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“She’s dead,” Daphne repeated, hoping to incite his rage, to drive him to emotion and toward making mistakes as a result.
“Did she jump to her death?” she said, guessing. “Did she leave you unfairly?”
“You don’t deserve to be like her,” he said, brandishing the stun stick as he moved ever closer. “What are we going to do with you?”
An explosion behind him, turned him around. It was not an explosion after all, but the door to the cabin disintegrating behind LaMoia’s efforts to kick it in. LaMoia took one step and fell into the cabin, and her captor lunged forward and hit him with the stun stick. LaMoia’s body spasmed and then fell limp-unconcious.
But a stun stick took time to recycle its charge. Daphne rushed him and struck the back of his head with the air horn canister.
Boldt slid down the stairs, landing on LaMoia, knocked the stun stick from the captor’s hand, took the man under the arms and threw him-threw him like he was a matter of a few pounds-across the narrow hold and into the metal hull. He followed around and pulled the man to him and struck the man in the face, blow after blow.
“Lou!” she shouted, the man’s blood coming off Boldt’s knotted fist. Again she shouted his name.
Boldt stopped and looked back at her, still holding the captor by his shirt.
He averted his eyes.
“You’ll kill him,” she said, her voice nothing but a faint whisper. She pulled a mackinaw around her. She staggered back and sat down.
“SOS,” he said. “That was a nice touch.”
“His mother,” she mumbled.
Boldt let the man go. He hit the floor with a thud. Boldt came around toward her, but she recoiled and he raised his hands.
“We’ll get you help,” he said.
She nodded, a look of defiance in her eyes, her right hand still gripping the air horn.
Boldt sat down on a folding patio chair next to her, a small drink table between them. Daphne wore extra makeup to cover a bruise on her face, a long sleeve T-shirt and blue jeans. The little girl for whom Daphne served as guardian played inside a childproofed area of the balcony. Boldt couldn’t see LaMoia setting up something like this; it had probably been Daphne.
“Are you coming back?” he asked, within seconds of sitting down.
“Two weeks paid leave,” she said. “More if I ask. I’m not an idiot.”
She’d asked him over. He hadn’t been to LaMoia’s loft since Daphne had moved in. He wasn’t sure why that was, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to figure it out, either.
She made him tea, with no offer of coffee. Milk and sugar. She drank chai, the cloves and ci
“But that’s a yes,” he said.
“It is,” she confirmed. “Are you kidding me? You think I’d quit?”
“Not likely,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“But no one would blame you-”
“Stuff it,” she said. “Don’t say another word.”
“You invited me,” he reminded.
“Not to discuss the case. His mother was on that Pacific West flight ten years ago. He was out there on the Sound when the bodies started to fall. I don’t pretend to know…There’s no fixing everyone. There’s no blame. The human mind…well, it’s why I want to get back to work.”
“We come from such different places,” he said. “I blame them all the time. I have no means, no way to fix any of them. I just want them put away. I suppose I’m the dog catcher and you’re the person, the volunteer at the shelter. Something like that.”
“Are you getting enough sleep?”
“Maybe not.” He watched the girl playing. Then he realized how relaxed Daphne was with the child. He’d pictured her the stressed and worrying type-he should have known. She couldn’t have been more at ease. “This suits you.”
“It does. Though it may not last. We’ve pretty much exhausted all the various cha
“Miracles happen,” Boldt said. “Liz tells me that all the time.”
“How is she?”
He didn’t feel right talking about his wife, his family with this woman. He thought he understood why, but marveled that that kind of discussion still made him feel restless.
Daphne said, “We’re going to give it another chance. John and me.”
Here then, was the reason she’d called. He wondered why she’d made such a deal out of it. Then he didn’t wonder at all.
“Not a quitter,” he said.
“I wanted to tell you. Like this. Here. You and me. Don’t ask me why.”
But he wanted to ask her why. “Okay,” he said.
“Is this awkward?”
“With you?”
“Okay. Thanks for that.”
“You don’t owe me this,” he said.
“Sure I do.”
“Liz is good,” he said. “The kids are great. Seriously.”
She smiled over at a building. Smiled for herself. Nodded. Gripped the arms of the folding chair a little tightly.
“Listen,” he said. “Listen closely because I don’t know if I can get this out right even once.”
She nodded, biting her lips so that they folded into her mouth.
“Whatever this is, it has never gone away…I’m talking for me. Okay? Just for me. It runs like one of those tantric chords they talk about, this hum that operates out of the spectrum of human hearing-”
“Always the musician. I love that about you-your music.”
“What I’m talking about, it’s not music, exactly. It pulsates. Quavers. But it never stops. Never ceases. It’s just there. Now, then, just there.” He swallowed dryly. “For a long time I let it, let you, haunt me. Own me. Then I realized it was more a tone than a handcuff. So I harmonize with it. I vamp off it. I’ve learned…to love it-” she went tight with that word “-without actually ever hearing it. It’s just…there. Like air. Water. Elemental. I don’t allow it to get in my way, to stop my life. I just let it hum down there, wherever it is. Hum and resonate and sing to me.”
She squinted her eyes tightly. He felt he should leave without another word.
“Are you okay?” he finally asked.
“Trying to lock that in. To memorize it. Store it, so that I can recall it whenever I want. Whenever I need, which is more often than it should be.”
“I ramble when I’m nervous.”
“But you’re never nervous,” she said, opening her eyes again. “I wish you’d be nervous more often.”
“I’m glad for you and John,” he said.
“Shut up, Lou. Shut up and let me hear it, too.”
They sat there in silence for another fifteen minutes. The girl made squeaks, asked her mommy for some juice. Daphne got up to fetch it, and Boldt stood with her.
He made for the door. Turned back. She had the box of juice out of the refrigerator. Was punching a straw through the top.
She wore a smile of satisfaction as she headed back to the balcony.
Boldt turned the handle, and let himself out.
Humming as he went.
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHIES
Kathleen Antrim is a columnist for the San Francisco Examiner newspaper, author of the political thriller Capital Offense, a correspondent for NewsMax magazine, and a political commentator appearing on radio and television. She has won numerous awards for her writing, including the prestigious Rupert Hughes Award. Her short story “Torn” was included in Pronto! Writings from Rome, an anthology of work by such authors as Dorothy Allison, John Saul, Elizabeth Engstrom and Terry Brooks. She divides her time between working in California and on Capitol Hill in Washington, D.C. Her Web site is www.kathleenantrim.com.
Gary Braver is the bestselling author of seven critically acclaimed thrillers including Elixir, Gray Matter and Flashback, which Publishers Weekly called “an exceptional medical thriller.” An award-wi