He looked at the loaded gun in his hand, knowing that this was how domestic accidents occurred. A half-dark house, a wife or child walking in unexpectedly while the husband holds a loaded weapon, thining he's heard somebody break in, that somebody might have a reason to.
He went back to the work room. As he was putting the damn thing back in the safe, it came to him suddenly. His legs went mushy on him. No, it was too grotesque to consider. He had to sit.
Larry had finally hit Matt. And more than once. Maybe Matt had come in during the fight and taken sides with his mother, pulling at his dad to leave his mom alone, and Larry had lost it entirely with the boy, smashing the gun he was holding into the side of his face. And then realizing what he'd done, that this couldn't be covered up or undone. The boy, maybe with a broken jaw, a living indictment of what Larry had become, of who he really was. His career would be over, his carefully ordered, totally controlled life… And in a beat, as Matt lay on the floor by the bathroom and Jennifer begged him to stop, the only solution had come to him. Destroy the evidence of what he'd done. A bullet would erase any sign that he'd ever hit his son. They could never say that.
And then there would be nothing left, no point in continuing your life, so you turn the gun on yourself.
But before he does, he turns to Jennifer and says, "This is all your fault." And, being who she is, she at that moment, and beyond, believes him.
Hardy, on the floor in the workroom, followed it through to the end. But of course it couldn't have happened that way. The gun being gone eliminated that possibility.
Except if Jennifer, blaming herself as she always did for the fight and everything it precipitated, removed the gun herself, took it to the dumpster? That way it wouldn't be Larry's fault. The precious reputation of Dr. Larry Witt would be saved. And she – Jennifer – she'd get what she deserved for having started it, for being who she was.
It was too twisted. It couldn't have been that.
And yet some of it did fit – Jennifer's unyielding denial that she had killed her son and husband. And, more chillingly, he thought, it fit her profile – self-hatred, guilt, the need to be punished. Because, in fact, her immediate feeling when it was done was her guilty joy that Larry was dead. She'd hated him, hated everything he'd done. Though she almost couldn't physically bear the loss of Matt, it didn't – in that first instant flush – diminish her overriding happiness that Larry was gone. That she was free of him at last.
And if she could feel that way right after losing her son, then she had to feel she truly was without a sould and deserved whatever punishment society gave her. In fact, she would help it. She had helped it. She was doing this to herself.
Hardy leaned back against the wall, feverish. This wasn't what happened. It couldn't have been what happened. He had other ideas he had to explore and they made a lot more sense. He was delirious.
"You can't do it today."
Hardy's fever had leveled at 101, which was also the age he felt. He was on his third cup of black coffee, having forced himself to down some hash, toast and orange juice. "The appointment's at nine. I've got to go. I've only got three days."
Three days until Villars, the thirteenth juror, gave the final ruling on the verdict – Tuesday at 9:30 a.m.. Hardy had his automatic motion to set aside the verdict due at that time and, in spite of everything, thought he still at least had a chance to reduce the sentence to life in prison. If oly he could find something to bring Villars to it, something she could find admissible.
After the verdict he had spent half the night with Jennifer talking about options. He held back his trump – on his own he had decided that he would at least lay out the battered-woman issue to Villars if it was the only thing that could mitigate death. But in the meanwhile, he had filled Jennifer in on the YBMG situation and she had authorized him to go wherever he had to and do whatever was needed to get any proof he could. At least she now wanted to live.
His first step – at eight on a Friday night – had been calling the chairman of YBMG. Dr. Clarence Stone lived in San Francisco, and, persuaded by Hardy's urgency, had cleared an hour in his home on a Saturday morning for him. So flu or no, Hardy had to go.
Rebecca and Vincent were playing with Leggo's in the nursery. Frannie said, "Look, you're sick. You've been working around the clock. You haven't been home in a month. You've got to take care of yourself."
He tried to smile through the haze. "That's my plan. I will. Soon. Promise."
Vincent let out a wail and Frannie rushed to the back of the house. Hardy slowly got up and, more slowly, grabbing handholds as he passed them so he wouldn't fall down, made his way to the nursery door. Vincent had caught his finger in one of the joints of the stroller and Rebecca had sent up a sympathetic wail. Turning his head away from her, he picked her up and bounced her in his arms.
In a minute or so, the kids in their arms, they bundled back to the kitchen. Frannie, holding Vincent, was getting a piece of ice cream from the freezer to put on the pinch. "Can't you just appeal like everyone else?" she said.
"Peel what?" Rebecca asked. "Banana peel?"
Vincent looked over Frannie's shoulder for the banana peel, repeating it. They started to chant. "Banana peel, banana peel." It continued, getting louder. His kids were some comedians. It was great that they loved each other, had the same sense of humor. This banana peel game was funny funny funny, a real laugh riot.
Hardy thought his head was going to levitate without him attached. Now, of course, the kids wanted bananas and, predictably, they were out of bananas.
"You feel good enough to go out, why don't you take them to the store and buy some?" He knew she was justified to some degree in feeling this way, but that didn't make him appreciate her at the moment. "Both of them," she continued. "Mommy needs a break."
Clarence Stone live in a mansion in the Seacliff area, geographically less than a mile from Hardy's house and psychologically in another galaxy. The short walk from the head of the circular drive to the front door wiped Hardy out. He took nearly a minute getting his breath before he rang the doorbell.
A bona fide butler admitted him and they walked a long hallway, their footfalls swallowed by the thick Oriental runner. The butler ushered him into a library/office, where a white-haired man with a clipped mustache sat at a desk that rivaled the one in Freeman's office for expanse. He wore a maroon silk robe and was writing with a fountain pen. When Hardy was introduced he finished writing, put down the pen, stood – he was wearing black slacks under the robe – came around the desk and offered his hand.
"You don't look good, son."
Hardy didn't doubt it – he also didn't feel good. He'd had chills driving over. The thick fog seemed to insulate against any warmth or even light. The heater in the car had been turned up high, blasting him, but it hadn't helped.
"Touch of the flu," Hardy said. "That's all."
Stone the doctor told his butler to bring in some tea with lots of lemon and honey. He had Hardy sit down on a club chair and remove his coat. He asked his permission to look him over. No charge.
"You getting much sleep? You ought to stay in bed with this, you know?"
Through his chattering teeth, Hardy laughed weakly. "I got my eight hours this week. I'm fine."
Stone had an old-fashioned black doctor's satchel and he set it on the floor now, taking out some instruments. He listened to Hardy's chest, stuck an instant-read thermometer into his ear, looked in his ears and at his throat. "Yep, you've got the flu."
The tea arrived and Stone prepared a couple of glasses. "This must be important," he said. "You really shouldn't be out walking around."