Now, Monday, Thieu and Glitsky were playing lunchtime chess at one of the open tables on Market Street. The sun was bright overhead; the air still. Glitsky was thinking mate in three moves, but his concentration got diverted when a bare-chested man in sandals and shorts stopped to watch the endgame. Carrying an enormous wooden cross, he just stood there looking on with his companion, who was a fashionably dressed businesswoman in her mid-thirties. The cross, Glitsky noticed, had a wheel at its base to facilitate pulling the thing along.
He moved his bishop and the man shook his head. 'Blew it,' he said, and moved on, pulling his cross, chatting with his friend. Daily life in the city.
Studying the board, Glitsky realized the man was right. Thieu made his move – one move! – and tried not to smile. It wasn't a really good try, though.
Glitsky started putting away his pieces. His brow was not clear. Throughout the game, they'd been discussing their sting operation, how it had gone so wrong. 'I still don't understand how you lost Farrell.'
Thieu was holding the bag. 'I didn't lose Farrell. I never had Farrell.'
'You followed him,' Glitsky said.
Thieu explained what had happened. 'Two cars, Abe,' he said. 'We always tail with two cars. You know that. We waited by the lot by the bridge when they pulled in there. When the Lexus pulled out, I followed Dooher down to Merced. There was nothing to call you about until we found the bags. The guys in the second car didn't find Farrell right away and they had better things to do than report to us, like get him out of there, try to keep him alive. What I'm curious about is the Price woman.'
'After this,' Glitsky was laconic, 'odds are she'll get her movie deal.'
'Not precisely what I meant, Abe.'
'I know, Paul. I know what you meant.'
They crossed Market, negotiating a stalled Mini bus spewing out a stream of unhappy campers. When they had forded it, Glitsky told Thieu that the DA hadn't yet decided on the charge for Price. 'My guess is Reston will go with manslaughter, she'll plead and get some community service. Maybe not even that if I have any real influence, which I don't.'
'Community service for killing a guy?'
'Using deadly force, Paul to save a life. The situation called for it. I was there. He was going to kill the baby. That's what I'm going to say. It's what Price's lawyer is going to say. It'll fly.'
Thieu was skeptical. 'How was Dooher going to do that, exactly? Kill the kid, I mean. Did he have a gun, a knife? What was he going to do?'
'He was shaking it. Kills infants every day. You know that, Paul. We've got that nice poster on the column – "Never, never, NEVER shake a baby!" I'm sure you've seen it.'
'So she had to shoot him dead?'
Glitsky shrugged. 'Must've seemed like a good idea at the time.'
'You're cute with those tubes coming out of you.'
'Mmmmfff.'
'I know, I agree. Oh listen, I brought you a present. You can pin it on your Take me drunk, I'm home shirt.' Sam fished in her purse and pulled out the button. She turned it to face Wes. It read, What if the hokey-pokey is what it's all about?
Two weeks later, Christina was on the deck of her parents' home, breastfeeding William. Her father was coming out of the house with a tray of food.
'Your mother will be along in a minute,' he said, sitting down on one of the wrought-iron chairs, 'but I wanted to tell you something. She feels so guilty about telling Mark you were at the hospital. It's been paralyzing her.'
'She did what she thought was best, Dad.'
'You know that; I know it. She did it, though. I think it feels different.'
Christina looked out over the valley. 'She didn't trust me. She didn't believe what I told her.'
Bill was all agreement. 'That's true. She feels terrible about that, too.' He leaned forward, his voice soft. 'I'm just trying to tell you her intentions were the best.' He put a paternal hand on her knee. 'I've got to ask you to let her share her grandson, Christina. You can't go on punishing her. You've got to trust her again. Let her hold him.'
'I can't.'
'I think you can. She loves you, Christina. I love you, too. This is something you can do.'
She blinked a couple of times. William gurgled and she looked down at him. She had finished nursing. She took a moment fixing her swimsuit, her eyes down.
'I can't do anything. All I've done is cause you both pain. Now I'm hurting Mom and I can't make myself do anything else.'
'I'll say it again. You can.'
She forced herself to breathe. 'No, Daddy, it's more of the same. I mess my life up and then I do it again and again and again. Now I'm a single mother with no job and no career and you're taking care of me again.'
'That's what we do, Christina. That's what parents do. You followed your heart.'
But she was shaking her head. 'I didn't. I followed some dream, to be like both of you. And I'm not really like either of you. I've got all this stuff, this baggage. A woman's role, a mother's role, a daughter's role… roles define everything I am, so I'm not anything anymore. I'm just not carefree.'
Bill's elbows were on his knees. He canted forward in his chair. 'I know that. It's a different world than we grew up in, your mother and I. Maybe it's better, I don't know, worrying about so much, trying to do right on so many levels.'
'But I haven't done right. I'm guilty about everything. I'm all lost.'
Bill took her hand. 'You guilty about William here?'
She looked down at the boy. 'No.'
'You know where you are with him?'
'Yes. Definitely.'
He sat back in his chair, took an olive and popped it. 'You're going to make mistakes with him, you know. Just like your mother did with you about telling Mark. Like I did, too, lots of other times. Still do. We make mistakes.'
'But…'
'No buts. It's a fact. Guilt isn't going to help – William or anybody else. It hasn't helped you. Let it go. Start over.'
'That's just it. I don't know if I can.'
Irene opened the French doors and came down the steps onto the deck. She pulled up a chair and smiled a practiced smile. Christina could see that she'd been crying, had tried to hide the traces. 'You two having a nice talk at last?' she asked. 'Oh, these are excellent olives. Have you tried these, Christina?'
She was sitting up, emotion ripping through her. She could feel the invisible chain tying her to her son. How could she ever loosen it. He was anchored to her.
She swung her legs over the side of the lounger. 'I'm taking a dip, Mom. Do you want to hold William?'
She held her baby out and her mother took him. The chain hadn't broken – she'd let him go and they were still connected. Her mother's eyes brimmed over again.
Christina walked to the pool and stood at its edge.
It was the pink moment.
John Lescroart
JOHN LESCROART, the New York Times best-selling author of such novels as The Mercy Rule, The 13th Juror, Nothing but the Truth, and The Hearing, lives with his family in northern California.
