“No? Then how can you believe you cause people to die? God’s the only being who can do that, not that I believe He does. So if you can do it you must have godlike powers yourself. Right?”
“No! It’s not like that. It’s... they die because of me, something in me...”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Unless you believe you’re evil instead of godlike. Is that how you see yourself? An evil person?”
“I’m not that, either... I’m not.”
“Of course you’re not. You’re neither godlike nor evil. You’re a ten-year-old girl named Emily Hunter who’s had a lot of bad things happen to her and to people she loves — things that aren’t her fault. Not hers, not God’s, not anybody’s. You didn’t make them happen. You didn’t have anything to do with them happening.”
“Then why did they happen?”
“Some people would say it’s God’s will. I don’t buy that. I think God’s an observer, not an active participant; I think He pretty much stays out of human business. I think bad things happen because there are bad people in the world and sometimes good people get in the way. There’s no reason or purpose to it... it’s random, accidental. You understand?”
“Yes, but... then what’s the use of praying?”
“It makes you feel better, doesn’t it? Closer to God?”
“... I suppose so.”
“It helps you, that’s the point. Divine miracles are few and far between, Emily. The only miracles most of us get are the ones we bring to ourselves.”
“By being good people, leading good lives?”
“That’s right.”
“But people we care about still die.” She hugged Garfield closer. “I can’t help it, I’m still afraid.”
“You’re not alone. So am I.”
“Of dying?”
“No. Everybody dies sooner or later. Dying’s pretty easy when you get right down to it. Living’s the hard part.”
“What are you scared of, then?”
“Of what will happen to you if I die before you grow up. Not so much where you’d go or what you’d do, but how you’d be inside. That you’d always be afraid. That you might never have a life because you’re too concerned with death. That scares me more than anything. More than you’re scared right now.”
She gave me a long, searching look. And then, all at once, she began to cry. Fat tears and low, hard-wrung sobs, as if an emotional dam had burst deep within her. And that was good, as painful as it was to watch, because it was the first time her grief and pain had come pouring out in front of me or Kerry or anyone else.
I ached to hold her, comfort her — but not yet, not until the purge was finished. I just sat there, feeling bad-good for her and mostly bad for myself.
When I came out I told Kerry about it, and she agreed that the breakdown was a positive sign. She went in to see Emily herself, to offer comfort and to reinforce what I’d said. And when she came out—
“She’s better now. I think she’ll be able to sleep tonight.”
“She let you turn off the lights?”
“All except the nightlight in the bathroom.”
Another good sign. If Emily was able to deal with one kind of darkness now, in time she’d probably learn to deal with the other kind.
A little later Kerry and I went to bed. We lay quietly, holding hands. I wanted to talk to her as freely as I’d talked to Emily, but with Kerry it would mean reliving the near-death experience, and my emotional dam on that subject was still tightly closed. I sensed that she was ready to speak her piece, though, and I was right.
Pretty soon she said, “There’s something I need to say. I don’t want to preach at you, or try to tell you what to do, but you have to understand how I feel.”
“Go ahead.”
“I’m not so different from Emily,” she said. “Last night... it scared me, too. We came so close to losing you.”
“Close only counts in horseshoes.”
“Dammit, this isn’t funny.”
“I wasn’t trying to be funny.”
“You could be dead right now.”
“I know that better than you do.”
“Yes, all right. I didn’t mean... I don’t know what I meant. I suppose I’m being selfish, but I can’t help being afraid for myself and for Emily, as well as for you.”
“That’s not selfish, just human.”
“We can’t go through something like this again,” she said. “None of us can, you most of all.”
“Quit beating around the bush. Just say it.”
“All right. I think it’s time you... cut back. Stop putting yourself in situations where you can get hurt or killed.”
“Retire, you mean. Get out of the detective business.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“It’s what you meant.”
“No, it isn’t, not exactly. Cut back, take a less active role in the agency. Give Tamara more responsibility, hire somebody else to do the fieldwork.”
“Somebody younger.”
“Age isn’t the issue here.”
“Isn’t it?”
“... Okay, maybe it is, partly. You’re sixty years old—”
“You think sixty’s old?”
“No, sixty is not old. Not in the normal course of things. But when it comes to dangerous situations, physical abuse... you can’t keep on doing the things you did twenty or thirty years ago, taking the kind of beating you took last night. You know you can’t.”
I didn’t say anything.
“You know you can’t,” she said again.
Lay still, you old fuck. Hey, Pops, you want some more marks on that ugly face of yours? Hey, you old fuck.
“And now you’re out there again,” Kerry said, “prowling around on the mean streets or whatever you call them, doing God knows what that might get you hurt again or killed this time. Don’t tell me that’s not what you were doing today. I know better. I know you.”
I let that pass as well.
“You have to stop this before it’s too late.”
“Not yet.”
“Why not, for God’s sake?”
“If you know me so well, you know the answer to that.”
“The hunter, always the hunter. Hemingway bullshit. Macho bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit. Not for me. And I’m not hunting the way you mean.”
“No?”
“No. I’m after justice, not revenge.”
“Fine, but you’re still out there, still vulnerable.”
“I know what I’m doing,” I said.
“Famous last words. Can’t you understand I need you, Emily needs you — alive, safe?”
“I understand a lot better than you think.”
“But still you won’t quit.”
“Not until my client’s murderer is identified and caught.”
“And when he is, if he is, what then?”
Give up my flat, give up my job... give up my life. Or was it giving up? Or just adapting, changing, accepting more important responsibilities, moving on to a different phase of my life?
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe you’re right.”
“I am right. Will you at least think about it?”
“Yes. All right, yes, I’ll think about it.”
Sunday morning, a few minutes past nine, the phone rang. I answered it, thinking that it might be Tamara with new information. No. The call was for me, but the voice on the other end belonged to Lieutenant John Fuentes, Daly City PD.
“Glad I caught you in,” he said in a voice that didn’t sound glad about anything. “You free this morning?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Appreciate it if you’d meet me at the Hall of Justice. Say in about an hour.”
“You mean here in the city?”
“We don’t have a Hall of Justice in Daly City.” Testy now. Nobody likes working Sunday mornings. “Coroner’s office, one hour.”