“What about the Larsens?”
Frank Carter shrugged. “They don’t think much of me, David, but they love their grandson. They’re not going to do anything to hurt their chances of seeing him. That’s why I hired my own attorney. I’ve filled out the paperwork for a loan to pay them back. My parents will help. I’m not going to let them dictate how I raise Jake.”
Maybe Carter had grown into a man after all. Sloane hoped so, for Jake’s sake.
“How about tomorrow?” Sloane asked. “Jake and I have something we need to do.”
EPILOGUE
HOLY CROSS CEMETERY
DALY CITY, CALIFORNIA
The other headstones were mostly gray concrete, some blackened and chipped with age. A few were marble, but none were blue, Tina’s favorite color. Sloane had wanted a headstone that would stand out and be easily found. He had succeeded.
CHRISTINA ANNE SLOANE
Seeing her name etched in the stone brought a finality he could not ignore, a proclamation for everyone to see. Tina had not left for the store. She was not on a trip. She was not coming home after a long day at the office.
She was not coming back, ever.
Sloane pulled tight the collar of his jacket, feeling the chill of the damp, overcast day. The sky seemed to mourn with him, emitting a persistent, light mist. Overhead he heard the hushed engine of a plane hidden somewhere in the fog, and the sky reminded him of so many of the mornings at Three Tree Point when they would walk along the beach in the marine fog.
It was time to go home. As hard as it would be to go back to the house that he and Tina loved, the house in which they had intended to grow old together, Sloane would not run from the memories. To do so would dishonor Tina.
He stood at her grave uncertain of what to say. Not having learned any prayers, he spoke from his heart.
“I miss you,” he said. “I really miss you. I miss holding you and seeing you smile. I miss the smell of your hair and the softness of your skin, and the way you used to giggle just before we made love. I miss feeling completely lost in you, and sitting on the porch holding hands watching the sunset. I still imagine us sitting there, old and gray. You told me once you had always loved me and always would. I didn’t understand what that meant, not completely, but I do now. You taught me to love selflessly.” He paused, catching his breath. “I couldn’t destroy Frank in court. I couldn’t do that to Jake. I love him too much to hurt him. Frank seems to have changed. He says he loves Jake, and Jake seems happy. He’ll have a family. I couldn’t give him that, not without you.”
He took a deep breath and pushed his hands deeper inside his jacket pockets. “It should never have been you. You were too good to die. It should have been me.
“I think about you and I wonder . . . if there is a heaven, whether you’re happy. I hope you are. I know that I have to stop blaming myself, Tina, not because I don’t still feel guilty, but because I have to be there for Jake. He still has his whole life ahead of him, and I have to make sure it’s as good as it can possibly be. I promised you that. I just wish I knew that you understood, that you forgive me.”
A noise drew his attention. Beside him an old woman had knelt on a wool shawl spread on the lawn and was brushing away leaves and picking at elongated strands of grass at the base of the stone where the blades of the gardener’s lawn mower could not reach. Perhaps sensing Sloane’s silence, she sat back on her heels. “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t disturb you.”
At her side, hidden when she had been tending to the grave, Sloane saw a bundle of red roses. Some of the buds had bloomed wide, others were just beginning to open. Thorns traced the stems.
The woman considered the dates beneath the name on Tina’s headstone. “So young. So recent.” She got up from her knees. “Your wife?”
Sloane nodded.
“I’m sorry. I know how painful it is.”
The dates on the tombstone that the woman had been tending revealed that the man buried there had been dead more than thirty years.
“When does it stop hurting?” he asked.
A breeze swayed the branches of the oak tree, causing them to creak and click against one another. The woman brushed a strand of white hair from her face, revealing cobalt blue eyes. “The ache in your heart each morning when you wake to realize she’s really gone?” She held out her hand. When Sloane took it her touch caused his chest to radiate, despite the chilled weather. “It doesn’t,” she said. “Time doesn’t heal all wounds. But it does deaden the pain so that we can go on.”
“How?” Sloane asked. “How do you go on?”
She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “The only way we can, dear. Moment to moment. Hour by hour. Because, what else are you going to do?”
They stood in silence, the breeze picking up. Sloane saw Frank Carter’s car winding through the cemetery. He slipped free his hand, thanked the woman for her words of comfort, and walked toward the curb. The passenger door pushed open almost before Carter had pulled over and stopped, and Jake was out of the car, running toward Sloane with a huge grin on his face. Frank Carter had kept his word.
Sloane’s arms engulfed the boy, the impact nearly knocking him over.
Frank Carter had stepped from the car but did not approach, the two men exchanging a nod.
“Are you ready to do this?” Sloane asked.
Jake stepped back, no longer smiling, the weight of their task sobering.
As they walked back toward her grave, Sloane searched for but did not see the woman standing amid the rows of rounded stones and assumed she had knelt again to tend to her husband’s grave. But when he reached the proper row she did not kneel there. The woman was gone, though the roses remained, the red a beautiful contrast against the blue marble.
“You remembered,” Jake said.
Sloane looked at him, uncertain.
“Roses. You always bought them for Mom after your trials.”
In his mind Sloane saw Tina standing on the outdoor patio at the Tin Room, hand on her hip, smiling up at him, coy.
“Roses? For me?”
And all was forgiven.
“She’s not here, you know,” Jake said, looking down at the grave. He pointed to his heart. “She’s in here, with us.”
“I think you’re right,” Sloane said.
“Frank says I can visit over Christmas.”
“I know. What do you say we go skiing up at Whistler?”
Jake nodded. “That might be fun,” he said. “But I think I’d rather just go home, Dad, you know? Do you think we could do that?”
Sloane nodded. “I do now.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ON FATHER’S DAY, June 15, 2008, I lost my dad after a three-year battle with cancer. That he would die on Father’s Day was particularly appropriate given that my father raised ten children. But then, my father always had great timing, as any great comedian does. Born on Christmas Day, 1931, he was one of the funniest men you would ever meet. Truly larger than life, he commanded a room not by being loud or outspoken, but rather through his intimate and quiet demeanor. My father had a way of standing back, taking everything in, and smiling knowingly at it all. I always said he should have been a writer because he lived his life by the writer’s mantra—show don’t tell. I don’t recall him ever yelling at me, even raising his voice, and I don’t recall any father-son chats about not cheating or stealing or lying. And yet he taught me all those lessons and more through the way he lived his own life. He was the hardest working, most honest man I’ve ever met and I regard him now as simply the best man I have ever known. My greatest concern, living in Seattle, was that I would not get to say good-bye when my father died. But again, Dad’s timing was impeccable. I went to the Bay Area to visit with my father the Thursday before Father’s Day and spent three days and nights with him. I was in the house that Sunday morning when he left this world. He is now buried at Holy Cross Cemetery in Daly City beneath a blue marble headstone. He had wanted to redo the kitchen counters but died
before he could. My mother got him the marble anyway.
I wouldn’t be writing books had it not been for my father. His only goal in life, it seemed, was to give his children every chance to follow their dreams. This is mine. I owe him and my mother my career.
I’ve dedicated this book to my brothers and sisters. Growing up in a family of ten was remarkable in so many respects it is hard to put it down in words, but I hope to someday. I was never lonely, that’s for sure, and I was surrounded by more love than one person has a right to have. My older sisters, Aileen, Susie, and Bonnie helped to raise me, and didn’t let me get away with much. Thanks to them I know how to cook, clean, do the laundry, and raise my own children. My older brother, Bill, once my tormentor, has become my best friend. My baby sister Joann will always occupy that place in my heart reserved for baby sisters, and my younger brothers, Tom, Larry, Sean, and Michael, are all good men and good friends whom I admire, respect, and love. Thanks for making growing up so much fun.
I also dedicated this novel to Sam Goldman. Sam is a character in an as yet unpublished novel, though I am confident it will be published soon. I could never capture the true spirit of Sam Goldman, however. Sam taught me journalism and to love to write. More importantly, he taught me to love every minute of every day. No matter the circumstances, Sam always has a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye and greets everyone with such expressions as, “Hello, great hero,” and “Keep smiling, chief.” He has more optimism than ten men. In many respects, Sam became the grandfather I never had. Though he is not that old, he is certainly that wise.
To Dr. Shane Macaulay, who has his hands full with his career and family but always finds the time to help me with medicine, weapons, and common sense. Thanks to my brother, Tom, a surgeon who helped me to make the emergency-room chapter real. Thanks to my father-in-law, Robert Kapela, M.D., who helped with the issues about autopsies and provided articles on magnets. Thanks also to all of those who were willing to read the manuscript and provide me their insight but who wish to remain anonymous. You all made it better.
And a special thanks to Sim Osborne, attorney and friend. David Sloane is a fictitious character, as are the events portrayed in this book. But the issues concerning toys and child safety, as well as the potential dangers of magnets, are real. Sim fought the battles in the trenches and was willing to share some of his experiences with me to bring this book to life. Along the way he never broke a client confidence. I am grateful for his help.
There are also a number of books and articles out there on the toy industry and the Consumer Product Safety Commission, particularly its downsizing under prior administrations. I read everything I could get my hands on, but I’m sure despite all the research and my best efforts, that I have made some mistakes. Any mistakes in this book are mine and mine alone. If you find one, let me know. I’m always interested in learning.
Thanks to Meg Ruley of the Jane Rotrosen Agency, my agent. Meg has never wavered in her confidence for my career and remains a beacon of light. I am indebted to her for so much. Thanks also to the rest of the Rotrosen team for their support. I couldn’t do it without you.
Thanks to Touchstone/Simon & Schuster for believing in Bodily Harm and in me. To my editor, Trish Lande Grader, thanks for your insight and kindness. Thanks to publisher Stacy Creamer and to Trish Todd, Stacy Lasner, Marcia Burch, Megan Clancy, Tyler LeBleu, art director Cherlynne Li, production editor Josh Karpf, and assistant editor Lauren Spiegel. If I missed anyone, you know you have my thanks.
To Louise Burke, Pocket Books publisher, and Pocket Books associate publisher Anthony Ziccari, as well as editor Abby Zidle, for great insight and support. And thanks to all on the Touchstone and Pocket Books sales forces. I wouldn’t be writing this without you.
Thank you also to the loyal readers who e-mail me to tell me how much they enjoy my books and await the next. You are the reason I keep looking for the next David Sloane adventure, and beyond.
And always, first in my heart, my wife and my kids; you bring me more joy than one man has a right to experience. I love you all.
Finally, to Nick, our fifteen-year-old Rhodesian Ridgeback who also lost his battle with melanoma last July and now rests in peace on the family farm nearby. He was much loved by us all, but loved us all more in return, especially my wife. For a dog, he had great taste in women. You were a good dog, my first, and you taught me much about myself. We will miss you. I will miss you.
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