"It's Detective-Lieutenant Ducharme, from Biddeford, Maine," Patrick says. "What's the latest on Gwynne?"
Patrick can easily envision the chief, with whom he'd met before leaving Belle Chasse. Overweight by a good fifty pounds, with a shock of Elvis-black hair. A fishing rod propped up in the corner behind his desk; a bumper sticker tacked to the bulletin board: HELL, YES, my neck's RED. "Y'all got to understand that we move carefully in our jurisdiction. Don't want no hasty mishaps, if you understand my meaning."
Patrick grits his teeth. "Did you arrest him yet or not?"
"Your authorities are still talkin' to our authorities, Detective. Believe me, you'll be the first to know when something happens."
He slams down the phone-angry at the idiot deputy, angry at Gwynne, angriest at himself for not taking matters into his own hands when he was in Louisiana. But he couldn't make himself forget that he was a law enforcement officer, that he was obligated to uphold certain rules. That Nina had said no, even if it was what she really wanted.
Patrick stares at the phone in its cradle. Then again, it is always possible to reinvent oneself.
Particularly in the image of a hero.
He's seen Nina do it, after all.
After a moment, Patrick grabs his jacket and walks out of the station, intent on effecting change, rather than waiting for it to steamroll him.
It has turned out to be the best day of my life. First, Nathaniel was ruled not competent. Then Caleb asked me to watch Nathaniel after the hearing, and overnight, because he is scheduled to do a job up near the Canadian border. "Do you mind?" he'd politely said, and I couldn't even form an answer, I was so delighted. I have visions of Nathaniel standing beside me in the kitchen while we cook his favorite dinner; I imagine watching his Shrek video twice in a row with a bowl of popcorn bridged between us.
But in the end, Nathaniel is exhausted from the events of the day. He falls asleep on the couch by six-thirty p.m. and doesn't wake when I carry him upstairs. In his bed, his hand unfurls on the pillow, as if he is offering me a hidden gift.
When Nathaniel was born, he waved tight fists in the air, as if he were angry at the world. They softened moment by moment, until I would nurse him and watch his fingers scrabble at my skin, clutching for purchase. I was mesmerized by that grasp, because of all its potential. Would Nathaniel grow up to wield a pencil or a gun? Would he heal with his touch? Create music? Would his palm be covered with calluses?
Ink? Sometimes I would separate the tiny fingers and trace the lines of his palm, as if I could truly read his future.
If Nathaniel had been difficult to conceive in the wake of my cyst surgery, he'd been a positively horrendous delivery. Thirty-six hours of labor rendered me trancelike. Caleb sat on the edge of the bed watching a Gilligan's Island marathon on the hospital TV, something that seemed equally as painful as my contractions. "We'll name her Ginger," he vowed. "MaryAnn."
The vise inside me ratcheted tighter every hour, until agony became a black hole, each pain pulling in another. Over my head Gilligan voted for a chimp as beauty pageant queen, so that he wouldn't offend any of the stranded ladies. Caleb got behind me, propping up my back when I couldn't even find the energy to open my eyes. "I can't," I whispered. "It's your turn."
So he rubbed my spine and he sang. "The weather started getting rough . . . the tiny ship was tossed . . .
come on, Nina! If not for the courage of the fearless crew ..."
"Remind me," I said, "to kill you later."
But I forgot, because minutes afterward Nathaniel was born. Caleb held him up, a being so small he curled like an inchworm in my husband's hands. Not a Ginger or a MaryAnn, but a Little Buddy. In fact, that was what we called him for three days, before we decided on a name. Caleb wanted me to choose, since he refused to take credit for work that was nearly all mine. So I picked Nathaniel Patrick Frost, to honor my deceased father, and my oldest friend.
Now, it is hard to believe that the boy sleeping in front of me was ever so tiny. I touch my hand to his hair, feel it slip through my fingers like time. I suffered once before, I think. And look at what I got in return.
Quentin, who will cross a black cat's path without blinking and walk beneath ladders without breaking a sweat, is strangely superstitious about trials. On mornings that he's set to go to court, he gets fully dressed, eats breakfast, and then takes off his shirt and tie to shave. It's inefficient, of course, but it all goes back to his very first case, when he was so nervous he nearly walked out the door with a night's beard. Would have, too, if Tanya hadn't called him back in.
He rubs the shaving lather on his cheeks and jaw, then drags the razor the length of his face. He's not nervous today. In spite of the deluge of media that's sure to flood the court, Quentin knows he has a strong case. Hell, he's got the defendant committing the crime on videotape. Nothing she or Fisher Carrington do will be able to erase that action from the eyes of the jury.
His first trial was a traffic ticket, which Quentin argued as if it were a capital murder. Tanya had brought Gideon; had been bouncing him on her hip in the back of the courtroom. Once he'd seen that, well, he had to put on a show.
"Damn!" Quentin jumps as he nicks his jaw. The shaving cream burns in the cut, and he scowls and presses a tissue to the spot. He has to hold it there for a couple of seconds until it clots, blood welling between his fingers. It makes him think of Nina Frost.
He wads up the tissue and sends it shooting across the bathroom, into the trash can. Quentin doesn't bother to watch his perfect shot. Quite simply, when you think you're incapable of missing, you don't.
This is what I have tried on so far: my black prosecutor's suit, the one that makes me look like Marcia Clark on a tear; the pale rose suit I wore to my cousin's wedding; the corduroy jumper Caleb got me one Christmas that still has the tags on it. I've tried slacks, but that's too mannish, and besides, I can't ever figure out whether you can wear loafers with slacks or if that comes off as too casual. I am angry at Fisher for not thinking of this-dressing me, the way defense attorneys dress prostitutes-in oversize clothes with ugly floral prints, garments handed down from the Salvation Army that never fail to make the women look slightly lost and impossibly young.
I know what to wear so that a jury believes I'm in control. I have no idea how to dress helpless.
The clock on the nightstand is suddenly fifteen minutes later than it should be.
I pull on the jumper. It's nearly two sizes too big-have I changed that much? Or did I never bother to try it on in the first place? I hike it up to my waist and pull on a pair of stockings, only to notice that they have a run in the left leg. I grab a second pair-but they are ripped too.
"Not today," I say under my breath, yanking open my underwear drawer, where I keep a reserve pair of stockings for emergencies. Panties and bras spill like foam over the sides of the bureau and onto my bare feet while I search for the plastic packet.
