I was seeing even more of Vic. “I, umm…”
“I guess that was a little forward of me, huh?” She waited. “I guess it was, since you’re not talking.”
“No, I was just thinking. I do that, sometimes, before I talk.”
Lena smiled, this time with her entire mouth. “Not me, robs the evening of all its spontaneity. A little wine, a little truth, and pretty soon you’ve got a real conversation on your hands.” She took a last sip.
I started to pour us both some more. It seemed like the conversation was getting interesting, and I wasn’t quite ready to leave it. “Did you drive here?”
The smile lingered. “Cab. I lost my license two years ago, and Victor made sure I never got another one.” She watched as I poured with abandon. “You haven’t answered my question.”
I set the empty bottle back down, allowed the muscles in my neck to relax, and peered from under the brim of my hat. “I’m not so sure there is an answer.” I thought about it, as promised, and stared up through the trees at the back of the little tannery. “I was…I don’t know, depressed for quite a while, and I’m not sure I’m out of the habit.”
“Of being depressed or of marriage?”
“Both.”
The smile at her mouth faded, but it stayed with her eyes. “Funny, that’s exactly what Vic says.”
“She knows me pretty well.”
“She says that, too.”
I laughed and widened my eyes, letting them drop back to her. After a moment she stood, and I thought the evening was over. “You want to take a walk?”
We strolled left on Quarry and went toward the river, having left Dog curled on the leather sectional sofa in Cady’s living area. As we walked down the cobblestone street in the amber glow of the city’s lights, she broached the subject that must have been on her mind for a while. “What’s in the case on the kitchen counter?”
“Sidearm.”
She was silent for a moment. “Have gun, will travel?”
“Something like that.”
We walked past Fireman’s Hall and down to Elfreth’s Alley which, by the sign, was the oldest continuously inhabited street in America. By the time we got to the end, we could see the municipal pier stretching out into the black distance of the river. The surface of the water reflected the lights of the boulevard, and the rumble of traffic thumped away on the concrete surface of I-95 above. It was a beautiful night, and the humidity-laden air of the river made rings around the gumdrop-shaped lampposts. It was odd, seeing that much water just floating in the close air; it was something that only happened with a hunter’s moon on the high plains.
There was sporadic traffic, so we crossed halfway down the block and looked back up at the western buttress of the bridge. “So, what are you going to do in Philly?”
“I’m supposed to meet the potential prospective parents-in-law in Bryn Mawr. You know where that is?”
“Main Line; just follow the smell of money.” She smiled. “Serious then?”
I looked at the flat expanse of the buttress, which stretched up to the illuminated cap above. “No ring, but it’s the longest relationship she’s had so far.”
She watched me. “You don’t like him?”
“I’ve never met him.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I shrugged. “All right, you got me. It’s why I brought the. 45…” She laughed and then laughed again. “I don’t know. I never thought I would be one of those fathers that think no one’s good enough…”
“But?”
“No one’s good enough.” Another laugh. “All of yours married?”
She turned and looked at the water. “No, the Terror’s the only one who has tried it. Vic Jr.’s got a hairdresser he knocked up, so I figure it’s only a question of time. Al’s been dating the same girl for four years but refuses to buy the cow, Tony’s a ladies man, and Michael…” She continued to look at the water with her lips compressed.
“Michael…?”
She didn’t move. “No one’s good enough.”
It was getting late and I wanted to be there when Cady got home, so we started back from the marine center, where we had been watching the boats gently rock in the current of the big river.
“So, what else have you got planned?”
I tucked my hands into the front pockets of my jeans and listened as my boots made more noise than her shoes on the sidewalk. “I don’t know if Vic’s told you about Henry’s photography exhibit?”
“The Native American photographs?”
“Yep.” I nodded at the political correctness. “The reception is Friday, but that’s about it as far as formalities.” We walked along in silence. “I think I was looking for an excuse to come here, and I think Henry was, too.”
“It’s good to keep tabs.” Her turn to nod. “I don’t worry about Victoria out there. I know it’s foolish, but I figure the odds are better.”
“They are.” I slowed down a little, deciding it was time to comfort my undersheriff’s mother. “There are inherent risks with the job, but county-wise we have one of the lowest crime rates in a state with one of the lowest crime rates in the country.”
I was blowing sunshine her way, but she didn’t seem to mind. “I hear you’re going to retire soon?”
Kyle Straub’s signs had made an impression all the way to Philadelphia. “It’s a strong possibility.”
“What then?”
I thought about it. “Maybe I’ll be your daughter’s deputy.”
It was amazing to me how many people were still on the streets. There were couples walking arm in arm, people in suits swinging briefcases in a desperate pursuit of momentum, and a homeless guy who put the touch on me at Race and 2nd. He was an older gentleman and rocked gently on dirty tennis shoes with a sign teetering in his right hand that read VETERAN, HOMELESS, PLEASE HELP.
Lena watched as I pulled a five from my front pocket and palmed it into the palsied hand. “Thank you, sir.”
His voice was remarkably cultured, and I looked at him for a second more-at the surprising blue of his eyes-and then continued on with Lena.
“You keep that up, and you won’t have any money by the time you get out of here.”
I nodded.
“He’ll just use it to get something to drink.”
“I would.”
She shook her head and smiled at me some more. “You were in the military?”
I raised a weak fist. “Remember the Maine.”
“You don’t want to talk about it?”
I smiled at her. “I’ll make you a deal; I don’t have to talk about Vietnam, and you don’t have to sing.”
“Deal.”
We crossed at Paddy O’Neil’s Tavern and looked down Bread, where there was a Philadelphia City Police cruiser idling with its parking lights on. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked as if it sat at Cady’s front door. I glanced at Lena, but she was frowning at the car. “Anybody looking for you?”
“Always.”
We walked down the narrow street; she was hurrying and was just a little ahead of me. By the time I got to the driver’s side of the unit, I could see that the young man behind the wheel looked remarkably like Lena and could only surmise that he was a Moretti. She was the first to speak. “What are you doing here, Tony?”
The patrolman looked up at her, but he didn’t smile. “Hey, Ma.” He looked past her to me and at my hat. “Are you Walter Longmire?”
Whatever smile I had drained away. “Yes.”
“There’s been an accident.”
3
The Trauma Center at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania was on the other side of town and the Schuylkill River, but it took Officer Anthony Moretti only twelve minutes to get there. It took me half that to get to the Surgical ICU on the fifth floor, and numerous lifetimes to think about the nature of trauma and how it takes more lives than cancer and heart disease combined. He wouldn’t give me details, only that my daughter had been involved in some sort of accident, that she was being treated at HUP, and that, as a professional courtesy, he would drive me there.