“Your mother loved you so much.” He stood abruptly and turned away from her. “I'm glad she's dead. I'm glad she didn't live to see what would happen next.”
“Dad—”
“You're not right, Catherine. You came back to us; God knows we considered ourselves grateful to get you back from that hell. But you're not right. In the end, our little girl died that day, and I don't know who's standing in front of me now. You don't laugh anymore. Sometimes, I'm not sure you feel anything at all.”
She shook her head again, but he was nodding emphatically, as if arriving at some destination at the end of a very long trip. He turned back around. He looked her in the eye.
“You should let them have Nathan.”
“He's my son.”
“They have a lot of money, they'll take good care of him. Maybe they can even find him the right doctor.”
“I've been trying to find him the right doctor!”
Her father spoke as if he'd never heard her. “They can get him counseling. That's probably what we should've done.”
Catherine rose to her feet. “You're my father. I'm asking for your support. Will you give it?”
“It's not the right thing to do.”
“Will you give it!”
He reached out as if to take her hand. She frantically snatched it back. And he smiled at her sadly. “You were a happy child,” he said quietly. “Maybe it's not too late. Maybe if you get the right help, you can be happy again. That's all your mother wanted, you know. Even once she got cancer. She never prayed to live. She always prayed just to see you smile once more. But you never did, Catherine. Your mother was dying, and you still couldn't grant her that tiny little curve of the lips.”
“You're mad at me? Is that what this is about? You're pissed off at me because I couldn't smile while my mother was dying? You . . . you . . .”
She couldn't speak. She was beyond words, stupefied by shock and rage. If she could just find the mantel, she could get a grip on the wooden trim and anchor herself. In the next instant, however, she had a clear image of her hand wrapping around the brass candelabra there and using it to bash in her father's head.
In her own detached way, she wasn't sure what surprised her more: the depths of her grief or the strength of her fury.
“Thank you for your time,” she heard herself say. She brought her hands to her sides. She forced them to open. She breathed in, breathed out. The calm returned to her. Icy, yes. Barren. But better for her, better for her father, than any genuine emotion could ever be.
Catherine got her coat and very carefully moved toward the door.
Her father stood in the doorway behind her, watching her go down the steps, watching her walk to her car. He raised a hand in parting, and the sheer casualness of the gesture made her dig her teeth into her lower lip to keep from screaming.
Moving with practiced precision, she put her sedan in reverse and slowly backed out of the driveway. Put on the brake, shift to drive, find the gas. She took off down the street, driving too fast and still pursing her lips into a bloodless line.
She needed support. Her lawyer had been very clear. Without some kind of help, the Gagnons would win, they would take Nathan from her. Most likely, she would never see him again.
She would be all alone. And she would be broke.
Oh God, what was she going to do?
She was scattered. Distracted. Desperately searching for answers. That's why she didn't see it, of course. Not until the third or fourth intersection down. Then she finally glanced up, finally looked into her rearview mirror.
Someone had used her own lipstick to do it; she'd left it lying on the console between the seats. It was her favorite OPI color, a deep crimson, the color of a Valentine's Day rose, or fresh-spilled blood.
The message was simple. It read: Boo!
B OBBY WENT HOME. He had about thirty messages on his answering machine. Twenty-nine were from bloodsucking reporters, each and every one promising to tell his side of the story in return for an exclusive—did I mention exclusive?—interview. The thirtieth was from his LT, inviting him over for dinner.
“Come on over,” Bruni extolled into the answering machine. “Rachel's roasted half a cow and is serving it with ten pounds of mashed potatoes. We'll eat too much, make rude bodily noises, and shoot the shit. It'll be fun.”
Bruni was a good guy. He looked out for his team, kept them all together. He meant the invitation sincerely and Bobby should go. It'd be good for him, get him out of the house, keep him out of further trouble. He already knew he wouldn't.
He walked away from the blinking machine, into his tiny kitchen. He opened the refrigerator door, eyed the empty interior.
He wanted to call Susan. Say . . . what? I'm a jerk. I'm an ass. Worse, I'm a killer. None of it sounded promising. None of it changed anything.
Pizza, he thought. He'd walk to the local pizza parlor, order himself a pie. But thoughts of pizza made him think of beer. And thoughts of beer suddenly had his heart racing and his mouth salivating.
Yeah, that was it. Screw his kindhearted LT. Screw too-perfect Susan. Screw even dark and dangerous Catherine Gagnon, who'd raked her nails across his chest and made him pant like an overeager lap dog. Fuck 'em all. He didn't need people.
He needed a beer.
It occurred to him, in the last functioning spot in his brain, that if he didn't do something now, right now, he was going to end up at a bar. And once he did, he was going to drink.
Bobby picked up the phone. He made a call. Then, before he had time to regret it, he headed out the door.
D R. LANE BUZZED him straight up to her office. Last time he'd seen her, she'd been wearing a suit. Tan pants, squarish jacket, some kind of ivory blouse. Expensive clothes, he'd guessed, but he hadn't cared for the outfit. Looked too mannish, like what a corporate woman with a chip on her shoulder might wear to board meetings. The outfit hadn't gone with her smile.
Tonight, called out on a Saturday to rescue an officer in distress, she wasn't wearing business clothes at all. Instead, given the frigid cold, she'd donned dark brown leggings and a warm, cable-knit Irish sweater that curled up around her neck and set off her long, chestnut-colored hair. She looked like she should be lounging in front of a large stone fireplace with either a good book or a good-looking man.
The image momentarily discomfited Bobby and he found he couldn't make eye contact as he unwound his scarf and hung up his jacket.
“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked, from the doorway of her office. “Water, coffee, soda, hot chocolate . . .”
He went with Coke, refusing her offer of a glass. She took a seat behind her desk. He returned to the wingback chair he'd used on Friday night, balancing on the edge.
“Thanks for the Coke,” he said at last.
“You're welcome.”
“Sorry if I messed up your plans.”
“Not a problem.”
“Did you have plans?” he found himself asking.
“I was thinking of going to a nursery and buying a ficus tree.”
“Oh,” he said.
“Oh,” she agreed.
“What about during the day?” he continued like an idiot. “Do anything then?”
She regarded him with open amusement. After his complaint during their last session, he was now using small talk as a stall tactic and they both knew it. For a moment, he thought she might call his bluff, force him to cut to the chase, but then she answered his question. “Honest to God, I did nothing interesting today. Thought about running, decided it was too cold. Thought about cooking, decided I was too lazy. Thought about reading a book, decided I was too sleepy. So mostly, I spent the day contemplating life, then ignoring it. All in all, I'd say it was a perfect day. And yourself?”
“I spent the day ignoring your advice.”
“Ah well, not the first time. What did you do?”
He decided he might as well get to it. “Last night I went to a bar.”
S
he regarded him expectantly.
“I ended up drinking.”
“A lot?”
“Enough.” He took another breath. “I'm not supposed to drink.”
“Are you an alcoholic, Bobby?”
“I don't know.” He had to genuinely consider her question. He wasn't sure he liked the answer. “Life is better when I don't drink,” he said at last.
“I take it you've had some experiences in this area.”
“You could say that.” He spun the soda can between his fingers. From the distance, her carpet appeared a rich, dark green. He could see now that it wasn't one color, however, but a mixture of many, many threads. Not just green, but giving the appearance of green.
“My father used to drink,” he said. “A lot. Every night. Came home from work and headed straight to the fridge to grab a cold one. He said it helped him unwind. What's a few beers after all? Nothing hard-core. My brother and I were just kids. We believed what he said. Though after a while, we all knew it wasn't just a few beers anymore.
“After I joined the Academy, I started doing the post-shift bar scene. Hanging out with the guys, having a few laughs, drinking a few beers. You know, because it helped me unwind. And maybe at one point, I wasn't having just a few beers anymore. Maybe I was having a lot. So many I was showing up late for my shifts the next day. Then one night, I got a call. A buddy of mine had just arrived at the scene of a single-vehicle accident. It involved my father and a tree. In the bad-news department, my father had nailed the sucker going a good forty miles an hour, wrapped his GM truck right around the beech tree. In the good-news department, my father walked away with just a lacerated scalp. Truck was totaled, but he survived.”
Bobby glanced up from the carpet. “My father was drunk. Blew a point two on the breathalyzer. No way he should've been behind the wheel of a vehicle; he was goddamn lucky a piece of wood was the only thing he hit. That night scared him shitless. Scared me, too. Kind of like one of those TV commercials: Here's your life. Here's your life with too much booze.
“So we made a pledge. I told him I wouldn't drink anymore if he wouldn't drink anymore. I figured I was doing it to help him. I'm kind of guessing he felt he was doing it to help me.”
“And it worked?”
“As far as I know, for nearly ten years we've both stuck to it. Until last night.”
“So why last night, Bobby?”
He said levelly, “I could say it was because guys were buying me beers. I could say it was because for the first time in years, I wasn't on call, so I was allowed to have a drink. I could say because after ten years, how much could one beer really hurt? I could say a lot of things.”
“But you'd be lying?”
“I keep seeing his face,” Bobby whispered. “Every time I close my eyes, I see his face. I did my job, dammit.” He hung his head. “Jesus, I didn't think it would be this hard.”
She didn't say anything right away. The words just hung there, gathering a weight of their own. He finally brought the Coke to his lips and swallowed. Then he looked up at the ceiling, above the dark paneling of mahogany wood trim, and there was Jimmy Gagnon as clear as daylight. One white male subject holding a gun on his wife and kid. One white male subject appearing genuinely surprised as Bobby's 165-grain bullet slammed into his skull. Do you know how a dead man looks? Startled.
Do you know how other people regard that man's killer? With admiration, pity, and fear.
“Are you thinking of drinking again?” Elizabeth asked quietly.
“Yeah.”
“Do you think joining an AA group might help?”
“I don't like talking to strangers about my problems.”
“Do you think talking to your father might help?”
“I don't like talking to my father about my problems.”
“Then who can help you, Bobby?”
“I guess just you.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “There is something you should know,” she said after a moment, “before we go any further. . . . I have some previous involvement in this case. I've met with Judge Gagnon.”
“What?”
“He wasn't my patient.”
“The hell you say.” Bobby flew out of his chair. He gazed at her wildly; he couldn't believe this. “Isn't that a conflict of interest? How can you do that? One day you're listening to one guy's problems, the next you're counseling the guy who's suing him?”
Dr. Lane held up a hand. “The judge came to me for a professional opinion. I met with him for thirty minutes. Then I referred him to an associate who I felt would be better able to assist him.”
“Why? Why did he come to you? What did he want to know?” Bobby leaned over her desk, jaw clenched, arm muscles bulging. He was pissed as hell, and he knew it showed on his face.
Elizabeth continued to regard him evenly. “I spoke to Judge Gagnon last night. With his permission, I will share with you what we said. I'm warning you now, however, I don't think it will help.”
“Tell me!”
“Then have a seat.”
“Tell me!”
“Officer Dodge, please have a seat.”
Her expression remained set. After another moment, Bobby grudgingly let go of her desk. He sat back down, picking up the Coke can and twirling it between his fingers. He felt a light fluttering in his chest. Breathlessness. Panic. Damn, he was tired of feeling this way, as if the world had spun away from him, as if he'd never feel in control again.
“Judge Gagnon had gotten my name from an associate. He came seeking specific information about a psychological phenomenon. Perhaps you've heard of it. Munchausen by proxy.”
“Shit,” Bobby said.
“The judge told me a little bit about his daughter-in-law, Catherine. He wanted to know if someone with her background might fit the profile of a person capable of Munchausen's. Essentially, he wanted me to tell him, sight unseen, if Catherine was either faking his grandson's illnesses or deliberately making the boy sick in order to gain attention for herself.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said it wasn't my area of expertise. I said as far as I knew, there wasn't a profile for Munchausen's. I said that if he honestly believed his grandson was in danger, then he should seek immediate professional assistance and contemplate legal action to separate the boy from his mother.”
“Is he going to do that?”
“I don't know. He took the name of the person I gave him and he thanked me for my time.”
“When was this?”
“Six months ago.”
“Six months ago? The man sought expert advice for the safety of his grandson, and he didn't bother to act on it for six months!”
“Bobby,” she said quietly, “I don't know what was going on in that house. More to the point, you don't know what was going on in that house.”
“No,” he said bitterly. “I just showed up like judge and jury and shot a man. Shit. Just plain . . . shit.”
Elizabeth leaned forward. Her expression was kind. “Last night, Bobby, you made a very astute observation. You said, ‘Tactical teams don't have the luxury of information.' Do you remember that, Bobby?”
“Yeah.”
“More importantly, do you still believe that, Bobby?”
“A guy is dead. Is it really such a great excuse to say it's because I didn't know any better?”
“It's not an excuse, Bobby. It's a fact of life.”
“Yeah.” He crumpled the Coke can. “What a pisser.”
Elizabeth shuffled some papers on her desk. The silence dragged on. “Shall we talk about your family?” Elizabeth asked at last.
“No.”
“Well, then, shall we talk about the shooting?”
“Hell no.”
“All right. Let's discuss your job. Why policing?”
He shrugged. “I liked the uniform.”
“Any other family members who were law enforcement? Friends, associates, relatives?”
“Not really.”
/>
“So you're the first? Starting a new family tradition?”
“That's me. I'm a wild child.” He was still feeling belligerent.
Elizabeth sighed and drummed her fingernails on the top of her desk. “What brought you to the badge, Bobby? Of all the jobs in the world, how did this one become yours?”
“I don't know. When I was a kid, I figured I'd either be an astronaut or a cop. The astronaut thing was a little harder to pull off, so I became a cop.”
“And your father?”
“What about my father? He's okay with it.”
“What did he do for a living?”
“Drove a front loader for Gillette.”
“And your mom?”
“Don't know.”
“Do you ever ask your father questions about your mother?”
“Not in a long time.” He set down the crumpled can and gazed at her pointedly. “Now you're asking questions about my family.”
“So I am. Okay, you became a cop because the astronaut gig seemed like a bit of a stretch. Why a tactical team?”
“The challenge.” He said it immediately.
“You wanted to become a sniper? Were you always into guns?”
“I'd never shot a rifle before.”
He'd finally surprised her. “You'd never fired a rifle? Before joining the STOP team?”
“Yeah. My father collects guns, does some custom work. But those are handguns, and frankly, my father's not big into shooting anyway, he just likes working on pistols. The machinery. The beauty of a really nice piece.”
“So how did you become a sniper?”
“I was good at it.”
“You were good at it?”
He sighed. “When qualifying for the tac team, you have to take proficiency exams in a variety of weaponry. I picked up the rifle and I was good at it. Little bit more practice here and there and I scored expert. So my lieutenant asked me about being a sniper.”
“You're a natural with guns?”
“I guess.” That thought made him uncomfortable though. He amended it immediately. “Being a sniper isn't just shooting. The official title is Sniper-Observer.”