'Except look at you right now. Your family's driven out of your house. Where's your law there? Who's protecting you now?'
'Still, the law. Look, Mose, if Panos wasn't worried about somebody doing something about it, he would have come for me long ago. He could have grabbed the kids, or shot them, when he took the picture.'
'Maybe you're forgetting he did shoot some people.'
'Maybe I'm not. But if I believe that the whole purpose of law is to take violence out of the hands of individuals, like you and me, and Panos for that matter, how am I supposed to justify going after him myself? As soon as I do that, I am so fundamentally like him that there's no moral distinction between us.'
'Oh, no shit. He hits you, you can't hit him back? Are you giving me that?'
'I'm saying that if I go outside the law, then I can't expect anything from it anymore. And I'm not willing to give that up. It's pretty basic.'
'It's pretty bullshit, you ask me.'
'Oh yeah? So what happens, then, after one of the shots you fire at Panos or Sephia misses them completely, but kills the poor old lady eating her Cheerios three houses down? Or the mom pushing her baby half a mile away? You don't think that happens? You don't think that's the main thing that happens with every fucked-up drive-by shooting you ever heard of? Once these things start, there's no controlling what happens next. People get killed who had nothing to do with it. And then, guess what? Those innocent people want to see the law punish you. And they've got every reason to expect that it will. Whether or not you started the whole thing. Once you're in it, you're the bad guy. Period.'
Moses tipped up his glass, rattled the ice a little, tipped it up again. 'If I knew for a fact who took that picture, I'd get real close and put a slug in the fucker's brain. I'd do it tonight, swear to God.'
'And then your life, from then on, is never the same.'
'I wouldn't tell anybody. And nobody would know my connection to you and Frannie. The cops would never even think to talk to me.'
'Except if they did. And then what about Susan and your girls?'
McGuire was shaking his head. 'Not going to happen. Listen, Diz, you got gangbangers killing each other all the time. You're telling me the cops even look real hard? So you get a known dirtball like, say, Sephia, who dies violently, and who's going to get all worked up over it? Nobody. Probably not even his family, if he's got one.'
Hardy acknowledged that truth with half a nod. 'I wouldn't exactly weep and gnash my teeth myself.'
'See?'
'But there's a difference between someone being dead and you making someone be dead.'
'That's what you keep saying. But you and I have both pulled a trigger, Diz. Killed people we didn't even hate. We both know we could do it again if we had to. My question is how far do they have to push you before you do something on your own?'
'Pretty far, I'd guess. Where it turned into real self-defense.'
'Which is pretty much after the fact, isn't it?'
'Yep. I think it has to be.'
'And you're okay with that? You can live with it?' His brother-in-law's face was etched in concern that showed as though magnified by the dim light. 'No, let me put it another way,' he said. 'I hope you can live with that. I hope your family can. I really do.'
Hardy drained his own glass. 'Me, too, Mose. Me, too.'
Hardy was still dressed-jeans and a pullover-sitting on a two-person love seat in the back of the apartment, in the old laundry room that Susan had converted into a studio for her music students. It was quiet here, away from the beds, and he didn't want his own restlessness to keep anyone else up. A single, large, north-facing window revealed a smattering of lights stretching out toward the Presidio- he was up six stories-but the view, so lovely in the light, didn't captivate. He stared out, more through it than at it, aware but unthinking, or at least not thinking discrete thoughts.
Since he'd gotten into bed, then given up and come in here, his mind had returned again and again, unbidden, to David Freeman. Visions of him in his bed in the ICU. The damage they'd done to him, even should he survive it, a result about which Hardy had little confidence. A cold premonition had entered his gut along with the renewed conviction that these were very dangerous men, now perhaps made more desperate by their inability to isolate and destroy John Holiday. And without him, Hardy believed, they were surely, eventually doomed. They had to get to him, any way they could, as quickly as they could. And no mistake about it, Hardy believed that the surest route to Holiday was through him.
Another nonthought, a bother, a twinge, like a pestering insect alighting again and again on the surface of his consciousness, was that he should in fact disengage himself from Holiday, at least until things shook out here somewhat. Call Kroll and get that message delivered. As Moses had argued, he should save his family above all else, and he could do it without going outside the law. He'd never even taken a retainer from Holiday. There was no legal issue.
After all, he told himself, Holiday would probably be okay without him now. The evidence would set him free. Hardy didn't need to stay involved. The rationalizations gnawed.
'Dad?'
He started as though from a doze, but he hadn't been sleeping. 'Hey, Beck.'
'Are you all right?'
'Sure. Having some trouble sleeping, that's all. How's my little girl?' Sixteen years old, five foot five, 110 pounds. His little girl.
'I know you hate it,' she said, 'but I'm scared.'
'Oh, babe.' He looked up and caught the shining streak of a tear on her cheek. 'Come here.' He shifted to one side, patted the cushion next to him. 'Have a seat next to your old man.' He longed to tell her that there was nothing to be scared of-the perhaps comforting lie was almost out of his mouth-but he couldn't make himself say it. She was too old for that now; she'd feel patronized, and he didn't want that.
In a moment, her feet tucked under her, she was curled up against him, under his arm-all flannel and bathrobe, long hair and a slightly stale breath that he loved. At first, this seemed to be all she needed, and he absently stroked her hair as he had done since she'd been a baby. He felt her weight settle almost imperceptibly and she exhaled a shallow sigh, quietly but audibly. 'You okay?' he asked. 'A little better?'
'A little.'
'But still scared?' He felt her head move up and down.
'Well.' He couldn't resist the impulse to comfort her. 'Maybe it's really not as bad as we thought originally…'
'But those pictures, Daddy…'
'I know. I know what they were trying to do there, and that's what makes us afraid. And it worked, didn't it? But I went and saw Uncle Abe tonight and I really think there's a good chance now that the police will be able to… to do something.'
'Like what?'
'Like maybe arrest these people. Some new stuff's come up. They're going to have to act on it. And when they do, we'll get back to normal.'
'But what if they don't?'
Hardy sighed. 'They probably will, Beck. You don't have to worry about that.'
'And that's why you can't sleep, either? Because you're not worried anymore?'
Hardy tightened his arm around her. Sometimes she was too perceptive, he thought, for her own good. 'I'm still a little worried,' he conceded.
The Beck squirmed out and sat up, facing him. 'It's just that I don't understand these people. Even if they wanted to hurt you, why would they want to hurt your family?'
'Because they know that nothing, really, would hurt me more.'
'Okay, but then what do they think? That you'll just go away? I mean, the logical thing is that you'll just get crazier and come after their families. Doesn't that make sense?'
Hardy, again, didn't feel that he could be completely forthright. 'I wouldn't do that. I couldn't do that. That wouldn't be right.'
