At last it was time for Daisy to go to bed. She had a small room directly opposite the converted bedroom that Holly used as her office. It had flowery pink-and-green wallpaper and flowery pink-and-green drapes and her pink-painted bed was covered with a patchwork quilt that Holly had bought at a secondhand store onEverett called Quilty Party. On top of Daisy's desk stood a jostling throng of Barbies: ballet Barbies, beach Barbies, walking-the-poodle Barbies, headless Barbies, one-armed Barbies, and Barbies dressed up in clothes that Daisy had cut out herself from cotton scraps (she wanted to be fashion designer when she grew up). All these Barbies were Holly's only material concession to Daisy having no father.
"I feel sick," said Daisy, as Holly tucked her in.
"I know. That's because you have a math test tomorrow."
"No, I feel really sick. Like I'm going to hurl all over my pillow. I mean,bleagghh,all my meatballs, all my spaghetti, all my Jell-O, everything."
"That's because you have a math test tomorrow."
"I might have meningitis."
Holly laid a hand on Daisy's forehead. "You do not have meningitis, I promise you."
"AIDS, then."
She went into her office and switched on her orange Mac. Compared to Daisy's clutter, this space was sparse and cool and painted in plain magnolia, with only three decorations on the walls: a glaring Tillamook mask made out of varnished wood; a color photograph of Daisy two days after she was born, with Holly's parents; and a black-and-white photograph of Holly sitting with her feet in the glassy water of Ira's Fountain, with David sitting a few feet away, his Dockers rolled up to the knee, staring in alarm in the opposite direction as if he had just caught sight of his future walking toward him.
In this photograph Holly looked painfully young and vulnerable, her blond hair cropped like the young Mia Farrow, her thin knees knocked together. These days she cut her hair in a more businesslike bob, but there was still something of the same breakable quality about her.
Next to her desk stood a stark black iron standard lamp and a fig tree in a black-varnished basket, and that was all. Yet, somehow the room gave her away, almost as explicitly as a signed confession. It was almost too sure of itself.
She logged on to the Portland Police Bureau's Most Wanted page. She tilted back in her captain's chair as she scrolled through the mug shots, sipping her wine. One dumb-looking meathead after another, dozens of them, and they all shared the same look of bewilderment, as if they couldn't quite believe that they were human beings like the rest of us.
John Shine, thirty-seven, wanted for kidnap and homicide. Ernest Valdez, twenty-three, wanted for kidnap and rape. Leon Broughton, twenty-six, wanted for robbery, arson, and assault with a deadly weapon. Emily Card Venue, thirty-three, wanted for triple infanticide.
Anybody who didn't know much about children's welfare would have found it hard to understand what had led these faces to be wanted for such serious crimes. But Holly had seen too many little girls with third-degree burns on their hands, like the little girl in Happy Valley yesterday afternoon, and too many baby boys with maroon bruises on their cheeks and reeking diapers, and she knew exactly why these people couldn't quite believe they were human beings and why they resented the rest of the world so deeply.
An instant message rose up on her screen.
"Good evening, Holly. Sorry to introduce myself this way. My name's Ned Fiedler. Doug tells me he mentioned me at your birthday dinner tonite. And, btw, happy birthday."
"Hello Ned," Holly typed back. "What can I do 4 U?"
"Maybe I'm being too pushy here Holly but I'd VERY much like it if you could join us at the lake this weekend."
"Don't think I can make it Ned. I have a whole lot of work 2 catch up on. Laundry too."
"Well, can I respectfully ask you to consider it? From what Katie says, I'd really enjoy your company."
"OK, I'll think about it."
"You can contact me at fiedlerpulp@aol.com anytime. I'm waiting for your call. With bated breath."
Holly smiled and shook her head in disbelief. Men had come onto her in bars and restaurants and even in the office, but nobody had approached her by Hotmail before. She found herself wondering what he looked like. Short and fat, probably, with a drape-over hair-style, a shiny mohair suit, and a personalized license plate sayingWOODGOD.
She went back to the mug shots. Roman Fischer, forty-two, wanted for armed robbery. Christopher Friekman, thirty-four, wanted for narcotics offenses and extortion. Billy Positano, nineteen, wanted for rape, assault with a deadly weapon, and grand theft auto.
Then she stopped and scrolled back up again. On the right-hand side of the screen-although he looked fifty pounds thinner and his head was shaved-was the man she had seen talking in Poor Richard's this evening, she was sure of it. Merlin Krauss, fifty-two, wanted for extortion and attempted homicide. The same acne-eroded cheeks, the same jawline, but more important the same mouth that she had been watching so intently, with a question-mark-shaped scar on the left side of the upper lip. Holly could tell that he had actually been saying something when this mug shot was taken, because his upper teeth were lightly balanced on his lower lip, his lower lip was slightly rolled over, and his cheeks were drawn in. It was the letter F, and Holly could imagine the rest of the word.
She dialed Mickey's number and sent him a text message.
"Believe suspect Merlin Krauss."
There was a long pause, but then Mickey texted back.
"100 pc?"
"110 pc."
"Yr an angel. Talk 2 U 2mro."
For a long time Holly sat finishing her wine and staring at Merlin Krauss.I wonder what made you what you are, Merlin,she thought.I wonder what nightmares you were brought up with. Or are you just what you look like, evil and stupid?
Daisy's Nightmare
In the middle of the night, her bedroom door was hurled wide open and Daisy leaped onto her bed, sweaty and tangled up and shaking. Oh God. Holly put her arm tightly around her and then she reached over for the bedside lamp.
"What's the matter, pumpkin? What's happened?"
Daisy lifted her head so that her mother could see what she was saying. Her face was pale and her hair was stuck to her forehead. "I had a horrible dream. I dreamed that I woke up and I couldn't hear anything."
"Well, shush, don't you worry, that's never going to happen to you."
"It was like all these people were screaming at me and I couldn't hear anything at all, and they were all angry with me because I couldn't hear. They had black eyes with just holes in them and they kept screaming and screaming."
Holly gave her a squeeze and then she folded back the white loose-weave bedspread and allowed Daisy to crawl into bed next to her. "There you can stay with me for a while. How about a glass of water?"
Daisy shook her head. "I was so frightened. It was horrible."
"I know. But it was only a nightmare, wasn't it? And it isn't the end of the world, being deaf. Even if they invented a way of helping me to hear again, I don't think I'd want to try it."
Daisy fiddled with the ribbons on Holly's nightshirt, tying them into an elaborate knot. "Tell me when you got deaf."
"Oh, come on. You know how I got deaf."