I wrote about the last days of Merrick, Manton, Duke, and Earl, of Bob Thompson and Flash Burden, of David. I wrote about Earl’s sense of humor, of Duke whittling a toy horse for his grandson — and remembered that I must take that carving to his family. I wrote about Flash taking photographs of wildflowers, of Merrick playing with Bingle, of Manton trying to get used to his wife’s new haircut by studying a photo. I tried to convey a sense of them that would make them more than names on a list of victims. Perhaps John or some copy editor would cut it up, or use a “search and replace” command to change “prisoner” to “Nicholas Parrish.”
It didn’t matter. I could only do what I could.
I wrote about finding Julia Sayre, then stopped to search our files for Nina Poolman.
A photo of a dark-haired, blue-eyed, forty-two-year-old woman appeared on the screen. Missing. Three years ago.
Nothing saying she was ever found.
I sat staring at her photograph, knowing that Parrish would expect me to write that he had told me her name.
“Frank?” I said.
“Yeah?”
“The victim in the second grave — do you think any of the teeth survived the explosion intact?”
“I’m not sure. Teeth are pretty tough though, so maybe. Why?”
“If they did, and you can get a hold of this woman’s dental records, I think you can close a case.”
In the story, I wrote the truth — no positive identification of the victim in the second grave had been made.
I filed the story, stood up, and said to Lydia, “Tell John that if I open the paper tomorrow and see Nick Parrish’s name all over that story, I will not be back in. Ever. Which might not be such a big loss to either one of us.”
“Will do,” she said. “Are you okay?”
I shook my head, drew a breath. “Tell John I’ve got more to write, but—”
“You’ll be happy to take it elsewhere,” she interrupted. “I think he’ll get the picture.”
I e-mailed a brief note to Mark, thanking him for sticking up for me the day before, and logged off.
The phone rang.
“Kelly,” I answered.
“There’s a . . . a person here to see you,” the security guard at the front desk said.
“A person?”
“She says she has an appointment with you. Gillian Sayre.”
Four o’clock.
“I’ll be right down,” I said.
“Want me to go with you?” Frank asked.
I shook my head. “This one I think I need to handle on my own.”
31
SATURDAY, LATE AFTERNOON, MAY 20
Las Piernas News Express
“You look tired,” I said, as I gestured her into a small meeting room off the lobby.
“I didn’t sleep much last night,” she said.
Of course not, I thought, wondering if I could avoid making any other clumsy remarks over the next few minutes.
The room was quiet, save for the combined overhead hum of fluorescent lights and air-conditioning. If there’s a gray rainbow somewhere, the decor of that room — carpet, walls, chairs, and table — had tried to capture it. One color, assorted shades. It fit my mood.
When we were seated, Gillian said, “Do they know where Parrish is yet?”
“No. But I don’t think he’ll be able to stay hidden for long. I’m sorry he got away.”
“I guess he had it all planned. From what they’re saying on television, you were lucky to get out of there alive.”
With an unexpected rush of relief, I realized that I
These thoughts no sooner crossed my mind than I was horrified by them, ashamed to find myself rejoicing at all, no matter how silently, ashamed to be feeling good in any way about anything having to do with the last few days.
And worse, to think such thoughts while I sat next to a young woman whose mother had been murdered, tortured hideously by the man who had let me go. Christ, what a jerk I was to be calling that luck! Gillian must have wondered why — why her mother was dead and I was still alive. I had no children waiting for me to return. I looked down at the table, unable to meet her eyes.
She was silent for a moment, then said, “I was hoping you could tell me about finding my mother.”
Instantly, I was staring at an uncovered, decaying corpse. Its smell filled the room.
