Kill All the Lawyers

Thirty-Four

Several hours after the words "marriage" and "kids" tumbled from his mouth like skydivers leaping from a plane, Steve Solomon took stock of his life.

I'm a happy man.

Strike that, Madam Court Reporter. "Happy" doesn't quite say it. I'm a living beer commercial. I'm playing volleyball on the beach with the woman I love.

He had shared his feelings with Victoria and it hadn't hurt. They loved each other and had recommitted. They were about to take the giant step of buying a place and moving in together. Steve, Victoria, and Bobby. A ready-made family.

Bobby seemed happier at dinner, too. Steve made him laugh, and the kid worked up his first anagram in a week. Who knew that "President George Bush" could be rearranged to spell "The person is buggered"?

Now Victoria lay alongside Steve in bed. They had eaten their steaks and polished off an entire pie. They had talked some more in the bedroom, had made love, talked some more, made love again, and talked even more.

Steve was just drifting off to sleep, thinking he wouldn't trade places with anyone else in the world, when he heard the thump. There was a steady breeze, and sometimes a giant palm frond would break loose from the tree and sideswipe the house on the way to the ground. But that sound was different. He felt too tired and content to get up, but he did, anyway.

The house was dark, and he was naked. He reached under the bed, grabbed an aluminum softball bat, and padded out of the bedroom. In the kitchen, he peered through the sliding glass door. The backyard was an ominous greenish black, the foliage backlit by a neighbor's powerful anticrime spotlights. Something seemed different, but what was it?

It only took a second. The grill cover was on the ground. A metal lid, it should have been leaning against the house, where he'd left it. But it had been moved, maybe two feet, as if someone walking along the house in the dark had stumbled over it.

Steve unlocked the glass door, slid it open, and slipped outside, gripping the bat in his right hand. It was light and whippy. He could crush someone's skull with it, no problem.

He smelled something burning. What the hell?

Cigarette smoke.

Then a woman's voice, out of the darkness. "You've gotten bigger since you were nine."

Heart racing, Steve wheeled around, ready to swing the bat.

"Over here, Stevie."

He wheeled the other way and saw the glow of the cigarette and a heavyset figure reclining on the chaise lounge.

"Jesus, Janice! What are you doing here?"

"Here. Take this." She sat up in the chaise and tossed a towel at him. "You remember how Mom always made me give you a bath when you were little? You hated it."

Steve wrapped the towel-wet and cold-around his waist. "You stoned, Janice? What the hell's going on?"

"Clean and sober. I came to see Bobby."

"In the middle of the night?"

"It's the only time we can talk without you hovering over us like a wicked stepmother. Or stepuncle, or whatever the hell you are."

"I'm his caregiver. I'm his father and his mother, and I'd rather see him raised by wolves than by you."

"You're so great at it, where the hell is he?"

"In bed. Sleeping."

"Yeah, well, I just rapped on his window for ten minutes and he ain't there."

Steve's first thought was that Bobby was sleeping so soundly, he didn't hear Janice at the window. But no, the kid was a nervous sleeper. A car door slamming down the block, a police siren on Douglas Road, a teakettle whistling. . everything woke him up.

A second later, Steve raced into the house and down the corridor. He threw open the door to Bobby's room and flicked on the lights. The bed was messed. And empty.

"Bobby!" Steve yelled. "Bobby! Where are you? Bobby!"