Eye of the Beholder

common-their daughter. Once Cassie was gone, as far as I understand, they looked at each other and cried uncle. Rather than fight-there was a prenup, though I don’t know the details-Natalia took a chunk of her fortune and threw it at Harland as a parting gift. A cynic might say Harland’s principal motivation these last fifteen years has been to top his ex-wife’s fortune, and I dare say he’s succeeded. My firm, of course, has profited correspondingly.

“Where’s Gwendolyn now?” I ask him.

He opens his hands. “I heard that she bought some property in Lake Coursey, up north. She still has a place in France, I suspect. But I really don’t know. And I really don’t care.” His eyes fix on me. “Did this reporter, Evelyn, say why she was asking these questions?”

I shake my head. “I stiff-armed her. It never got that far.”

The waiter arrives with the drinks and asks us if we want to hear the specials. Harland doesn‘t, and I don’t, either. I already know he’s going to order something that swims in the water. I usually do, too, but I’m thinking of something that grazes on land.

“You had that karioka last time, Henry,” he says to the waiter. “With the sweet sugar?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Bentley.”

“That would be a nice start. Thank you. And tell Homaro to stop by when he’s free.”

I wasn’t here for that meal, with the karioka. I don’t even know what karioka is, but I would be willing to bet that it isn’t a selection on the menu this evening. That’s how a guy like Harland gets off, ordering something off the menu and knowing that they’ll make it, because he asked. And probably knowing that they’ll mark the price up, as well, for the effort.

“So.” Harland clasps his hands together and looks at me. “This reporter called me and I made the mistake of speaking with her. She was very intrusive. Very aggressive. I can take a lot of things, Paul. Someone in my position is going to be a media target.”

“True.”

“But when it comes to Cassandra, the spotlight turns off.”

“Sure.” That, I always believed, was why Harland didn’t want Cassie’s murder prosecuted. Burgos’s insanity defense centered around his belief that he was carrying out God’s will in punishing sinners. That, of course, required a showing in open court that the victims of his crimes were less than model citizens.

“What kind of questions did Evelyn ask, Harland?”

He puts a fingernail between his teeth, lost in thought a moment. “I want to preempt this,” he says. “I want to talk to you about how.”

That’s Harland, never answering the question. I state the obvious. “She’s a reporter.” His reaction tells me that he’s not impressed with the First Amendment. “You’re talking about- what-threat ening suit?”

“Or speaking with Lyman.”

Lyman Kruger is the publisher of the Watch. That option could cut either way. Sometimes, letting a publisher know that you’re very concerned about possibly defamatory articles leads the publisher to clamp down on the reporter, putting pressure on her to either be sure she’s right or drop it. Other times, though, it backfires by piquing the interest of the newspaper.

I tell him all of that. “It could make things worse,” I say.

Harland bristles at my advice. Men in his position don’t like being told they are without options. “I want it to stop, Paul. Homaro!” he calls to a man dressed in all white, presumably the chef, who delivers the appetizer-some deep-fried meatballs that smell delicious. They exchange pleasantries, speaking in Japanese, and then the chef leaves the table.

“I want it to stop,” he repeats to me as he helps himself to the appetizer. He sticks the tiny fork into the meatball with a bit too much enthusiasm.

IN THAT SNAP of a moment after Evelyn Pendry’s shoulders jerk violently, Leo bursts out. This isn’t the time, not the time-

You see me.

– but there’s no choice, and he still has the element of surprise. He rushes toward her, but she has the angle on him and breaks for the living room. He goes low and catches her ankle. She falls to the carpet.

Keep. Her. Quiet.

Leo twists her ankle sharply, feeling the snap. She trades terror for pain, crying out but in reaction, not alarm. He comes down on her, pressing the knife against her face. She freezes, breathing rapidly but not making a sound. She’s calculating, yes, calculating, thinking it through, she knows the knife is close enough to end this right now. If she cries out-if she tries to warn them-it’s over.

He grips her silky blond hair, savors it a moment, then yanks it. She understands. He turns her over so she is on her back, facing him. He puts his knees on her arms and presses the knife against her throat.

She smells like strawberries.

22

MIKE McDERMOTT leans against the wall in the living room, watching Grace read to her grandmother. He does that a lot these days, silently watches his seven- year-old daughter, marveling at how a man who handles violent criminals and visits horrific crime scenes can be laid so bare, so utterly vulnerable and terrified by this small little lady.

She is an excellent reader, the word her teacher used. She has her mother’s intelligence, her critical reasoning and verbal skills. And her behavior has improved this year. Fewer outbursts. Socializing more.

Year Four, is how he thinks of it. He doesn’t measure her from birth but from Joyce’s death. She still has the dreams, still asks the unanswerable questions. But Dr. Sutton says there’s no indication of early-onset. Only a third of the children, at most, inherit their parents’ bipolar disorder, he said-meaning about seventy percent don’t. McDermott confronted him with the literature- early-onset can consist solely of depression that evolves into bipolar-but the doctor says she’s a functional little girl who’s finding her way through this.

She blames herself, the doctor had said, words that filled McDermott’s throat. That’s not unusual. It was her mother, after all.

McDermott remembers staring at his shoes at that comment, unable to find words.

So he watches Grace every day, the highs and the lows, looking for the warning signs. Every time she argues or cries or has a tantrum or jumps for joy, he makes a mental note. He was even keeping a journal for a while. Laughed at a cartoon. Complained about her cereal.

‘“Matt,”’ Grace reads in a narrative voice, “‘who had seen guests come and go for many years, knew there were two kinds…”’

Mike’s mother, Audrey McDermott, is on the floor with Grace, gathering her granddaughter in her arms and reading along with Grace over her shoulder. The sight of it almost moves McDermott to tears.

The phone rings. They look up but McDermott raises a hand. He gets it on the second ring, and, after listening, mouths the word Shit.