I take Sam to the cemetery so she can spend some time with her mother. With all that’s happened, I figure it’ll be the last time the three of us are together for a while. I carry Sam out of the car and sit her down by her mother’s grave and we hold hands and I tell her over and over that everything is going to be okay. There are plenty of other people out at the cemetery, all of them like me, spending time with the dead; Christmas Day is a day for celebration no matter what world you’re in. When I head back to the car with Sam, people keep watching us, and though I’m used to it, this morning it bothers me more than ever. I shield Sam from their stares and drive her back to the motel. She’s asleep again before we get there, and I lay her back on the bed and check on her every five or ten minutes, sometimes holding her hand, not sure what I should do next. I leave the TV on and flick channels but nothing of any interest comes up. Outside, Christmas afternoon is looking like a hot one; only a couple of clouds in the sky, the sun beating down on the city. Mine’s the only car in the parking lot out front. I figure everybody else has family or a better place to be than this motel.
I sit at the window watching the Christmas day, thinking about what today could have meant, about the presents we didn’t get to give, the family time we never got to have, the Christmas lunch and barbecue dinner and the excitement of Santa. I think about my dad, wondering where he is now, what or who he’s looking for. I think about the darkness he’s trying to satisfy. My own monster is quiet now, and maybe that’s the way it’ll stay.
My thoughts turn to Schroder when his car pulls in to the motel parking lot. Two patrol cars pull up alongside him, but Schroder is the only one who gets out. A fourth car, a dark station wagon, also pulls in. I watch Schroder go to the office; he disappears inside for about sixty seconds, then comes back out. It’s Christmas Day and I figure he’d rather be anywhere else but here, and I’m the same—except there are still a few places worse than this, for me. Jail is one of them. The slaughterhouse is another.
He walks past my window and glances in and sees me but doesn’t stop. He heads right to the door and knocks on it.
“Come on, Eddie,” he says, going with Eddie instead of Edward, and I figure he thinks it makes him sound friendly. “Open up.”
“Leave us alone,” I say.
“Eddie . . .”
“It’s Christmas.”
“You can’t keep her here.”
“What?”
“You can’t keep your daughter here. It isn’t right.”
“There are plenty of things that aren’t right.”
“I know that, Eddie.”
“You were wrong.”
“About what?”
“About a lot of things,” I say. “Mostly about this city being on a precipice. It’s already fallen, don’t you see that?”
“Open the door, Eddie.”
I get up and open the door. There’s nowhere to run, and no need to. It’s all over. I have my daughter back and the police can deal with the rest, they can find my dad, they can find the men who killed my wife. Schroder doesn’t look as if he’s slept. He steps inside, carrying a brown paper bag.
“Don’t take her yet,” I say.
“Eddie . . .”
“Please, it’s Christmas.”
“I know. It’s not fair. It’s . . . it’s just the way it is.”
I take a step back. Schroder looks over at the other cars and the station wagon turns around and backs toward the room. Schroder comes in and looks down at Sam, who isn’t even aware of his presence.
“Such a beautiful little girl,” he says.
“I know.”
“I have a daughter of my own,” he says. “And a son.”
“And?”
“And I don’t know, I guess I wanted you to know. Maybe what you said about this city, maybe I should take your advice and get out of here.”
“Then who will protect it?”
Two men step out of the station wagon and open the back of it. They lift out a gurney and a sheet.
“Let me take her,” I say.
“It’s not how it’s done.”
“Please . . .”
“I’m sorry, Eddie, I’m really, really sorry.”
At first I stand back as the two men come inside, and then Schroder has to hold me back as they lay Sam on the stretcher. They unfold a sheet and drape it over her, then carry her away. Schroder opens the paper bag in his hand and pulls out Mr. Fluff ’n’ Stuff. He lifts the sheet and tucks it between Sam’s arm and her body.
“We’ll take good care of her,” he says.
I try to say something but can’t. It feels like Schroder has extended his fist right down my throat. I cry, and right then Schroder embraces me and I let it all out, crying on his shoulder as the two men take my dead daughter out of the motel room and out of my life.
chapter fifty-nine
Edward sits in the passenger seat saying nothing on the way to the police station. When they arrive, Schroder leads him into an interrogation room and heads back out to grab a couple of coffees and to let Hunter compose himself. The police station is busier than it’s ever been on a Christmas day; the task force to find Jack Hunter is operating at full speed, as are the people searching for the final two bank robbers. It’s only a matter of time now—but of course everything is always just a matter of time.
Seeing the little dead girl was hard. Once again he imagined it was his own daughter, and once again it brought him close to tears, and when he hugged Edward and held him he had no idea he was about to do it before it happened, and no idea of the impact it would have on him. Hunter sobbed into his shoulder, his entire body convulsing, and they stayed that way for what seemed like ages before Hunter pulled himself away.
It was almost seven o’clock in the morning by the time Schroder got home. His family was awake. They hadn’t waited up for him—his daughter had woken early because that’s what Christmas was all about, at least for the kids. His wife had let her open just one present; she was waiting for him to get home before opening the rest. He managed to stay awake for another hour before going to bed, and had got almost four hours’ sleep before his wife came in to wake him. She handed him his cell phone. He didn’t want to answer it but he had to. Witnesses had spotted Edward Hunter that morning at the cemetery where his wife was buried. They’d phoned the police because Edward was carrying his daughter around and his daughter obviously wasn’t just sleeping. Before the phone call was over, there was more news—another body had been found.
A week ago Hunter had everything—a wife, a child, a job, he had dreams, the family had Christmas, they all had a future. It makes Schroder sick to know that on any given day your entire future can change.
He makes his way back toward the interrogation room and has his hand on the door handle, the two cups of coffee balanced in his other hand, when his cell phone rings. He steps back from the door and almost drops both coffees while fumbling for the phone.
“Schroder,” he says.
“Hey, Carl. I hear it’s been a long night,” Tate says.
“You got something for me?”
“Yeah. I know who put Roger Harwick up to stabbing Jack Hunter.”
“Who?”
“You’re not going to believe it,” Tate says, but he’s wrong, because Schroder does. After all—the last twenty-four hours have been nothing but believable.
chapter sixty
I knew Sam was dead from the moment I saw her in the slaughter-house. I knew it before I had even stepped fully into the room. Felt it, even, if that makes sense. Knew it, felt it, saw it—and then ignored it. Just pushed it out of my mind for as long as I could until somebody—and it took Schroder to do it—came along and shoved the reality back into my face.