Last shot

Chapter 17

Tyler's sturdy legs flexed as he tried to reverse his head out of the railing of the plastic slide. His face turned red, his ears poking forward like a monkey's. Tim heard the deep breath but couldn't get there quick enough to avert the wail. He guided Ty's head through the gap and held him, standing on the dew-wet grass and checking his son's soft skin for scratches.

"Come on, bub. Let's go draw."

He stepped back into the living room and set Tyler on the plastic sheet laid down between Magic Marker and carpet. Distracted by scribble potential, Ty finally stopped crying, trading tears for a fist grip on Blinding Yellow. He attacked a length of butcher paper with vigor.

"Kaiyer draw Daddy."

Evidently Tim was an anatomical freak, stick legs and bread-loaf feet topped by a head like a nineteen-inch Trinitron. He tried to help Tyler clutch the marker effectively but had trouble translating finger placement to his son's left-handed grip.

Muffin stuck in her mouth, Dray came around from the kitchen, bringing Tim a smoothie and a piece of peanut butter toast. She halved her muffin, offered Tyler a chunk he inverted on the mat beside him, and turned a quizzical gaze to Tim's manipulation of their son's tiny splayed fingers.

Tim said, "Can't we just force him to be right-handed?"

"Bind his left arm behind his back and call him a devil child? I've read that's bad for self-esteem these days." She took a bite of Tim's toast before handing it to him. "You got him his OJ?"

"Right over there." Tim checked his watch-a little past 7:00 A.M. Eager to start digging into Walker's background, he'd do better at the office than at home on just a few hours' sleep. His colleagues could be distracting as hell, but they didn't cry and spill things. Well, Bear spilled things, but at least he didn't cry.

Dray said, "I got Elliott. He said he'd be happy to. He's working a P.M., so I'll meet him at Palmdale Station, walk through the files with him to get the skinny on the sister's suicide, and bring copies by your office tonight." Before Tim could thank her, her attention shifted to the Typhoon. "Did he get up the steps and down the slide by himself?"

"I worry about that slide. It gets his head stuck."

"He gets his head stuck. And he'll learn how to get it unstuck. That's what playground equipment is for."

Tim followed Dray's sharp stare to Tyler, who was standing with his knees pressed together, cupping his crotch.

Tim hoisted him up by his armpits, swept him down the hall, and deposited him on the kiddy toilet. In solidarity Tim followed suit once Tyler was done, without the aid of the red plastic booster.

As Tim flushed, Ty applauded clumsily. "Good job, Daddy."

"Thanks, pal. I been at this awhile, so it actually no longer constitutes a big accomplishment."

As Tyler toddled back to his markers, Tim heard him sneeze a couple times. Holstering his. 357 as he came back into the living room, Tim asked, "You're gonna take him to the doctor today, right? Check out his cold?"

Dray toed the carpeted hearth. "You don't want to keep doing this to him."

At her tone he straightened. "Doing what?"

"The plastic railing and a doctor's trip after three sneezes. You'll make him a sick kid. You're teaching him that's how to live in the world."

Capitalizing on the distraction, Tyler had his shirt off and Ernie and Bert negotiating a fine domestic matter at too-loud volume.

"What's your biggest fear?" Tim asked.

"Having the hiccups indefinitely?"

"Dray."

"Going to jail for a crime I didn't commit? Speculums?" Eyebrows raised, she studied his irritated expression. "Okay, I give up."

"Mine is having something happen to him that we could have prevented."

"Okay." Dray took a few steps forward, arms folded so her firm biceps showed against her cutoff academy T-shirt. "I don't have a 'biggest' fear. I gave them up with best friends. But here's one of my bigger ones: raising a timid, shy boy who's terrified of adventure and risk and regards the world as a dangerous place. And right up there with that is the fear of being a parent who'd do that to him."

"The world is a dangerous place."

"Right. But that's not just a fact of life, it's one of the facts that gives life meaning and excitement. Even a kid can learn enough anxiety to lose sight of that."

Tim looked at Tyler, nakedly scribbling with a stunt helmet on. "I don't see that in him."

Dray's gaze shifted, then caught. Tyler was studying his feet intently, holding the uncapped yellow marker like a wand. "Ty, what are you doing?"

In response he leapt up and spun in circles.

"Okay," Tim said, "I'll work on it."

"Do more than that. Work on your head, sure. But act differently in the meantime. Now, finish your toast and go catch Walker Ja-" Dray stiffened.

A trail of tiny yellow footprints across the white carpet betrayed Tyler's escape route. The markers were kicked in all directions, food spilled across the sheet. Dray studied the scene, her jaw tensed. She drew a deep breath, closing her eyes and exhaling slowly as if to decelerate her temper. Finally she took a few steps over and studied the sticky TV. Orange juice had been splashed right into Elmo's hapless face.

"Field analysis would indicate the absence of a sippy cup," she said, "an open container being the only reasonable explanation for the spatter on the television screen."

Tim worked on keeping a straight face. "Sorry 'bout that."

"Crumb distribution suggests that the UNSUB ate his muffin imitating the Cookie Monster, not realizing that he actually has an esophagus, while said puppet does not." She assessed the stained fibers seriously. "The footprints, which are thankfully rendered in fluorescent yellow"-a brief pause as she pretended to regain her composure-"show the UNSUB headed west down the hall…"

Blinding Yellow proved surprisingly robust as they followed the splotches.

"Preliminary evidence points to UNSUB coloring his feet bottoms with Magic Marker. Permanent Magic Marker." Dray shoved their bedroom door the rest of the way open, revealing the Typhoon jumping on their mattress, giggling at the sight of them, a puddle of jaundiced comforter at his feet.

Tim waited for Tyler to draw a breath between screeches. "What was that you were saying about timid?"