Backfire

30

Judge Sherlock’s home

Mulberry Street, Pacific Heights

San Francisco

Sunday evening

Sean was lying boneless against Savich’s shoulder, Savich stroking his back. He’d fallen asleep between his grandparents in front of the TV watching Sunday Night Football.

He took Sean to the second guest room next to his and Sherlock’s bedroom, gently eased him down on his back on the twin bed, the crib long stored away in the basement. He pulled the dinosaur sheet and two blankets over him, since Sean liked to be warm when he slept. He kissed him, breathed in his kid smell, and straightened. He felt the light touch of Sherlock’s hand on his arm.

“He’s so beautiful, so perfect, and we made him,” she whispered. “Isn’t that amazing?”

Savich turned and hugged her. He said against her ear, “I was thinking that right now it’d be good to be as innocent as Sean.” He closed his eyes and pressed his face against her hair. “I can’t get Mickey O’Rourke’s face out of my mind, or that farm shack where he was beaten and murdered.” He hugged her more tightly. “Life is so fragile. You’re here, then you’re not, and it’s final, no going back, no changing anything at all.”

She held him, stroking her hands up and down his back and said against his cheek, “Dillon, I’ve been thinking about what Cheney said-that a woman wouldn’t have killed Mickey O’Rourke like that. I don’t see it, either. Not only was the killing savage, she would have had to carry O’Rourke back to the car, a good distance from the shack, and then she would have had to carry him an even longer distance to bury him. Remember, Ellie and Rufino said after he left O’Rourke’s grave, they heard the car start up from a good ways away? Sue is slightly built. Even with superior upper-body strength, I don’t see how she could have managed. O’Rourke was a big guy-taller than you. What does it mean?

Savich said, “It means our Sue isn’t a woman.”