Beyond the Shadow of Night(19)
As the months went by without hearing anything of the Barans, he assumed that they had been spared by the German authorities. Yes, that was it. They had been seduced by the delicious cakes and captivated by Izabella’s beautiful music, and had given the Barans some sort of special dispensation to continue running the famous Café Baran.
The thought was bittersweet for Asher, but he slept a little better knowing that they’d been spared. He convinced himself that when the walls came down and the city got back to normal, he would see her and be able to listen to her sweet violin music once more.
Chapter 7
Parking lot, Zone One Police Station, Pittsburgh, August 2001
The door to the police station flew open and Diane Peterson strode out with a feeling of quiet triumph that somehow didn’t seem appropriate.
Detective Durwood was going to do the paperwork and arrange a time for her to meet the man who had—as she’d put it—left a big bullet hole in her father’s head. They were blunt words, she reflected as she headed for Brad’s car, but no more and no less than what was needed to sum up the scene she’d come home to that night.
That night.
A thought rushed through her mind in the length of time it took for a ripple of thunder to threaten more unpleasantness from high above her. The thought made her stop walking.
Okay, so she’d won the battle to meet Father’s killer. But what exactly was she going to say to him? She’d been so preoccupied winning the battle that she hadn’t given much thought to what she wanted to do with the victory.
There was only one question in her mind. She wanted to know why the hell he’d done it. It was only the one question, and there seemed no point engineering 101 different ways of asking it, so she headed for the car again.
“How’d it go?” Brad said as she sat in the passenger seat.
“They’re going to let me speak to him.”
“Good.” He leaned over to kiss her, but drew back at her stiffness.
“Doesn’t mean he’ll speak to me, of course.”
“No, but it’s a first step. Did you need to talk about the Restorative Justice program and your rights?”
“I did. Can we leave please?”
“Sure.” He started the engine and set off.
“And thanks for ferrying me around these past few days.”
“Don’t thank me. We both know you’re not ready to drive again yet.”
“No. I’m only ready for one thing.”
“One thing?”
“Finding out why.”
“Oh, yeah. Of course. I’m sorry.”
They drove on in silence. Diane was, indeed, not ready for driving, and didn’t she know it. As they headed to Brad’s place, her mind was drawn back to that night. She tried to roll her mind onward, so that whatever she did think would fast-forward like those old-fashioned cassette tapes her father used to play. There—even when she was trying not to think of him, she found a roundabout way to think of him.
That night.
“I feel a little nauseous,” she said.
“Open a window?” Brad said. It was intoned as a casual suggestion, not in any way an order. He’d learned the hard way.
Wordlessly, she pressed the button and the glass lowered. The air wasn’t exactly a fresh sea breeze, but it was cool and moist. Then more flash frames of what had happened that night forced themselves into her head. As the car accelerated, the surge of air on her face only served to tip the balance, and she was there, arriving home that evening the previous week.
It had been a very average but nonetheless enjoyable night out. Absolutely nothing special at all. Her and Brad and two old friends out for bowling followed by tacos and talk. The cab had pulled up outside 38 Hartmann Way, the home she still shared with her father. Brad leaned over and they kissed.
“Do you want me to come in?” he asked.
“You have to get up early tomorrow, don’t you?”
“Well . . .”
She laughed warmly. It was the warmth of a long relationship, one fulfilled in all aspects apart from one—they didn’t live together even after all this time. She’d worked with Brad for five years, then been good friends for four, and then been lovers for another six. A lengthy courtship by any standards—longer than many marriages, she often joked to herself.
“Actually, I do,” he said. “It’s an early meeting I just can’t get out of. Would you mind?”
“Ah, that’s okay.” She kissed him again, this time fuller and holding on for longer—a proper goodbye until tomorrow kiss. “I’ll see you for lunch tomorrow.”
“Sure. And thanks.” He nodded to the front door. “I’ll wait here till you’re safely inside, though.”
But his words weren’t necessary. He always waited. That was Brad—one big, soft security blanket.
A few seconds later, she waved to him, watched the cab get to the end of the street, and went inside. She was immediately aware that something wasn’t quite right. After her calls out to her father weren’t returned, the fear multiplied. The lights upstairs were out, but the kitchen light was on, and she could feel cool air on the back of her neck. And once she’d shut the door she could still hear the hum of the traffic from the freeway a hundred yards or so away. That was also not right—not right one bit. Above all, her nostrils twitched at the hideous, metallic edge to that cool air.