But before I can get to that, I've got a promise to keep, and I take a detour out to Wally McGregor's trailer. He's sitting in his rocking chair, as if calmly waiting for my arrival, though I hadn't called ahead. His German shepherd companion looks just as mean as ever, but Tara seems to see something in him that I don't, since she jumps right out of the car and ambles over to him. They commence sniffing each other, which seems to go well enough, since in a few seconds they're lying down next to each other in the sun.
“Hello, Wally,” I say. “I saw you in court the day of closing arguments, but afterward I looked for you, and you had gone.”
“You seemed pretty busy,” he says.
“Have you heard what happened?”
He nods. “Lieutenant Stanton called and told me. He said Markham was the real killer.”
“Yes.”
“He took my whole family. Doesn't seem right that he lived free all these years. Or that Willie Miller didn't.”
“No,” I say, “it's certainly not right.”
“But better late than never.”
“Much better,” I agree.
“You did a good thing, and I thank you for it,” he says.
“Believe me, I was glad to do it.”
I stay another two hours, during which time not another word is mentioned about the murders or the trial. We mostly talk baseball, a subject on which his knowledge is virtually encyclopedic. By the time I leave, Wally McGregor is no longer a man I've helped, nor is he a man I feel sorry for. He is simply a good friend.
Tara and I arrive on Long Beach Island in the early evening, as ready for peace and quiet as I have ever been in my life. The first thing I do, since I know it will hover over me if I don't, is try to understand my father's role in the events that shaped and destroyed so many lives. Unfortunately, I have limited success in doing so. There is no one to tell me if he had direct involvement in Julie McGregor's death and murder, or why he took and then never touched the two million dollars. I can make guesses, some exculpating and some painful, but they seem destined to remain guesses.
I can make a more informed judgment of his involvement in the Willie Miller trial. I believe that he considered Willie to be guilty. He would likely never have known Julie McGregor's name, and therefore would have had no reason to connect Denise's murder to that horrible night all those years before. He may have taken a hands-on role in the prosecution because of his prior friendship with Victor, but he must have believed that Willie was guilty. I suspect that years later he may have started to question that belief, and that is why he asked me to take the case.
I've given a few people permission to call me on my cell phone, while admonishing them to make sure they do so only in an emergency. I'm lying in bed on the tenth day, about nine o'clock in the morning, when the phone rings. It's Pete Stanton calling, with the briefest of messages. “Turn on CNN.”
He hangs up without waiting for me to say anything, and I rush to the television and do as I'm told. There is a press conference taking place, featuring the current DA, Richard Wallace's boss. Wallace is at his side as he announces the arrests of Victor and Edward Markham. They have turned themselves in, rather than face the indignity of being brought into the jail-house in handcuffs, and they are facing arraignment the next morning.
I'm pleased and more than a little gratified, and I suppose my thirst for revenge is at least partially quenched, but I'm also strangely detached from this news. My role in this case is over, and I have no desire to relive or resurrect it. It is in competent hands, as evidenced by the speed with which the investigation has been conducted, and I'd just as soon leave it alone.
So, in terms of the last four days of my stay here at the beach, I wouldn't describe the impact this news has as drastic. Instead of spending all my time walking, sunbathing, and reading, I add a Walkman to the mix, and occasionally listen for radio reports on the Markham situation.
I learn that a conditional bail has been set at two million dollars for both Victor and Edward, an amount which of course Victor is able to raise with ease. He and Edward have been released to electronic house arrest, which means that they must stay in Victor's house, with high-tech ankle bracelets recording their movements and ensuring they cannot flee. Victor in electronic shackles; now that is something I would buy a ticket to see.
Tara and I reluctantly pack up the car and head for home. We make the two-hour drive listening to the Eagles’ Greatest Hits and Ragtime ; let no one accuse us of having particularly modern taste in music.
I'm feeling the benefits of the time off, and I'm even experiencing rumblings inside myself of wanting to get back into the fray. It's hard to know what is going to come up next, but surely the notoriety of the Miller case should result in a wide array of clients wanting to hire my services.
I'm about five minutes from my house when I realize that I'm not driving to my house at all. I seem to be semivoluntarily driving to Laurie's, though I certainly haven't called her and told her I was coming. In fact, I haven't spoken to her since I left.
I'm about three blocks from her house when I see her jogging on the side of the road, ahead of me and going in the same direction. She looks phenomenal in shorts and T-shirt, and I drive very slowly behind her all the way to her house, not wanting to spoil this picture.
When she reaches the house, I speed up and pull up in front, pretending that I'm just seeing her for the first time.
She comes over to the car, a little out of breath. “Into stalking, are we?”
“You knew I was there?” I ask.
She nods. “I'm a trained investigator. And I have a slimeball detector that can locate leering, drooling men up to a mile away.”
Seeing Laurie is jarring, in a good way. For two weeks I have kept myself in a plastic bubble, not letting real life enter. Now I see Laurie, and I'm incredibly glad that she is a part of that real life. I am stunned by the realization of how much I have missed her.
Laurie leans in and gives me a light kiss on the cheek, then pats Tara's head. “Come on in,” she says, and Tara and I do just that.
Laurie gives Tara some dog biscuits that she has in the house for her neighbor's dogs, then showers and changes. Tara then jumps up on the couch to take a nap, and Laurie and I go over to Charlie's for dinner.
We order a couple of burgers and fries, though we have to get separate orders of fries. I want mine very, very crisp, but cooks seem to have a resistance to making them that way. I have come to ordering them “burned beyond recognition, so that their own french fry mothers wouldn't know who they are,” but it never seems to help.
We also get bottles of Amstel Light, and toast to Willie's freedom. The discussion then turns to other cases, future clients, other work issues. Laurie does most of the talking, while I do most of the staring.
She finally notices and asks me why it is that I'm staring, and when I don't respond immediately, she figures it out.
“Oh, come on, Andy.”
“What?” I innocently inquire.
“You can't expect us to just get back together, as if nothing had happened.”
“I can't? No, of course I can't. Can I?”
“No, you can't. I know you went to law school, Andy, but did you ever go to grammar school? Because you're acting like you're there now.”
“All I'm suggesting is that we slowly, very slowly, see if we can rebuild the nonbusiness portion of our relationship.” I'm crawling now. “Which I screwed up by acting like the idiot that I am.”
“That's a little more like it,” she says, weakening slightly.