“Of course not.”
“They killed his family,” said Mary. “One of the royal family cousins in a fast car- a Ferrari. Heather was walking the children in a stroller on a main street near a big shopping mall. This person came speeding through and hit them, and they were all killed.”
“My God,” said Petra.
“Our grandchildren,” said Mary.
Reverend Bob said, “On top of the trauma, what bothered Eric was the way the government- our government treated him. The killer was never punished. The Saudis claimed Heather had been jaywalking, it was her fault. The Saudis offered Eric a cash payment- one hundred fifty thousand dollars.”
“Fifty thousand for each life,” said Mary.
Bob said, “Eric turned to the Army and the embassy for support. He wanted prosecution. The Army and the State Department told him to accept the money. In the national interest.”
“Eric resigned,” said Mary. “He was different after that.”
“I can understand that,” said Petra.
“I wish he’d talked about it,” said Mary. “To me, his father, anyone. Before that, he could always talk. We had an open family. Or at least I thought so.”
She shook her head.
Bob said, “We did, darling. Something of that magnitude, you can’t prepare for.”
“You’ve been working with him how long?” Mary asked Petra.
“A few months.”
“I’ll bet he doesn’t talk much, does he?”
“No, ma’am.” Petra flashed on something: The stricken look in Eric’s eyes after the interview with Uncle Randolph Drummond. Eric had taken an instant dislike to the man. A drunk who’d crashed and killed his family.
Mary Stahl said, “Now, this. I don’t know what this is going to do to him.”
“He’ll heal up,” said Bob. “Who knows, maybe this will get him to open up.”
“Maybe,” said Mary, doubtfully.
“The main thing, right now, is that he heals up, dear.”
“He gets so depressed,” said Mary. “We’ve got to do something.” To Petra: “Are you a mother?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Maybe one day,” said Mary. “Maybe one day you’ll know.”
She stayed with the Stahls for another three hours. Day broke, and the parents left for an hour to make personal calls.
Petra entered the ICU.
A nurse said, “He’s doing a lot better, Detective. Amazingly better, actually. Vitals are good, temperature’s just slightly elevated. He must’ve been in really great shape.”
“Yup,” said Petra.
“Cops,” said the nurse. “We love you guys, hate when this happens.”
Petra said, “Thanks- can I go in?”
The nurse glanced through the glass. “Sure, but gown up, and I’ll show you how to wash your hands.”
Clad in a yellow paper gown, she approached Eric’s bed. He was draped from neck to toe tip, connected to multiple IV lines and catheters, backed by a bank of high-tech gizmos.
Eyes closed, mouth slightly parted. Oxygen tubes running up his nose.
So vulnerable. Young.
With the gut wound obscured, he looked okay. If you blanked out the apparatus, he could be sleeping peacefully.
She placed a gloved hand on his fingers.
His color was better. Still pale- pale was his normal state- but none of that creepy green around the edges.
“You had an adventure,” she whispered.
Eric kept breathing evenly. His vitals remained steady. No dramatic movie-of-the-week response to the sound of her voice. He couldn’t hear her. Which was fine.
Not a bad-looking guy, when you got past his personality.
She’d thought him weird, now she knew him as another victim.
Life was like a prism; what you saw depended on how you turned the glass.
His mother described him as depressed. Sometimes depressed people duked it out with the police, wanting to end it all but lacking the courage and hoping to force the police’s hand.
Suicide by cop, they called it.
Had Eric chosen suicide by perp?
Experienced guy like that- all that Special Forces experience- how had he ended up getting shanked by a ninny like Shull?
It made you wonder.
She looked down at him.
Not a bad-looking guy at all. Kind of handsome, really. She tried to picture him younger, tan, easygoing as he rode the waves.
“Eric,” she said, “you’re going to pull out of this.”
No response. Just like when they rode together.
Petra stroked his fingers, feeling warmth through the latex of her gloves.
“You are definitely going to pull though, Detective Stahl. And then you and I are going to talk.”
52
Allison and I were naked on her bed. My left hand rested on the nape of her neck. Her nails grazed my arm.
She released a long exhalation, freed herself, slipped under the covers. Lifting her hair above her head, she knotted it loosely. “How’s Robin doing?”
“Better.”
“Good. Could you hand me that water, please?”
“Sure.”
“Thank you.”
Moments ago we’d been lost in each other. Now we were having a civilized conversation.
I said, “Robin’s on your mind?”
“I’m not preoccupied with her. I feel for her.”
She drank water. Placed the glass down carefully. “Darling, eventually you’re going to have to deal with it.”
“With what?”
“Saving her. What it means to her.”
“Tim’s with her. She’s getting support.”
I’d stopped by the house in Venice two days ago. Tim had met me at the door, wanting to say something. The words had frozen in his throat- vocal guru struck mute. He clasped my hand, shook it hard, walked out. Leaving Robin and me alone in the living room. Strange to see her, just sitting there. As long as I’d known her, she’d had trouble doing nothing.
She accepted a hug, thanked me, told me she was okay.
I agreed that she was.
Both of us, getting through the moment. I stayed for a while, then left.
Allison said, “I’m not talking about support, darling.”
I said, “The way I see it, I didn’t save her. Far from it. Tim’s the hero, his call got the ball rolling. I didn’t even answer the first time he tried to reach me. And if it wasn’t for you, who knows if I’d have followed through.”
“If not for me, you’d have been there sooner.” She smiled.
“What?”
“A group effort,” she said. “That’s how you see it.”
I got up on my elbow. “Is this the best time to have this discussion?”
“What better time?”
“Tonight,” I said, “I was thinking more of a romantic evening.”
“To my mind, honesty’s part of romance,” she said. “At least a bit of it.” She rolled toward me, took my face in her hands, kissed my lips.
“I’d better not argue,” I said. “Woman with a gun and all that.”
She smiled again. Lay back down.
Got up on her elbows. Kissed me in a new way.
53
“An ironic tale for when they write my biography,” said Milo, finishing his sandwich. “I get my warrant, am feeling like an ace, and the show goes on without me.”
“Shull’s mommy hired a good lawyer,” I said. “It ain’t over till it’s over.”
“True,” he said, wiping his face. The sandwich was a do-it-yourself project. Turkey and steak and cold meatballs and whatever vegetables he’d found in my fridge, stuffed between slabs of hand-cut rye. Big enough to require a building permit.
“Still,” he said, “I confess to optimism.”
“There’s a switch.”
“You see, Alex: I am open to change.”
“You are, indeed.”
He folded his napkin. “It kills me that I missed it. Nothing like catching one in the act. In twenty years, I can count the times.”
The act had been Robin. I said nothing.
“Stahl’s doing better,” he said. “Rick says he’ll definitely live. Guy’s lucky. And stupid. Going one-on-one with Shull, no call for backup. Petra says his explanation is everything happened too fast.”