He took a deep breath. “You know, I find myself thinking about these kids from Ben’s class. I feel attached. I want to see them succeed, you know? I’ve watched them grow up, I feel close to them. Is that unusual? Am I feeling that because it makes me feel closer to Ben? Is that why I’m latching onto these other kids? Because that’s what it sounds like, doesn’t it? It looks weird.”
“Dan, don’t worry about how things look. People are going to think whatever they think. The hell with ’em. You can’t worry about it.”
He massaged his forehead some more. His agony could not have been more obvious if he had been bleeding on the floor. I wanted to help him. At the same time, I wanted to get away from him.
“It would help me if I knew, if, if the case was resolved. It will help me when you resolve the case. Because the uncertainty—it’s draining. It’ll help when the case is resolved, won’t it? In other cases you’ve seen, that helps the parents, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“I don’t mean to pressure you. I don’t mean to sound that way. It’s just, I think it will help me when the case is resolved and I know this guy is—when he’s locked up and put away. I know you’ll do that. I have faith in you, of course. I mean, of course. I’m not doubting you, Andy. I’m just saying it will help me. Me, my wife, everyone. That’s what we need, I think. Closure. That’s what we’re looking to you for.”
That night Laurie and I lay in bed reading.
“I still think they’re making a mistake opening the school so soon.”
“Laurie, we’ve been all through this.” My voice had a bored tone. Been there, done that. “Jacob will be perfectly safe. We’ll take him there ourselves, we’ll walk him right up to the door. There’ll be cops all over. He’ll be safer in school than anywhere else.”
“Safer. You can’t know that. How could you know that? Nobody has any idea who this guy is or where he is or what he intends to do next.”
“They have to open the school sometime. Life goes on.”
“You’re wrong, Andy.”
“How long do you want them to wait?”
“Until they catch the guy.”
“That could take a while.”
“So? What’s the worst that could happen? The kids miss a few days of school. So what? At least they’d be safe.”
“You can’t make them totally safe. It’s a big world out there. Big, dangerous world.”
“Okay, safer.”
I laid my book down on my belly, where it formed a little roof. “Laurie, if you keep the school closed, you send these kids the wrong message. School isn’t supposed to be dangerous. It’s not a place they should be afraid of. It’s their second home. It’s where they spend most of their waking hours. They want to be there. They want to be with their friends, not stuck at home, hiding under the bed so the bogeyman doesn’t get them.”
“The bogeyman already got one of them. That makes him not a bogeyman.”
“Okay, but you see what I’m saying.”
“Oh, I see what you’re saying, Andy. I’m just telling you you’re wrong. The number one priority is keeping the kids safe, physically. Then they can go be with their friends or whatever. Until they catch the guy, you can’t promise me the kids’ll be safe.”
“You need a guarantee?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll catch the guy,” I said. “I guarantee it.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“You know this?”
“I expect it. We always catch ’em.”
“Not always. Remember the guy who killed his wife and wrapped her in a blanket in the back of the Saab?”
“We did catch that guy. We just couldn’t—all right, almost always. We almost always catch ’em. This guy we’ll catch, I promise you.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
“If I’m wrong, I’m sure you’ll tell me all about it.”
“No, I mean if you’re wrong and some poor kid gets hurt?”
“That won’t happen, Laurie.”
She frowned, giving up. “There’s no arguing with you. It’s like running into a wall over and over again.”
“We’re not arguing. We’re discussing.”
“You’re a lawyer; you don’t know the difference. I’m arguing.”
“Look, what do you want me to say, Laurie?”
“I don’t want you to say anything. I want you to listen. You know, being confident isn’t the same as being right. Think. We might be putting our son in danger.” She pressed her fingertip to my temple and shoved it, a gesture half playful, half pissed off. “Think.”
She turned away, laid her book atop a wobbly pile of others on her night table, and lay down with her back to me, curled up, a kid in an adult body.
“Here,” I said, “scootch over.”
With a series of body hops, she moved backward until her back was against me. Until she could feel some warmth or sturdiness or whatever she needed from me at that moment. I rubbed her upper arm.
“It’s going to be all right.”
She grunted.
I said, “I suppose make-up sex is out of the question?”
“I thought we weren’t arguing.”
“I wasn’t, but you were. And I want you to know: it’s okay, I forgive you.”
“Ha, ha. Maybe if you say you’re sorry.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t sound sorry.”
“I am truly, deeply sorry. Truly.”
“Now say you’re wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“Say you’re wrong. Do you want it or not?”
“Hm. So, just to be clear: all I have to do is say I’m wrong and a beautiful woman will make passionate love to me.”
“I didn’t say passionate. Just regular.”
“Okay, so: say I’m wrong and a beautiful woman will make love to me, completely without passion but with pretty good technique. That’s the situation?”
“Pretty good technique?”
“Astounding technique.”
“Yes, Counselor, that’s the situation.”
I put away my book, McCullough’s biography of Truman, atop a slippery pile of slick magazines on my own night table, and turned off the light. “Forget it. I’m not wrong.”
“Doesn’t matter. You already said I’m beautiful. I win.”