“Anything else?” Geraldine has her notebook open, pen poised, but so far there’s not much to write.
We all stare at Judge Long. “Tis,” he says.
“I always thought you were Irish,” Harry says. “Now I know for sure.”
A smile spreads across Judge Long’s lips. It’s faint, but it’s there. He points to the bottom of his bed, wiggles his foot.
“Shoes?” Harry asks. “You saw his shoes?”
The judge nods.
Geraldine clicks the pen, tucks it in her pocket, and rolls her green eyes to the ceiling. “So we’re looking for a white guy with shoes.”
“That narrows it down.” Harry grins at her. “And I’m glad to hear you’re looking.”
Geraldine smirks at him as if he’s an annoying child, but she knows he caught her. She slipped. She’s still holding Nicky Patterson in custody, but she doesn’t think he did it. And she just admitted as much to the firm representing him. A rare mistake on her part.
Harry’s beaming now. He turns back toward Judge Long, leans on the bed’s guardrail. “Attorney Schilling has Nicky Patterson in custody.”
The judge’s eyebrows arch.
“The deadbeat dad,” Harry tells him. “The guy who ordered the special at Zeke’s.”
Judge Long closes his eyes and frowns. He remembers.
“Attorney Schilling thinks he’s the perp,” Harry says.
The judge squints at Geraldine, shakes his head.
“At least that’s what she tells us,” Harry adds.
“Nicky Patterson was there,” Geraldine answers. “He’s a white male. And I’m pretty sure he was wearing shoes. I haven’t heard anything here tonight that rules him out.”
The judge shakes his head again, but I’m the only one who notices. Geraldine and Harry are facing off.
“Come on,” Harry says, “you don’t have anything to rule him in. And you know it.”
“Keep your voices down.” Annie Wilkes sets her paper cup of ice chips back on the tray and hurries around the bed. She intends to usher us out.
“Everything rules him in.” Geraldine hisses.
“Shut up. All of you.” The three of them turn my way.
Harry and Geraldine are surprised. Nurse Wilkes looks stunned. I don’t imagine she’s told to shut up very often.
Their eyes follow my index finger to Judge Long. He’s silent, but his eyes aren’t. He shakes his head at Geraldine, mouths “No.”
“Never argue with opposing counsel,” I tell Harry, “if the judge will do it for you.”
Late as it is when I get back to the cottage, I am unable to resist the allure of Mr. Justice Paxson. Once more, I center his words under my desk lamp, the only light on in the house. I flip ahead in the opinion, past the remaining evaluation of expert witnesses, and turn to his discussion of the defendant.
Orfila has said that the mind is always greatly troubled when it is agitated by anger,…overcome by despair, haunted by terror, or corrupted by an unconquerable desire for vengeance.
Then, as is commonly said, a man is no longer master of himself; his reason is affected, his ideas are in disorder, he is like a madman.
But in all these cases a man does not lose his knowledge of the real relations of things;…his misfortune is real, and if it carry him to commit a criminal act, this act is perfectly well motivated.
And in the near-darkness of my bedroom, I realize that this is precisely my concern. One truth about Buck Hammond is beyond debate. His misfortune is real, and if it carry him to commit a criminal act, this act is perfectly well motivated.
Chapter 35
Friday, December 24
It’s not a dream, not a nightmare. I bolt upright, my heart racing. My adrenaline pump switches on, an instant cold sweat seeping from every pore in my body. I will my breath silent, my eyes open.
The darkness is complete but for the glowing red numbers of the alarm clock. It’s two A.M. And the noise-the one I thought I imagined in my sleep-it’s real.
Scratching. Something-or someone-is scratching, digging maybe. But not outside; it’s not a fox or a coyote. The sound is here. In this room.
I decide against the light, swing my legs out of bed, and grab the telephone from the nightstand. The scratching stops, though, abruptly, and I freeze. A split second later, something lands on my feet and I jump up. My heartbeat halts. The phone falls to the floor.
My attacker whimpers. It’s Charles. I forgot about him. He lifts a pudgy front paw and runs it down the shins of my red flannel pajamas until I pick him up. He licks my chin as I flip on the lamp. Dog breath.
It was after midnight by the time I got home. Luke had left the outside floodlight on for me, illuminating the back stairs and deck. And the aroma in the driveway told me the woodstove was still burning. Otherwise, though, the cottage was dark. Luke and Maggie were asleep. Half an hour later, I was too. Charles never crossed my mind.
I put the phone back in its spot on the nightstand and examine the leg of my headboard. Sure enough, little dog scratches at the base.
Charles’s tail wags against the inside of my arm when I scoop him up. He looks up at me hopefully, mouth open, long tongue hanging over one side again. He really does have dog breath. And he’s hungry.
Danny Boy snores in his bed, oblivious to his adopted son’s needs. Every mother hen deserves a helper, I believe, so Charles and I head for the kitchen. It’s been a long time since I’ve done a two A.M. feeding, but I remember the drill. Feed him till you’re wide awake, then he’ll fall sound asleep.
One heaping bowl of puppy chow later, Charles is tucked back in with Danny Boy and the cottage is quiet. I’m not, though. I’m on edge.
I stoke up the woodstove, then head upstairs to check on Luke. This is not something I normally do in the middle of the night. But tonight doesn’t feel normal. I crack open Luke’s bedroom door without making a sound and listen. He’s deep in the abyss of teenage slumber.
I head back down to the first floor, where Maggie’s steady breathing from the sofa bed tells me she’s out cold. I wish I were too. But I’m on edge, and the knot in my stomach is growing. It’s not every day that one happens upon a judge in his own chambers with a knife in his back. It’s the memory of finding Judge Leon Long that has me rattled, I tell myself as I climb back into bed. After all, it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours.
But that’s not it. I’m up again in an instant, circling my bedroom on cold feet. We’re missing something-all of us. That suspicion grows steadily into a near-certainty as I pace. It nags at me as I force myself to sit, to use my brain instead of my stomach. My brain is cluttered, though. Minutes pass while I struggle to sort out my thoughts. If I’m right-if we are missing something-I can’t name it.
And then I can.
My cold sweat begins again as I reach for the phone. Geraldine’s number is unlisted, but I’ve called her a thousand times in the past decade; I know it by heart. I punch it in and listen to the rings. She’ll be furious with me for waking her-and I’ll never hear the end of it-if she’s all right.
But I’m afraid she might not be.
The surgeon told Geraldine that Judge Long’s attacker was interrupted, prevented from finishing the job. If he’s right, then the assailant would have stabbed the judge again if he could have. Maybe again after that. Maybe eleven agains.
A parole officer and a judge in the same week. Both on their jobs about two decades. Coincidence perhaps. But if not, then revenge is at work here. And the prosecutor is almost certainly on the short list.
There’s only one living person who’s prosecuted more cases in Barnstable County than I have. And she’s been on the job just shy of two decades.
I hold the receiver away from my ear as a loud screech follows the fourth ring and a recorded message kicks in: “The number you have dialed”-an automaton takes an excruciatingly long time to recite each digit-“is temporarily out of service.”