I cooked dinner that night, but for the first time in ages Frannie pitched in by chopping leeks and dicing potatoes. I had to order him to stop turning on and off the new Cuisinart I'd bought, but he didn't suggest TV when we were done. We spent the rest of the evening talking about the good old days. My hopes were up.
The next morning there was something on the windshield of my car. It had snowed the night before, and this early in the morning everything was silent and still, covered in white. The air smelled cold and clear with a touch of wood smoke in there somewhere. I stood on the porch looking around, enjoying being outside while things were still wearing their white hats, untouched. A bird flew off a tree branch causing snow to drift lightly down. The sky was full of dark clouds whizzing by. I heard a car coming, its tires hissing on the wet pavement. A black Lexus rolled slowly by, the color contrasting starkly with the white world around it. A good-looking blond was driving and to my great delight gave a big wave. I understood. Here we were, just the two of us out in this picture-postcard morning, all ours for a little while longer. Hello there, isn't it great? I waved back with two hands just as the car went around the corner, adding glowing red taillights and gray exhaust smoke to the picture.
Smith, McCabe's cat, stood on the other side of the street looking at me. The color of orange marmalade, he stood out vividly against the snow. It surprised me that Frannie kept any pet. The tough guy I knew years ago would have owned a psychotic pit bull or a Komodo dragon. But adult McCabe got a real kick out of a cat.
It leaped up onto the hood of my car and froze, only his tail curling back and forth in the air. Another car passed. Then I noticed my windshield had been cleared of snow and a piece of paper was under the wiper. Had I gotten a ticket? Parked in front of the chief of police's house?
Approaching the car, I listened to the snow crunching beneath the soles of my sneakers. My shoes were much too thin for the weather and I felt the cold through them in no time. Smith stayed on my car, impassively watching as I walked toward him.
"What's under the windshield?"
He looked at me with nary a flicker in his impassive gold eyes. I reached over and lifted the wiper. Beneath it was a standard-size envelope wrapped inside a plastic bag. I took my pocketknife and slit through the plastic, then the envelope itself. Inside was a Polaroid of my daughter and Ivan walking down a street, smiling at each other. The photographer could not have been more than three feet away from them. On the back of the picture was a green Post-it with this message typed on it:
"Hi, Sam! I want to read what you have written so far. Put it on a disk (MS-DOS, please) and send it to Veronica Lake. I will tell her what to do with it.
"Don't tell anyone about this. Cassandra is pretty. Act fast."
Closing my eyes, I tried to swallow but couldn't. Suddenly there wasn't enough oxygen on the planet to fill my lungs. My daughter? This scumbag had been killing people for thirty years. Now he knew who Cassandra was and had gotten close enough to photograph her? I realized I was talking out loud. Of course he'd gotten close to her. This was the same man who had left the videotape on Cadmus's doorstep, a taunting note on my papers after the lecture in New Jersey, pizza on McCabe's porch.
But why send it to Veronica? How did she fit into this? Was she in contact with the killer, or was she being used by him for some unknown purpose?
My daughter! He had stood a few feet away from her. She and Ivan had walked by, oblivious to everything but their shared happiness.
I looked at the photograph again and realized it had been taken from directly in front of the couple. They'd probably seen him, but would they remember? Kids don't see anything but themselves, especially when they're in love.
My manuscript was already on computer disk. There would be no trouble copying it and sending it to Veronica, but then what?
The thought was unbearable. He said I shouldn't talk to anyone, but I had to ask Frannie – the cop, my friend, the person who had been as close to this story as anyone.
"Do what he wants, Sam. Make a copy and send it to him. What else can you do? Why are you even asking? He said don't tell a soul. Well I'm a soul."
"Frannie, for God's sake! You're the only one I know who knows about this kind of crap. I've got to hear what you think I should do. I'm lost here, man! This is my daughter! Do you understand? Cassandra! The dirty son of a bitch was this far away from her. Have a fucking heart, willya? Be a little helpful in this situation!"
We stood in the kitchen. For the first time in ages he was dressed in normal clothes – a pullover, jeans, boots. At another time, I would have rejoiced at the change in him. But it was today and a blade was an inch from my neck and maybe Cassandra's.
Before I showed him the note he had been full of good cheer and wisecracks. Now he had his hand on the button of the Cuisinart again and kept switching it on and off as he had the night before. Only now it was every second and so annoying I wanted to throw the thing out the window. I didn't have to.
When I finished accusing him, my chin was stuck out so far I could feel the cords of my neck stretching. He did nothing but look at his hand on the machine. On off on off on . . . Then without any warning, he scooped up the gadget and heaved it like a fastball against the refrigerator. Ka-bam! Parts exploded in every direction. It had been so long since I'd seen how strong Frannie was. When we were young, McCabe did things in fights that amazed everyone. You never, ever, not even in your dreams, messed with Frannie McCabe.
Yanking his sweater up, he pointed at the large white bandage across his stomach. "I was shot! Guy put a hole here 'cause he wanted me dead. Understand? I can't help you with your kid, Sam. Sorry, but my tank's empty at the moment because I'm scared too. He's after me, you, Cass, everybody! And we're not gonna win this time, brother.
"You can be good, you can be moral . . . So What? Fuuuuck you! You still die, because some nobody don't like the way you breathe. Now you're beginning to understand it. I saw it in Nam, I saw it here, and now they got me. Look at what happened to Pauline! Makes absolutely no sense, and that was thirty years ago. Compared to today, things were safe then! She fights with her boyfriend while some mass murderer's watching. Guy doesn't even know her but kills her anyway! Hey, why not, she's pretty. So her poor husband goes to jail, gets the shit beat out of him, goes nuts . . . Come on!
"I give up, Sam. I admit it. I'm gonna sit in my house, watch videos and listen to The Pirates of Penzance. What should you do? Show the guy your book. Save your daughter. Save your ass. Forget the rest."
To my immense relief and dismay, Veronica acted like an angel. With great reluctance, I called and told her about the killer's demand. She was aghast to hear about the photograph of Cassandra and said she would do whatever she could to help.
Neither of us said anything about what had happened between us recently. Hearing her voice again, part of me melted, another part stiffened and wanted to shout, "Why did you lie to me? I need to trust you now, but how can I?" But I kept my mouth shut because I desperately needed her, Cass needed her, and what she had to do to help could be extremely dangerous.