"I'm sure there are. But it seems like a risky way to set off a bomb to me, don't you think?"
She was right, of course. I shuddered at the thought of the alternative. "If it was a radio switch, whoever set it off had to be close to Naomi. Close enough to see what she was doing, right?"
Lauren said, "Yes."
We both grew quiet as we digested the image of the bomber witnessing the carnage. Finally, I said, "Sam said every cop in the state is looking for Ramp."
She allowed my words to dissipate like smoke and began caressing my neck. The taut muscles that stretched up from my back barely yielded to her touch. She said, "Alan?"
"Mmmm?"
"Did you think Grace and I were in danger?"
"I was never really sure. Naomi hinted at things, but she was never really clear about what she knew. I tried to make decisions… as though you were at some risk."
"I don't get it. What do you mean? If you thought we were in danger, why didn't you tell me what was going on? Why didn't you go to the police?"
There was no mistaking her words. They were an accusation. She was asking how I could put my family at risk.
I made sure she was looking at me. "Like I said, I was reading between the lines. And Naomi warned me that if I told anybody about her concerns, she'd stop talking to me, and then I would have never known whether you were really at risk or not. And I wouldn't have known what the two boys were planning or how to protect you. Or anybody else."
"Even after they found the bomb at Royal's house?"
"While we were at dinner the other night with Adrienne, I had a cop friend of Sam's bring her K-9 over here to check for explosives. She had the dog search the house and your car."
"You did?"
"Yes. She didn't find anything, obviously."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
I didn't want to answer that question, but I did. "One, privilege, which, given what happened today, is lame, I admit. But yesterday, it made some sense. Two, I thought you'd insist on going to the police, and then Naomi would stop talking to me. Three, your health. Although I was afraid, I really didn't know that you were at risk and I didn't want to add stress to your life by alarming you. I've been worried about an exacerbation of your MS."
She digested my words. "And now?"
"I'm still worried about an exacerbation. But now Naomi's dead. She won't be giving me any more clues. The police are all we have."
Silence settled on the room like a comforter snapped over a bed.
I broke the silence. "I didn't have any good choices, Lauren. I did what I thought was best. I thought I was protecting us."
"I know," she said.
"Maybe I blew it. Maybe I made the wrong call," I said.
"Somebody's dead," she said. The words were her way of agreeing that perhaps I had made the wrong call.
"Yes. But I'm still not convinced that things would have been better if I had opened my mouth." I didn't know what else to say. "What exactly would you have wanted me to do, Lauren?"
"I'm not sure. I'll think about it, okay?"
For some reason I thought of Lucy Tanner just then. I was eager to change the subject anyway, so I asked, "Did you and Cozy hear from Lucy today?"
"You mean about Susan?"
"Yes. How she feels about all the news coverage about… Susan being her mother."
"Cozy got a message this morning. Lucy said she was planning to spend the day in Denver-I suspected to try to avoid the media-and she was going to get back in touch with him this evening. The last time I spoke with him was a couple of hours ago, and he hadn't heard from her again.
"Before the bomb went off, Alan, I was thinking of calling Susan. Just to see how she was. This has to be terrible for her, too-all the stress. But the day sort of got away from me, you know?"
"Yes," I said. "I know."
The phone beside the bed rang. For the third time that night, Sam Purdy was calling.
CHAPTER 38
Sam picked me up at our house around eleven-thirty. It took me twice as long as it should have to climb into his Cherokee. When we arrived across town at the Peterson house on Jay Street, it took me at least a minute to pull myself back out of the car. The shrapnel wound on my butt had tightened up as though the sutures were contracting like rubber bands, and pain was pulsing across my hindquarters like the backbeat of some hellacious tune.
Watching me, Sam said, "You should really be home in bed."
"Yes, I should be home in bed. But you said this might help find Lucy. There are times you have to play hurt."
A lilt of mirth in his tone, he said, "My, my. You're talking like a hockey player." From Sam, this was the ultimate compliment and expression of appreciation.
I laughed. It hurt, I winced. "Hardly," I said.
Sam arrived at Susan Peterson's threshold long before I did. I was still trying to mount the single step in the walk without having to bend my leg. He turned and looked back down the walk and said, "By the way, I decided not to tell her I was bringing you with me. Thought the surprise factor might work in my favor."
"Whatever."
"Your role inside? In case you're wondering, it's lubricant. That's your job. If the bolt seems stuck, you're the WD-40. Otherwise let me do my thing. Got it? I may be nice to her, I may not. I don't plan these things out. But don't interfere unless things get squeaky."
I nodded. I had a pretty good idea what to expect. In my experience, Sam was almost always the good cop and the bad cop all rolled up into one tasty package.
He waited for me to join him on the landing. "Why don't you ring the bell? She might be happy to see you."
"Sam, the last time I saw her, Susan was bedridden. She's not going to answer her own door. And anyway, it's almost midnight and it's Susan Peterson. She's not going to be happy to see anybody. Go ahead and ring the damn bell."
He did.
Susan's home-health-care worker pulled open the door after twenty or thirty seconds. She was a middle-aged woman with a big smile and bright green eyes. No makeup, wild curly brown hair, peasant blouse. I felt certain she'd been a hippie thirty years earlier.
"I'm Detective Purdy," Sam said, holding out his badge. "I phoned a little while ago."
"Alan Gregory," I added. "I'm a friend of Susan's."
She eyed me suspiciously, as though she was finding it hard to believe that Susan actually had friends. "Hello, hello, we've been expecting you. Come on in. I'm Crystal. Susan's upstairs waiting. Let me show you."
Sam said, "That's not necessary. I know the way." His voice was less than pleasant. I was placing my bet that he was going to start this process in the bad-cop persona.
I said, "The detective has been here before." What I didn't tell Crystal was that Sam's previous visit to this house was the night that Susan's husband was murdered.
My ass throbbing, I gazed longingly at the electric lift that had been installed to assist Susan up and down the staircase. I was tempted to ask Crystal how to use it. I didn't. Sam waited at the top of the stairs while I took the steps one at a time, dragging my wounded leg behind me.
"You're quite a gimp, you know?" He'd lowered his voice to a semblance of a whisper.
"Yeah, I know." After what felt like a technical climb in Eldorado Canyon, I joined him on the upstairs landing.
"You ready? You go first. Go lubricate."
I knocked and walked in. Susan had a hospital bed in her room. Although a bedside lamp was on, she appeared to be sleeping. "Susan? It's Alan Gregory. I came along with that detective who wants to talk with you."
She opened her eyes halfway and said my name. She appeared medicated. I wondered if she was taking something for pain or for sleep.
"Susan, how are you doing?"
"Oh, the pain. I'm having some pain."
"You took something for it?"
"I take things, but they can't find anything that really works. Doctors, doctors. The girl who's here-she's, she's-oh, let's just say she tries to help. I suppose they all try, don't they?" The aroma of her condescension and self-pity filled the room like a tuna sandwich left behind in the trash.