Icarus. (28 page)

As the salt spray splattered on deck, daubing his face and hair, Jack's thoughts drifted back to his conversation with Sergeant McCoy. Even now, three days later, he was still trying to piece the whole thing together, still trying to have it make sense and absorb the impact.

"No, it's not possible" is how he'd responded to McCoy's pronouncement, as she stepped out of the elevator, that Kid had committed suicide.

"I'm afraid it is," the sergeant had said. She seemed genuinely sad, Jack thought, as if she weren't just delivering bad news as part of her job. It was as if she cared. As if she too felt the loss. It was her sadness that convinced him she was telling him the truth.

Jack didn't speak after that for quite a while. Her words had rocked him and he felt wobbly, so without even asking McCoy inside, he made his way to the living room and sat down on the couch. McCoy followed but not immediately. She gave him time to compose himself.

When she stepped slowly into the living room, she eased herself down onto one of the leather club chairs. Even then she didn't speak, until finally Jack was ready, saying, "Did he leave a note… uh… Officer… what do I call you?"

"My first name's Patience, maybe the worst-named person on the face of the earth, because that is something I normally do not have a lot of. You can call me that if you want. Or Sergeant's just fine. Most people are more comfortable with Sergeant."

"Okay… Sergeant. Did he leave a note?"

"If there was one, we didn't find it," she said. "But we've got people going through the apartment now." Sergeant McCoy hesitated, leaned forward, a rather urgent expression on her face, then she must have thought better of whatever was behind her motion, because she just as suddenly tilted back into her original position.

"What?" Jack asked.

"Hmmm?"

"You looked like you wanted to ask me something, then changed your mind. Please, go ahead. Anything you feel might be relevant."

Patience McCoy let out a hoarse little burst of laughter. "It ain't exactly what you call relevant," she said. "I was going to ask if you'd mind if I made myself a cup of coffee. Not very professional, I know, but if I don't get some caffeine in me, I'll be falling asleep in this very comfortable chair."

Jack nodded, told her to stay put. He was glad to have something to do. He left her in the living room and headed into the kitchen, where he ground the beans and turned on the DeLonghi ten-cup coffeemaker. He was glad to be alone for a few minutes, doing nothing more than listening to the hum of the appliance and the steady drip from the filter to the pot. When he went back into the living room, he was carrying her coffee, black, as asked for.

Sergeant McCoy took a sip, exhaled a satisfied sigh. "This is delicious. Jamaican Blue, or something thereabouts, with a touch of cinnamon, am I right?" And when Jack nodded, she couldn't help but give a pleased little smile. The jolt from the coffee seemed to bring her back to her purpose for being there. She crossed her legs, began asking him about Kid, and she listened attentively as he told her what he knew – how they'd met years before, how Kid had reentered his life, the physical therapy they'd been doing, that Kid had been working as a personal trainer, that he'd been dating various women.

"Did you notice any signs of depression? Frustration? Any hint that he was thinking of ending his life?"

Jack shuddered at the phrase. "No. Just the opposite." He hesitated – the image of Kid's angry outburst at the restaurant popped into his head, and then Kid's face as he talked about his new Destination and his secrets. But he shook those pictures away. They were aberrations. Normal ups and downs. He didn't know if Sergeant McCoy had noticed he'd skipped a beat, but to cover it he hurried his next sentences. "He was going to graduate soon, from business school. He was really looking forward to that, getting his master's."

"Ahhhh," she said.

Her little noise annoyed him, as if she'd just now gotten a clue to something he didn't understand. "What does that mean? 'Ahhh.'"

Sensing his hostility, she said, "Sorry. The problem with being a cop is we tend to see things as statistics. You knew the person, so you're seeing something different, as you should. All I meant is that now there's some sense to this. We typically have an upsurge in suicidal behavior from students during finals. The pressure, you know. They bottle it up and then they just let go."

"I don't think that's the case here. I never saw any-"

He was interrupted by the jarring ringing of her cell phone. She gave him an apologetic look, took the phone out of the clip on her belt and spoke into it. "McCoy, go." No one seemed to be on the other end because she said, "Hello?" and then said it again, followed by a "Shit," then she whacked at the phone with her free hand. "Damn budget cuts. Next thing they'll be giving us some Dixie Cups and a string. Probably didn't pay the goddamn phone bill this month." She shook her head, held both hands up to show him the distraction had passed. "Sorry. Do you have any idea how I can reach George's next of kin?"

For a moment, Jack stared at her, thought it was all a mistake, that she was talking about someone else, then realized that she was referring to Kid by his given name. He nodded. "His mother," he told her. "LuAnn Demeter. She lives on Staten Island."

"I better go talk to her. Not the easiest part of this job."

As she stood up, Jack said, "Is that all?"

She squinted at him, not quite understanding the question. "What else?"

"Sergeant… I've known Kid for a long time. I know… I knew him extremely well. I don't think there's… I don't think it's possible… I mean…"

"You mean there's no way he could have killed himself."

"That's right," Jack said. "The person I knew could never have done what you say he did."

"Sometimes we think we know people a lot better than we really do, Mr. Keller."

"That's very true. But that's not the case here."

"I never talked to anyone who thought that was the case where they were concerned."

"I knew Kid."

"But I thought you said you hadn't seen him for several years before he showed up in your living room. A lot of things can change a person, especially at that age, don't you think?" When Jack said nothing in response, when she saw how her words had registered, McCoy softened her tone. "I understand you were close to the boy, Mr. Keller. That you talked a lot. Sometimes people talk to us but they don't really talk to us. You know what I'm saying? They talk around whatever their reality is. Sometimes they talk just so they don't have to tell us what their reality is. They don't tell us they're hurting – not until it's too late."

Jack nodded. "Well, it's sure too late now, isn't it?"

"I'm afraid that it is."

He walked her slowly to the elevator door, pushed the call button. They stood in silence until the elevator arrived, then Jack reached for the knob and pulled the door open, but McCoy didn't step inside immediately. She had stopped to look at the framed photos that hung on the wall of the entryway. Pictures of Jack and Caroline. Of the various restaurants. The New York Magazine profile. Their first rave review and rating in Zagat.

"I'm sorry about what happened," she told him. "And I don't just mean tonight, with the boy."

"Thank you," Jack said.

"For our fifteenth anniversary, Elmore, that's my husband, he took me to Jack's. You don't remember, but you and your wife both came over to our table, found out it was our anniversary, and sent over a bottle of wine. That was a very special evening."

"I'm glad."

"Best steak I ever had, too – and you're talking to a meat eater."

"Good night, Sergeant."

"Good night, sir. You be well. And thanks for the coffee."

It was the smell of coffee now that brought him back to his present surroundings: leaning on the railing of the Staten Island Ferry. They were just about to dock. A few feet from him, a young woman, small with dark wavy hair, was doing her best to drain the coffee from her paper cup while three small children were jumping up around her, all trying to grab her arm. When the boat pulled in, Jack was one of the first off. He waited until Dom emerged, then he pulled out the sheet with his own handwritten directions on it.

Less than ten minutes later they were at the small church.

There were maybe thirty people there. Most seemed to be relatives. Jack saw Bryan, who was sitting up close to Kid's mother. He looked distraught and pale, as if Kid's death had taken away a chunk of his own life. Jack searched the sparse crowd for the several beautiful women he thought would be there but there were none. Unless Kid had greatly exaggerated their physical attributes, something Jack thought highly unlikely, not one member of his "team" had come to say goodbye. Jack found this particularly sad, the final jarring note to a life too soon ended.

The priest was clearly not privy to the details of Kid's life. His eulogy was short and lacked specifics. It could have been about almost anyone. There was no mention of the way Kid had died. Jack thought by denying the reality of his death it somehow diminished the memory of his life. But he knew that was a thought he'd keep to himself or maybe discuss with Dom on the ferry ride back.

After the simple ceremony. Jack and Dom went to the graveyard for the burial. As near as Jack could tell, everyone from the church service went. Kid's mother began to break down as she tossed the first handful of dirt onto Kid's coffin. Jack stepped forward to help her – he thought she was going to faint – but Bryan beat him there. Kid's lifelong friend gently took her elbow and held her steady. He whispered something in her ear that almost made her smile and when some color came back to her cheeks, she stood on her toes and kissed Bryan gently on his cheek. He stayed by her side until Kid was buried, then Jack watched as he walked her to the waiting car. He was surprised to see that Bryan was limping slightly. Then he realized the boy had also been limping when he'd left the restaurant and gone to search for Kid. Jack nodded to himself, watching him move. He thought that Kid would be proud of the dignified way the Wall had behaved in his stead.

Back at the house – the house that did not seem to have changed an iota since their last visit there – Dom and Jack each accepted a bourbon and were happy to sip it. They milled around the drab living room and it didn't take long for Jack to begin to feel claustrophobic. Most of the mourners stood – those who found room sat on the flower-patterned couches and slightly tattered chairs – nibbling cake and sipping coffee or liquor. Jack and Dom hugged LuAnn, who was genuinely moved that they'd come. Their presence was a reminder of her earlier tragedy, though, and Jack and Dom were both aware that they were an unsettling link for her between past and present. Still, she didn't want to let them wander away; she kept grabbing Jack's hand and pulling him closer to her. At some point, Jack found himself standing with Dom and Bryan above LuAnn, who was resting in the one easy chair. She had put a videotape on and they were watching it on the living room TV. The tape was of a vacation the Demeter family had taken, parents and son, at the Jersey shore when Kid was nine years old. Seeing the young boy and his father made Jack smile.

"Our first trip to Asbury Park," LuAnn said, narrating the tape. "Kid loved the beach." Someone tried to hand her a cup of coffee but she shook her head and asked for a shot of bourbon instead. When she was handed the glass, she downed her shot in one gulp. Then she nodded back toward the television. "A real little butterball, wasn't he? That's what I used to call him. Mr. Butterball. Until he and Bryan started lifting together. You boys were always down there lifting those weights, weren't you, Bryan?"

"We sure were, Mrs. Demeter. I bet I spent more time in your basement than I did at my own house."

"You were never no trouble, that's for sure. Kid, he was a lot more trouble than you ever were. You be sure to still come around, won't you? I mean, even if Kid's… even without him, you'll still come by, I hope."

"I'll still come by, Mrs. Demeter. You don't have to worry about that. I mean, hey, who's gonna make me pot roast as good as yours?"

LuAnn Demeter wasn't really listening to Bryan's answer, though. She was staring at the television, watching the ghosts of her family walking along the shore. "He swore he'd outlive Sal," she said quietly. "That's how he got started with the weights. And the running and all that other stuff. He promised me he'd outlive his father. He promised me.

"LuAnn," Jack said, taking her hand. But he realized he didn't really have anything to say to her. There was nothing to say. So he just held her hand and hoped that his touch was of some comfort.

"Awww, Jesus," she said, finally pulling her hand away. "Mr. Butterball…"

Jack and Dom stayed until only a few people were left. LuAnn's sister was there and she was clearly in charge. When she began tidying up, they felt they could now think about returning to Manhattan. Bryan saw that they were getting ready to leave and he asked if they wanted to see the basement.

"There's a lot of Kid down there," he told them, so they nodded and let him lead them down a narrow stairway. When Bryan flicked on the light, they found themselves next to the boiler, in a half-finished cement room with fake-wood paneling that ran two thirds of the way up to the ceiling and a green shag carpet on the floor. A primitive gym was still set up: scuffed weights, barbells, a bench, and a mat. There were two full-length mirrors, no frames around them, hung up on the wall, and various trophies – Kid's first-, second-, and third-place finishes at various weight-lifting tournaments. On the walls were old photos, some in cheap black frames, some just tacked or taped up. There were a lot of pictures of Arnold Schwarzenegger from his Pumping Iron days, and covers of out-of-date bodybuilding magazines. There was a large poster of Bo Derek from her 10 days and one of Kathy Ireland in a skimpy bikini, her legs strewn with sand. It looked like a shot from a ten-year-old Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. There were also quite a few photos of Kid and Bryan together. Jack walked around the room, examining each picture, watching Kid's progress from a chubby teenager to a slightly older version with a few burgeoning muscles to posing with Bryan in their high school football uniforms. Their jerseys were cut off below their protective pads, revealing washboard stomachs. By this period in time, there was no trace of softness in either boy. Bryan was huge in the photo – he dwarfed Kid – but he, too, appeared to be all muscle. There was one fairly recent photo of Kid. Jack couldn't tell exactly when it was taken, maybe within the past year. Kid was wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt and he was smiling at the camera. The perfect physical specimen. The ail-American boy…