lakes than people, the one we are driving to turns out to be about two hours away. This is fine with me; I’m feeling so comfortable we could be driving to Anchorage for all I care. Besides, it’s got to be warmer there.
Fortunately, the only time we spend outside is walking from the car to the restaurant we arrive at for lunch. We are brought to our table along the glass wall at the far end of the restaurant. We are overlooking Lake Netcong, which is as beautiful a place as any I have ever seen. The air is so clear that it feels like I’m wearing magnifying lenses on my eyes.
“This place is amazing,” I say.
She nods. “I know. I used to come here when I was a kid. The lake hasn’t changed at all.”
“Was this restaurant here?”
“No… there was just a small stand, sold hot dogs and hamburgers. My father would take me here for picnics and rent a boat for the day so we could sail. It feels like it was yesterday, but it was a hundred years ago.”
If I was harboring any hope that Laurie was longing to come back to Paterson with me, the look on her face is blowing that out of the frozen water. “I can see how much you love it here,” I say.
“I do, but that’s not how I would describe it. It’s more like I’m connected here. It feels like where I’m supposed to be.”
“Haven’t we had this conversation before?” It’s sounding to me like the talks we had leading up to Laurie leaving me, and I don’t relish having another one.
She nods. “I’m sorry, but I’m not handling this well,” she says.
“Handling what well?”
“I’m also connected to you, Andy. I love you and I’m connected to you. But you love your home and you are connected there. So I don’t see a solution that gives me what I want.” She points to the lake. “This and you.”
“Laurie, Findlay is a nice place to live. The people are great, there’s cable TV, and I find I can go outside for ten or fifteen seconds without getting frostbite. But I can’t stay here forever.”
“I know.” Then, “Did you ever think about having a child?”
“I am a child.”
She laughs, but tells me she’s serious. “Do you ever think about it?” she asks again.
“Sometimes, but I always get scared by that Harry Chapin song.”
“You’re not going to song-talk again, are you?” she asks.
“No, there’s a song called ‘Cat’s in the Cradle.’ ” She nods that she knows the song, but I continue. “It’s all about this guy who can never find the time to be with his son, and then the son grows up and can’t find the time to be with him.”
“And you worry that you’ll be like that?”
I nod. “I do.”
“I think you’d be a great father,” she says.
“I have my doubts,” I say.
“I’m not asking you to father my child, Andy.”
“Good.”
She’s quiet for a few moments, and I feel like I’m cowering in a foxhole, waiting for the next bomb to drop.
“Judge Morrison is going to rule in your favor tomorrow, and then you’re going to leave.”
“I’m not so sure. He could go either way on it.”
“I still don’t believe Eddie murdered those girls,” she says.
I’m feeling relief and less tension now that we have seemed to change the subject. It might be a sad commentary on me that I’m more comfortable talking about vicious murders than an intimate relationship. “I don’t either,” I say. “But among the many things that trouble me, one in particular stands out.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, let’s assume Eddie was murdered because of what he knew, probably who the real killer was. Then it makes perfect sense that the killer would get rid of Eddie.”
She nods. “Right.”
“But why force Eddie to write the note confessing to the murders? The real killer wouldn’t need that for protection; the murders were already blamed on Jeremy. So why would he bother to connect Eddie to the original murders? Why wouldn’t he just bury Eddie’s body somewhere and let Jeremy continue to take the fall?”
She thinks for a while and then says, “Because if Jeremy goes to trial, you will still be investigating the murders, trying to find the real killer. If everyone believes Eddie did it, you go home and the book is closed.”
“You’re a smart cop, you know?” I ask.
“Aw, shucks,” she says. “I love it when you compliment me.”
“I’m glad,” I say.
“And aren’t you also glad I changed the subject?” she asks.
“You have no idea,” I say.
• • • • •
RICHARD DAVIDSON is standing outside my house at seven-thirty in the morning when I take Tara out for our walk. It’s probably ten degrees out, and I don’t know how long he’s been standing here, but he looks like a Popsicle.
“I’m just real nervous,” he says, “but I didn’t want to wake you.”
“You want to go in and get de-iced?” I ask. “Or you want to walk with us?”
“I’ll walk, if that’s okay.”
“Fine.”
We walk around the block twice, which gives Richard time to ask me a hundred and fifty times if I think Judge Morrison will let Jeremy go free without trial. I give him my standard “It’s hard to tell” five or six times, but then start shrugging, since I’m afraid my tongue might freeze if my mouth is open too much.
The pressure he is feeling is not unlike waiting for a verdict. It should be easier, since even if this goes against his son, they’ve still got the trial, but that is offset by the fact that Richard has no experience with these kinds of things.
I invite him to have coffee with Kevin and me before court starts, and he leaps at the opportunity. He feels that he can get some special insight into what might happen by being with us.
As I’m getting dressed, the phone rings, and the woman calling identifies herself as Catherine Gerard. She tells me that she has seen the coverage of the hearing and that it’s important that she talk to me.
“What about?” I ask.
“Center City… that religion.”
I’m running late and wishing she would get to the point. “Can you be more specific than that?”
“My husband was a Centurion,” she says. “He left to marry me.”
The name hits me… Gerard. “He wrote those articles,” I say.
“Yes, that’s right. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
I tell her that I would like to talk to her very much, though in truth I’ll have no need to if Judge Morrison rules in our favor. I take her number and tell her I’ll be calling her back later to set up a meeting. “Is your husband willing to talk about this as well?” I ask.
“My husband is dead,” she says. “They killed him.”
“Who did?”
“The Centurions.”
My curiosity is through the roof on this, but I have to leave. I promise her that I will be in touch, and I finish getting dressed. I meet Richard and Kevin at the diner just as Kevin is saying, “I don’t know… it’s really impossible to predict these things,” when I arrive. Going by the look on his face, I doubt it’s the first time he’s had to say it.
I haven’t had the time to think about what Laurie had to say yesterday, but right now it hits me that if Judge Morrison rules the way I am hoping, Tara and I will be out of here by tomorrow. If I am, I hope I never see another bratwurst again; the diner has reacted to the media frenzy by renaming their bratwurst sandwiches after news celebrities. Their special for today is the “Brat Lauer.”
The street in front of the courthouse is the closest that Findlay can come to a mob scene. Media trucks
