At midnight Grace pulled herself out of bed and started down the corridor. Her children had visited briefly. Grace insisted that they let her get out of bed for that. Scott Duncan bought her some regular clothes-an Adidas sweat suit-because she did not want to greet her children in a hospital gown. She took a major pain injection so as to quiet the screaming in her ribs. Grace wanted the children to see that she was all right, that she was safe, that they were safe. She put on a brave face that lasted right up until the moment she saw that Emma had brought her poetry journal. Then she started crying.
You can only be strong for so long.
The children were spending the night in their own beds. Cora would stay in the master bedroom. Cora’s daughter, Vickie, would sleep in the bed next to Emma. Perlmutter had assigned a female cop to stay the night too. Grace was grateful.
The hospital was dark now. Grace managed to stand upright. It took her forever. The hot scream was back in her ribs. Her knee felt more like shards of shattered glass than a joint.
The corridor was quiet. Grace had a specific destination in mind. Someone would try to stop her, she was sure, but that didn’t really concern her. She was determined.
“Grace?”
She turned toward the female voice, readying to do battle. But that wouldn’t be the case here. Grace recognized the woman from the playground. “You’re Charlaine Swain.”
The woman nodded. They moved toward each other, eyes locked, sharing something neither one of them could really articulate.
“I guess I owe you a thanks,” Grace said.
“Vice versa,” Charlaine said. “You killed him. The nightmare is over for us.”
“How is your husband?” Grace asked.
“He’s going to be fine.”
Grace nodded.
Charlaine said, “I hear yours isn’t doing well.” They were both beyond phony platitudes. Grace appreciated the honesty.
“He’s in a coma.”
“Have you seen him?”
“I’m going there now.”
“Sneaking in?”
“Yes.”
Charlaine nodded. “Let me help you.”
Grace leaned on Charlaine Swain. The woman was strong. The corridor was empty. In the distance they heard the sharp clack of heels on tile. The lights were low. They passed an empty nurse station and got into the elevator. Jack was on the third floor, in intensive care. Having Charlaine Swain with her felt oddly right to Grace. She could not say why.
This particular section of the intensive care unit had four rooms with glass walls. A nurse sat in the middle, thus able to monitor them all at once, but right now, only one room had a patient in it.
They both pulled up. Jack was in the bed. The first thing Grace noticed was that her powerful husband, the gruff six-two hunk who’d always made her feel safe, looked so small and fragile in that bed. She knew that it was her imagination. It had only been two days. He had lost some weight. He had been totally dehydrated. But that wasn’t what this was.
Jack’s eyes were closed. He had a tube coming out of his throat. There was another tube in his mouth. Both were taped with white adhesive. Yet another tube was in his nose. Still another in his right arm. There was an IV. There were machines surrounding him, straight out of some futuristic nightmare.
Grace felt herself starting to fall. Charlaine held her up. Grace steadied herself and moved toward the door.
The nurse said, “You can’t go in there.”
“She just wants to sit with him,” Charlaine said. “Please.”
The nurse glanced around then back at Grace. “Two minutes.”
Grace let go of Charlaine. Charlaine pushed opened the door for her. Grace went in alone. There were beeps and dings and a hellish sound like drops of water being sucked up a straw. Grace sat down next to the bed. She did not reach for Jack’s hand. She did not kiss Jack’s cheek.
“You’re going to love the last verse,” Grace said.
She opened Emma’s journal and started reading:
“Baseball, baseball,
Who’s your best friend?
Is it the bat,
Who hits your rear end?”
Grace laughed and turned the page, but the next page-in fact, the rest of the journal-was blank.
chapter 50
A few minutes before Wade Larue died, he thought he had finally found true peace.
He had let vengeance go. He no longer needed to know the full truth. He knew enough. He knew where he was to blame and where he was not. It was time to put it behind him.
Carl Vespa had no choice. He would never be able to recover. The same was true for that awful swirl of faces-that blur of grief-he had been forced to see in the courtroom and again today at the press conference. Wade had lost time. But time is relative. Death is not.
He had told Vespa all he knew. Vespa was a bad man, no doubt about it. The man was capable of unspeakable cruelty. Over the past fifteen years Wade Larue had met a lot of people like that, but few were that simple. With the exception of full-blown psychopaths, most people, even our most evil, have the ability to love someone, to care about them, to make connections. That was not inconsistent. That was simply human.
Larue spoke. Vespa listened. Sometime in the middle of his explanation, Cram appeared with a towel and ice. He handed it to Larue. Larue thanked him. He took the towel-the ice would be too bulky-and dabbed the blood off his face. Vespa’s blows no longer hurt. Larue had dealt with much worse over the years. When you’ve had enough of beatings, you go one way or the other-you fear them so much that you will do anything to avoid them, or you just ride them out and realize that this too shall pass. Somewhere during his incarceration Larue had joined that second camp.
Carl Vespa did not say a word. He did not interrupt or ask for clarification. When Larue finished Vespa stood there, his face unchanged, waiting for more. There was nothing. Without a word Vespa turned and left. He nodded at Cram. Cram started toward him. Larue lifted his head. He would not run. He was through with running.
“Come on, let’s go,” Cram said.
Cram dropped him off in the center of Manhattan. Larue debated calling Eric Wu, but he knew that would be pointless at this stage. He started toward the Port Authority bus terminal. He was ready now for the rest of his life to begin. He was going to head to Portland, Oregon. He wasn’t sure why. He had read about Portland in prison and it seemed to fit the bill. He wanted a big city with a liberal feel. From what he’d read, Portland sounded like a hippy commune that had turned into a major metropolis. He might get a fair shake out there.
He would have to change his name. Grow a beard. Dye his hair. He didn’t think it would take that much to change him, to help him escape the past fifteen years. Naïve to think it, yes, but Wade Larue still thought that an acting career was a possibility. He still had the chops. He still had the supernatural charisma. So why not give it a go? If not, he’d get a regular job. He wasn’t afraid of a little hard work. He’d be in a big city again. He’d be free.
But Wade Larue didn’t go to the Port Authority bus station.
The past still had too strong a pull. He couldn’t go quite yet. He stopped a block away. He saw the buses churning out to the viaduct. He watched for a moment and then turned to the row of pay phones.
He had to make one last phone call. He had to know one last truth.
Now, an hour later, the barrel of a gun was pressed against that soft hollow under his ear. It was funny what you thought of a moment before death. The soft hollow-that was one of Eric Wu’s favorite pressure-point spots. Wu had explained to him that knowing the location was fairly meaningless. You could not just stick your finger in there and push. That might hurt, but it would never incapacitate an opponent.