“Mr. Doyle, do you want these letters returned to you?”
Harry didn’t break stride. “I never wanted them in the first place.”
As he moved past his mother, Lucy’s hand shot out in a beseeching gesture, her fingers brushing the sleeve of his shirt. Harry pulled back his arm as if something vile had touched him.
“Harry, Harry…” Her voice was plaintive and he knew he would hear that voice for a very long time. He pushed his way through the door and left the room.
C HAPTER TWENTY — SIX
A week had passed and the media coverage of Jim Morgan’s arrest had finally begun to fade. It was late evening and Harry was holding Jeanie’s hand as they strolled along the beach. It would be a good sunset with no cloud banks marring the horizon. Harry tried to remember when he last enjoyed a sunset. It was before Darlene Beckett’s body had been found, of that he was certain. He had visited Darlene’s grave earlier in the week, the mound of dirt that covered it still appearing fresh and recently turned. He wasn’t certain why he had gone. Perhaps because he had come to recognize that she was a victim too-a victim of her own illness, as well as a victim of someone who was even sicker than she. Perhaps he had gone to see if she would speak to him again. She did not.
“My husband came by to see me this morning,” Jeanie said, bringing him back.
“And…?”
“He wants to get back together. He said all the right things… that he was sorry… that he’d been a fool… that he realizes now how much I mean to him.”
“And…?”
“I told him it was too late.”
Harry looked at her and saw that she was smiling. Jeanie was not a truly beautiful woman… except when she smiled. “You sound proud of yourself.”
“I am,” she said.
Harry slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer as they continued walking. “You should be.”
They headed down to the beach for several minutes before Jeanie spoke again. “You never told me how Vicky is.”
“She’s got a week off to let her arm heel, two weeks if she needs it. She’s happy as a clam.”
“Are clams happy?”
“I never heard one crying,” Harry said.
“What’s going to happen to Jim Morgan?”
“Don’t know, but I suspect they’ll find him mentally unfit to stand trial, which will mean a hullabaloo in the media, probably a slew of editorials demanding that all cops get psychological evaluations.”
“Doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” Jeanie teased.
“Except that it could put me out of work,” Harry came back.
“Did he ever explain why he killed those people, why he carved those words in their foreheads and covered their faces with masks?”
“In the end his explanations were all religious gibberish,” Harry said. “Lola Morofsky thinks it goes back to the abuse he suffered in foster care, but who knows? It’s easy to abuse kids. They’re trusting and they’re vulnerable and they can’t do a lot to defend themselves. They’re easy targets for people who want to hurt them. And it always changes the way they look at the world.”
They walked on again in silence for another minute or two until Jeanie got up the courage to ask the one question she knew she had to ask.
“Have you heard anything about the parole board’s decision?”
“Yes, my friend Walter Lee Hollins called yesterday. The board approved her parole. My mother gets out as soon as the paperwork is finished.” He thought about the trip he had made that day to his brother’s grave. He had stood there for a long time, working up the courage to tell Jimmy that he had not kept his promise, and that he was sorry. They were the hardest words he had ever spoken.
“They released her even after they read the letters she wrote to you?” Jeanie asked.
Harry looked out into the gulf. “Walter Lee said they never read the letters. They gave them to the guards and told them to get rid of them. The prisons are overcrowded.”
Jeanie stopped and slipped her other arm around Harry’s waist. She held him, hoping she was providing some comfort, certain she was not.
“Life goes on,” he said. He wanted to smile, but found that he could not.
CHAPTER TWENTY — SEVEN
Two weeks later
Lucy Santos stood on Mandalay Avenue staring at the side street where her son’s house was located. The parole board had ordered her to stay at least one hundred yards away from him. But she knew they didn’t really mean it. Oh, for a time they’d insist that she stay away, but soon Harry would tell them he wanted to see his mother; soon God would intervene and show him it was necessary. And then, when God told her it was time, she would finish her mission.
Earlier that day she had gone to Jimmy’s grave. She had talked to him as only a mother can, told him how she knew that everything Harry had said to her was a lie, how Jesus would always love and protect her, how He would never cast her into the burning pit of hell. She had even told him about her plan. But it had not been a very satisfactory visit. A cold breeze had come off Jimmy’s grave that she did not understand. It was probably Harry’s doing, but she would have to pray about that; she would have to understand it before she continued. Right now she just needed to see where Harry lived, see what kind of aura his house gave off. Yes, that would be good to know.
She stepped off the curb and headed for Harry’s street. She knew she wouldn’t see him today. No, not yet. But soon, Harry. I’ll see you very, very soon.