“We’re not in a book, Harold. Try to remember that.”
“How do you know we’re not, Sal?”
“Not what?”
“In a book.”
Vitali said nothing. Had his wrist draped over the top of the steering wheel. His gaze was fixed straight ahead on Sanderson. He knew that as long as the tail lasted, he’d simply have to endure Mishkin’s conversational meandering.
“You know that famous athlete that got in trouble because he was addicted to sex?” Mishkin asked.
“Do I know him?
“Of him?”
“Yeah.”
Vitali came more alert. Sanderson had stopped walking and was looking into the show window of an electronics shop. Only a few seconds passed before he walked on. Boredom again descended on the car.
“That athlete that checked himself into a sexual-addiction clinic, Sal. Ever think about sexual-addiction clinics? I mean, really consider them?”
“For myself, Harold?”
“Don’t try to be funny, Sal.”
Vitali said nothing.
“I been wondering what kind of places those are. I mean, even on the outside.”
“Like hospitals, I guess.”
“What sort of architecture?”
“Lots of towers, I imagine,” Vitali said. He didn’t move his head. His right wrist was still draped over the wheel.
“Yeah. I was thinking about the entrances. And the exits. Don’t forget the exits.”
Vitali gave Mishkin a look.
“Maybe dormers, Sal. Sets of big dormers on the roof.”
“Definitely big dormers,” Vitali said.
“Those people who get checked in there, Sal, how do you think they keep them apart?”
“I wouldn’t know, Harold. The doctors and staff, I guess.”
“These are addicts, Sal. What do you think they have for rooms? Do the doors have automatic locks? Are there little individual compounds topped with razor wire? Those people are like rabbits, Sal.”
Sanderson had reached his subway stop. He barely broke stride as he descended the concrete steps and disappeared underground.
Like a rabbit going down its hole, Vitali couldn’t help thinking.
Mishkin had the door open and was getting out. It was his turn to tail Sanderson on foot.
“I’ll pick you up outside Sweep ’Em Up,” Vitali told him.
“Try parking where you did before, Sal.” And Mishkin was out of the car and jogging toward the subway steps.
Vitali sat and watched Mishkin disappear underground.
Like another rabbit.
Or maybe more like one of those terriers bred to follow their prey into burrows.
“We’re sure Sanderson’s clean,” Vitali told Quinn, after five days on the tail.
Quinn nodded behind his desk. He’d already decided to end the tail. There were only so many suspects you could cover in the case. That was the problem, exactly as the Skinner had planned it. “Get some sleep and I’ll put you and Harold on something else.”
“Better use of manpower,” Vitali said.
“Weaver isn’t gonna like it that she was beat to a pulp for nothing.”
“How’s she doing?” Vitali asked.
“Out of the hospital. Her thoughts are a little scrambled, and she still has headaches. Renz has seen she gets medical leave, and she’s going to stay with her sister for a while.”
“So she’s out of the game on this one.”
“Like Sanderson,” Quinn said.
57
Edmundsville, 2008
Beth’s recommendation had worked. Link Evans was hired at Arch Manufacturing. He worked for a while on the line, but it didn’t take long for his bosses to see he had more to offer. As soon as seniority allowed an opening, he was promoted to forklift driver. Beth liked that. Link wasn’t so tired when he got home, and he could spend more time with Eddie.
There was no doubt in her mind that Link loved Eddie. They’d play catch sometimes in the evenings until Eddie got tired of throwing the ball. Link was convinced Eddie had baseball talent. Maybe he was right. Beth was no judge.
As Eddie got older, he hadn’t filled out physically in the way Link expected. He remained a spindly kid. Though he could still play ball well, his real talent seemed to be in scholastics. Eddie had been a whiz in Edmundsville primary school, with grades at the top of his class. Not only that, he was an amiable kid well liked by teachers and his fellow students.
High school was only slightly more difficult for Eddie.
That was all fine with Link. He bragged on Eddie’s grades. It was obvious that Eddie was going to be more of an intellect than an athlete. Not that he and Eddie didn’t still play catch.
In fact, they played catch even more often than when Eddie was younger.
There was something about these relentless games of catch, Beth thought. It was simply tossing a sphere back and forth, yet it forged a bond between father and son that a woman might not understand. Beth didn’t, quite. It might have something to do with giving and receiving, and then giving back. Beth wondered, had men played catch with their sons through the ages? Had primitive men and their sons tossed stones back and forth?
She bet they did.
Men were still a puzzle to Beth.
“Don’t you guys ever get tired?” she asked one night, from the wooden Adirondack chair they’d bought and Link and Eddie had painted.
Plop! Went the baseball into Eddie’s glove. Eddie grinned and fired it back. Plop!
“Tired of what?” Link asked. He’d put on a few pounds while working and eating regularly, but he was still a lean man, and athletic.
“You know. Playing catch.”
“No, it’s natural.” Talking to her had made Link glance over and drop the next pitch from Eddie. He bent low to pick up the ball and tossed it back sidearm and hard.
Plop!
“Natural, Mom!” Eddie said, with a touch of braggadocio.
Beth sat back with her eyes closed, sipped lemonade, and listened to the rhythm of summer and growing up. Hers was, she decided, a good life to be living.
Except for… small things now and then.
Plop!
Well, maybe the same small thing. It was something she hadn’t yet let crystallize into an actual suspicion. Her mind still danced around it, and only at odd times when the notion caught her off guard. Sometimes it was because of a certain light, or a certain angle, or a manner of speaking.
Acquired, Beth thought. It all could be acquired.
But not the angle of nose, the eyebrows, and the dark eyes.
Imagination?
