“It’s already handled. Homer Walter’s wife had clothes for him there, and the messenger brought them along when he picked up the Nintendo,” Ames said. “I figured that was one less thing we’d have to worry about later on today.”
I should have known that if Ralph Ames was in charge, all those pesky little details would get handled in a totally seamless fashion. Gratefully mumbling my thanks, I stumbled down the hall and fell into bed. I don’t even remember lying down. It seemed only a matter of minutes later when Heather Peters brought me a cup of coffee and announced it was time for me to get up.
Settling cross-legged on the foot of the bed, she regarded me seriously while I sipped coffee and waited for my head to clear.
“Is it hard to tie a tie, Uncle Beau?” she asked.
Heather seems far more mature than I like these days. I still haven’t adjusted to the relative size of her new permanent teeth which seem totally out of proportion with the rest of her small, round face. And I miss that damn toothless lisp.
“Not too hard,” I told her, “but it’s tricky until you learn how. You’re a girl. Why do you need to know about tying ties?”
“I don’t, but Junior does. Ralph’s helping Junior tie his right now. He can’t do it himself.”
“I’m sure Ralph doesn’t mind.”
“But if Junior’s daddy is dead,” Heather pointed out solemnly, “who’s going to teach him about ties and all that other stuff kids are supposed to learn?”
Heather’s matter-of-fact question struck smack at the heart of Junior Weston’s newly problematic existence. Who would teach him all those necessary things? I wondered. Tying ties is only one of the mysteries of the adult universe that must be mastered in those fragile years between five and twenty-five. I had grown up without a father, but not without a mother. Junior Weston would be growing up without the benefit of either one. How would he manage? Thinking about it made my heart ache.
“I don’t know, Heather,” I told her.
“Well,” she said seriously. “I’ve been thinking about it. Why can’t he live here with you?” She waited for my answer with cheerful confidence.
“With me?” I choked, misswallowing a mouthful of coffee. A dozen coughs later, I was able to continue. “It sounds like a good idea, Heather, but it probably wouldn’t work.”
“Why not?” she pouted. “You have lots of room. If he lived here, I’d have someone closer to my age to play with. Tracy always acts like I’m just a little kid. And Junior’s fun. I already took him downstairs and introduced him to Gertrude.”
“You can’t just decide where a child is going to live,” I told her. “Those kinds of decisions are usually left up to the family.”
“But Junior doesn’t have a family,” Heather insisted. “They’re all dead.”
“He has a grandfather.”
“He’s old,” Heather sniffed.
“And he probably has aunts and uncles, too,” I added. “Scoot, now. If I’m going to be ready on time, I’d better climb into the shower.”
Once dressed, I called down to Harborview to check on Big Al. Molly wasn’t in the ICU waiting room, but her son Gary, the one from California, took my call. He assured me that his father was sleeping right then but doing as well as could be expected. Gary told me that his brother, Greg, had just taken Molly home to change clothes in preparation for the two o’clock funeral service at Mount Zion Baptist Church. He said Molly wouldn’t be returning to the hospital until after the funeral.
“Give your dad a message from me the minute he wakes up, would you? Tell him it’s been handled.”
“What’s been handled?”
“Just give him the message. He’ll understand. Tell him I’ll stop by later to fill him in.”
“Got it,” Gary said. “I even wrote it down.”
By the time the doorman called to say the funeral home limo was downstairs, I was properly dressed in a suit and tie, and so was Junior Weston. As we rode down in the elevator together, he put one hand trustingly in mine. The other held his faithful companion, the teddy bear.
When Emma Jackson saw that I was coming along, I expected her to voice an objection. Instead, she seemed almost happy to see me and greeted both of us with a tentative smile. “Did you get some sleep?” she asked Junior.
He nodded. “And I got to see the ducks. I even got to feed them. The mama duck’s name is Gertrude.”
“How can someone have ducks in a high-rise building?” Emma asked disbelievingly.
“Don’t ask me,” I told her. “Ask the duck. She comes here every year and lays her eggs on the recreation level.”
“In a downtown condo?”
“Gertrude must be an upscale duck,” I told her.
I was under the impression that we were headed directly for the church. When the limo driver took us down to Columbia and up the entrance ramp onto the Alaskan Way Viaduct, I didn’t understand what was happening. “Where are we going?” I asked.
“To West Seattle,” Emma replied. “To pick up Harmon.”
I shook my head. “He’s not going to be thrilled having me along for the ride.”
Dr. Jackson pulled Junior Weston close to her and held him protectively under her arm the way a mother hen shelters her helpless chicks.
“He’ll understand,” she said. “He may not like it, but he’ll understand.”
I settled in for the ride, surreptitiously glancing over my shoulder now and then to make sure we weren’t being followed. Just because Sam Irwin was dead didn’t mean that was the end of all our difficulties. It would take time to figure out whether or not Sam Irwin had taken his own life, but in any event I was fairly certain Sam was the knife-wielding killer Junior had seen on the night of the murders. I was also convinced that, whatever his involvement, Sam wasn’t operating alone. The other killers had no way of knowing whether Sam was all the child had seen.
We sped south along the viaduct. The previous few days of clear skies had given way to heavy clouds. Puget Sound lay slate-gray beneath a dark and lowering sky. I’m sure both the weather and fatigue contributed to my growing sense of gloom and despair. So did the fact that I was on my way to a five-person funeral. If we couldn’t save innocent people like that from the bad guys, I berated myself, what the hell was the point of being a cop?
For a few minutes, Junior was content to sit there cuddled against Emma Jackson’s breast, but finally he pushed himself away.
“Is Mr. Lindstrom all right?” he asked.
Emma looked to me for an answer. “He should be, Junior,” I replied. “But he wouldn’t have been if Dr. Jackson hadn’t been right there to help when it happened.”
The boy nodded. “I’m glad he’s going to be okay,” he said. “I was afraid he’d die too.”
I caught Emma Jackson’s eye. “Thank you for reminding me, Junior. I should have remembered to thank Dr. Jackson myself as soon as I got in the car.”
She gave me a half smile and shook her head. “You don’t have to thank me, Detective Beaumont,” she returned. “You’re not the only one around here with a job to do.”
Considering the previous fireworks between us, the matching antagonisms, conversation between us in the limo was surprisingly cordial, and it lulled me into a false sense of security, made me think maybe things were starting to get a little better.
We crossed into West Seattle on the Spokane Street Bridge and meandered south, stopping at last in front of a small, carefully maintained bungalow on Southwest Othello Street. Harmon Weston must have been watching through the window. As soon as the driver stopped the limo, the front door banged open, and the old man came hurrying toward the car. I moved to the jump seat to give him a place to sit.
“The killer’s dead!” Harmon Weston declared animatedly as he clambered into the limo. Then, seeing me, a curtain seemed to fall across his features.
“What’s he doing here?” Harmon Weston demanded.
“Got who?” Junior was asking excitedly. “Who’d they get? Tell me.”
“What’s happened?” Emma asked.
Harmon Weston looked hard at me. “Ask him,” he said. “I’m sure he knows all about it.”