Travis gets the static-electricity jolt of a connection. ‘That’s another clue to his age. He’s looking for someone closer to hisownage. A life partner.’
Emma nods. ‘And he’s giving us the key to his motivation in the posing. I don’t understand much about posing, though.’
Rain drums on the car roof. Kristin wets her lips. ‘I know someone who does.’
Travis feels another kind of jolt. He sees Emma’s eyes snap wide.
Emma says, ‘Your brother’s not in St Elizabeths anymore,’ at the exact same time Travis says, ‘Let’s hold on now.’
He does a double take right in her face. ‘You’re considering that?’
‘I’m considering everything.’ Emma’s gaze is still trained on Kristin. ‘I know Simon’s in Philadelphia. He wrote to me.’
‘Hewhat?’ Travis’s stomach drops, like he’s just fallen out of the moving vehicle.
‘He sends me postcards sometimes,’ Kristin says softly.
Emma nods. ‘I got two.’
Travis turns Emma’s way on the back seat. ‘You gottwo postcardsfrom Simon Gutmunsson.’
‘Yes.’ She focuses back on Kristin. ‘Where is he?’
‘He’s in Byberry,’ Kristin says.
One of the most notorious mental institutions in the country.It’s not enough, Travis thinks. For the perpetrator who murdered his father, it will never be enough.
Simon Gutmunsson is like the bogeyman: a name invoked to frighten children. During the course of his ‘career’ he murdered eleven people – twelve, if Anthony Hoyt, the Berryville Butcher, is added into the mix.
One of Gutmunsson’s victims was US Marshal Barton Bell. The time after his father’s death, the impact it had on his family, is something Travis still struggles to talk about. He isn’t the kind to hold grudges, but he wishes more than anything that Simon Gutmunsson was in the ground.
‘He’s been declared criminally responsible for the death of Anthony Hoyt at St Elizabeths.’ Kristin’s face angles down. ‘He’s on death row, basically.’
Emma reaches across to take the girl’s hand. ‘Kristin, I’m sorry.’
‘Yes.’ Kristin’s white hair spills forward. ‘I get very sad about it sometimes. But our lawyer is appealing, and he’s very clever. Simon might just get another life sentence …’
Kristin trails off and looks out the window. Travis can’t decide what’s more awful: how distressed she is, or how confused this clearly makes her.
‘Would he talk to me, do you think?’ Emma asks.
Travis experiences sharp, unfamiliar anger, like a lick of flame.
‘He would talk to you.’ Kristin looks over at Emma. ‘If he wrote to you, he’d talk.’
‘Folks, we’re here,’ McCreedy announces.
CHAPTER EIGHT
McCreedy parks the Plymouth across from the bar, nods them in the right direction as he gets a pack of Marlboros out of his jacket pocket. Emma feels the spatter of drizzle on her cheek as she crosses the street, watching for traffic.
Inside, the Grant Street Tavern has brick walls and big burnished wooden arches separating the bar and the lounge. Varieties of whiskey populate the spirits shelf; the TV set in the top right corner is playing a Steelers game. Hooks at knee height in front of the counter stools show where you can hang your gun belt. Bell immediately loosens his tie. Other detectives are drinking in their shirtsleeves.
‘You made it.’ Carter comes over, also in shirtsleeves but still in his suit vest, his cuffs rolled. ‘It’s like a flood out there. Come in, I’ll find you a table.’
He walks them to a high round table with stools, excuses himself for a moment to check on something. Emma takes a stool for herself, still wondering what the hell they’re doing here.
She leans over to Bell. ‘Does Carter know we’re all under twenty-one?’
