Wainwright looked back at him.
“There’s something I need to tell you.” Louis drew in a deep breath, shaking his head. “Man, this is hard,” he said softly.
Wainwright just waited.
“I never told you what I did when I was working up in Michigan,” Louis said.
“I already know, Louis,” Wainwright said. “We all do.”
Louis sat back in the booth. “You don’t condemn me?”
“Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. Even cops.”
Louis saw something pass over Wainwright’s eyes. He remembered the case that had caused Wainwright to crack when he was with the FBI-the Raisin River serial child killer, Harlan Skeen. Wainwright had cornered Skeen in a bathroom and shot him to death.
“You talking about Skeen?” Louis asked.
“Yeah. I took things into my own hands that day. It was the only way there was going to be any justice.” He took a drink of beer. “I don’t regret it.”
Louis was quiet. He couldn’t tell Wainwright what he was thinking. Wainwright had done more than take justice into his own hands; he had broken the law. It wasn’t the same as what he himself had done in Michigan; he had killed another cop to save a kid nobody cared about. But he hadn’t broken the law.
Louis studied Wainwright’s creased face. Even through the brandy haze, he could see that something had changed since he had last seen Wainwright. The Paint It Black case had stirred up a lot of hard memories for Wainwright. But he looked better now, almost peaceful.
“How things going for you lately, Dan?” he asked.
Wainwright looked at him surprised. “What do you mean?”
“I haven’t seen you in a while, that’s all. Just wanted to know how things have been.”
Wainwright shrugged. “Same old shit. Job’s good. Things are real quiet.” He took a drink of his beer and set the bottle down. He was tapping his fingers lightly on the table.
“I went back to Michigan and saw my son over Thanksgiving,” Wainwright added suddenly.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. I called him, and he seemed open to a visit. So I went up there.”
Louis nodded. He remembered that Wainwright had not seen his grown son in years, not since the death of Wainwright’s wife. He could only imagine how hard it had been for an emotionally constipated guy like Wainwright to make an overture toward an estranged son.
“So, it went okay?” Louis asked.
“Yeah,” Wainwright said. “It was. . good.”
Louis picked at the label on the Heineken bottle. “What made you do it?” he asked.
Wainwright just looked at him.
“Sorry. It’s none of my business.”
“What made me call my son?”
“Yeah.”
Wainwright put his arm across the back of the booth, making a poor attempt to look cool.
Louis raised his beer bottle. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”
“No, I want to answer you, I’m just trying to figure out how.”
Wainwright drew his arm off the booth. “I don’t know why the fuck I finally did it,” he said. “I think it was because deep down I knew I had been a lousy father, that I hadn’t been there for my kid.”
Louis blinked slowly, trying to clear his mind. It was weird hearing personal stuff come out of Wainwright’s mouth.
“I mean, I knew I couldn’t change the past,” Wainwright went on, “but I wanted to try to do something about the future. My son has his own son now. I didn’t want him not knowing me, not knowing who he came from.”
A man should know what kind of blood flows through his veins.
The beer and the brandy were making his stomach churn. Louis leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes to steady things. For a moment, he just sat as still as possible, trying to let the room catch up. When he finally opened his eyes, Wainwright was gone. Louis saw him at the bar getting two more shots. He sat down, setting one shot in front of Louis.
“I was a foster child,” Louis said suddenly.
Wainwright seemed to go stiff and his eyes wavered. Then he dropped his gaze to the table, his fingers drawing the cocktail napkin into his fist.
Louis could feel his heart pounding. He wanted the words back. It was like admitting he was a fucking leper or something. Shit, talk about emotionally constipated.
“Did you know your father?” Wainwright asked.
“No.”
Louis started to reach for the shot, but drew his hand back, wiping his mouth. He didn’t need any more. His belly burned and he wanted to move, get up, go home, but he wasn’t sure he could stand.
“What’s his name?” Wainwright asked.
“Jordan Kincaid.”
“You ever try to find him?”
Louis shook his head slowly. The jukebox sounds seemed dull and distorted. The neon lights above the bar began to quiver and the palm fronds were flapping against the window.
“You want me to try?” Wainwright asked.
Louis didn’t trust himself to look at Wainwright. He just shook his head and stared at the palm fronds beating against the dark glass.
He heard Wainwright let out a heavy sigh, then ease himself up out of the booth. He could feel Wainwright’s eyes on him.
“You ready?”
Louis looked up.
Wainwright picked up his shot, took one last swig and set it down. “Come on. I’ll drive you.”
“I can get home.”
“You’ll put that Mustang of yours in the bay, if you try. Let’s go.”
Louis struggled to his feet, reaching back for the shotglass, but Wainwright put a hand on his arm.
“Let it go, Louis.”
Louis stumbled, catching the back of the booth for balance. A ripple of embarrassment moved through him. God, he hated getting sloppy.
“I’m sorry, Dan,” Louis whispered, hoping no one could hear him. “I didn’t mean to get this drunk.”
“Yes, you did,” Wainwright said, taking his arm.
Louis closed the door on Wainwright’s cruiser and stumbled into the darkness toward his cottage, hearing Wainwright holler out a goodbye.
He brushed aside a palm and tripped over the rocks that lined the path. He squinted, trying to pick his way in the dim light thrown off by the Branson’s On The Beach sign.
His stomach was starting to churn. He needed a bed. Now.
Something snapped behind him. He jumped and spun.
“Where ya been, Louie?”
Louis stared into the shadows of the swaying palms. “Cade?”
He heard the rustle of the wind in the sea oats but still couldn’t see anyone. He staggered, almost falling, but pulled himself up.
“Goddammit, Cade. Come out where I can see you!” he shouted.
“I ain’t hiding.”
Louis scanned the dunes and dark trees, but all it did was make him nauseous. Finally, he picked out Cade’s silhouette.
“I told you not to come here again,” Louis said.
“You told me not go in your house. I didn’t.”
Louis closed his eyes. He couldn’t fight it anymore. He turned and threw up in the bushes, grabbing onto the palm.
“You done?” Cade asked.
Louis wiped his mouth and looked back at Cade, using those few seconds of clarity that come immediately after vomiting up half a bottle of brandy. His heart kicked an extra beat.
Cade was holding something small and dark in his arms. It was Issy.
“Let her go,” Louis said slowly.
Cade had the cat clamped under his elbow, holding its front paws tightly with his left hand. He was stroking the cat’s fur with his other hand.
“Let her go!” Louis said.
Cade’s hand hesitated at the cat’s neck. Then, suddenly, he let go. Issy sprang away and ran into the shadows.
“I wasn’t gonna hurt her, Louie,” Cade said.
Louis struggled to focus on Cade’s face. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.
Cade was silent. Louis waved a dismissive hand at him and started toward the porch. Cade moved quickly, catching Louis’s arm. When Louis pulled away, he stumbled.
“You fucked me and my family,” Cade said.
Louis pointed at him. “Tell it to someone else. You fired me. You’re crazy. Your kid is crazy.”