18
Most of a winter had passed.
A northern California winter. The snow, when it came,
fell gently on earth that crusted but never quite froze. The ground here, unlike Connecticut's soil, did not yield to win
ter and then timidly send up its hardiest buds, like scouts, to report back on winter's retreat. Rather, the soil here rested
placidly between growing seasons. And when the day came that the rest was ended it would burst into life as if on sig
nal, a carpet of yellow poppies leading the way by hours.
The place was Clear Lake, a hundred miles north of San
Francisco and fifty miles inland. The home was made of
pine logs cut from a forest not a mile up the road. The bal
cony, or raised deck, Baker had built himself. From it he
could see the full expanse of deep blue water and the peak
of Snow Mountain against the far horizon past softly rolling
hills. That view, done in oils, already hung over the massive
stone fireplace that Baker and Tina had built together.
Baker stepped away from the window and picked up his palette. He stood for a moment, admiring the half-finished
canvas in the crisp afternoon light. Tina's face. A portrait. Smiling at him. Not bad, he thought. Not Delacroix. But not
bad. It was the best thing Sonnenberg had given him. The
phone rang.
“I'll get it, Daddy,” Tina called. He heard her footsteps
skipping down from the loft bedroom she'd chosen. It was
the third call that day. Two from a young man named David,
whose family was taking a ski vacation at Lake Tahoe, ex
cept he wouldn't have a bit of fun unless Tina came with
them. David's father, a small local vintner, had already
asked Baker's permission and gotten it, but Baker would say
nothing until Tina herself asked. A part of him hoped she
would not. They had not been apart since Harrigan had half-
carried them across Fifth Avenue, where he stole another un
locked car. But the less selfish part wanted her to go. The leg
was strong. Strong enough. It was time to test it and use it
beyond her daily, mile-long walks to school, forsaking the
school bus in favor of the exercise, or her weekend hikes
into Lucerne with Sam, the stray dog she claimed to have
found.
The other call was a hangup. It troubled him as all such
calls did. But Charley said he felt nothing. Not to worry. But while he thought of it, would Baker mind some cherry sauce
for a change on the duck he was planning to roast for din
ner? Next time, Baker promised. Connor Harrigan would be
stopping by in an hour or two, and he didn't have time to run
down to the Safeway in Lucerne.
Charley or not, the hangup stayed on Baker's mind. He
couldn't shake the thought that it might have been Tanner. It
wasn't, though. She didn't have his number. She didn't even
know they were in the same state. For all Baker knew, she'd blocked those two days out of her mind by now. Five days,
counting the next three in a motel near Kennedy airport
waiting for him to be able to stand up. And when he could,
when he could look into her eyes to see if she saw Abel
when she looked into his, he remembered almost grinning
with relief when he saw that she did not. But then he caught
her staring at Tina. Tanner didn't see Abel there. No one
could. Not in that face. That was what made it so terrible for
Tanner. That there could be an Abel there. That a sweet,
happy child could tear the throats out of two grown men and
crush the skull of another. That's when Baker left her. For all
their sakes. Tanner couldn't get away from Harrigan fast
enough anyway.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, Vickie.” Victoria. Tina's middle name. They kept
Baker. It was common enough. And Tina understood. Baker knew that she'd have preferred Liz if she had to have another
name, but she'd seen the sadness in her father's face when
she brought it up.
“
David Torrence asked if I could go skiing next weekend
with his family. Or do you already know that?”
“Fathers know everything.” He smiled. “Do you want to
go, honey?”
”I think.”
Baker shrugged. “You like David. You like skiing. What's
to think about? Personally, I'd enjoy the peace and quiet.”
“He wants to go tomorrow. It's a whole week.”
”A whole week of peace and quiet is even better.” But
Baker saw she was doubtful. It was something more than leaving him alone that long. “Babe, do you want to tell me
what's bothering you?”
Vickie waved her hands to show it was nothing. Then,
“Do you ever get feelings?”
“I've been known. Yes.”
“I've got a feeling that I should be here tomorrow. That
I'll really want to. Sounds dumb, doesn't it?”
“It'll sound a lot dumber tomorrow when you're here cleaning your loft instead of cutting slalom gates.”
Vickie nodded. She knew he was right. Probably. All the
same, though. “I'm going to say thanks, but maybe next
time.” She heard a crunch outside and stepped to the win
dow. “Anyway, here comes Mr. Harrigan.”
Vickie excused herself once Connor Harrigan settled next to
the fire and took his first long sip from the Scotch Baker of
fered him. Sam followed her onto the terrace, where she
slipped on a pair of Walkman earphones and began dancing
with the half-Husky mongrel.
Baker returned to his easel and pretended indifference
while he waited to hear whether Harrigan brought news this
trip or whether he'd finally ask the favor that Baker knew
would be coming one day. He would refuse, no question. But he'd listen. He owed Harrigan that much.
“Are you going to tell me?” Baker asked. “Or do I. . .”
Do I have to ask Charley? he almost said.
“Good Scotch, Jared.” Harrigan had something on his mind, all right.
“The name's Paul. Try to get used to it.”
“Yeah.” Harrigan stood up and walked to the counter, where he poured another two inches. “Well, that's the first piece of news. You're Jared Baker again. The Connecticut charges are all quashed.”
Baker had expected that. The charges had no real sub
stance anyway. Wiping them off was easy for Harrigan, es
pecially with a phone call from Duncan Peck's replacement,
who owed his appointment to Connor Harrigan as much as anyone. Still, Baker thought, he'd leave things as they were
for a while. Things were good, mostly. And if it isn't broken,
don't fix it.
“Anything on Sonnenberg?” Baker tried to sound as
though his interest was casual. He hoped it would be some
day.
“Not a thing,” Harrigan answered. “Not him, not Levy,
not Peck. Levy and Peck figure to be dead. Levy for sure. He
didn't have enough gut left to string a banjo. No word on
Roger Hershey either. You want my own opinion, I think the
guy deep-sixed himself. You can't be Mr. Nice Guy Who
Kills People without something cracking sooner or later.”
Baker knew better, although he wasn't sure how. Roger
was alive. His name was Barrett now and he ran a bookstore
up north someplace. Probably the bookstore Melanie had mentioned. Barrett's of Wimpole Street. Melanie had never said all that but he knew. Maybe Charley heard her talking about it once. Whatever. Why don't we all just leave Roger alone as long as he's quiet and happy. Baker hoped he was
both.
“Selling any paintings?”
”A couple.” Baker nodded. ”I have a gallery in San Fran
cisco that said they'd like to do a show this summer. Tina...
Vickie also talked the high school into setting up an exhibit
and getting me in to teach adult education classes.”
“Sounds like a nice life.”
“Your exact thoughts”—Baker smiled—“were ‘Boring
as shit' and ‘When is this turkey going to start looking for
some action.’ ”
“Charley's a pain in the ass.”
“That was strictly Baker, Harrigan.”
Harrigan stood up and strolled to the window facing the
lake and the road that wound past it. “You know,” he said, “if I ever did ask you to do something, it would be strictly a
Charley deal. No beasties.”
“Nice of you to drop in.” Baker's good humor faded.
“Just so you know.” Harrigan reached into his pocket and
pulled free a thick envelope, which he handed to Baker.
“Here's a present.”
“What is it? My arrest record?” Baker held up his fingers to show he had paint on them. Harrigan slipped the envelope
into Baker's pants pocket.
“Paper,” he answered. “Good paper. It says you're really
Paul Baker, San Diego birth certificate, matching records
down there. Also job history, education, military, the works.”
Harrigan saw his face darken. “Relax. No one knows but
me. A friend of mine at the Bureau of Engraving does this
for me once in a while if I get him tickets to Redskins
games. This makes it easier for you to move around, like when you go to your show in San Francisco. Who knows,
you might want to drive all the way to Hollywood someday.”
“You've seen her, haven't you?”
“I've seen her.”
Baker put down his brush and wiped his hands on a
stained towel. “How is she, Harrigan?”
“She still hates my guts pretty good, in case that news
brightens your day. Aside from that, she's not working too much. Spends a lot of time sailing her little boat by herself.
Long walks on the beach. That's where I caught up with her.
Beats the shit out of me why, but that lady cares about you,
Baker. Taking off like you did busted her up some. For
which I think you were an asshole, by the way. I mean, it's
not like you had a whole hell of a lot left to hide from her.”
“It's a different world, Harrigan. It wouldn't have
worked.”
“If you're in hiding,” Harrigan agreed. “But I keep telling
you you don't have to hide. Or is it me being an asshole?”
Baker didn't answer.
“It's the kid, right? Tina.”
Baker nodded. “And Abel.” It was possible, just possible,
that over time Tanner could have forgotten what she'd seen Abel do. It was terrible to see, but sometimes the violence of
a plain man who's out of his head with anger can be just as
awful. Almost. But it would never work that way with Tina.
Like Sonnenberg said, Tina didn't remember a bit of what
happened in the museum, but Tanner surely did. And some
day, if she were around Tina, someday she might slip. She
might overreact to a normal display of anger on Tina's part. Or to a nightmare Tina might be having. Or to a distant and
dreamy look. Or to Tina knowing through ordinary intuition
what was on Tanner's mind. It was better the way it was.
“Why didn't you tell her the truth about what you did at
the museum?” Baker asked.
Harrigan knew what he meant. He meant the bullets fired
into the heads of Peterson and Biaggi. The coats dropped over their faces so bits of brain would not spray over the
woman and the girl sitting near them. Dead brains. The life
torn out of them by the hands of Tina Baker. Bullets fired for
the record. So that the record would show it was Connor Harrigan who killed them, whatever ridiculous story might be told one day about a little girl ripping them apart.
“Leave well enough alone.” He shrugged. Besides,
Baker—and you can hear this if you want—that's one hell of a favor you owe me.
Harrigan dug into his pocket again and pulled out two
plastic pill bottles. “Here's your refill,” he said, offering
them to Baker. “Reserpine. Down to a quarter grain, like you
asked. How's it doing?”
“It works fine.” Baker nodded. “Of course, I haven't
really been exposed to anything out here that might make
me angry. And I'm not about to risk calling Abel. But I think
he's slipped pretty far back down. Not much from Charley
either. Even Charley's become more of a thought than a
voice. More of a well-developed intuition than a separate
person.”