Mary's heart sank. She scanned the rowhouses facing the storm like a stone wall. Some of the neighbors had talked to her in the spring, but that was then. Now they were a lot less friendly, maybe because the whole city thought Steere was about to walk. Still, she couldn't bring herself to let it go. Her role in letting a murderer go free weighed too heavily, and she didn't need more guilt.
Mary's gaze moved down the street, where some kids played in the pool of brightness cast by the streetlight. One kid flapped his arms to make a snow angel and two others wrestled in the snow, dark figures tumbling over one another like fairies in the night. They'd made a hill by packing the snow on one of the stoops and were sledding down the makeshift mountain on a piece of cardboard. One of the kids, the smallest, wasn't playing. He was standing off to the side, facing them. Facing Mary. It was dark, but his tiny shadow fit the little boy from the house.
'Judy, it's the kid!' Mary said, her heart leaping up. She dropped the skis with a clatter and hurried down the street, her legs churning in the deep snow. She slowed as she reached the boy, then stopped and waved. He waved back. He couldn't have been four years old. 'My name is Mary' she told him. 'What's your name?'
He didn't answer. He held his arms stiff at his sides in a hand-me-down parka and black gloves. His knit Eagles cap was stretched out of shape and floppy at its peak.
'Do you have a name?'
Still no answer.
Mary tried to think of what to say next. She was never good with kids, but her husband had been. He'd taught school and wanted a passel. She tried to think of what Mike would have done, but it had been so long since she'd heard his voice in her head. Judy caught up with her, lugging their skis and poles.
'What
'They're skis,' Mary answered.
'Skis?' he said, testing the word.
'Right, skis. You can play with them in the snow.' Mary saw interest sparkle in his large, round eyes and wanted to get through to him. But she needed help from somebody who was better with kids. 'Judy, skis are fun, right? A lot of fun. They're like toys.'
'No, they're not.' Judy frowned under her hat. 'They're serious equipment. They're not toys.'
Mary wanted to throttle her. 'Don't be so technical.' She grabbed a maroon ski from Judy's hand and held it in front of the boy. 'See? You want to touch it?'
Startled, the boy edged away.
'There's nothing to be afraid of,' Judy said. She wrenched the ski from Mary's hand. 'Skis are cool. Watch this.' The boy's dark eyes followed her as she turned the ski over, set it down on the snow, and gave it a push. It glided to the boy like a model sailboat in a fountain, and he looked down at it and grinned. 'Cool, huh?' Judy said, and looked back over her shoulder. 'Why am I doing this, Mare?'
'Because I think our friend likes to play outside,' Mary said, her gaze on the boy. 'I bet he plays outside all the time and I bet he makes lots of friends.'
Judy smiled, catching on. 'I bet you're right, Mare.' She eased slowly onto her haunches, eye level with the boy, and Mary stood behind her, watching his reaction. They were concentrating so intently on the child that they didn't notice the white Grand Cherokee coming slowly around the corner and rumbling toward them in the snow. The driver of the Cherokee was Penny Jones and he was heading straight for the women, his hunting rifle under the front seat.
23
Jen Pressman fled the mayor's office and hustled down the marble corridor in City Hall. This migraine was going to be a whopper. She needed that Imitrex. A flock of TV and print reporters dogged her, headed by Alix Locke.
'Jen!' Alix yelled in her ear. 'Jen Pressman! What will the mayor say tonight at the conference? Come on, Jen, tell me.'
'You'll see in an hour,' Jen said, wishing Alix would stop shouting. She was supersensitive to all the sounds in the corridor. The clacking of her own heels. The snapping of camera shutters, the whir of the motor drives. Jen wanted to cover her ears.
'Where's a copy of the mayor's speech?' 'Do you have a copy of the speech?' 'Will he get the plows?' 'Did the deal go through with the Canadians?' 'Can you confirm or deny?'
'Press conference in one hour, in the conference room down the hall,' Jen said, elbowing her way ahead. No one would have guessed spots were popping and jumping behind her eyes.
'What's the deal on the security guard murders?' 'Any suspects?' 'Any leads on Richter or the others?' 'What do the police have to say?'
Jen didn't bother answering. She had lost the ability to distinguish whose questions they were. It was all a cacophony. She felt seasick but couldn't let it show. She waved them all off, pushing through the gauntlet until she finally reached the mahogany door across the hall. CHIEF OF STAFF, said the pullout plaque. Jen yanked the heavy door open, and a white-hot light blasted her eyes. Seared through the shutter of her pupils. Cut like a laser right through to her brain. 'Ah!' she cried out, putting up a protective hand.
'Turn off that light!' shouted her secretary. 'I told you! No TV cameras in here. Turn it off!'
'Turn that fucking thing off!' Jen screamed. The TV light sputtered to darkness, but she was reeling, seeing exploding lights everywhere. She pressed into the wedge of reporters to get past the reception area to her office.
'Are we getting the new plows, Jen?' Alix Locke shouted, among others. 'Is it true we paid a fortune for them?' 'When will they get to the streets in the Northeast?' 'Why don't they plow the streets off Vare Avenue, Jen?'
Jen barreled ahead, leaving the reporters behind. She heard her secretary shouting for them to leave, but she couldn't bear any more shouting. Not one more minute of it or she would scream and her cover would be blown.
Jen flew down the short corridor to her office, ran inside, and shut and locked the door. Her large office was
