“This really sucks, you know?” Marshall said to Kelly. He could talk to her, after a fashion. But she was bound to be hearing it from his father, too. Getting it in stereo was the last thing she needed, especially when she was taking care of Deborah, too.
“It totally sucks,” she agreed. “I’d like to go to the cop shop and bash their stupid heads together, you know?”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “Like we expected Pitcavage to do that, or wanted him to. No way!” When he said we, he meant I.
For a wonder, she got that. “You did the right thing, Marshall. You-” Deborah chose that moment to wake up with a yowl. “One moment, please,” Kelly said, like an old-time telephone operator.
She came back with the baby and started nursing her. For modesty’s sake, she covered her breast with a blanket. It didn’t bother her, but she’d discovered it did bother Marshall.
For a bigger wonder, she remembered what she’d been saying when she got interrupted, and picked up where she’d left off: “You did the right thing. You can’t help it if Mike Pitcavage did a back flip into an empty pool on account of it. That’s not your fault.”
Marshall desperately wanted to believe it wasn’t, but he couldn’t help asking, “Whose fault is it, then?”
“His. Or Darren’s, for dealing drugs to begin with. Or nobody’s. Sometimes stuff just happens. The supervolcano wasn’t anyone’s fault. It just happened.”
“People aren’t like that, though. I don’t think they are, anyhow.” Marshall believed in free will. But if he was predestined to believe in it, how much good would that do him?
“Well, I don’t, either,” Kelly admitted. “Would turning it into a story make it any clearer in your own mind? Or I guess I mean, would that make it any better for you? I know you’ve got some of your story ideas by taking off from things you went through.”
She paid enough attention to him to notice something like that! The only other person who did was his father, and Dad paid such close attention that half the time Marshall wished he wouldn’t. Right now he felt like that about the whole thing with the Pitcavages.
Which didn’t answer her question. Slowly, Marshall said, “When I do that, I, like, file the serial numbers off first, know what I mean? I don’t see any way to do that with this one. And it doesn’t look like the kind of story that’s got a happy ending for anybody.”
“No, it doesn’t, does it?” Kelly nodded. “Stories don’t have to, though.”
“No, they don’t. But the ones that don’t are a lot harder to sell.” Marshall wouldn’t have thought of it in those terms if not for the lessons from his still-struggling career. He’d sent out a couple of pieces he’d been proud of, to have them come back over and over with rejections that said something on the order of We’d like to see more from you, only not so gloomy next time.
Kelly raised an eyebrow. “I hadn’t looked at it like that. You don’t see many tragedies on TV, either.”
“Part of it, I guess, is that most people’s lives are pretty miserable a lot of the time. They don’t need stories to remind them about it-or editors sure don’t think they do,” Marshall said. “That’s always been so, I bet, but it’s got worse since the supervolcano blew.”
“Everything’s got worse since the supervolcano blew.” After two or three seconds, Kelly corrected herself: “Almost everything. I’m married to your father now, and I wasn’t before. And we’ve got this little portable air-raid siren here now, too.” She grabbed one of Deborah’s pajamaed feet. The baby hardly knew she had feet yet. Marshall remembered John Henry discovering his. Tiny people could be pretty goddamn funny. That was bound to be one of the things that kept their parents from booting them.
“You know what? I think she looks like you,” Marshall said. Talking about his half-sister was one way not to dwell on the bigger problems of Life, the Universe, and Everything.
“Babies look like babies, is what babies look like.” But Kelly went on, “You really think so?”
“I do,” Marshall said. “Dad’s face is kinda squarer than yours, and a kid with his nose would already have a bigger one than she’s got. Take a look at Vanessa’s baby pictures if you don’t believe me. He takes after Dad more than Rob or me.”
“Well. .” Kelly, Rob realized belatedly, didn’t want to look at Vanessa’s baby photo. She slid Deborah out from under the light blanket and raised her to a shoulder. “I sort of thought the same thing, but I wasn’t sure. I know my folks think she does, but they aren’t exactly objective.”
“No, huh?” Marshall said. They both laughed.
Kelly quickly sobered, though. “I hope this story has a happy ending. It’s eating up your father, too.”
So much for babies. So much for distraction. “Yeah, I know,” Marshall said. “He’d be even worse if it wasn’t for you.”
“Thanks. That’s one of the sweetest things anybody ever told me,” Kelly said. “I just wish I could do more. I wish anybody could do more. . ” Deborah burped lustily, then spat up. Babies could be distracting in all kinds of ways.
* * *
Colin Ferguson chained his bike to the rack outside the San Atanasio Police Station. Some people made a point of greeting him as he walked to his desk. More made a point of pretending he didn’t exist. It had been like that ever since Caroline Pitcavage found her husband’s body. He kept hoping things would loosen up-a hope looking more forlorn by the day.
“Good morning, Lieutenant!” his secretary said loudly. She left no doubt about whose side she was on.
“Hey, Josie,” Colin answered, at a much lower volume. He wished there were no sides to be on. His wish seemed no more likely to be granted than his hope.
On his desk was a report about a home-invasion robbery from two nights before, at an old tract house near Sword Beach and 135th Street. The bad guys hadn’t shot anybody, but they’d had guns. Jesus Villarobles, the homeowner, was still at San Atanasio Memorial with a concussion from the pistol-whipping they’d given him.
He turned the page. Had they left fingerprints behind? Things would be easier if they had. Before he could find out, his phone rang. He picked it up. “Colin Ferguson, San Atanasio PD.”
“Hello, Lieutenant. This is Lucy Chen, over in the lab. Could I see you for a few minutes, please?”
“Sure,” Colin said, thinking Nice anybody wants to. “What’s cooking?”
“I’d rather talk about it here than over the phone, if that’s all right.”
“O-kay. Be right over.” Colin didn’t scratch his head, but he wanted to. He felt eyeballs boring into his back as he got up and walked out of the big, communal office. He might have been doing nothing more dramatic than taking a leak. Those eyeballs skewered him anyway.
The lab was down the hall, a couple of doors past the men’s room. The air inside it held a faint chemical odor. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was always there.
“What’s going on?” Colin asked Lucy. Whatever it was, he felt sure it would be something he needed to know about and no one else did. The DNA tech didn’t get excited without a good reason, or sometimes even with one-yet another reason she reminded Colin of his wife.
“This is a DNA analysis I ran last night,” Lucy Chen said, handing him a printout. “Tell me what you make of it.”
Colin wasn’t a DNA expert. He wasn’t a fingerprint expert, either, but he made a pretty fair amateur. He made a pretty fair amateur at DNA patterns, too, also because his line of work had turned him into one. And the pattern on the printout looked familiar. He’d seen it, or one much like it, way too many times. He whistled softly. “Lucy, if this isn’t the South Bay Strangler’s DNA, it’s mighty darn close.”
“It isn’t.” She took another printout off the countertop and gave it to him. “This one is from the Strangler.”
He held one in each hand. Excitement tingled through him. They were close. A break! At last, a break! After so many years, a break! If you had a relative’s DNA, you at least knew who the perp’s relative was, which put you a hell of a lot closer to grabbing him, too. He hefted the printout that didn’t come from the Strangler. “So, who does this belong to?”