Beyond Recognition

her. He had so many questions to ask. More than anything, he wanted a hug-to feel her arms around him.

He walked fast, outpacing Daphne, who chided him for it. “Stay close,” she called out to him, and he could hear something wrong in her voice, something different.

To him, the place was out of a Star Trek movie: the towering blocks of concrete, the enormous metal cages attached to cement walls, all of it cut into the massive hill like a giant bunker. To Ben it was the tunnel park-eight lanes of I-90 passed beneath it, unheard, unseen. The facility had only recently been completed as a park, and the sidewalks, the flower beds-everything about it-were so new it did not feel inhabited; each time Ben came here it felt as if he were the first person to discover it: the giant slabs of concrete all lined up like blocks, stretching toward the gray sky, all different sizes but topping out at the exact same height.

The sidewalk climbed up a steady grade to reach a wide bike path that ran down the center of the park and served as its focus. A bicyclist sped by, head bent low, legs pumping. Ben said hi to the man, but the cyclist never looked up, never acknowledged him.

Ben’s legs began to run underneath him before he managed to say to Daphne, “There she is!” He took off at lightning speed, his eyes welling with tears not because of the wind in his face but because of the ache in his heart. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed her until he saw her again. Her silhouette, so unmistakable in the distance, so beautiful, so wonderful. Perhaps it was the sound of his footsteps slapping beneath him, perhaps she had sensed his approach out of thin air as she could sense so much, but something caused her to spin around and face him. As she did, her face lifted in a big moon of a smile, her eyes lighted up, and she opened her arms invitingly.

Daphne let the boy have some distance. She owed the two of them a moment in private, given all she had put them through. A part of her had no desire even to greet Emily, to give the woman a chance to wield her power over the boy and dominate him the way she knew was possible. She would not turn this into an emotional tug-of- war, not for anything. She would not put the boy through that; worse, she would not inflict it upon herself, for she knew this was a game she was certain to lose, and at that point in time she could not afford to lose the boy and his dependence on her. It was a delicate line to walk, and she walked it with one eye glued to the scene before her but with her head turned down in indifference. The human heart is more fragile than one ever expects, she thought.

She strolled the bike path, unfamiliar with it, intrigued by a series of stone posts that rose to knee height on either side. She approached the nearest of these stone posts, admiring the tile work at its base.

The tile held an odd stick-figure drawing, evoking a Native American pictograph. Surrounding the tile’s perimeter were words. It took her a moment to discern where the sentence began. But it wasn’t a sentence, she realized; it was a quotation: “Crooked is the path of eternity.” Nietzsche. She hurried to the next post: more primitive art and a quote from Lao-tsu: “The way that can be told, is not the constant way.” Heart pounding, she hurried to the next, reading words emblazoned on her memory: “Suddenly a flash of understanding, a spark that leaps across the soul.” Plato. The same quote that had accompanied a melted piece of green plastic. One post to the next, like a bee to flowers. A dozen such quotations and pictographs. She stopped and stared: “He has half the deed done who has made a beginning.”

The first of the threats: Dorothy Enwright. She had profiled the suspect as highly educated, a scholar! He was nothing more than a plagiarist who had walked or ridden through this park. The Bible-thumping disturbed man in the trees had not lined up well for her with the poetic intellect, but with this discovery the two melded into one: A plagiarist, with little education and the need to appear smart; a mind steeped in biblical significance; a sociopath intent on burning or disfiguring women.

There on that bike path she found each and every quote mailed to Garman. And then the most important thought of all: The arsonist used this section of bike path-he lived somewhere in the area.

“Quick, Ben!” she shouted from a great distance. “We have to go. Right now!”

48

Boldt was awaiting a meeting with King County Medical Examiner Dr. Ronald Dixon, in the basement of the Harborview Medical Center, when Dr. Roy McClure, a friend of Dixon’s and Liz’s internist, approached him and shook hands.

The waiting area was foam couches and three-month-old celebrity magazines.

The two men shook hands. McClure perched himself on the edge of the couch.

“How are you taking it?” McClure asked gravely, with great sympathy in his calming eyes.

“It’s unsettling,” Boldt admitted.

“I should say it is. The real battle is psychological. Attitude is ninety percent of the game.”

“Yeah,” Boldt agreed.

“How about the kids?”

“The kids?”

“Miles and Sarah,” McClure answered.

“They’re fine, I think,” Boldt answered. “I haven’t seen them in a while, quite honestly. Liz has had them.”

“Well, I certainly understand that,” McClure replied.

“You know, Roy, I get the feeling that we’re having two different conversations here.”

“You’ll feel that way from time to time. The world won’t make any sense. The temptation may be to bury yourself in work, but the more prudent course is to talk it out. Sit her down and tell her how much you’re rooting for her, give her every ounce of support you can.”

“I was talking about work,” Boldt stated. He felt too tired for any conversation. He wished McClure would go away.

“I’m talking about Elizabeth.” It wasn’t the doctor’s words that jolted Boldt so much as the ominous tone of voice in which they were delivered. Boldt felt a sickening nausea twist his stomach.

“Liz?”

“You’re not in denial, are you?”

“Roy, what in bloody hell are you talking about?” the sergeant blurted out. “I’m too tired for this.”

“I’m talking about your wife’s lymphoma, Lou. I’m talking about your wife’s life. Your children. You. How you are all coping with this.”

Boldt’s ears rang as if someone had detonated an explosive in the room. He felt bloodless and cold. His head swam and he felt dizzy. His eyes stung, and his fingers went numb, and though he struggled to get out some words, nothing happened. He was paralyzed. He could not move, or speak, or even blink his eyes. Tears gushed down his cheeks as if someone had stuck his eyes with a knife. He felt himself swoon. McClure’s mouth was moving, but no sound issued from it. No words came forth. The doctor’s face twisted into a knot of concern, and it was clear to Boldt that the numbness and the ringing in his ears was his flirtation with unconsciousness-he was passing out.

McClure’s strong grip upon his shoulders brought Boldt back just far enough to hear the words, “She didn’t tell you.” It was a statement. Definitive.

Boldt felt himself shake his head. “Is it …?” He couldn’t say the word. To speak it was to cast negative thoughts. He convinced himself that he had heard wrong. “Did you say …?” But McClure’s expression was enough. Boldt pictured her looking so sad in the bathtub, recalled the regular baths that had seemed so out of place, her request to spend time with one of the children by herself. The pieces of the puzzle suddenly came together like they did occasionally in an investigation.

“It metastasized quickly,” McClure answered. “Stage Four by the time we caught it. She must have known, Lou, but she evidently couldn’t bring herself to face it. It was the kids, I think.”

Tears continued to cascade down his face.

“The surgery is scheduled for next week,” McClure said, soberly and dryly. “I’m counting on your support through all this. She needs every bit of strength we can offer her.”

Boldt felt trapped inside a small dark box. He could shout as loudly as he wanted, but no one could hear him.