But Toby thought old Mr. Hodge on the corner had his suspicions. After Grammy broke her leg, Dad and Lily had come here twice, making sure she was doing okay with the nurse Dad hired. Which she had, though at first Toby thought they wouldn’t get along, because Grammy knew more about nursing than ’most anyone and didn’t much like being a patient, but the hired nurse had let Grammy boss her around, so it had turned out okay. Ever since then, though, old Mr. Hodge had been looking at Toby funny. But he was one as kept to himself, like Grammy said, so he probably hadn’t told anyone.
Dad was talking to Grammy. “Are you sure you don’t want to go—”
“No. No, I’m not being run out of my home, but thank you for offering.”
If a bunch of reporters came around bothering old Mr. Hodge, he’d probably chase them off with his shotgun. He didn’t ever load it, but they wouldn’t know that. Toby grinned around a mouthful of eggs. He’d like to see that.
“Very well, then. I’ll get Lily’s things together.”
“Huh? Why?” Belatedly, Toby remembered to swallow.
“If I’m here, the reporters will be, too. So Lily will move to the hotel—she can’t leave Halo with an investigation under way—and you and I will go to Leidolf’s clanhome.”
“Leidolf? But they—” He broke off, darting a glance at Grammy. He wasn’t sure what he could say around her about clan stuff.
She sighed. “I can see you two need to discuss this privately. If you think Ms. Yu wouldn’t mind, I’ll go pack for her.” Grammy’s mouth twitched in the first real smile he’d seen on her face this morning. “I suspect she’d like my methods better than yours. She’s a very tidy person.”
Dad smiled slightly. “Thank you. I suspect you’re right. Finish your eggs, Toby. We’ll discuss this out back.”
TEN
IN an old house on a quiet street, a fractured being was exploring its temporary structure. After the bliss at having skin and breath subsided, it had realized that its new warmth was different from the other one. Some of the parts didn’t work well. It didn’t understand the problem at first, for though the warmth’s memories were available, the thoughts were not. Not exactly.
Finally it located the reason the knees and back ached: Old knees, old back, old brain, old man. Jesus H. Christ, I hate being old.
That was a thought, yes, but a thought played so often it had worn its own groove in the memories. Unfortunately, it made this discovery after telling its warmth to hurry. This had caused the warmth to rush too much, and fall.
That’s when it rediscovered pain.
Bright and hot, pain absorbed it for a time, fascinating in its vividness, its familiarity. It had known pain before. Pain was not as welcome as breath and memories, but the familiarity was dear.
For a time it hoped it would truly remember.
That didn’t happen, but being in the warmth stabilized it, so despair didn’t shake bits of it loose, and The Voice was silenced.
Fortunately, its warmth wasn’t too damaged by the fall; once it woke from its contemplation of pain and told the warmth to stand up, he did so without great trouble. A few moments later, though, it noticed something disturbing. Something was wrong with the warmth. What?
It had the warmth touch his face. Wet. Blood? It remembered blood . . . no, not blood. The problem wasn’t with the warmth’s body. The warmth was sad, terribly sad. The wetness was tears.
It didn’t want its warmth to be sad. It tried to comfort the old man, but telling him to feel better didn’t work. It pondered that, wondering why one instruction was accepted and the other was not, as its warmth hunted through the chest of drawers, as ordered, for shotgun shells.
THIRTY minutes after the explosive interview with her witness, Lily had made one quick phone call, Deacon had his prisoner back in his cell, and the four of them—federal agent, public defender, district attorney, and sheriff—were once more in Deacon’s office.
Kessenblaum had been embarrassed by her panicked reaction to her client’s freak-out. Embarrassment, like so much else, turned the woman belligerent.
“You see?” Kessenblaum said, jabbing her finger in Farquhar’s general direction. “You see he—Mr. Meacham—he’s not stable. Not competent. You can’t continue to hold him here. It’s—”
“Give it a rest,” Farquhar said wearily. “You aren’t doing Meacham any favors by yelling at us.”
“At least I’m on his side. At least I care. You just care about the media coverage, the election, and what—”
Lily was out of patience. “Ms. Kessenblaum, shut up.”
After one second’s startled silence, the woman sneered. “You’re as bad as she is, determined to make your reputation on the backs of those without power, without voices. But I can tell you now, Mr. Meacham isn’t alone. I won’t let him be ground up by the system.”
Oh, God, that was it. That explained the inappropriate clothes. Kessenblaum wanted to be a hippie, but had been born a generation too late. “You want to stage a sit-in or you want to help your client?” Lily asked.
Kessenblaum rolled her eyes. “Oh, isn’t that just like a cop? Shove me into a comfortable little cliché so you can ignore what I’m saying!”
“Talk’s cheap. What have you done other than bitch? Why hasn’t Meacham been seen by someone with plenty of alphabet soup after his name who could put some weight behind your claims?”
“I don’t have money for that! If you knew what a joke the budget for the public defender’s office is around here—”
“Get it pro bono,” she snapped. “Quit whining and start calling around. But do it elsewhere. The grown-ups need to get some work done.”
Kessenblaum’s face went white, then red. “You don’t—you can’t talk to me that way.”
“Think she just did,” Deacon said. His eyes held a glint of humor. “Come on, Crystal. You must have better things to do than badger your godmother, and God knows I’ve got better things to do than supervise the fireworks. Besides,” he added, moving to hold the door for her in a broad hint, “you don’t want to make the FBI agent mad. She’ll clean your clock.”
After one fuming, frustrated moment, Kessenblaum stomped out. Deacon closed the door gently behind her.
Lily looked at Farquhar, one eyebrow lifted. “Godmother?”
Farquhar’s eyes twinkled. “I hope you’re shocked that a woman my age could have a goddaughter Crystal’s age.”
“I am. She’s what—thirty or so? And you can’t be much more than forty.” With children young enough to need to be driven to school, Lily remembered.
Marcia Farquhar patted Lily’s hand. “Bless you. Crystal’s thirty-three, and I’ve a bit more mileage than those forty years you tactfully mentioned. I started my family quite late—scandalously so, according to some, who were more upset at my delaying pregnancy so long than at Crystal’s mother giving birth when she was sixteen.” She exchanged a wry look with Deacon. “Her mother and I were close growing up, being among the few Catholics in Halo. As a result, I might have become a mother late in life, but I became a godmother quite young.”
“Hmm.” Lily had noticed that people in the South often found a way to let you know their religious affiliation, pretty much the same way they’d bring up their favorite football team. It disconcerted her.