At two in the morning the father returned to the room, dulled and incoherent in his few attempts to share. Boldt rose to leave them, but the woman said, “Stay if you want,” and Boldt sat back down. He was not certain what drew him to this boy or this woman or this room, and he knew firsthand the trials of taking a personal interest in the victims-a detective needed a certain degree of distance-but he kept his seat and stayed. For some reason he found it impossible to leave.
At two-forty, several of the electronic monitors sounded alarms at once, and Boldt’s pulse quickened as Slater Lowry’s faded. A team of nurses and physicians swarmed the boy’s bedside. Their work silence the alarms, and twenty minutes later, with the boy stabilized, the doctor held a private conference with the parents. After that, Boldt remained outside the room, viewing the boy through the glass window that communicated with the nurses’ station, where the monitor signals were repeated on small television screens tucked beneath the counter. Inside the room there was only enough space for three chairs, and Boldt’s was now occupied by a woman minister who prayed quietly, her chair pulled close alongside the bed, the boy’s limp hand clutched between her own, her lips moving in silent prayer. Boldt realized there were to be no more beaches for Slater Lowry, no more late-summer nights, no more smiles or complaints or singing or trading football cards-no more birthdays.
The nurses offered Boldt a seat and offered him coffee. When a third woman reminded him the cafeteria was open twenty-four hours, he turned and snapped, “It’s him that needs you, not me!” And there was no time to apologize to her, for the monitor alarms called out for a second time, ringing in Boldt’s ears like church bells.
The moment of death, recorded as 3:11 A.M. Saturday, June 30, played out before Boldt in an eerie and hollow silence. The monitors cried out the truth, though Boldt clung to hope. He encouraged the boy to recovery, a spectator rooting from the sidelines. The nurses and doctors once again rushed to revive the boy, but for all their efforts, all the technology, there were no miracles left.
The parents hugged tightly in terror; the minister stepped out of the way and closed her eyes.
In the midst of a silent scream, Betty Lowry glanced over her shoulder and met eyes with Boldt through the window, and though only a fraction of a second, he saw that her pain and hope had given way to the disbelief of acceptance.
The boy’s final heartbeat was followed by a series of straight green lines in a race across the screens-chasing the next patient.
The doctor turned and offered apologetic eyes filled with sympathy and compassion.
Boldt imagined this boy huddled over his model of the Space Shuttle, eyes curious and sparked with challenge. He imagined the excited expressions in his own son’s eyes, and hoped never to lose him, never to count him among the statistics.
“No more,” Boldt whispered aloud, his promise fogging the glass, his right hand gripped in a fist. A promise made from the most sincere, the most private place in his heart.
A promise soon to be broken.
Boldt arrived home sometime after four. His entrance awakened Miles. Liz rolled over in bed and admonished, “You caused it. You handle it.” She gathered the sheets around her like a cocoon and her head sank back into the pillow, and he felt a desperate urge to make love with her. To erase the death of that young boy.
For forty-five minutes Miles would have nothing of going back to sleep. He finally did so, clutched in the warm arms of his father, who subsequently fell asleep sitting up on the living room couch. At six-thirty Boldt was once again awakened, this time by his son struggling to be free. Late, he rose quickly from the couch and crashed to the floor when his legs and back failed him. Miles ran into their bedroom. Liz appeared in her underwear and said in a groggy voice, “If you’re alive, please move your right hand.” She pulled off his shoes, rubbed his feet, and helped him to stand.
He made coffee and toast for her and poured himself a bowl of granola, waiting for his pot of tea to steep. Miles was assisted by his father in smearing part of a banana and some instant oatmeal over most of his face. Liz appeared at twenty to eight wearing jeans and a T-shirt-weekend clothes. Boldt felt tempted to explain his evening to her but didn’t know where to start. He was a mass of confusion, fatigue, and frustration. He glanced at the wall clock. Late.
“I miss you,” he heard her say sometime during his frantic efforts to change shirts and shave. He had been a lousy father and an even worse husband these past four days, and though he wasn’t keeping score, he feared maybe she was.
Back in the kitchen with her, the two of them talked over each other as they hurried through a running list that included shopping that had to be done, oil that needed changing, the plumber that had overcharged for shoddy work, a dental appointment Boldt had missed, and then, dropped as a bombshell, Liz said, “I’m two months late.”
“Late?”
“My period. I’m two months late.”
“Months?” he asked, stunned.
“That’s the usual way it happens.”
“Two months late.” He made it a statement.
Liz wiped her son’s chin.
“And?” Boldt asked.
“And what?”
“When are you going to the doctor?”
“I’m going to buy one of those in-home kits first.”
“When are you going to do the test?” He had unknowingly stepped closer to her. They stood only inches apart, their voices gentle. He took her by the waist. The world seemed a miraculous place to him. A place where one child lost was so quickly replaced by another.
“When would you like me to?” she asked.
“Will you wait?”
“Of course I will.”
“I’ll bring Chinese.” Her favorite. “And beer,” he added.
“Better make it nonalcoholic.”
“I can’t believe this.”
“I’m thirty-eight, love. It’s a long road between here and there. It may be nothing, don’t forget.”
“I love you,” he said.
“Those are nice words to hear.”
He squeezed her waist. “I miss you, too.”
“You don’t look very good,” she said honestly. She meant that he was old for this. She meant that he belonged behind a desk with regular hours, or maybe she was suggesting that he might have to quit the department-again-if a child came.
“Never felt better,” he lied.
“Go on,” she said, amused, shoving him gently toward the door.
“Chinese,” he reminded her. “Seven o’clock. I’ll call.”
“Like last night?” She obviously couldn’t resist saying this, and he couldn’t blame her-but he did.
“I’ll call. I promise.”
Her eyes apologized to him. And there seemed in this expression of hers an appreciation of him-of their shared feelings, of their mutual efforts to define and maintain some semblance of a life together, and perhaps even for his part in creating the child that might be within her at this very moment.
“Seven,” she confirmed.
“And if it’s a boy,” Boldt added, “I have a name for him.”
Following the eight o’clock shift change, when Boldt’s skeleton crew, weekend squad replaced Pasquini’s, inheriting a gang shooting and an assault-with-intent in a bar-fight-turned-knifing, Boldt was officially detailed to the Tin Man. His duties as squad leader were to be passed to Chris Danielson, his squad’s newcomer. Boldt needed LaMoia and Gaynes for his own purposes; Frank Herbert was available to Danielson. Guccianno was on vacation leave for another ten days.
They called Danielson “Hollywood” because of his Vuarnet sunglasses and ostrich boots. He was a handsome black man who carried a chip on his shoulder the size of Rhode Island because he owned the highest individual clearance rate ever recorded in the books. Danielson kept to himself, rarely socializing in any of the cop bars or at functions. He was ambitious, maybe too ambitious for his peers. The complaints were that he avoided the phone, avoided th
e Book, allowing others in the squad to pick up his slack. Pasquini had passed him off to Boldt’s squad for this very reason, but Boldt was glad to have him. Danielson liked black holes. He thrived on attempting to clear those cases where others had failed-and he was good at it, which also accounted for his unpopularity: a newcomer beating the veterans at their own game.
“I’d rather be assigned to whatever it is you’re on, Sarge,” he complained.
“I’m giving you the entire squad,” Boldt said.
“Don’t want it.”
“You got it,” Boldt informed him sternly.
“You could use me on this,” Danielson attempted.
Danielson had no way of knowing what case Boldt was being detailed to, other than by rumor, and this attempt to milk the sergeant for information fell on deaf ears.
“You’re a problem solver, Chris. We all are, but you especially. Some guys come by it naturally. Women, too: Gaynes is a natural. You pick up the black holes other people drop-some of them you even clear. Well, now you get all the black holes you want, and a lot you don’t. You run a squad and every case is yours. You problem solve on a magnitude, on a level that I think is important for you to see.”
“What’s more important, solving this case of yours or shuffling a lot of paper? You need me, Sarge. This is my kind of case, this one you’re on.”
Danielson had a nose for it, that was all. He understood the look in Boldt’s eye and he knew from the hours that Boldt was keeping, from the long meetings with Shoswitz behind closed doors, and most of all from the lack of any entry in the Book that this was one of the ones that came around once in ten years, this was a career maker. Boldt could tell all this by just looking at him. “It’s a ball-buster, Chris,” he advised him. “This is one of those that if you don’t clear it, it breaks you. You put a month, six months, a year, six years into it, and it never goes down. Guys eat barrels over cases like this. Believe me: I’ve had them before.”
“Cross killer,” Danielson said. He knew all of Boldt’s cases. Knew them so well it bothered Boldt, it embarrassed him.
“Sometimes you get lucky.”
“You could have made captain in two years after that case,” Danielson observed, reminding Boldt of Liz’s arguments.
“But instead I took a leave of absence. That should tell you something.”
“You took two years. That’s hardly a leave.”
“My point exactly. The squad is yours. The shit-eating clearance rate is yours. Do with it what you will.”
“I don’t want it!” he complained, knowing there were others who would kill for it.
“Maybe that’s why it’s yours.” Danielson’s eyes registered disgust and contempt. “Someday you’ll thank me,” Boldt said.
Danielson hesitated and cautioned ominously, “Someday I’ll outrank you.”
“But may I remind you that you don’t today, Detective.” Boldt handed him an enormous stack of files and said, “Careful of your back. They’re heavy.”
Boldt spent the rest of his Saturday trying to shake the memories of Slater Lowry’s death and to organize the manpower and paperwork necessary to compare the Adler employee lists to the various other lists he had requested.
At 7:05 that evening, with the smell of egg rolls and ginger sweetening the air, Liz came out of the bathroom sobbing and carrying a long plastic tab with what looked like blue litmus paper glowing on its tip. That strip of plastic seemed strangely removed from the real world. It existed someplace that Boldt did not.
“I’m sorry,” he offered, gathering her in his arms. He swallowed away the lump in his throat and tried to think of something positive to say. Anything. But his voice remained silent. She pressed her face tightly into the crook of his neck, and he felt her shake. Her face was warm. Her breath blew hotly against his neck.
“I’m pregnant!” she informed him, sobbing, as it turned out, for joy. She waved the plastic strip like a flag announcing her motherhood. Boldt kissed her fingers. He kissed her forehead, her nose, and found her lips. She walked him awkwardly to the bedroom and nudged the door shut with her toe. Miles was lost in a set of wooden blocks.
“Maybe we should practice once, just to make sure,” Boldt suggested.
She said something into his ear but he didn’t understand it over the roar of his own heartbeat.
By the time they got to the egg rolls, they were cold and the fake beer was warming, but there were smiles all around. For these brief few minutes, Boldt forgot the Tin Man.
But not for long. He was working through his third report by the time he realized Liz had gone to bed. Interrupted by her crying, he saw the bedroom lights were out, and it quickly registered that these were clearly not tears of joy. As Boldt went in to comfort her, he wondered at the obsessed man he had become, and if he would ever be any different. “I’m here,” he whispered, sitting down beside her, laying a hand upon her back.
“I don’t think so,” she answered, her face aimed away from him. “But you were for a while.”
“I was for a while,” he agreed, though it pained him to do so. “It’s a start,” he tried, but they both knew it was not. They had been here before. They had never left.
“I’m scared.”
“Me too.” But for different reasons, he thought.
She fell asleep with silver tears still clinging to her reddened cheeks. And Boldt slept beside her that night, still dressed in his street clothes, snuggled in tight where the warmth of her filled him with an all-encompassing peace.
NINE
“This is the last time,” Owen Adler whispered in the dark, the bed and the houseboat shifting imperceptibly. On Sunday mornings, Lake Union was active early. Seaplanes and outboard engines competed noisily in the distance. “It really is. It has to be.” His voice was sad.
“I know.” Daphne rolled over, pressing her bare chest against his and curling onto him like a snake onto a branch, and kissed Owen wetly on the mouth. “I hate it,” she confessed. She knew that this time it was for real-with her being police, they could not risk violating the demands. Maybe, she told herself, it helped explain why the sex had been lifeless. Maybe it offered her a way for her to win access to his files.
She told him. “I would like to take a look at your files. The New Leaf contamination you told us about.”
“Tap will help you with that.”
She did not want to involve Howard Taplin, or any other Adler employee; she did not want any filters between her and the information. And besides, she thought, such involvement presented too great a risk. “The thing is,” she explained, “within your company Howard Taplin is as high-profile as you are. If he goes requesting a bunch of files, and the blackmailer is an insider, we take too big a risk that he or she might cotton on to police involvement. And I imagine that if Taplin gets a file himself rather than asking his secretary for it, that would raise as much suspicion.”
“Probably right.”
“And now that this person has proved what he’s capable of, I have no desire to test his threat of killing hundreds. We can’t afford any hint of our involvement in the investigation.” She allowed this to sink in and suggested, “I was thinking I could go in after hours. Nice and quiet. All alone, when no employees are around. Get what I need, make copies, and get out.”
“Whatever you want.” He held her tightly, and she could feel his fear in the embrace.
“I want it over,” she said.
A long time passed before he said, “You don’t expect something like this. And when it comes you wonder why you ever bothered with any of it. A month ago you and I were so close, and now I feel a distance in you-I feel your professionalism. Not that I’m complaining. You can’t believe what a relief it is to have you working on this, to have the police finally involved-despite the threats. I waited too long. I made mistakes-and I do not want to hear you blame yourself again-that’s not what I mean. Belief in my own instincts is what built this company. When those instincts fail you, it rattles t
he foundations.”
“Self-doubt is destructive. You can’t dwell on it.”
“You can’t help but dwell on it,” he said.
Wind whistled through the houseboat. Sometimes that noise sounded peaceful to her, but today it sounded ominous. She heard a light chop striking the pier, and in the distance the hum of traffic on the interstate. “Do you think it’s an employee?” she asked.
“I’m afraid it’s one. There’s a difference.” He added, “And it frosts me, because as cliched as it sounds, we’re a family, and this kind of betrayal is the worst kind imaginable. But the evidence certainly seems to point that way.”
“I think it’s connected to New Leaf-to these salmonella poisonings,” she told him. “That’s the psychologist speaking,” she said.
“I’d like to run away with you,” he confessed. “Leave it all. Wake up on some island and make love and drink beer.”
“You’d last about two days. When was the last time you took time off?”
“That’s what I mean.”
“You don’t know how to take time off.”
“You could teach me.”
She wormed her way fully atop him, and slid slowly against him until he was aroused. “We could teach each other,” she said.
“I’m a quick learner.” He kissed her, and she felt herself responding to him. There were times he made her body feel seventeen again, the way it reacted. Her desire had little to do with penetration or friction-she wanted inside his skin, she wanted some kind of union with his soul. It was a feeling she did not fully understand, and that somehow made it all the more attractive to her. Too often she understood too much.
She said, “Quickness is not something that could be stuck on you. You are anything but quick.”
“Do you honestly think I would choose work over you?”
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