"Don't worry, sweetie," Yueh said, "we'll shoot some footage of you, and you can watch it right here in this screen till you're comfortable. Okay?"
Some takes ensued-Sam hooking fingers into his mouth to pull his cheeks wide; Sam pretending to descend stairs, lowering his torso by increments from the lens's view; Sam hamming it up with a ballplayer's "hey momz."
Back to static, then an establishing shot as two PAs arranged pillows on the couch and the sound engineer fussed with a boom mike. To the side, only half in the frame, Tess finally turned and met Chase's stare.
Her voice, far from the mike, was barely audible. "Help you?"
Chase manufactured a blush. "Your husband must adore you."
"He kept the TV. I kept the ring."
The exchange was tough to make out over the foreground noise. Bear raised the volume in time to catch Chase's reply: "Why do you wear it?"
"It keeps jerks from bothering me."
"Am I bothering you?"
"Not yet."
Tim and Bear watched the rest of the B-roll for more of this daytime drama, but other than Yueh's further warming to Sam and Tess, it depicted little of value.
Bear popped the tape and thrust it into an immense jacket pocket. "You know who we gotta talk to now."
Chapter 43
Sam ground a stick into the top of the anthill, leaving it protruding like a flag. He squatted, fists in the dirt, elbows bracing his knees. Tiny red motion set the stick alive. A neighbor kid about two years younger aped Sam's stance, casting sideways glances and making minute corrections to his foot position. The sun had dropped from view behind the roof, bathing the front yard in a gray swath, a precursor to shadow. When the wind shifted, it brought laughter from the children in the park at the street's end.
Sam reached tentatively for the stick, finally snatching it and shaking off the ants while his little friend watched with wonderment. Pulled to the opposing curb, waiting for Bear to finish his check-in with the LAPD homicide detective working the Ted Sands murder, Tim watched Sam play.
Ginny came to mind, sitting on a park bench regarding her nemesis, the monkey bars, her swinging legs too short for her sneakers to scrape tanbark. No concern greater than if she was at last going to make her way across the metal bars. No knowledge of what was in store for her at the end of her brief life. No premonition of Roger Kindell. Kindell of the tall forehead, the sloppy mouth, the uncomprehending gaze.
Roger Kindell of the garage shack and the hacksaw.
The pain came, but it was duller these days. Maybe after a time, some of the nerves in a well-pried wound finally burned out. Or maybe a part of Tim had capitulated, had gratefully traded a memory sensation or two for numbness. Either way, Sam at the anthill brought Tim back over familiar terrain. Another seven-year-old on the brink of death. The difference was, Sam knew it.
Despite the fate hanging over him, he seemed like any other boy. Tim didn't know what he expected-someone more maudlin, more tragic, more precocious-but Sam was just a kid poking at insects. Tim couldn't help but reflect on his own trivial parental concerns. Someday while he worried about Tyler choking on a cashew or slipping on just-washed tile, one of the billion parts that made up his son's tiny, splendid body could malfunction, and then Tim or Dray would be the one wearing a pager. With all the resources and love that get poured into a child, year after year, there were no guarantees. A weakened artery wall. A renegade mole. A malfunctioning gene. Watching Sam issue bossy directives to his sidekick, Tim mulled over what he'd learned about Sam's stage of illness. He was a sweet kid on a slow-motion descent, a little worse every day. And there was not a thing anyone could do for him. Except Vector, and Chase had made clear the clinical trials were closed.
Tim became conscious of Bear's staring at him. Tim's focus on Sam, the comparison with Ginny-it was all embarrassingly apparent. He wondered if he felt so much for Sam because it was a way not to identify with Walker, a commando avenger so obviously like himself. Tim reined in his emotions, refocused on his job. He couldn't lose sight of Sam as a key link in an investigation.
Sam dropped his stick abruptly and ran inside. A few seconds later a burly kid on a Huffy dirt bike jumped the curb, coasting across the front yard. He hopped off his bicycle, running beside it, then letting it fall, and confronted Sam's cowed little friend.
"Where's Piss-Eyes?"
Still in his petite imitative crouch, the younger boy shrugged.
The kid kicked over the anthill, hopped on his bike, and rode off. A moment later the little boy rose, dusted off his knees, and trudged up the street, presumably to his house. Bear finished jotting some notes, hung up, and followed Tim to the house.
Tim knocked at the screen, and Kaitlin called for them to come in. She was occupied with Sam in the living room. He was curled up on the couch, listlessly flipping channels. Tim and Bear's intrusion brought a certain level of awkwardness to the domestic scene.
"What is it?" she asked.
Sam said, "Nothing, Kaitlin."
"Is it Dylan again, that little shit?"
"No. It wasn't anyone. I'm just sick of playing outside."
Kaitlin looked at Tim, and then Sam, waiting to see if Tim was going to rat him out. Tim shrugged. Seemingly exasperated with both of them, Kaitlin stormed outside.
Sam pulled himself from the couch and slumped toward the kitchen. He wore a T-shirt with a demented jester face and green lettering that said Foot killer. "Tommy gets scared when the ants come out."
"He's little," Tim said.
Sam doled out a hunk of rice from a cooker and sprinkled it with MCT oil. "Yeah, well, kids my age don't play with me."
Tim almost asked why not, but he looked at Sam's weary, world-wise face and didn't want to put him through the paces. Instead he said, "That must suck."
Sam stopped his sprinkling. He met Tim's eyes. "You get used to it."
"Listen, Sam, we gotta talk."
"So talk."
"I watched your news segment. With those guys from Vector…"
Sam's face brightened. "Dolan and Chase."
"Right. Did your mom spend any time with them?"
"Sure. When they came here for the TV story, then after during the commercial shoot. They paid me, you know. For the commercial. I wanted the PlayStation Portable, but Mom bought the dumb fridge instead."
"Did she hang out with them any other times?"
"She went to Vector for meetings sometimes. Brought me in for some testing and stuff. But she never, like"-his face screwed up with disgust-"dated them or went bowling with them or anything."
"Anyone else she saw that was, say, new?" Tim asked. "In the days before she…?"
"Killed herself? Well, that's what she did. You might as well say it."
"Okay. Before she killed herself."
"A lawyer guy. I heard her on the phone with him once. She said she was gonna go see him at his office."
"Do you know what it was about?"
"No, but when I went in the living room after, there was some stuff from Vector-like brochures? papers and stuff? — out on the couch. So maybe it had to do with that."
"Do you remember anything about the papers? Were they letters? Did they look like research?"
Sam shrugged. "That stuff's kinda boring to me."
Bear firmed his mouth, lips bunching. Tim knew the look-Bear was all for squeezing the attorney until the only privilege he considered would be having Bear out of his office. Bear's hand rustled in his pocket, and he produced a picture of Ted Sands. "Did you ever meet this guy?" Bear waited until Sam shook his head. "How 'bout this guy?" Dean's photo elicited another head shake.
Tim asked, "Do you like Dolan and Chase?"
"Yeah. Chase had a cool guitar, and he could play, like, anything. Dolan was nice, but he sucked at Dungeons amp; Dragons." Sam added thoughtfully, "I'm not sure what I did wrong."