“When your mother comes back, I’m going to go over to my office for a few minutes,” Lefebvre said. “But I won’t be gone long — I’ll hurry back, and I’ll stay here with you this evening.”
When he saw Seth’s look of relief, he said, “I’m sorry — I should have stayed with you last night, too.”
You can’t be here all the time.
“No, but I could have stayed here last night. Will you be okay until I get back?”
Yes.
But he seemed anxious. Lefebvre began talking to him about the Cessna and asked him if he thought he might like to learn to fly when he was feeling better. Seth said yes and began asking him questions about the requirements for a pilot’s license.
With his typical perceptiveness, Seth wrote: You miss flying. Haven’t done it because I’ve kept you grounded here with me.
“I do what I like,” Lefebvre said. “I stayed here because I like spending time with you — you know that’s true. I’ll get to fly again soon enough.”
Take me with you someday?
“As soon as you are well enough to leave here, you can be certain I’ll take you up.”
And Elena?
“Are you playing matchmaker again?”
Seth smiled at him.
“Yes, Elena, too. If I can convince her to come along.”
She’ll like it.
Tory returned then, her makeup repaired, her manner reserved. Lefebvre took his leave.
It was dark by the time he parked in the underground lot at department headquarters. He sat in the car for a moment, hesitant to go inside. The building had changed, he thought. Yesterday, it was a place where he felt completely at home. Today, it was an enemy’s lair.
“You are being foolish,” he told himself. “Almost everyone in there is your ally, not your enemy.”
But that, he knew, was also foolish.
He looked about him but saw no one. Still, by the time he reached the property room, his nerves were stretched taut.
The evidence technician smiled as she handed the sign-out sheet to him. He had just finished signing his name when he heard her say, “Back already?”
“Yes,” he said, trying for a smile — then paused when he saw his own name already on the sheet — supposedly signing for the Randolph case evidence at 6:01 P.M.
An excellent forgery of his signature.
The tech turned away from him to help an officer who was checking in evidence from a drug bust. With cold fingers, Lefebvre lifted the lid of the box. It was empty except for one item — a wristwatch.
He shut the lid and managed to say to the tech, “Not your usual night, is it?”
“No,” she said absently, still concentrating on the incoming evidence. “This is Bill’s shift, but he had to go home.” She glanced over at him. “He was probably looking kind of green around the gills when you saw him.”
Lefebvre didn’t answer.
“You’re not looking so great yourself,” she added. “Must be something going around.”
“Must be.” He walked away without taking the box.
“Hey!” she called. “Don’t you want—”
“Changed my mind,” he said, hurrying out of the building.
He held down the urge to race through traffic and drove back to the hospital at a sedate pace, not wanting to attract police attention to his car.
He tried to seem casual as he walked through the hospital lobby, cautiously looking around him, wondering how long it would be before a call was made to Internal Affairs saying he had stolen the evidence in the Randolph case.
The guard on Seth’s room was away from his post, talking to the nurses at the nurses’ station. When he saw Lefebvre, his eyes widened, and for a moment Lefebvre thought he might be placed under arrest by this incompetent jerk. But the guard merely took up his place at the door of the room, avoiding eye contact with Lefebvre.
Lefebvre was surprised to find the room almost completely in darkness — only the soft glow of Seth’s computer screen provided light. By it, he could see the boy’s sleeping face.
He sat next to the bed, holding his head in his hands. He thought of paging Elena, but if IAD learned of it, she would fall under suspicion, too. He might have only a few more minutes of freedom; he could not just sit here. Keep moving, he told himself.
“Seth?”
The young man didn’t stir.
“Seth?” he said, a little louder.
When there was still no response, he reached to gently waken him.
The boy’s skin felt cool beneath Lefebvre’s hand. No, not cool. Cold.
“Seth!” He felt for a pulse. Seth had none — his own was racing.
“No,” he murmured, disbelieving. “No…” Panicking, he looked for the call button — but suddenly remembered the forged signature, the stolen evidence.
What did that matter if Seth could be helped? he asked himself angrily. Nothing else mattered! He must get help, call a doctor—
But he knew he was too late. His experience with death was too thorough to allow him to believe that anything could be done for Seth. Still, he fumbled for the control button on the bed that turned on the lights and pressed it. In their stark brightness, his hope faltered. With a trembling hand, he raised the lids of Seth’s eyes. There was no pupil response to the light.
“Seth,” he said again, but now it was a sound of loss. He heard himself make a low, animal cry, and for a time was aware of nothing other than the boy lying still and cold and alone in the bed, and the crushing weight of his failure to protect him.
“Forgive me,” he said again and again. “Forgive me.”
He gradually became aware that he was weeping and grew angry with himself for it. Wiping his face, he forced himself to observe the room as a professional. The small harness device used to operate the computer had been removed from Seth’s arm. The call button for the nurse was on the floor beneath the bed. Near it, he found a pillow — he glanced at the other bed and saw that the pillow had been taken from it. The pillow had been torn near the center — perhaps bitten. He also saw bruising on Seth’s arms and marks near his nose and mouth.
He felt a white-hot anger burn through him, a desire for vengeance unlike any he had ever known before.
He heard voices in the hall. He hurriedly turned off the lights and moved to the closed door. The so-called guard was chatting with a nurse. “Need some help with that?” he heard the guard say to her. There was the scrape of the guard’s chair as he stood, the sound of his footsteps moving away.
Lefebvre quietly moved out of the room and out to the patio door. He used it to escape down the stairwell, just as the killer had escaped him the night before. Sickened that he had not caught him then, he made his way to the car.
He looked back toward the window of Seth’s room, saw it was still darkened, and with a sense of emptiness unlike any he had ever known, he drove away.
9
Friday, June 22, 8:45 P.M.
An Apartment Not Far from the Las Piernas Police Department
He stared at the pencil lead, placed it on the page, and then lifted it again. How to rate today’s performance?
At times, he had achieved nothing less than an eight. At others, he barely merited a one. Those hours, for example, when he had lost track of Lefebvre. Terrible, though hardly his fault.
He decided that he would need to patiently await the final outcome before giving himself a rating. Waiting patiently would add points; jumping to conclusions would lower his score.
He never doubted the importance and necessity of his work, but that did not mean that he was pleased with every aspect of it or even took joy in it. He was quite critical of himself. Knowing that his special calling would always be a lonely business, he not only had to keep his triumphs to himself, but there was no one with whom he could share his disappointments.
In truth, the entire Dane episode had been a disappointment. Had his plans succeeded as intended, a great deal of trouble would have been spared. God was indeed in the details — one small element out of place could ruin the most elaborate plans.