Reverend Bob Stahl said, “We’ll be praying.”
“We sure will,” said Petra.
“How did it happen?” Mary Stahl asked her. “If you know.”
“What I know,” said Petra, “is that your son’s a hero.”
What she thought was:
Stahl had stopped calling in an hour before the confrontation with Shull. She’d tried reaching him twice on the tac band but couldn’t get through. Meaning he’d ignored her. Or switched off his radio.
She sat with Bob and Mary Stahl for over an hour before the answer took shape.
Learning they lived in Camarillo, where Eric had grown up, a short drive from the beach. Eric had been a good student, lettered in baseball and track, loved junk food, played the trumpet. Surfed on weekends- so her initial guess hadn’t been that off, after all. She suppressed a smile. Suppressing wasn’t hard, thinking of Eric lying there, his abdomen stitched from sternum to navel. Shull’s blade had ravaged his intestines, missed the diaphragm by millimeters…
Mary Stahl said, “Eric’s always been a good boy. Never a lick of trouble.”
“Never,” Bob agreed. “Almost too good, if you know what I mean.”
Petra urged them on with a smile.
Mary Stahl said, “I wouldn’t say that, dear.”
“You’re right,” said Reverend Bob. “But you know what I mean.” To Petra: “The P.K. syndrome. Preacher’s kids. It’s hard for them- keeping up the image. Or thinking they need to. We never pressured Eric. We’re Presbyterian.”
As if that explained it.
Petra nodded.
Reverend Bob said, “Still, some kids feel the pressure. My other son did. Put himself under serious pressure and sowed some wild oats. He’s a lawyer, now.”
“Steve lives on Long Island,” said Mary Stahl. “Works at a big firm in Manhattan. He’ll be flying in tomorrow. He and Eric used to surf together.”
“Eric never seemed to be bothered by the pressure,” said her husband. “Really easygoing. I used to joke that he’d better get upset about something, or he wouldn’t have any blood pressure.”
Mary Stahl burst into tears. Petra sat there as Reverend Bob comforted her.
“Pardon me,” she said, when she recovered her composure.
“Nothing to pardon, dear.”
“Eric needs me to be strong. I don’t like making a scene.”
Petra smiled. Smiling seemed the only damn thing she could do. She hoped it came across real because it sure didn’t feel real.
Mary Stahl smiled back. Cried some more. Said, “A few years ago, Eric’s life changed.”
“Mary,” said Bob.
“She’s his partner, dear. She should know.”
Bob’s eyes flickered behind his trifocals. “Yes, you’re right.”
Mary sighed, touched her hair. Sat back. Became rigid, again. “Eric used to have a family, Detective Connor. Back when he was in the Army- in Special Forces. A wife and two children. Heather, Danny, and Dawn. Danny was five and Dawn was two and a half. They were all living in Riyadh. Saudi Arabia. Eric was assigned to the American embassy, he never really told us for what- it’s like that, in Special Forces. You can’t talk about what you do.”
“Of course not.”
“They killed his family,” said Mary. “One of the royal family cousins in a fast car- a Ferrari. Heather was walking the children in a stroller on a main street near a big shopping mall. This person came speeding through and hit them, and they were all killed.”
“My God,” said Petra.
“Our grandchildren,” said Mary.
Reverend Bob said, “On top of the trauma, what bothered Eric was the way the government- our government treated him. The killer was never punished. The Saudis claimed Heather had been jaywalking, it was her fault. The Saudis offered Eric a cash payment- one hundred fifty thousand dollars.”
“Fifty thousand for each life,” said Mary.
Bob said, “Eric turned to the Army and the embassy for support. He wanted prosecution. The Army and the State Department told him to accept the money. In the national interest.”
“Eric resigned,” said Mary. “He was different after that.”
“I can understand that,” said Petra.
“I wish he’d talked about it,” said Mary. “To me, his father, anyone. Before that, he could always talk. We had an open family. Or at least I thought so.”
She shook her head.
Bob said, “We did, darling. Something of that magnitude, you can’t prepare for.”
“You’ve been working with him how long?” Mary asked Petra.
“A few months.”
“I’ll bet he doesn’t talk much, does he?”
“No, ma’am.” Petra flashed on something: The stricken look in Eric’s eyes after the interview with Uncle Randolph Drummond. Eric had taken an instant dislike to the man. A drunk who’d crashed and killed his family.
Mary Stahl said, “Now, this. I don’t know what this is going to do to him.”
“He’ll heal up,” said Bob. “Who knows, maybe this will get him to open up.”
“Maybe,” said Mary, doubtfully.
“The main thing, right now, is that he heals up, dear.”
“He gets so depressed,” said Mary. “We’ve got to do something.” To Petra: “Are you a mother?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Maybe one day,” said Mary. “Maybe one day you’ll know.”
She stayed with the Stahls for another three hours. Day broke, and the parents left for an hour to make personal calls.
Petra entered the ICU.
A nurse said, “He’s doing a lot better, Detective. Amazingly better, actually. Vitals are good, temperature’s just slightly elevated. He must’ve been in really great shape.”
“Yup,” said Petra.
“Cops,” said the nurse. “We love you guys, hate when this happens.”
Petra said, “Thanks- can I go in?”
The nurse glanced through the glass. “Sure, but gown up, and I’ll show you how to wash your hands.”
Clad in a yellow paper gown, she approached Eric’s bed. He was draped from neck to toe tip, connected to multiple IV lines and catheters, backed by a bank of high-tech gizmos.
Eyes closed, mouth slightly parted. Oxygen tubes running up his nose.
So vulnerable. Young.
With the gut wound obscured, he looked okay. If you blanked out the apparatus, he could be sleeping peacefully.
She placed a gloved hand on his fingers.
His color was better. Still pale- pale was his normal state- but none of that creepy green around the edges.
“You had an adventure,” she whispered.
Eric kept breathing evenly. His vitals remained steady. No dramatic movie-of-the-week response to the sound
