A Certain Justice

Loretta Wager had molded a life using the clay she was given – every daub of it. If you had a secret, a knowledge, you hoarded it until it could provide its maximum effect.

This was the time.

She sat on the arm of the chair, weary with the weight of it. 'Abe, don't you know? You really don't know?' A tear finally broke loose and she let it roll down her cheek. 'We ca

'It's not Elaine,' he began again impatiently, 'it's-'

She slapped the leather on the back of the chair. 'Goddamn it, Abe, listen to me. It is Elaine. It is Elaine.'

She let the moment simmer. Watching him as it registered. A beat. Two.

'What are you saying?'

She paused again. Then: 'Do you think I wanted Dana Wager instead of you? Do you think I wanted him for me?' She shook her head. 'I wasn't going to force anyone – force you – to marry me because I was carrying your baby. Okay, you weren't ready to marry me for myself. Don't you understand? I had to have someone who would. And Dana was there. He never had to know. He never knew.' She stared at him. 'And neither did you.'

No reaction. A still frame of the moment of impact. Next, slowly – so slowly – Glitsky's arms coming uncrossed, his face going slack.

Loretta, nodding now, the tears begi

'Get the hell away from me!'

'Abe!'

'Get away!'

Somehow, he had crossed the room. His face – flashes of heat. A tingling, terrifying. A jab in his left arm – his heart was stopping.

'Abe, please…'

'Goddamnitgoddamnit…' A snifter. On the bar. Grabbing it up, squeezing. Impossible. No more control.

The explosion on the hardwood. Shards of broken crystal.

'YOU TELL ME THIS NOW?'

'Don't yell at me, Abe. Please

'DON'T YELL AT YOU? Don't yell at you? Jesus…'

Walking in small circles, turning. Nowhere to go. 'Goddamnit.'

Another try. 'Abe…?'

He pointed at her. 'Don't come near me! Don't you dare take another step!'

She waited, hands at her side.

Slumped in the chair, he heard her moving around in the house.

Minutes had passed.

He still had to do it – do his job – but he found he couldn't move. It had come to where he had known it must. But she had rocked him. He knew it was true. The old nagging sense of familiarity, of vague but real recognition. Elaine was his daughter.

He could not make himself stand up, go in and accuse Loretta, face her. He was afraid of what he might do.

The doorbell rang. Her limo.

He had to move.

Get up, Abe, get up!

If he moved, if he saw her face…

Steps echoing on the floor, the door opening. 'Hello. Yes, I'll be ready in five minutes. You can wait in the car.' He couldn't let her. He couldn't stop her. She'd beaten him. She'd won.

70

'All right, Kevin, call.' Wes Farrell stood in his coat and tie by his kitchen wall phone, talking to it like an idiot. 'It's eight after nine and you said you'd call at nine on the dot and this isn't the time to go flaky on me.'

He had the television on in the war zone of his living salon, and CNN was broadcasting, live near Kezar Pavilion. The whole country was following San Francisco this Saturday morning. Mohandas had appeared a couple of times, the same sound bite about the plans for this to be a peaceful march, a demonstration to the city's leaders, the country's leaders, that… blah blah blah.

The phone jangled. Wes snapped for it, knocked it from its cradle, grabbed again but the receiver fell to the floor. He snagged it up. 'Kevin? Give me your address.'

'Drop the phone, Wes?'

'Kevin, listen to me. We got some big problems. Just give me your address and I'll be right over there.'

'Are you watching this thing on TV?'

'Kevin, give me your fucking address right now.'

'What kind of problems, Wes?'

'I'll explain when I get there. Give me your address.'

Kevin's tone shifted. 'We're still on go, though? I mean, the basic plan…'

Wes was silent. Then: 'Where?'

Kevin gave him the address, the apartment number. 'Fourth floor, in the front,' he said. 'Looks right over the park. There's a million people down there.'

Wes was swearing at himself all the way down to his garage. He couldn't believe that his own brain was failing him so badly. What he should have done was just give Kevin the phone number on Glitsky's beeper, tell him to get out now and go someplace else, then beep him and tell him where he was, which would be where they'd meet. But of course, he was too incredibly stupid to have thought of that. Not when it could have done any good.

Special Agent Simms was in her car with her three fellow agents and moving before Farrell had pulled out of his garage, so she had at least some blocks on him.

It had been unwise of Farrell, she thought, but good for her side, to ask Shea for the address. Still, what else could he have done? Anyway, she had all of the advantage now. The address, the apartment number, the jump on the chase. Maybe they wouldn't need to use any firepower, unless…

Well, she would see. Certainly she wasn't going to get scared out of using the tools they had brought. She wasn't about to show any weakness on that score. The public might have screamed about that woman and her kid the FBI had had to kill up in Montana, but within the ranks of the bureau it was generally conceded that the whole thing had been unavoidable. It had been – what was his name? – the guy Webster's fault for getting them all in that position, certainly not the Bureau's. Start worrying about criticism, the media response, you might as well hang up your badge. You wouldn't get anything done.

She would do what she had to do.

The first action would be the simplest and most direct. She would go up and knock on the door, say she had a federal warrant and he was under arrest. In a perfect world he would open the door and come out with his hands over his head.

Somehow she didn't have the feeling it was going to go down exactly like that.

In spite of Mohandas's best efforts to get things going, the rally wasn't about to start on time. They never did. His mouth was dry in spite of the constant popping of Tic-Tacs. He couldn't stop pacing inside the tent. Allicey, taller than he was, kneaded his shoulders whenever he passed by her.

It was nearly nine-fifteen and there were still people pouring into the Pavilion. The police were patrolling but all seemed calm. There had been two more skirmishes that he had seen from up here, but both had been quickly suppressed.

The smoke from the Divisadero fire was getting a little worse – the wind and all. He'd definitely have to skirt north when the march began. He wasn't going to give much of a speech. There wasn't that need today – he'd already said it publicly so many times – and the turnout was so great that he thought it would be more effective just to get them moving, let it speak for itself.

What he'd do was welcome everybody, talk a minute about the reality of how things worked, not the lip-service they always got but the way results just didn't seem to come all the way to them. The mayor had played into his hands so beautifully he couldn't believe it, but he'd have been a fool not to use what he'd been handed on a platter. He could almost hear himself: '… but in spite of the words we have all heard time and time again about this city's cooperation, the plain fact is, my brothers and sisters, that even this rally, even this peaceful gathering to show our concern, our despair, over the denial of justice for the tragic murder of our brother Arthur Wade…' He would pause here for the outburst to die down. 'The plain fact is that they have even made this gathering illegal. They said we couldn't have this march. They wouldn't give us the permit. But I say our strength is our permit. Our unity is our strength. And let God himself be our judge!'