She listens to his words, and it seems to her that Doyle could be talking about a specific person rather than some unknown killer he has never met.
‘Can I ask you something else, Detective?’
‘Sure.’
‘Could you remove this man from our world? Permanently, I mean. Not prison.’
When Doyle says nothing for a couple of seconds she adds, ‘I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t be asking-’
‘If it were up to me?’ says Doyle. ‘In a heartbeat. No doubt about it. If I was sure I knew who had done this to your daughter, and the law allowed me to do it, I would put a bullet in this scumbag’s brain without hesitation.’
‘And if the law said no, but you thought nobody would ever find out?’
She sees the muscles twitch in Doyle’s jaw. It’s a tough ethical question, but she genuinely wants to hear his response.
‘I’m a cop,’ he says finally. ‘I have to uphold the law. Otherwise what am I doing in this job?’
The right answer, she thinks. But the expected answer. She’s not certain that it accurately reflects his position. She knows what Steve would do. Steve would hunt this man down and make him endure as much pain as possible before killing him as slowly as possible — that’s what Steve would do.
And I bring forth life, she thinks. That’s what I do. That’s what is right.
‘Mrs Hamlyn, I should go now,’ says Doyle.
‘Please,’ she says. ‘Call me Nicole.’
He nods, then stands up. ‘There’s a lot of work to be done.’
She shows him to the door. When she opens it, the noise of the rain suddenly intrudes. They both look out at it.
‘You think it’s ever gonna quit?’ Doyle asks.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘In time.’
Then Doyle steps into it and is gone.
He drives just far enough to be out of her view, then pulls the car over.
Damn!
Why did I even come here? For all I’ve learned in this meeting, wouldn’t a phone call have been just as good?
And why did I let her get to me? Why do I always have to get so fucking involved?
Telling her about how we can’t have any more kids. Letting her know that I’d happily cap the sonofabitch killer of her daughter. What the fuck was that about?
And, to top it all, the lies. Telling her there were still no suspects, when the one and only suspect is sitting at home in his crappy apartment, laughing his ass off at the failure of the police to nail him.
Doyle sits there for a full five minutes, working through his anger, berating himself for his stupidity.
But he knows why he came to the Hamlyns’ house. He came because he cares. He cares about the Hamlyns and he cares about their daughter and he cares about finding her killer. He cares far too much, in his opinion. It’s a fault which always tears him apart, and he doesn’t know what he can do about it.
It’ll be the death of me, he thinks.
Stanley Proust stands naked in front of his bedroom mirror. His shoulders are slumped slightly because he cannot straighten up. It hurts too much.
He has managed to staunch the flow of blood from his various cuts, but he still looks as though he has been hit by a train. There are marks and swellings all over his body. His face looks like that of the Elephant Man. One eye is so puffed up it’s difficult to see out of it. His ribs in particular feel like a hot poker is being inserted between them when he breathes. He has taken some strong painkillers, but they don’t seem to be making much difference.
He puts his tongue in the gap where his tooth used to be, and pushes gently on the cap of congealed blood. Shame to lose a tooth, but he can always get a false one put in.
But what an experience!
He has never been through anything like that before. The last time he was punched was in a fist fight in middle school that lasted barely five seconds. He didn’t even get a bloody nose on that occasion. Since then he has often wondered whether it would toughen him up to get involved in a proper no-holds-barred brawl — to find out what it’s really like to absorb a barrage of stinging blows. But he has always been too scared. He has always backed down from any confrontation that has threatened to become physical.
Well, now he knows. He understands. The pain is nothing. He can transcend the pain.
And he could go through it again. Now that he has done it once, he could do it again and again. Whatever Doyle throws at him, he can take. And that means Doyle can never win.
Proust drops his eyes to the tattoo on his chest, still clearly visible behind the bruises. He looks at the image of himself, clawing its way through his flesh.
That’s me now, he thinks. That’s what I’ve been waiting for.
I am reborn.
THIRTEEN
LeBlanc knows something is wrong as soon as Doyle walks into the squadroom.
Actually, he suspected Doyle was up to something when he disappeared for the whole morning. Showing up now with that shiner under his eye merely confirms it.
This is not good, he thinks. This is definitely not going to be something I want to hear.
He accosts Doyle before he even has a chance to sit down. Before he has even had a chance to remove his jacket.
‘Cal, can we talk? In private?’
‘What, again?’ says Doyle. ‘This is how rumors start, ya know, Tommy?’
‘You mind?’
Doyle looks around. Only Schneider is staring back at him.
‘All right. Come on.’
They leave the squadroom and move down the hallway, where Doyle opens the door to an interview room. That is, it’s officially an interview room. Unofficially it’s a dumping ground for anything that can’t be squeezed in anywhere more appropriate. File cabinets in particular seem to end up here. There is hardly an inch of lower wall space that doesn’t have a file cabinet in front of it.
‘What is it?’ asks Doyle, and it seems to LeBlanc that there is already a hint of irritation there.
‘You mind if I ask where you been all morning?’
‘You mind if I ask why you’re asking?’
‘Because I’m your partner. I thought you were gonna talk to the Hamlyns.’
‘Then you just answered your own question.’
‘It took you all morning to do that?’
‘I’m nothing if not thorough.’
‘Go anywhere else?’
‘Hey, Tommy, cut it out, okay? I know we’re in the interview room, but that doesn’t mean you have to get in character. You wanna get some practice in on your Q and A technique, go drag in some skells.’
LeBlanc breathes out. A long slow breath. This isn’t how he wanted it to go.
‘Look, I’m sorry. I’m finding it difficult to get used to the way you do things.’
‘The way I do things?’
‘Yeah. You know, the way you just disappear. The way you don’t always tell me what you’ve been doing or what you’re about to do.’
He realizes he’s starting to sound a little like an abandoned wife. But he also knows just how close partners can get. They need to rely on each other. They need to trust each other. Each needs to understand precisely how the other one ticks. LeBlanc doesn’t know whether he will ever manage to reach that depth of familiarity with
