The Dead Man

Chapter Forty-five

Death imposes a rough justice, balancing peace and the end of suffering against the loss of all we cherish. I don't recommend it and I'm not in a hurry for it but there are things worse for us than our own death. Or so it seems when we lose a child, begging God to take us, not them, or when we suffer a blow that, in the moment, feels as incomprehensible and fatal.

Kate's son, Brian, was alive and well and would, if the actuarial tables were kind, live his full life expectancy, growing up, going to college, and getting a job. Like many, he will get married, have children, and he and his family will prosper or not as fortune dictates. Kate, like any other parent, will live to see some but not all of that, exulting in the highs and commiserating in the lows. Yet no matter what lay ahead, her anguished cries made one thing certain. This moment of unanticipated rejection, abandonment, and betrayal would always be one of irreducible pain.

The deaths of my children had taught me that comfort from others was both necessary and inadequate, that while we need someone to lean on, we have to remember how to stand. So I stayed at Kate's side until she gripped the arms of her chair and raised herself to her feet. I cupped her elbow as she cleared her head and found her balance and I held her tight when she turned into me, burying her face against my neck. I didn't make any false promises that everything would be all right because I knew too well that some things couldn't be fixed, but I told her the one thing that I believed with absolute certainty.

"You will get through this."

She stepped back, framing my face with her hands. "I know that. I don't have any other choice."

A year ago, Kate had moved from her downtown loft to Fairway, a Kansas side suburb much like Brookside. She found a house around the block from Alan's so that Brian's shuffling from one parent to the other would be less of a hassle.

We stopped at the Hen House grocery on Johnson Drive, and picked up simple things even I could make for dinner-salad from the salad bar, rotisserie chicken, potatoes, and asparagus-while she went to see Brian. He had stayed with a friend during her parents' office all-nighter. She had called him on his cell phone, finding him at his father's.

The table was set, the salad tossed, the chicken warmed up, the potatoes baked, and the asparagus grilled when she returned, her face washed out, the light gone from her eyes. I ate while she picked at her food, sipping wine.

"Turns out they were planning this for a while," she said.

"It's a hard thing to do on the fly."

"I can't believe Alan would turn my own son against me."

"You don't know that's what happened."

She slammed her hand onto the table, rattling her wineglass. "And you don't know the first thing about it!"

I kept my voice level and low, making certain she could hear me if she was listening. "You're right. I'm just saying that it's hard to sort anything out right now. This is January. School isn't out until the end of May. You've got time to work it through."

She pushed her plate away. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that."

"That's okay. You were blindsided and I've got broad shoulders."

"I know. They're very nice shoulders."

We did the dishes and sat on the couch in her den, finishing the bottle of wine and talking about Alan, Brian, her father, and her firm; no mention of a serial killer. We took a shower. I washed her back and then we rubbed lotion on each other's back after we were dry. We fell into bed and she settled next to me as I shook, her arm draped over my chest until the day's last tremors retreated.

"Thanks," she said. "For staying with me."

A verse from a song I used to sing to my kids when they were little popped into my head. I sang it softly. "It's my job and like it fine. No one has a better job than mine."

She chuckled. "I remember that song. It was one of Brian's favorites when he was little."

"My kids too. I don't remember the rest of it."

I was on my back. She was on her side. We held hands.

"I miss him already," she whispered.

"San Diego is a big place. Has to be more than one neuromarketing firm out there. You can go with him."

"I know," she said, squeezing my hand.

We drifted to sleep. An hour later, she woke me, kissing me and sliding on top of me, our lovemaking as much about our needs as our desires.

We rose early, drinking coffee while scanning the morning newspaper.

"Oh, my God," she said, looking at the photograph of the institute on the front page beneath the headline about Anne Kendall's murder and Leonard Nagel's death. "I've been so caught up in my own world, I didn't ask you about what happened."

I told her about my day at the office. She peppered me with questions about Anne's boyfriend, Michael Lacey, how did he look, what did he say, what facial expressions did I notice, running me through the same gauntlet about Leonard.

"Leonard always had this goofy smile plastered on his face. He was jumpy all morning," I said. "But he had good reasons even if he didn't kill Anne. I don't have a take on the boyfriend. Anthony Corliss is another puzzle."

I described my conversations with him, letting the evidence of his links to Tom Delaney and Walter Enoch speak for itself, the recitation fueling my own suspicion.

"Corliss walked to work yesterday?" Kate said, seizing on a detail I hadn't given any attention. "In this weather? Why would someone do that?"

"He said it was for the exercise."

"There are a lot better ways to get exercise. I would like to have been there for that conversation. People who are hiding something often have to build an elaborate scaffolding of lies to support it. The lesser lies, like why he walked to work in the dead of winter, can be easier to detect because the person telling them is more intent on protecting the bigger secret."

She was right. It didn't make sense. Corliss was a Pillsbury Doughboy, not close to being in shape. He was more likely to get in his licks on a treadmill while watching the Food Channel if at all. There was a better reason for him to have left his car at home. It might contain incriminating evidence, like Anne Kendall's blood. In which case, he'd either get rid of the car or soak it in bleach and hope for the best.

"The institute is closed today. I'll see if I can get a look at his car tomorrow."

She paused, her internal wheels spinning. "Speaking of the institute, what are you going to do about your boss?"

"Milo Harper? What do you mean?"

She set her coffee mug on the table. "He ruined DMC, just like he said he would, and you're still working for him."

When she first told me how Milo had threatened her if she didn't come to work for him, I passed it off as overblown rhetoric. I couldn't do that now, at least not without digging into it.

"I'm too deep into this thing to quit even if Harper did what you think he did. When the dust settles, I'll check it out. If the books need to be balanced, I'll find a way to do it. In the meantime, you might as well get as deep into his pocket as you can. How about I pay your staff a bonus for a job well done? Say, an extra two-weeks' pay on top of the severance they're going to get."

She leaned across the table and kissed me. "That's a good start."