I walked to the edge of the deck, away from the light that fell from the kitchen window. “What do you think about preemptive justice?”
“I don’t believe we should judge people on what they might do,” she said, “only on what they have done.”
“And yet plotting a terrorist attack is a crime, right?”
A slight pause. “Yes, it is.”
I turned toward her. “And so is conspiracy-to commit murder, fraud, corrupt public morals, and so on. In those cases, we hold people accountable for their intentions, not their actions. In almost every country in the world, you don’t have to take any-”
“Yes, I know: concrete or specific steps to put the crime into effect and you can still be convicted of conspiracy.” Her words were terse, but I sensed that she was more upset about the laws than at me for pointing them out. She went on, “But just because something is illegal doesn’t make it morally wrong; just because something is legal doesn’t make it morally right. In the 1940s it was legal to kill Jews in Germany.”
Cheyenne’s words from our dinner conversation must have still been on my mind because I found myself thinking of the Middle Eastern countries where I’d consulted on cases and the Islamic laws that make it illegal to treat women with the dignity and respect they deserve. “That’s true,” I said. “Just because something is illegal doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”
“And in the cases you mentioned,” she replied, “crimes of conspiracy or plotting terrorism-people are convicted for their thoughts and intentions, not for their actions. But at different times all of us have desires and intentions that are immoral.”
I thought I could see where this was going. “So if you take preemptive justice to its logical end, all of us would end up in prison.”
“That’s overstating things, Pat, but my point is, we can change our minds. That’s part of what makes us human. Call it preemptive justice if you want to, but I don’t think there’s any justice in predicting what someone might do and then punishing him for it. It’s not our job to police people’s thoughts or imprison them for things they haven’t done.”
I was quiet.
She looked at me with concern. “What is this about?”
“It’s something that’s been on my mind lately.”
“Something you want to talk about?”
“Something I need to think about.”
Even though I wasn’t sure it would help get my mind off Basque and my promise to Sikora, I transitioned the conversation back to the case and reviewed the results of my geoprofile, but all the while I sensed that Lien-hua was listening to something that lay beneath my words; that she was reading my inner thoughts and… well… my truer, deeper motives.
Brad climbed into his car and started the engine.
He’d made sure the gas station’s video surveillance footage was destroyed and that the young man who’d been working behind the counter would not be sharing news of their conversation with anyone.
He guided the car onto the road and had driven about a quarter of a mile when he heard the explosion behind him and, in the rearview, saw the plume of fire mushrooming toward the sky.
Based on the rural location, the lack of traffic, the time of night, and the probable emergency services response time, he figured it would be at least fifteen minutes before any fire suppression units or ambulances arrived.
He made the anonymous call to WXTN News, crushed the prepaid cell phone beneath the wheels of the car, discarded the splintered fragments of technology in the woods. Then, he drove to a parking lot beside the entrance to the state park eight miles down the road from the burning gas station.
To wait for Astrid.
When I was done summarizing the geoprofile, I asked Lien-hua about the psychological profile she’d been working on, and she commiserated with me about the difficulty of forming a profile for multiple offenders. I agreed that I couldn’t even begin to imagine how hard that would be.
“Is that a touch of cynicism I hear?”
“No, admiration.”
Inside the house, Tessa flicked off the kitchen lights, leaving the deck unlit. Moonlight washed across the yard and gently embraced Lien-hua. I told her, “Understanding people, probing their motives, it’s not something I’ve ever been…”
“Very excited about.”
“Very good at. I read people about as good as I use chopsticks.”
She looked at me closely. “If you were profiling me, Pat, what would you say?”
“Oh, I can’t do that.”
“Give it a shot.”
“Lien-hua, I’m neither trained nor qualified to-”
“Humor me.” Her voice had a light smile in it. “Then we can both just laugh about it when you’re done.”
“Let’s just laugh about it now; save some time.”
She tilted her head. “How about this: when you’re finished, I’ll profile you.”
“You’re not going to let this drop, are you?”
“I’m a persistent woman. I usually end up getting what I want.”
Oh, boy.
I gave in. “All right. Let’s see… The suspect is-”
“Suspect?”
“Of course.”
“What am I suspected of?”
Let’s see… crimes of passion… stealing hearts…
“Just trying to be official here.” Then I cleared my throat slightly. “The suspect is of Asian descent, early thirties, slim build-”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Black hair. Athletic. Attractive.”
She nodded her appreciation for that last one. “You’re doing very nicely so far.”
“Thank you. Poised but not overbearing, she has a deeply reflective mind, keen mental acuity…”
I debated whether or not to go on, to say the things I was really thinking. If I did, if I said them, a line would be drawn through the sand of this moment, there was no doubt about that.
Tell her, Pat.
You’ll regret it if you don’t, if you shy away.
“Is that all?” she asked.
“No.” I took a small breath. “She feels both strongest and weakest, safest and most free when she’s in the arms of a confident man. She’s a woman who can take care of herself but is flattered and honored when a man offers himself to her, to take care of her.”
She stood quietly beside me in the moonlight.
I waited for her to reply, heart pounding in my chest.
“Your turn,” I said.
“Caucasian.” Her voice was soft. Velvet. “Mid-thirties. Tall. Athletic.”
“Handsome,” I offered, in case she needed any additional ideas.
“Hmm… Good-looking. In a scruffy sort of way.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. He believes in justice, is courageous enough to look for truth despite the consequences, and gets shot too many times because he doesn’t like waiting for backup.”
“You’ve been talking with Tessa.”
“Maybe.”
She paused, spoke more slowly now. “He loves life deeply, passionately, and does not do anything halfway.” She hesitated but then went on, “Since the death of his wife, he’s had trouble entrusting his feelings to others, and that’s caused him to drift away from the people he cares about most. He aches for intimacy yet is losing confidence that he will ever find it again.”
The truth of her words shattered me and lifted me. A healing wound “Still,” she said, “his heart has moved past Christie, and he’s in love with another suspect, but he’s confused because he doesn’t want to take what she’s not willing to give.”
We were both quiet then, and the sound of crickets beneath the porch filled the space left open in the night.
He’s in love with another suspect…
He aches for intimacy…
But then her comments from Tuesday night came to mind: “We need to move on… People see each other, they break up, they find a way to work together again.”
I found myself resisting her and giving in at the same time, the strange give and take of attraction. “And what is she willing to give?” I said softly. “This subject with whom he is in love?”
Her eyes left mine, wandered toward the deep woods. “First, a question.”
“Yes?”