The Ridge(87)

You must be able to believe in a great evil.

Yes, he was able to do that. He’d seen lesser evils—greed, anger, lust—too often and for too long not to believe there could be something beyond the crimes for which his department had specific names and charges. He was part of a justice system that was designed to quantify evil. There was something missing in that, to be sure.

He’d seen true evil in his time—mothers who killed their own babies, sons who killed their own mothers. The years in this job could erode your faith in good people just as the wind and water eroded the mountains. He fought it every day, but he wondered if there was a breaking point. How many child abuse cases could a man work, how many murders, how many rapes and assaults? How long could you go until you folded up under it? It was a question he thought most police considered on the bad nights. He remembered Diane Mooney asking it of him once, when they’d arrested a man who’d fractured his stepdaughter’s skull with a wine bottle because she was using up the minutes on his cell phone. Diane had asked him as they’d walked out of the jail and into a spring evening so beautiful it hurt, the air alive with fragrant blooms and driven by a gentle, kind breeze, and he remembered what he’d told her: You keep your head down, and you remember that people need you and that it’s a privilege to answer the call.

He thought he’d believed it back then. On that night? Yes, he’d believed it. That was a vivid memory. Such a beautiful night. He could still remember the smell of the flowers and the feel of the wind. He could still remember the way blood had filled that girl’s eye socket.

Kimble wasn’t certain what he thought of God. He knew that he should be certain—everyone of his years was supposed to have their beliefs in order by now. I’m a Baptist, I’m a Catholic, I’m an atheist, I’m an agnostic, I’m a believer in the Church of the Weeping Willow Tree, Fourth Circle, Second Cabinet. You were supposed to know where you lined up.

Kimble did not.

He knew this: there were times when he’d prayed to God and times when he’d cursed Him. On the latter occasions, he chastised whatever higher power there might be for having blind eyes and deaf ears.

You have bound us, Kimble imagined saying, to an evil world. Where’s the love in that?

And in that scenario, God always answered, Temporarily bound you, yes. Now, during your time in that evil world, did you do anything to help?

For that, Kevin Kimble would have an answer, firm as steel: Yes.

It was the only thing he would ever be able to answer firmly about this world. He’d tried to help it. He had fought evil, and how many people could say that?

He thought now of Jacqueline Mathis, behind razor-wire fencing and concrete blocks and iron bars and countless locks. Did she belong there? Was she good, or was she evil?

Kimble touched his forehead with the back of his hand. Sweat. Thirty degrees outside, and he was sweating.

If you do this, he thought, it will be just the two of you in this car. You don’t have to put her in the back; she could sit right at your side, where you could reach out and touch her. Or she could reach out and touch you.

Why was he doing this? The answer lay both through the windshield ahead of him and in the mirror behind him. It was in the people who made up the place he called home. Whitman was a beautiful town, and, thanks to its distance from any interstate, a well-kept secret. Nestled among the Appalachian foothills and surrounded by deep forests and surging rivers, it drew people who wanted to get away. Kimble, born and raised here, often considered turning into one of those very people but heading in the opposite direction, packing his things and getting out.

But to where? And to what?

He’d never been an extrovert, but there was a time when he’d been at least somewhat social. That time had ended with the shooting. A version of Kevin Kimble had died with Jacqueline’s bullet. The one left behind valued privacy above all else. He’d spent his career walking into the dark shadows of private lives to help prevent harm, or to correct harm already done. Then suddenly people were walking into the dark shadows of his own life. There was the arrest, the trial, the sentencing. Kimble was a popular media target during that time—the committed cop who nearly died in the line of duty, then rose to defend the very woman who’d put the bullet in him. Lots of attention had come his way in those days.

He’d never stopped retreating from it.

He had attended this church until the shooting. His mother had raised him there, and he kept going long after her death. Then came Jacqueline’s bullet, and the next time Kimble entered the building, they prayed for him during the service. Aloud and before the entire congregation, they prayed for him.