she felt, but his eyes were shadowed, Kateri noticed as she turned to relock the door behind herself.
The anniversary of Angelyne’s death is always hard for him.
At least, we finished the case before today … unlike last year.
“There’s coffee for you in the kitchen. I covered your mug, so it should still be hot,” said Clinton.
“Niawen, Rakeni,” replied Kateri, going into the kitchen to watch her hands at the sink. Her house mug had no lid, but a bit of foil worked quite well to keep hot drinks hot for a while. Her mug was sitting by the coffeepot as expected, a sheet of foil crimped tight around the rim.
Clinton’s voice came again from the living room. “You have a good run? You left early.” She had left the note for him in the kitchen by the coffeepot, weighed down by the edge of his mug. It was missing from the counter.
“Yeah,” Kateri replied. “Ran for about fifty minutes and then went to mass. Lit candles for my parents and your sister after the service was over.” The longer answer to his first question would hopefully obscure the fact that she had failed to answer the second question. That would only lead to questions of why she woke up so early or why she couldn’t sleep, and her father had enough on his plate without worrying about her more than he already did.
“Did you eat?”
Kateri made a face that was both fond and slightly exasperated. “Hen, Rakeni.”[1] She pulled the foil off her mug and cautiously took a sip, wary of burning herself. Still piping hot. “I’ll get something more once I take a shower.” The sweat from her run had dried on her skin, and she itched. I also haven’t taken a shower in four days. Not exactly time on that case.
By the time that Kateri had flown through the shower, dried her hair, and then redressed for the day—a green plaid shirt (not flannel but with the same type of pattern), her gray fleece jacket, black cargo pants, and hiking boots—it was 10:30am exactly. (That shirt had cuffs that buttoned and rode up her arms less easily than her turtlenecks did. The last thing she wanted today was her scars becoming visible. They drew stares and sometimes questions much too easily. Tali had seen the scars over the summer, and all Kateri had told her was that “bad men hurt me” and “the team rescued me.” More details were not appropriate at her age.) At home COVID tests were a wonderful thing on a day like today when it was much less convenient to go all the way downtown. Those were straightforward to complete, and thankfully negative for both of them.
“When do you want to leave?” Kateri asked as she reentered the living room. Clinton had left his desk while she was showering and preparing for the day. Now, he was sitting on the floor, an old, stained towel spread across the carpet in front of him, and he was stripping and cleaning his Glock with quick precise movements. (She wrinkled her nose at the disgusting, though familiar, smell of Hoppes.)
“Ten after should work,” Clinton replied. “It can take up to an hour some days, but I’d rather be late than early today.”
Kateri snorted. “Yeah.”
Her feet took her back into the kitchen. Her covered mug of coffee was where she had left it after she had gotten a sip earlier. She uncovered that, returning the foil to its place in the cabinet to be reused later, and perused the fridge and cabinet for available breakfast foods while sipping her coffee. The downside of being called out at a moment’s notice and then being gone for several days to a week or more at a time was that perishable food and leftovers often went bad in the meantime unless it was something that could be shoved in the freezer quickly. If we’re even at home when Jess sends out the Bat-signal.
“And how far’s the cemetery from the farm?” She asked. Her father had apparently cleaned out the fridge while she was out that morning, and what was left over between it and the cabinets made for slim-pickings. Toast, peanut butter, and banana … slightly overripe for my tastes. It’ll still work. Peanut-butter and banana sandwich, it is.
“Oh, about fifteen minutes,” Clinton replied. He paused and then added wryly. “If the lights cooperate.”
“Hah!” Kateri almost choked and set her mug down quickly to avoid sloshing her hot coffee over her hands as she laughed. “I’ve seen a few lights in my day that, I swear, make at least five minutes difference to a trip if you hit ‘em or not.”
She carried her plate out into the living room and curled up on the big stuffed chair by the couch to eat her sandwich while she read the news on her phone. Depressing as usual between politics and COVID. A comfortable silence returned to the apartment. Clinton and Kateri had never felt the need of always having some conversation running to fill in the silences and were perfectly happy to coexist without the need to always be saying something. As their teammates knew well, they could also just have conversations with looks, gestures, and half-sentences.
“Leave all that out, will you, please?” Kateri flapped one hand in the direction of the cleaning supplies on the floor as Clinton put his Glock back together with sure hands. “I’ll clean mine when we get back.” She pried a chunk of peanut butter out of her teeth with her tongue.
He nodded.
Kateri went back to her sandwich. She was not a particularly fast eater, especially when she was distracted by her phone. Peanut butter was not a particularly fast food to eat, either, especially if you got a big enough bite and had to unglue your jaw from the … delicious glob.
“You know,”—Kateri looked up a couple of minutes later. Clinton had returned to the living room from his bedroom and was leaning his shoulder against the wall where the hall entered the living room—“We don’t have to go if you’re not comfortable dealing with Jess’ father.”
She leaned over to set her empty plate on the coffee table to give herself a moment to think. Her hair was unbraided—I need to do that in the car—and the strands on one side of her face fell forward, partially obscuring her face and (to Clinton) its all too easily read expressions in a waterfall of black hair.
It was interesting that Rakeni had said “we” not “you.” Kateri knew that she could elect not to go to Sunday dinner, even today of all days on the anniversary of her adopted aunt’s death when the family always went to pay their respects at her grave. She would feel guilty if she didn’t, though, and she would definitely feel guilty if she kept Clinton from the family ritual … tradition.
“Should I take your long silence to mean that you would rather not go and just haven’t told me?” asked her father.
“No,” Kateri replied, shoving the hair back out of her face. “My mind is all too good at running away with itself and spiraling into worst-case scenarios.” She made a face and sighed heavily. “Do I expect to like Byron? I’m not holding my breath. Does that mean he’s an ogre and the sorriest excuse for a human being that ever walked the earth? No. I think I can survive one meal and one afternoon with a person I don’t like. It won’t be the first time.”
And you’re there, and you’ll watch my back and play buffer if need be.
And there is such a thing as a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Kateri paused for a moment and then continued thoughtfully, slowly. “Would I rather not have to deal with him? Sure. But … I can’t let myself lose out on good opportunities because the skeletons in my mental closets are rearing their proverbial ugly heads, because something might happen. And besides, I’ve dealt with worse than unpleasant relatives before.” Her smile was only half-forced. “I’ll watch your back, and you’ll watch mine, and I’ll deal.”
The two always looked out for each other, but it was slightly discomfiting to need to use those words about the family farm … watching each other’s backs as if there were a threat.
“Always. Always. And if you want to leave at any time, you’ll tell me. Right?”
Kateri nodded, smiling. “Hen, Rakeni.”
Over the preceding year, especially the spring and summer, Kateri had driven out to Skye Farm enough times that she thought she could probably drive the route from Queens or the Bronx in her sleep and, if not that, at least without any help from Google Maps to get her from point A to point B without getting lost. Kateri still enjoyed the drive out from the city-city to Long Island. Grass, trees (with their colorful leaves), and other assorted plants were a nice change from high-rises and streets that could be more like parking lots given the number of cars going somewhere. Not so much right now, though. Sometimes Kateri just got tired of seeing towering concrete, metal structures and utilitarian buildings without any aesthetic value. Sometimes the outdoors and the less urbanized areas around Glen Cove reminded her of the reservation back in Canada and made her nostalgic for the home of her early childhood, which was now just a dim memory. Kateri had also simply come to enjoy the outdoors much more than she used to. Having a sniper and a tracker for a partner (and a father) would do that. Tali was also a very outdoorsy kid and would sometimes drag Kateri along on her roaming adventures around the neighborhood or the backwoods when she was there for longer stretches at a time.
Clinton was in a pensive mood as they left Queens, so Kateri slumped against the door, resting her head on the window, and let herself doze for a little while. Power-naps, even for 45 minutes, had kept her on her feet more than once on long, hectic cases.
“Rouse me when we get close, please,” she murmured.
“Sure thing, kid.”
The area of Glen Cove around the family farm seemed much further from New York City—the parts one always pictured when discussing the city—than it really was. Ákso and Rákhso lived at the end of a long private driveway, which itself was at the end of a cul-de-sac, the name of which Kateri could still not remember reliably. The house always became visible first around the bend in the driveway, and then farther back down the hill was the barn, painted a classic red and white. Tali’s beloved swing still hung from one of the large oak trees in the front yard, and the shrubs and flowers, mostly being put to bed for the season as fall grew deeper, still testified to Ákso’s hard work.
And I’ve finally progressed beyond cactuses because of her!
There was an unfamiliar station-wagon parked in the driveway toward the back of the house alongside Jess’ car and Rákhso’s truck. Must be Byron’s rental vehicle. Clinton pulled to a stop near the front of the house. A few of the lights had not cooperated, and it was about 5 past noon. Better to be late than early today, as Rakeni said.
“I’ll go in and see if the folks are ready to leave. Why don’t you stay here?” her father suggested.
Kateri shifted, angling her body toward the driver’s seat, and twisted one arm behind her back for a second to readjust her Glock so one edge was not digging into her rib cage. “Sure,” she agreed immediately. Postpone introductions and having to deal with LaCroix Sr. until after the cemetery sounds good to me. That was probably part of the reason he had suggested her staying put. It wasn’t like the weather was bad and she would avoid either getting soaked if it were raining or freezing to death on the walk to the front door if the temps were in the basement.
Clinton patted her knee and left the truck, engine off, but with the keys still in the ignition for her. Shoulders set, he disappeared up the walk and into the house, the screen door slamming shut behind him. Kateri pulled out her three phones and quickly checked them for any new messages from the last hour or two. Some parts of her work were not always easily able to be put on the back-burner, even when she had a day off. An unofficial day off. Unlikely we’d get called in the day after getting back from a case, but it’s happened like … twice these past … six years in a couple of months. Usually, that meant another team or two were down for the count for some reasons, leaving the others to scramble to manage their usual case-loads plus the cases pawned off from those other teams. Those were some rough times!
It was nearly ten minutes before Clinton returned. Kateri eyed him as he reappeared on the porch and came back to the truck. An array of emotions was sweeping across his face and through his eyes … pinched, frustrated, exasperated, angry, troubled. Okay, what the h**l happened? She felt her own nerves increasing at seeing her father’s unease, and she put her hands in her pockets before she could start idly fiddling with something … a long-standing nervous tick.
“Well,” Clinton declared as he buckled his seatbelt, “it’s been … quite a morning, but they’ll be ready to go in a minute.”
Oh, joy.
Kateri pressed a hand to her face. “Do I want to know?” She paused. “Scratch that, there’s a reasonable chance I don’t, but since we’re going to have to deal with the family drama for the rest of the afternoon, I probably do whether I want to or not.”
Clinton snorted. “Jess got home as late as we did, so Tali and all of the folks were already in bed.” Reasonable. We wanted to be already in bed, too. “That meant Tali’s usual recap of what she’s been doing while Jess is gone was saved for breakfast this morning, bombshells and all.”
“Oh, great,” Kateri drawled, rolling her eyes.
“Byron took Tali to the race track yesterday. He has a friend who works there and got them a tour. Tali had a lot of fun. You’ll probably get an earful later.”
Well, I’m glad she enjoyed herself, even if her grandfather is trying to cement himself in her affections.
“If he’s trying to mend fences,” Kateri grumbled, “he might try an actual apology and not over-the-top apology gifts.” She paused, frowned. Suddenly, her head snapped around toward Clinton. “Wait, wait, the racetrack. Isn’t Senior’s gambling problems … wasn’t that horses?”
“Uh-huh.” Great, so is he back to his old tricks again?
Kateri groaned. “Wonderful. And I’m guessing he just ended up doing some betting while he was there?”
Clinton made a wordless sound of assent. “‘One little bet, okay? It was right there.’” It sounded like a quote.
“Just one. Right there. Says the man with no self-control,” Kateri muttered, propping her elbow up on the door and leaning her head on her closest fist. If you can’t resist the temptation with it in front of you, don’t go there, for heaven’s sake!!!! “Jess give you the run-down?” A nod. “If I were inclined to be a cynic, I’d say that makes Senior’s choice of outings … bloody suspicious.”
“And that’s not just it.”
Kateri grimaced. “You must be joking.”
“No,” her father replied. “The girlfriend Byron brought along, Marie Smith? They’re engaged. Telling Jess and Tali seems to be one of the reasons they came in the first place.”
The resulting expression on Kateri’s face probably made her look like a landed fish for a few seconds. “Oh. Okkaaayyy. How’s Jess?”
“Rather poleaxed, dumbfounded, displeased, take your pick. After a case like this one and getting home late, getting that dropped on him at breakfast was the last thing he expected or needed, especially today of all days.” On the anniversary of Angelyne’s death, when Byron wouldn’t even come to the funeral. “Made things rather awkward for the folks, too,” by which he meant Ákso and Rákhso.
“I bet.”
Wonderful.
The joys of family drama.
The cemetery where Angelyne was buried was located about fifteen minutes from the family farm. It was the first time Kateri had been there as she had attended the public funeral but not the private interment. The cemetery was a broad, rolling green meadow surrounded by trees, their colored leaves falling as the year lengthened, but was not associated with any particular church. People from all walks of life and all careers were buried there; it was not a dedicated military graveyard … like Arlington, which Kateri had visited a few times while doing work in DC. Many veterans were buried there, though. Kateri could pick out their distinctive gravestones by the particular shape and color of the stones alone. She had seen plenty of them at Arlington.
Angelyne Skye LaCroix was buried a few rows away from one of the roads that wound its way through the graveyard. The inscription on the gravestone was very … military … and said nothing of the family she left behind who bitterly mourned her passing. Above the inscription was the emblem of an eagle dropping from the sky with claws outstretched, as if searching for prey.
ANGELYNE SKYE LACROIX
CAPT
US ARMY
IRAQ
AFGHANISTAN
PURPLE HEART
BRONZE START
AUGUST 20 1978
NOVEMBER 8 2016
There were several empty plots on either side of her grave. Clinton had told her on the way that, after his sister died, Jess and his parents had all bought plots by Angelyne’s so that they could all be buried together, eventually. Clinton, like Kateri herself, would prefer to be buried back on the reservation in Canada.
So that Isda and Rakeni and I can be together again in this world, our bodies, at least.
And hopefully in the next!
They all paid their respects at the grave, each in turn, first Ákso and Rákhso, then Clinton and Kateri. When she had finished praying Eternal Rest and had crossed herself again, she pushed herself up from a crouch and stepped back to her father’s side to give Jess or Tali, whichever was going to go first, room to come forward. Clinton wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and Kateri leaned her head against his shoulder.
Tali seemed more subdued here than back at the house as she came out to Rákhso’s truck but was not … grief stricken or on the edge of breaking down. Losing a parent at her age—at eight … like me. At least, she still has Jess—was terrible. Time could not heal all wounds, but time and therefore distance from the source of that grief could bring relief from the heavy weight of that grief, nonetheless. Jess was quiet, rather troubled and pensive as Clinton had described, but how much of that was the current mess with his father and how much of that was his thoughts about and grief for his late wife, Kateri could not know.
Eventually, it was time to go home.
Back at the house, Tali bounded over to Clinton’s truck as soon as both trucks were parked and everybody was piling out. Her earlier good cheer seemed to have returned, mostly, and she threw herself into her uncle’s arms for a bear hug and then hugged Kateri just as enthusiastically, chattering all the while about her trip to the racetrack the previous day and all she was doing with her grandfather there. Kateri was saved from having to find a suitable reply to all that when Jess called Tali back and sent her off to the barn to tell her grandfather than dinner would be ready shortly. I should go see if Ákso needs help. Marilou had disappeared into the house, and Nelson had gone around back, maybe to check on seating.
I certainly hope we’re not all cramming inside. It must be around 70 by now.
It’s plenty warm enough to eat outside and actually social distance.
“I wasn’t sure you were going to come,” said Jess. It wasn’t clear whether he was speaking to Clinton, Kateri, or maybe both of them.
I certainly considered it, and I think Rakeni did, too.
“You know my feelings on the subject,” that being Byron LaCroix, I’m guessing, Clinton replied after a long beat of silence, “I’ve dealt with him before for my sister’s sake, for yours, for Tali’s. I can do it again.”
Jess made a face.
“For our family’s sake,” Kateri echoed. “Won’t be the first time I’ve had lunch with company I don’t like.” She tapped her father on the shoulder. “I’m going to go help Ákso.”
Clinton nodded, and she trotted toward the house, leaving her father and Jess to their conversation.
There were three large picnic tables set up outside around the firepit, roughly in the shape of a right triangle with a table at each of the three points and the pit in the middle of the triangle, not that they would really need it today. It was one addition to the farm since COVID. Some foods could not be easily eaten while sitting on the ground, holding a plate or balancing it on one’s knee. A recipe for disaster and more laundry. Marilou had made a Sunday roast with potatoes, onions, and carrots and thick brown gravy, the whole works, and that was one of those meals that really required a table.
“We’ll serve plates and get drinks in here,” Marilou said as Kateri helped her finish last-minute preparations in the kitchen. “We can eat inside and come back as necessary for seconds.”
The screen door creaked and then thumped as it swung closed. There were two sets of familiar footsteps, Clinton and Jess, and then Kateri heard their voices drift in from the living room.
“Anything else?” Kateri asked, turning back to Marilou.
Her grandmother placed her hands on her hip and surveyed her domain with a critical eye. “I think we’re ready as soon as everyone is here.”
Kateri nodded and went out to the living room. Jess had taken a seat on the couch and was checking something on his phone. I wonder what’s taking Tali so long, or, I should probably say, what’s taking Byron so long? Her father was leaning his shoulder against the wall between the fireplace and the closed door that led to the stairs to the second floor and the bedrooms at the back of the house, including Kateri’s room. She joined him there and leaned her back against the well-built door, pressing her shoulder against his arm.
A minute later, the back door in the kitchen opened and shut, and then Nelson appeared at the top of the steps that led up to the dining room. “They’re on their way, and all’s ready in back,” he said, coming up behind his wife, who was standing on the first step down from the dining room.
Shortly thereafter, the quick, light sounds of Tali’s footsteps were heard, and then the girl herself appeared, trotting up the steps to the front porch, a man and a woman following behind. As they entered, Kateri got her first look at the infamous Byron LaCroix and his fiancée, Marie Smith. She was unremarkable in the grand scheme of things. Pretty with a bright open face and red or auburn-colored hair that actually looked natural, not like it had come out of a bottle. Her clothes and shoes were stylish and on the upper end of the range of what was stylish but still barely appropriate for the farm with its rolling hills and periodic rabbit warrens and gopher holes. Possibly dressed up for dinner. She was also tall, quite tall, about as tall as Byron, who given the comparative space between the top of his bald head—I wonder if he has to put sun-screen on his head was Kateri’s totally random thought—and the door frame, had to be about 6 feet tall … almost as tall as Jess.
Had to get the height genes somewhere. Jess, Clinton, and Nelson were all veritable giants at about 6 feet, given or take an inch or two each, compared to Kateri at 5 foot 5 and Marilou at 5 feet flat. Ákso is one of the few women … one of the few people I know … who’s shorter than me.
Byron LaCroix. How to describe him? In terms of appearance, he was very tall and very bald. Those were two details Kateri filed away first. He was wearing jeans, a dark-green button-down shirt under a leather jacket, and sensible shoes. His close-cropped mustache and beard were largely more salt than pepper. There was something about him—not a feature she could point to or even an unsettling look in his eyes, despite the way he was studying her as she was him—that told Kateri this was a man to be wary of. Her instincts were good at warning her like that. This was not the “creep” warning that crept up her spine and wound its way through her stomach. Just the general one.
Jess had risen from the couch. “Dad, you remember Clinton, Angelyne’s brother? And this is his daughter, Kateri.” To Clinton and Kateri, he added. “My father, Byron LaCroix, and his fiancé, Marie Smith.”
It was not that many steps across the living room from the front door to the fireplace. As Marie murmured a chipper greeting—her eyes sometimes flickered towards Byron, as if she were preparing to overcompensate for, smooth over any verbal gaffs—Byron stepped forward with hand outstretched. “I didn’t know you had married.”
There are quite a lot of things you don’t know, having not been around in over four years. For that split second before Clinton moved, her shoulder was still pressed against his arm, and Kateri was able to feel his resulting physical cringe at those words. The wince on Jess’ face and on Rákhso’s was also all too clear.
“I’m not.” Those two simple words of Clinton’s were quite … curt. He shook Byron’s hand peremptorily and then stepped back.
It was an unfortunately often forgotten rule that gentlemen were not supposed to offer their hand to ladies first but allow the lady to extend or not extend her own hand first, as she felt comfortable. Byron turned towards Kateri next to shake her hand, and she hesitated on whether to step forward or whether to keep her hands in her pockets, whether to look like she had missed the gesture (intentionally or not). Her hesitation lasted just long enough to make the choice for her, and Byron pulled his hand back, saying something that she missed.
(Kateri also missed how Tali, occasionally too sharp-eyed for her own good, was focused on the ‘snub’ and the flash of something that crossed her face.)
“Well.” Ákso clapped her hands together, getting everyone’s attention. “The food is ready. There is fresh garlic bread, Sunday roast with all the fixings, and several choices of drinks. We’ll serve our plates in here, and then there are picnic tables set up in the backyard so we can social distance better than in here.”
The look that flashed across Byron’s face at the words “social distance” was unmistakable.
We’re in the middle of a world-wide pandemic, and it’s flu season, for heaven’s sake.
What do some people have against common-sense precautions like staying out of people’s face and back from cough and spew range?
Seriously?!
They were only just past introductions, and already Sunday dinner was going just wonderfully.
There were three picnic tables in the backyard, arranged as if on the points of a right-triangle, with the fire-pit in the middle of that imaginary shape. Mr. LaCroix and his tag-a-long girlfriend took the one at the farthest point from the house along with Tali, whom he easily talked into joining them; Ákso and Rákhso sat down at the picnic table in the middle, a not particularly happy looking Jess joining them for the sake of not crowding the tables, which would defeat the point of trying to social distance by not eating inside; and Clinton and Kateri took the table nearest the house and farthest from Mr. LaCroix.
Ákso cooking was, as usual, excellent, but Kateri found that she was enjoying the food much less than she would have at any other Sunday dinner. Rakeni seemed to be in much the same mood from the pinched look on his face. It wasn’t to the point of the food tasting like ashes or something or however people talked about food tasting in similar situations sometimes, but this situation was fast proving the point about how company could make or ruin a meal.
Byron LaCroix was expounding about something, Kateri realized some minutes later when she looked up and saw him gesturing expansively, saw Tali laughing with a bright smile on her face. Kateri had been doing her best to tune him out, but now she listened. Though she had missed some portion of the beginning, it took only moments for her to realize what the story was about: all of what Tali, her grandfather, and Marie had done during Jess’ absence … the expensive dinner—I wonder if it did end up on Jess’ credit card after all—and the trip to the racetrack, among other things. And in more detail than what Tali tried to start telling me out front earlier.
“He’s retelling the stories from this morning, Rakeni,” Kateri murmured, making a small gesture with her chin toward Jess’ father. “So, who do you think the show is for, you, me, or both of us?”
We the unwilling audience, and Byron master of ceremonies.
Clinton cut a glance over at the other table. “Both, probably,” he replied after a moment’s thought. “Or … maybe just you. It depends. You’re new. Tali has, I’m sure, talked about you.”
“Win friends and influence enemies, as the saying goes,” Kateri noted.
That drew a soft snort of agreement.
“He could just save himself the trouble, if that’s his plan, and stop talking,” she continued after a minute. The more Byron LaCroix talked like that, the more annoying she found the whole situation and the more her mind wanted to draw negative comparisons from her own past. “Make this afternoon a whole lot less tedious,” she grumbled.
Clinton glanced at her for a second. “Anytime you want to leave …”
“We can leave. I know.” Kateri sent her father a fond smile. “I’d like for him not to ruin my entire afternoon, and I want to spend some time with the folks and Tali.”
Lunch passed … well, she could not say quietly the way Senior kept going on and on … though noisy was not the right descriptor either. Lunch passed with interminable slowness. Usually, time at the farm with Ákso and Rákhso and Tali and Jess just flew by, and Kateri would have to be heading back to the city before she knew it. Now, once or twice, she caught herself glancing at her watch and marveling at the slowness of the passing time.
“I’m going inside,” Kateri finally said a little while after she had finished eating. “I need to look for a couple of things in my room, and I want some tea.” It was not a chilly day, but she wanted tea anyway. Coffee was more frequently her beverage of choice, but she would drink tea or coffee whatever the weather. “Do you want something?”
Clinton shook his head. “Did you lose something?”
I don’t know yet.
Well, sort of. Depends on your definition of “lost”.
Forgot where I put it is more like it.
Kateri snorted softly and then shrugged. “The problem of keeping things in any one of four places, at work, at my place, at your place, or here. I’m missing a pair of gloves, one of my mag pouches, and a penknife. I saw them all recently, so they aren’t lost … just … misplaced."
“Quite a random assortment,” Clinton mused. “Do you need help looking?” Kateri shook her head. “Then I’ll stay and keep an eye on … things.” He made a small gesture with one hand in the direction of LaCroix Senior, Jess, and Tali. The wind was blowing towards them so their voices were less likely to carry as softly as the two were talking, and we aren’t speaking English, but the gestures they made, the looks on their faces, those still could be seen.
The long months the two had spent bunking together during the worst of COVID had not only given Kateri time to improve her language skills in German and Spanish but also given her the time to teach Clinton more French, which they could use for filling in their conversations where Mohawk lacked words for certain things. Like cuffing people. French, by which Kateri meant Quebecois French, not the French one would hear visiting the Louvre or traversing the French countryside. Reading is largely the same. Speaking and listening, not so much.[2]
Kateri bumped her shoulder gently against her father’s in a familiar, common gesture and then rose from the table, plate in hand. It was not that far back to the house. Her plate went in the sink to soak, her silverware in a mug already in the sink, which proved a convenient dumping ground for silverware. Although it would take longer than boiling a single mug of water, Kateri put a full kettle on to heat in case someone else wanted some hot water for tea or coffee and then headed back to her bedroom.
Might as well put my time to use.
No need to twiddle my thumbs. Watched pot and all.
It was not a particularly large room—suits my needs just fine, though—and there were only so many places that Kateri could even imagine herself having left a pair of gloves, a mag pouch, and a penknife. The bathroom was not such a place, which left her with only her bedroom to check through. Within a few minutes, she had found the mag pouch in the drawer of her bedside table and the pair of gloves shoved all the way to the back of one drawer of her chest of drawers. The penknife, however, remained stubbornly absent, and down the hall, the kettle was just starting to make a soft whistle.
I don’t think my penknife is here.
I can check my locker again. That thing has a talent for hiding my stuff from me. She was constantly battling against entropy to keep her locker at work semi-organized and not a complete disaster.
The kettle was starting to whistle more loudly.
I’m coming. I’m coming. I’m coming.
A couple of minutes later, the back door opened as Kateri was pulling out a box of tea bags from the cabinet above the counter where the electric tea kettle was plugged in. Unable to turn around, as she was balancing her weight on her tip-toes to reach the box she wanted, she said in Mohawk, “Did you change your mind about a cup of tea, Rakeni?”
“You do know,” Byron LaCroix’s voice replied, instead, “it’s not polite to speak in a language the rest of your group can’t understand?”
Expecting her father and not LaCroix Senior, Kateri startled violently at the sound of his voice, whirling around and stumbling slightly as she came off her tip-toes. The cardboard box of tea bags spun out of her hand, clattering to the floor, cascading tea-bags (thankfully individually packaged) falling in its wake. With her totally rattled for those few seconds, long-ingrained instincts had her left hand falling to her Glock at her side before she even realized that she had done it or even fully realized who was behind her. It had been her startle instinct entirely.
“L'enfer sanglant,” Kateri breathed out the curse, pressing her right hand to her chest and her frantically beating heart. Bloody, bloody, bloody h**l. You scared the daylights out of me! “Don’t you know that sneaking up on a Federal Agent who hunts fugitives for a living is one of the dumbest ideas known to man?”
If I had been pouring boiling water—the kettle had just finished heating her tea water—I could have ended up with third-degree burns!
Bloody h**l. That was close.
“How was I to know you were so jumpy? Didn’t you hear the door?” LaCroix Senior replied.
So it’s my fault?
Quel salaud! [3]
Kateri crouched down to start gathering the tea bags which now adorned the kitchen floor, having gone, it seemed, literally everywhere, dotted like colorful patches across the tiles. She used the motion to hide the roll of her eyes and murmured something unflattering under her breath … just not in English and not, as perhaps might have been wiser, in the privacy of her own mind. Knowing … how many languages now? … besides English … Spanish, French, some German, Mohawk, the wee bits of other ones don’t count … so 3-4 languages had given her plenty of colorful vocabulary to choose from, though she usually restrained herself from the particularly colorful and particularly profane verbiage in Québécois French.
And I can speak to my own father in any language I bloody well want!
For heaven’s sake, getting lectured on manners by Byron LaCroix of all people!
“You don’t like me very much, do you?” LaCroix Senior continued after a minute, once Kateri didn’t reply to his earlier, hopefully rhetorical, questions.
Straightening from her crouch, Kateri turned back to the counter to finish making her tea, ignoring the instinct about having that man at her back. LaCroix was a jerk, not a threat. Wasn’t a physically abusive sorry-excuse for a father, just a sorry-excuse for a parent. Once her heart stopped racing and the fright faded, that instinct would fade with it. She did give into the urge to mightily roll her eyes again.
No, I really don’t, but I wonder why you think I don’t.
‘Cause I didn’t shake your hand?
“Mr. LaCroix, I haven’t even met you before this afternoon,” Kateri countered, her voice level. Since you didn’t even bother to show up to your own daughter-in-law’s funeral to support your son and only granddaughter! She dropped the tea bag into her mug and glanced at the clock to check the time to know when to take the tea bag out.
“And yet, I can tell you don’t like me very much,” Senior countered right back. Something in the pitch of his voice changed back to more of that charismatic, smooth persuasiveness like when he was spinning those yarns earlier. “My granddaughter has told me a lot about her favorite cousin these past few days.” Oh, great. I’m afraid to know what you might have heard. “I’m here to have a nice visit with Tali and my son,” after all these years without a visit and after missing the funeral, “and I would just hate for Tali to end up in the middle because of this … animosity.”
Oh, ho, so that’s how this is gonna be.
Was that supposed to be a threat?
Kateri could see how enamored Tali was with her grandfather at the moment, her head full of stories, high on the adventures and new experiences of the week while Jess was gone and not able to supervise. And we could be called away on a new case any day. Bryan had a perfect opportunity and easy access to Tali’s ear. He’s also convincing enough, charismatic enough that he could take one true fact and spin it into a tale that would make any fisherman proud.
And Tali was young … naïve when it came to the complexities of family, of the relationship between her father (and others!) and her grandfather. Who do you believe when you get fed somethin’ like that?
Schooling her face into passive blankness, Kateri finally turned back toward Jess’ father, still standing just inside the backdoor, and leaned her hip back against the counter as she studied him for a moment. Bryan had his plate in his hand as if he had, ostensibly at least, come for more of Ákso’s good cooking. It was a shame to waste good food on a man like that.
The gall of this man.
Kateri wondered idly if she just let him keep talking whether Senior would keep digging his own proverbial grave. He was doing quite a good job so far. I’ll have quite a report for Rakeni on the way home.
Despite her earlier worries back at her father’s place last night and that morning, she did not feel particularly worried or on edge, aside from that moment of jumpiness when Senior had snuck up on her. She knew his type, and he wasn’t yelling, wasn’t moving sharply, wasn’t crowding her. There was plenty of room for her to move about the room, even go out of the kitchen and down to her room or outside if she wanted. Kateri was also 100% sure that Jess, Clinton, or possibly both had clocked Bryan coming inside, and she was quite sure that one of the two would find a reason to come inside sometime within the next few minutes.
As much as she was seething inside, none of that showed on Kateri’s face. Utilizing the talents that had made her a legendary undercover agent, she kept her face smooth, her voice calm, relaxing her body language until any possible hint of hostility were utterly gone. “Tali is my only cousin. Of course, I want what is best for her. Always.”
All true.
We just have two different interpretations of what exactly I mean by that.
“Good.” LaCroix Senior relaxed slightly. “We’re on the same page then. Good. I don’t know what you might have heard, perhaps, from your father, but …”
Kateri’s eyes flashed with sudden, burning fury. “Stop! Not another word. Not one. I am quite capable of making my own decisions, my own judgments about people. And if you want for us to even tolerate each other, making comments about my father only shoots yourself in the foot, so before you keep digging your own grave even further, just shut up!”
Making insinuations about Clinton—about her father, her long-time partner, her best and closest friend—was one of the easier ways to make Kateri lose her temper, to make her an enemy.
Before either could say anything more, Clinton appeared at the bottom of the steps up from the living room, moving as silently as a ninja despite the creaks of the older house. He surveyed them both for a moment and then looked at Kateri, asking, “Problem?”
Kateri shot Bryon a very unnerving, dangerous smile that would … should … worry anyone with a hint of common sense. “We were just finishing a very enlightening conversation,” she replied in Mohawk deliberately, before adding in English, “A very enlightening conversation.”
Clinton’s face went hard. “I see,” he replied in English and then promptly switched back into Mohawk, “Are you ready to go?” It was either an out, or he actually was ready to go. Both were quite likely.
“Yes, I think I am,” Kateri replied in the same language. As furious as she was right now, the last thing she wanted to do was go back outside with LaCroix Senior and make nice for the afternoon. She could keep it together to say goodbye, but … I don’t have the patience for the other or the control of my temper.
Her freshly made cup of tea, she had thankfully decided to put in the spare travel mug that she kept at the Skye’s farm. She could take it back to the city with her and bring it back on her next trip here … whenever that ended up being. After Senior had finished his extended visit! It had only taken less than an afternoon for Jess’ father to prove himself insufferable.
Clinton stepped into the kitchen. He kept his body angled so that he was between her and Bryon and so she could easily and quickly slip down the steps behind him and go out the front door. Depending on how much of the conversation her father had heard—No idea. Never even heard him come in—all he could judge by at the very least was what she had said and what he could read off of her and Byron’s body language. And given their discussion that morning … Rakeni is nothing if not protective.
“Why don’t you go out to the truck,” her father suggested. “We’ll go out back, and I’ll tell the folks we’re heading out.” Clinton gave Byron a look as he said that. Them both heading out back together was not a suggestion, apparently.
Kateri slipped past her father, taking the keys, which he proffered to her silently, and went outside. She set her tea mug down inside in the cup holder by her seat and then leaned against the hood of the truck, hands in her pockets, head down, enjoying the sun and the warmth. A rare thing in November, some days.
Could a leopard change its spots?
That had been one question about Bryon LaCroix that had occupied her mind. Kateri had been willing to meet the man and judge him not just on stories of his past behavior, however reprehensible. Sometimes her mind was her own worst enemy, and she could psych herself out, thinking through things until her mind tried to imagine worst-case scenarios and did its best to run away with her. She had been willing to give Jess’ father a chance, but unless Clinton interpreted what Senior had said and, more importantly, not said far differently than she did, the answer to that question was most certainly, “No,” or perhaps, more generously, “Not yet, at least.”
For now, he’s proved himself to be a manipulative bastard, no insult to Jess’ grandmother intended.
Jess appeared around the corner of the house first. Surprisingly, alone, for the moment. The explanation for that became clear a few seconds later as he approached her and said, “Clinton’s talking to Marilou and Nelson for a minute. Tali’s helping clean up. They’ll be along soon.”
Kateri nodded. “That’s fine.”
Jess studied her for a moment, and she met his eyes steadily back. Eye-contact, something that she was getting better at this past year, instead of just habitually staring at noses and cheekbones. “Are you alright?” He finally asked. It was not a surprising question, given Clinton’s rather abrupt decision for the two to head home.
I’m furious, but I’m not upset or on the edge of a panic attack, so I guess that qualifies as alright?
Under some definition of “alright”.
Like how “fine” could be fine or the acronym.
“I’m alright,” Kateri replied.
Jess studied her for another moment, seemed to read something in her face or body language that reassured him, and nodded. “I’m guessing it was something my father said, and for that, I’m sorry, Kat.”
“It was as much what he didn’t say as what he did. And you can’t help that your father is”—she paused long enough to glance up toward the door to see if Tali was about to appear … just in case she needed to censor herself—“a bloody bastard, no offense to your grandmother.”
Jess cringed slightly. “You’re very lucky, you know, to have Clinton.”
Kateri smiled softly. “Blessed, and I definitely am.”
The sounds of the others approaching drifted out from the house. “If there’s something I need to know, you’ll tell me?” Jess added quickly.
Kateri nodded. “I will. I need to talk things through with Rakeni first.”
The front door opened right as she finished speaking, and Clinton appeared first and held the door for his parents to follow him onto the porch. Tali appeared rather sedately from around the corner of the house a few seconds later. Goodbyes were said, and hugs exchanged. Kateri noted that Tali’s goodbye was somewhat more abrupt and cooler than her greeting a few hours before.
And here we go …
“So, what happened?” Clinton asked some minutes later once they were on the road home.
“I had a very enlightening conversation with Byron LaCroix,” Kateri sighed, leaning her head against the window. After the stress of the morning/afternoon, she was feeling tired. “It was as much of what he didn’t say as he said.” She paused for a second. “It started off with him scaring the h**k out of me when he came in the back-door. I thought it was you for a moment. Then he tried to give me a lesson in manners, and the conversation went downhill from there.”
“Manners?” Clinton sounded incredulous.
“Mmm-hmmm. Apparently, it’s rude to have a private conversation with my own father, NOT in English.”
“Oh, for …” her father cut himself off before his reply could devolve into imprecations. “My place alright?” He asked as a brief aside.
Kateri nodded, promptly remembered that he probably couldn’t see the motion as he was driving and the driver was supposed to be looking at the road, and added verbally, “That’s fine. My truck’s there, anyway. And my bags.” I’ll head back to the Bronx … eventually.
“Okay. Go on, then.”
And Kateri did.
There would have been far nicer things to talk about on the drive home, but needs must. Bryon LaCroix had decided to rear his head back up in his son’s life, and like a lot of family drama, those impacted were a much wider circle.
The sooner he leaves, the better.
And unless he’s off somewhere else, I’m not going back to the farm until he leaves.
I’ve seen enough of men like him for a lifetime.
Assuming that Kateri was not totally misinterpreting the entire conversation and blowing things out of proportion.
This is why you have Rakeni to talk things through with.
You’ve got good instincts for this type of … insanity.
Trust your instincts. Just don’t let your mind run away with itself.
[1] Mohawk. “Yes, Dad.”
[2] https://www.lingualinx.com/blog/why-is-québécois-french-different-from-parisian-french.
[3] French: “What a jerk!”