Authors: Daniel Hecht
Puppets (44 page)
No, you couldn't blame Rebecca for pulling back a bit.
Okay, so Mo was rolling with that. He could understand that. He had his own stuff to deal with anyway. He'd taken a two-week leave to get his jaw and finger rebuilt. He'd found an apartment, a three-room on the south end of White Plains, and had gone into his credit cards to make it nice: a couple of neo-Navajo rugs, a decent audio system, a few framed prints for the walls. A vacuum cleaner to keep things up. Not a palace, but it was getting there, almost the kind of place where you could have somebody over.
The grand jury hearing about Big Willie had been delayed during Mo's recovery. By the time the jury convened, Flannery was a media darling and was feeling grateful for Mo's gift, so he hadn't pressed the case. The hearing was a formality, the county's case perfunctory, and the jury had determined against probable cause. No charges would be brought.
So things were getting sorted out.
But there was still the big hurt, the real killer: the aftermath of Mike St. Pierre's death. Racing to the Star Bowl, Mo had called in to report the incident in the marsh, officer down, perpetrator dead. Later, when asked where he'd gone, he told his colleagues that he'd been badly injured and in pain, had rushed off to get medical treatment,. and had passed out in his car in the hospital parking lot. Came to hours later and hauled himself into Emergency. All true—he just omitted telling anyone about the detour he'd made between the marsh and the emergency ward.
But none of that helped him with Lilly St. Pierre. Lil and three kids, it was too fucking sad and it was all Mo's fault. He shouldn't have called Mike that Sunday, or they should have stayed doubled up. Something. Anything. Marsden, Rebecca, everybody argued that there was no way Mo could have anticipated the attack. But it didn't wash. He
had
known, he'd just ignored that shrilling nerve of warning that day.
Mo felt like it should have been him to bring the news to Lilly, but Paderewski and Valsangiacomo had done it that night while Mo was at the hospital. They said Lil had dropped in her tracks, fell right down in the doorway. Then the kids had come in and seen her and started crying. This was the hell part. Whenever Mo had called, Lil had hung up as soon as she'd recognized his voice. He'd sent flowers and cards, but at the funeral Lil couldn't give him so much as a glance, just stood across the grave from him with her raw, red face averted. She looked so damaged. So different from the proud, strong Madonna with the sunlight halo, the mother of the happy mammal pile.
And there was nothing anybody, least of all Morgan Ford, could do about it.
On the brighter side, lying around recovering had given him time to chew on a lot of stuff. Hadn't discussed it all with Rebecca, but at last he was feeling a little more ready if and when she brought it up. Starting with Biedermann's comment:
You think you and I are so
different? Take a look at yourself.
That jab had slipped under his guard and up between his ribs. He couldn't deny that, yeah, he would go to just about any length to be free of the feeling of strings on him. That somehow both his and Biedermann's life commitments seemed to require bending rules, working outside the system to defend what they believed in, and, too often, killing people. Yeah, and that neither ever quite managed to have a normal, regular domestic life or lasting relationships.
Touche, you bastard,
he acknowledged.
But ultimately he'd decided, no, that's not who he was. Biedermann's response was to control others in return, but Mo had an instinct to relinquish control once in a while. In the long run, your best bet for slipping free of the control of the system or bosses or your personal demons was to relax and let your own humanity happen. Surely Rebecca would see that: He'd never tried to force their relationship, her sense of timing, he'd accepted Rachel's presence in everything, he didn't have to be in the driver's seat all the time.
The biggest thing would be the job, how she could be with a guy whose profession brought him into situations like the Star Bowl and Big Willie. And she was right, it was the thing dead center in whatever he didn't like about himself, his day, his thoughts. But, he'd decided, it was also central to what he
did
like. Paradoxical, but that was life, you had to stake out your commitments somewhere and stick with them.
He wouldn't blame her at all if she brought it to a choice between her or his work. He just didn't know what he would do if she did.
Rebecca brought him out of his thoughts again by taking his hand. "There's something I've been wanting to say, and I keep not getting to it. But I think I need to tell you."
"Okay—" Mo felt a wave of uneasiness come over him. She was telepathic, she'd been thinking down the same avenues.
"There's something you did that drives me crazy—no, Mo, in a good way—when I think about it. That night. The first thing you did when you got loose was to come to Rachel. To see if she was all right, to comfort her."
"Well, she—"
"That means a lot to me. I'm having a hard time telling you this—how much that means to me. I think it says a lot about who you are."
Mo felt the relief of a near miss, the balm of her praise. "And what's that?"
"Mm, a lot of things. Nice things." Rebecca turned toward him on the park bench, sun-dappled hair, blue eyes straight into his. Those long, good thighs, driving him crazy.
"So what're you going to do about it?" he asked.
"I'm working on that. Giving it a lot of thought." She squeezed his hand meaningfully.
Mo liked the way she said it. Funny and serious at the same time, full of promise.
She had folded the paper and set it on her lap. Mo was feeling pretty good, but suddenly the half of the headline he could see jumped out at him and gave him a jolt: KILLER . . . The subhead began NINE DEAD IN . . . and reflexively he reached and twitched the paper open.
He was relieved to see the rest: KILLER HEAT WAVE SWEEPS MIDWEST. NINE DEAD IN OHIO, INDIANA.
fust forces of nature,
he reassured himself quickly.
Not mankind's little
propensity. Not something to get all existential about. Get a grip.
Still, a smaller heading gave him an unpleasant buzz, NEW YORK AREA BRACES FOR MORE OF SAME.
Tell me about it,
he thought, suddenly feeling the jittery sweat on his body. Christ, it was scorching already.
When he looked over at Rebecca, she gave him a small, rueful grin that said she had observed his reaction and knew where it was coming from.
But for now, neither of them wanted to say any more about it. So they both just turned their faces to the sun. A moment in the sun.
This was nice. Whatever the future held, you had to grab a moment like this, give it its due. Priorities.
For helping me with this book, I owe sincerest gratitude to:
Major Tim McAuliffe (ret.), of the New York State Police, my friend and ally, a man who truly does know it all and gives most generously of his wisdom; Senior Investigator Nelson Howe, New York State Police Bureau of Criminal Investigation, who set me straight on many a detail; Joseph Becerra, NYSP BCI investigator extraordinaire who, for all that he gave generously of his time for this book and is a definitely cool guy, you wouldn't want after you (miscreants be warned); FBI media liaison James Margolin, of the FBI Manhattan field office, for generously giving of his time, expertise, and sense of humor.
You're the greatest, and the people of New York sleep better at night knowing you're on watch. May you forgive me for my inaccuracies, exaggerations, and rampaging literary license.
Thanks are also due to Vernon Geberth, homicide investigator and educator; to Dorothy Otnow Lewis, M.D., for elucidating the psychology of violence and daring to expose covert mind-control projects; to Betty Sue Hertz, my wise guide to Brooklyn; to Mudda whose name be not mentioned here, but who appears in this book and deserves much praise for her insight and generosity of spirit.
Special thanks to Geoff Williams, chief among Mo Ford's fans, for demanding his resurrection. And of course to Nicole Aragi.
Daniel Hecht was a professional guitarist for twenty years. In 1989, he retired from musical performance to take up writing, and he received his M.F.A. from the Iowa Writers' Workshop in 1992. He is the author of four other novels: the best-selling
Skull Session,
which features some of the same characters as
Puppets; The Babel Effect;
and two novels in the Cree Black series,
City of Masks
and
Land of Echoes.
Visit Daniel Hecht's Web site at danielhecht.com for more about his books.
The text of this book is set in Bembo. This type was first used in 1495 by the Venetian printer Aldus Manutius for Cardinal Bembo's
De Aetna,
and was cut for Manutius by Francesco Griffo. It was one of the types used by Claude Garamond (1480-1561) as a model for his Romain de L'Universite, and so it was the forerunner of what became standard European type for the following two centuries. Its modern form follows the original types and was designed for Monotype in 1929.