Locust Lane(69)

“So we’re going to make the announcement and then take some questions,” Gates explained.

“You don’t want me to say anything, right?”

“Oh no,” Penny said, a little too quickly, as if Danielle had just volunteered to pole dance. “You’re fine as is.”

They started on time. The chief spoke first. As Danielle had suspected when she first met him, he was a pompous windbag who seemed more worried about the damage this horrible tragedy had inflicted on the community than the fact that her daughter was currently stiffening at the morgue. He was followed by Gates, who was even better in front of the cameras than in person. She opened up by offering her condolences to Danielle. There were a few sympathetic looks from members of the public; the glares from the press felt more predatory. She wanted to flee at that point, but they were right. This was where she needed to be.

And yet, for all the carny atmosphere, the event eased her doubts. It was a show, but a professional one; well funded and well oiled, staged for her child. Standing there, in this forecourt or plaza or whatever you wanted to call it, with its fountain and its fenced-in saplings and its bronze statue of a cop helping a little boy, Danielle couldn’t help but feel convinced. How could all of this be wrong? Christopher Mahoun had killed Eden.

But then, in court, she saw the Mahouns and the doubts returned, even stronger now. The show had been just that. A show. Maybe Patrick was right. This shackled hundred-forty-pound weakling was just a whipping boy. The easy option. If they were accusing some rotten-toothed smirking Southie with a Celtic cross tattooed to his neck, she’d at least be able to take whatever comfort you could from knowing that the case truly was closed. But this kid? With his father? In her forty years Danielle had come to know that the only thing she could rely on was the bad feeling she sometimes got in her chest. And that feeling was coming on like a heart attack. This was wrong.

After they denied bail, the lawyers and guards orchestrated her departure so she didn’t come in contact with Mahoun senior, even though she badly wanted to ask him what he knew. But her purpose had been served. It was time for her to go home and climb the walls until they needed her again. Suddenly, after being treated like a movie star all day, she found herself alone. She wondered if this was what a trial would be like, this dizzying cycle of exposure and loneliness.

She thought about Patrick on the drive home. The man with the doubts. He was like no one she’d ever met. Gentle and kind and intelligent and intoxicated, wearing his damage like a tailored suit, certain he knew things no one else did. She’d thought she was done with him when they’d said good night in the parking lot of that wretched bar, but now, suddenly, she felt like that was just a beginning. So, instead of going home, she pulled off Route 9 near Emerson and called the cell number he’d given her last night.

“You saw they arrested him,” she said when he answered.

“It’s all over the news.”

“I just got out of court.”

“So what do you think?”

“Something doesn’t feel right.” She watched traffic pass. “You know, there’s a version of this where you’re a crazy person taking advantage of a grieving mother.”

“Well, I make no claims about my sanity. But I guarantee you I’m not taking advantage of you. If you really think that, hang up. I won’t bother you again.”

“Are you drunk right now?”

“No.”

“Can we meet?”

“Yes, of course.”

“But not at that bar. Can I come to your office?”

“That might not be the best idea.”

“Your home. My home. Fenway. I don’t give a shit. We just need to talk.”

“Come to my house. But you’ll have to forgive the mess.”

If messes bothered me, she thought, I wouldn’t be talking to you.





PATRICK


The reckoning at work had finally arrived. Griff had texted him late last night. A simple message, but all the more ominous for being so. Let’s meet tomorrow at ten. Important. Be there. He’d texted back a simple thumbs-up, which was as much communication as he felt safe doing in his condition. He’d started drinking seriously when he got back from the Royal, transitioning from Tanqueray to Suntory. The result was the same as ever. Intervals of oblivion interrupted by flashes of shattering nightmare. His nights were becoming predictably similar. That was the one thing about booze. You always knew how you were going to feel after enough of it. His days would soon be like this as well. One of Gabi’s counselors had remarked that no matter what an addict’s origin story, they all ended up the same person. An arm in search of a needle; a parched mouth in need of a bottle. Patrick sometimes wondered how long it would take him to sandblast away all the particulars of his personality, to become the thing-in-itself. Pure, noxious need. Perhaps not as long as he thought.

He had no idea when he passed out, though he knew exactly when he woke: 4:13 a.m. Moments after Gabi had made another appearance. Her voice, anyway. It was even briefer than on the night of Eden’s murder. A single word this time, a question. Dad? Uttered as a prompt. She still needed to be picked up.

At least this time he had the sense not to leave the house. That would be pressing his luck. Irrevocably awake, he’d resisted the temptation to continue drinking. He needed to be sober for this meeting. He doubted he’d be fired. Griff was a good guy. But Patrick’s behavior was clearly unsustainable. Some sort of ultimatum was coming and he wanted to take his medicine with a clear head.