‘Bit of an over-reaction, wouldn’t you say? I give you one little bit of criticism-’
‘No. Rach. You don’t understand. This has nothing to do with what you said to me earlier. You were totally right about that.’
She gestures at the suitcase on the bed. ‘So, then, why?’
‘I don’t have a choice. In order to protect you, I have to leave. Simple as that.’
She shakes her head. A tiny movement of both disbelief and negation.
Doyle says, ‘Rachel, what happened in the hospital tonight was a warning. The sicko who wants to hurt me was showing us what he could have done for real, to you and Amy. He’s already proved he has no qualms about killing people. We’ve got five dead bodies already. I don’t want to see any more, especially members of my own family. That’s why I have to go, so he’ll leave you alone.’
‘What if I don’t want you to go? What if I think the best way for you to protect us is to be here, by my side? Does my opinion count?’
Doyle sighs. ‘That note the nurse gave me? It wasn’t the first. Whoever’s sending them keeps telling me that anyone I stay in close contact with is in danger. For whatever twisted reasons, he wants me on my own.’
‘Why? I don’t understand.’
‘Me neither. All I know is that I can’t stay here, because he’ll come here too. With me gone, you’re safe.’
She lowers her eyes as she considers his words. When she lifts her gaze again he sees her sadness.
‘How long, Cal? How long are you going to be away?’
He shrugs, then counters his uncertainty with a smile of optimism. ‘We got a lot of people on this. He can’t keep this up for long. I might be moving back in tomorrow night. Keep my side of the bed warm.’
She tries a smile, but it’s a half-hearted attempt that tells him she’s not convinced.
‘Let me say goodnight to Amy,’ he says.
As he brushes past her she touches a finger to his arm.
‘Cal?’
He stops and looks into eyes that are now brimming with tears.
‘I don’t want you to leave,’ she says.
He takes her in his arms then, presses her whole body against him, wishing he could carry this closeness with him when he walks out the door.
Rachel asks, ‘Where will you go?’
‘A hotel. Somewhere I don’t have to mix with people.’
‘That’s a pretty lonely existence. That’s not you, Cal.’
‘It’s for one night. A couple at the most. I’ll call you all the time, I swear.’
She runs a finger under one eye, catching a tear. ‘You’d better, if you know what’s good for you.’
He takes her face in his hands, plants a big kiss on her mouth. ‘Give me five minutes.’
He leaves the bedroom, walks across to Amy’s room. She’s sitting up in bed, looking at a book about something called a Gruffalo.
‘Daddy!’ she says when he walks in.
‘Hi, pumpkin. You ready for sleep yet?’
‘Oh, no. But I am a little bit tired. Is it late now?’
He perches himself on the edge of her bed, and she wriggles over to make more room for him.
‘Yeah, it’s late. I’m going to bed myself soon. I’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow.’
‘Catching bad guys?’
‘That’s right: catching bad guys. And it’s going to keep me so busy, I might not even be able to come home for a day or two. What do you think of that?’
She shakes her head emphatically. ‘Not good. I don’t want you to stay away, not even for one day.’
‘I’ll come back home as soon as I can, honey. I promise. Meantime, you be good for Mommy, okay?’
‘Okay,’ she says, begrudgingly. ‘And then maybe when you come back, you can bring me a rabbit?’
‘We’ll see,’ he says. He takes the book from her, tucks her and her toy bears into the bedclothes, then leans over and kisses her on the cheek. ‘Goodnight, Amy.’
‘Night, Daddy.’
He rises from the bed, steps toward the doorway and the light switch.
‘Daddy!’
Amy is sitting bolt upright in bed again, as if awaking from a nightmare.
‘What is it, hon?’
‘Tomorrow is my dance show. I’m getting a medal. You have to be there.’
Shit! The show. He’d forgotten all about it.
‘I, uhm, I’ll do my best, honey, okay? I’ll try to be there, I really will.’
‘You promised.’
‘I know, Amy, I know. Let me see what I can do, okay?’
But he knows he’s not going to be there. And as he repeats his goodnight wish and turns out the light and closes the door, he feels like a complete heel. He feels like the sort of father he swore he would never be. Like his own father, the bastard.
He knows how much little things like this mean to a child. In the grand scheme of things it’s nothing; to a six-year-old girl it’s everything. The empty seat in the theater tomorrow will create a bigger emptiness in her heart — one that he may never fill. He knows this because of all the holes that were opened in his own heart as a kid. They never close over, not fully.
For that alone — never mind all the other things — Doyle swears vengeance. You want to break my daughter’s heart, then go ahead. Just know that when I catch you, I’m gonna tear out your own heart and make you eat it, you fuck.
For what he can afford, the Cavendish Hotel near Union Square seems decent enough, although the reception staff are none too happy about a booking for an indeterminate number of nights, what with all the Christmas shoppers swarming into town at the moment. In the end Doyle stretches himself to a three-night reservation, extracting in return (inequitably, it seems to him) a verbal agreement that the hotel staff will do their utmost to keep the room available for longer if required.
His room is clean, the carpet isn’t too threadbare and the bed isn’t too concave in the middle, but Doyle can’t settle. Things aren’t where he expects them to be. The smells are different; the noises are different. He’s not used to a bathroom without a window, and a view from the bedroom that’s fascinating only if you have a thing for bricks. Worst of all, he’s alone. He cannot reach out for the warmth of his wife in the bed next to him; he cannot lift up his daughter and smell the shampoo in her hair.
Doyle throws his clothes into drawers, then calls Rachel on the phone. He lies about how comfortable he is here, and understates the truth about how much he’s missing his family. After the call he kills some time reading the hotel information brochures, then murders another hour or so staring at the flat-screen TV. It just makes him wonder how long it’ll be before living in a box like this drives him insane.
Despite his tiredness, he is bursting with a high level of contained energy. To release it, he does some sit- ups and push-ups, then takes a shower. But still he feels like a caged lion with claustrophobia.
When he can stand it no longer, he escapes his room and goes in search of the bar.
The bartender is a swarthy Greek called George. Doyle asks him if the hotel has Guinness on tap, but they don’t.
‘Okay, make it a whiskey. Irish. Be as generous as you like.’
When it’s poured, he raises the glass. ‘To absent friends.’
He knocks it back, slams the glass down on the counter. ‘Hit me again, George,’ he says.
And keep on hitting me till I’m numb.
THIRTEEN
When Doyle gets into the squadroom at seven-thirty that morning, he sees that Franklin is already in his
