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The next days had been a blur of holding cells and interview rooms. An assistant state’s attorney, a small man in a trim brown suit, pacing back and forth. Detectives questioning him again and again. Richard’s lawyer talking to cops in the hallway, all of them casting furtive looks his way.
Da
He’d given himself five-to-two that he’d end up doing time, maybe serious time. But he didn’t count on the wild cards.
The first was Sean Nolan. Da
The second was Richard O’Do
He’d also fired Da
In the end, the assistant state’s attorney was left with a choice. Prosecute Da
Or they could make a deal.
By the end of the week, Da
“I told them what happened,” Da
Evan glowered. “Yeah, I figured you would. The smart play, right?”
“Just the truth.”
“So Da
“No.” Da
“I’m sorry for the way things worked out for you. For us. I think back to those days, the way we ran crazy, like nothing had consequences, and I wish I could turn back the clock.” For the rest of his life, he’d carry a load, a guilt that wouldn’t fade. You didn’t have to do terrible things to have guilt. Not preventing terrible things from happening would work, too. And sometimes, guilt and pain were just waiting for you, the obvious destination at the end of a road you never meant to choose, but hadn’t fought hard enough to leave.
A psychiatrist would tell him it wasn’t his fault, and he’d be right. But he’d be wrong, too.
“You got a fu
Da
Evan stared at him, his glare heavy with the weight of years. When he spoke, his voice was flat. “Get the fuck out.”
That old tension filled the air. Once, it would have put Da
“You should have killed me.” There was no threat in Evan’s voice, only a muted sound that might have been pain. “I wish you had.”
Da
Nolan was waiting in the lobby. A gray canvas sling held his right arm in place. His vest had stopped two of the bullets, but the third had shattered his collarbone. “Figured I’d catch you here. You get what you wanted?”
“I’m not even sure what that was.”
Nolan looked at him, nodded. “Just good-bye, maybe.”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “How’s the arm?”
“Sore as shit. Keeps me awake. Catholic or not, I don’t heal soon, Mary-Louise is going to divorce me for a good night’s sleep.”
Da
Some accounts were too complicated for mathematics. Da
“Sure.”
Another moment passed, Da
Nolan nodded, stepped aside.
Through the front glass of the hospital he could see the Explorer parked, a splash of color in a swirl of white. Squinting against the brightness, he moved toward the door.
“Da
Nolan stood in cop pose, his chest cocked and expression stern. If his hand wasn’t in a sling, Da
Da
After the stifling hospital corridors, cold air was sweet relief. He hiked to the car, opened the door to find Karen singing along with an eighties song on the radio. She gri
“Almost. Just one more thing to do.”
Against the dark granite, the collected snow seemed bright as a dream of the world. Da
“I’m okay,” he said.
She gave him a smile laced with sadness, then stepped forward to brush off the headstone.
A simple cross. Gray. Da
In the end, he’d gone with just “Patrick Co
Karen finished dusting the marker and stepped back, her boots crunching the frozen grass. She took off one glove and wormed a warm hand into his, and together they stood, looking at the cross and counting the costs. The snow muffled the world.
Finally, he reached in his jacket pocket and took out the necklace. Most of the stuff in Patrick’s place they’d given to charity, the rest consigned to the trash bin. He’d kept a handful of photographs, his friend’s old motorcycle jacket, and this. A black cord bearing a small silver charm of a hunched man with a staff, a glowing baby on his back. The words PROTECT US lettered on the bottom.
“What is it?” Karen leaned closer.
“A Saint Christopher’s medallion,” he said. He stepped forward and draped it over the cross. The metal clinked quietly against the stone. “Patron saint of travelers.”
She smiled wanly. “He’d like that.”
He nodded.
A few moments passed, and then she shivered. “I’m getting cold. Mind if I wait in the truck?”
“Not at all.” He smiled, his eyes flicking to her belly. She wasn’t showing yet, but they’d already decided on names. Circumstances made it simple. Patrick for a boy, of course; for a girl, Debbie. Like Debbie Harry. “Want me to come?”
She shook her head, moving away. “Take your time.”