The First Law

Epilogue
32

In late November, a high-pressure front settled in off the coast, and the last three days set records for the cold, with highs in the low forties. Newscasters were saying that with the wind chill it was equivalent to the mid-twenties.

Vincent Hardy was the first one up on the holiday morning. They'd used the living room fireplace the past few nights, and all he had to do was crumple up yesterday's Chronicle and blow on the embers to get a flame. By the time his father came downstairs at a little after eight, three oak logs crackled. Vincent sat Indian style on the floor four feet or so in front of the blaze, staring into it.

His father, barefoot, wore jeans and an old gray sweatshirt. He had his coffee in a mug and put it on the floor when he sat down.

"Good fire. Nice job."

"Thanks."

"Happy Thanksgiving."

Silence.

"The Beck sleeping?"

"I think so."

"On the floor in your room again?"

"Yeah." Then, "It's okay. I don't mind."

"No. I know. You're a good guy."

Hardy picked up his mug, stared at the flames. Vincent moved over a few inches. Hardy put an arm around him, drew him in for a minute.

"She's just afraid, you know. She keeps seeing that picture… ."

"How about you?" Hardy asked.

He felt his son's shoulders lift, then drop. "I don't think about it."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

With a sharp crack, the fire spit, flared, settled. Hardy stole a sideways glance at his boy. His hands were clasped. He appeared mesmerized by the fire.

" 'Cause if you do," Hardy finally said, "if you're worried about anything…"

Vincent shuddered, then shook himself away, was suddenly on his feet. "I just don't think about it! Okay?"

"Okay, Vin. Okay."

His son looked down at him, eyes threatening to tear. He started to walk away, out of the room.

Hardy stood, turning after him. "Hey, Vin! Wait. Don't go running away, please. It's okay. C'mere. It's all right." Vincent stopped and turned to him. "Come on back over here. Please. Give your old man a hug."

The boy sighed deeply, eventually came forward. He was soon going to be fourteen years old. His dad still had a foot of height on him. When he got close enough, Hardy reached out and put an arm around his shoulders, quickly kissed the top of his head. "It's okay," he said, one last time.

Then he let go of his son and walked out the door and over the frost on the lawn to get the morning paper.

Dinner was the classic turkey and stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce and brussels sprouts. Treya brought her famous marshmallow candied yams, green beans with almonds; Susan her spinach salad with mandarin oranges; Abe some macaroons for those who didn't like pumpkin pie. Even Nat chipped in with creamed onions, a surprise hit. They'd extended the table out with all its leaves so that it took up the whole dining room and half the living room and could accommodate fifteen people.

McGuire was there with Susan and the girls. The Glitsky contingent included not only Abe, Treya and the baby, but also Nat and the older kids home for Thanksgiving-Orel and Raney from their respective colleges, and even Abe's eldest, Isaac, made it up from Los Angeles where he'd gotten on-temporarily, he said-with a construction crew. The only missing Glitsky was Jacob the opera singer-he was touring, perennially, somewhere in Europe.

After dinner they'd closed the table back up. The older kids had pitched in on the hundred and fifty dishes while the adults had more coffee or, for some, drinks in the living room. Now almost everybody had gathered at the front of the house, and they were playing games.

Games, Hardy thought, were good. Talking-the stories and jokes the whole time they ate-that was good, too. Throwing the football around all afternoon out in the street-great idea. As was the communal cooking. The daily things, the simple things.

No reason to mention Wade Panos, or the fact that he was still very much alive, possibly even more of a threat than he'd been. Everyone was aware of that every waking minute, sometimes during sleep. Hardy, drenched in sweat and gasping for breath, had jolted himself awake more than once. Frannie and the kids cried out, between them, every night the first week, a couple of times since.

Although now, a couple of weeks into it, Hardy had privately begun to consider that maybe their show of force had made Panos, at least, cautious. At best, they'd scared him off. But Hardy wasn't going to say that out loud. Not yet.

After dinner, the games had started with several rounds of St. Peter/St. Paul, and now they had moved on to charades. Abe was trying to pantomime "Peter, Paul amp; Mary" and it wasn't going very well. Unless he was lucky, it would be a while before he was through.

Hardy took the opportunity to get up and walk back to the empty kitchen. The high-energy laughter from the game in the living room still rang through the house, and Hardy found he'd run out of tolerance for it. He opened the kitchen's back door, which led to his tool and workroom, and was surprised to find Moses there, sitting alone on the countertop, nursing a drink. "Hey," Hardy said, "you're missing a great show-Abe's trying to emote. It's something to see."

Moses raised his eyes. "You're missing it yourself, I notice."

Hardy closed the door behind him, took a hit from McGuire's glass, handed it back to him. "How you holding up?"

A shrug. "Good."

"You sound like my son. One syllable per sentence. 'Good.' 'Fine.' 'Great.' "

"Okay, maybe I'm not so good." He drank an inch of scotch. "I worry about it, and don't say, 'about what?' "

"I worry, too. Is Panos done? Are the cops going to put us there?"

McGuire nodded. "There you go."

"Okay, so the answers are one, maybe he isn't, and two, maybe they will. So what?"

"So I'm having some issues with it."

"Guilt?"

This seemed to bring McGuire up short. "No," he said, "no guilt."

"Me, neither. It had to be done."

"No question. But all this having to pretend nothing happened…"

"Who's pretending that?"

"Oh, nobody," McGuire said. "Just everybody at dinner here today. Every day at home."

"So what do you want?"

"I don't know. I wish it had never started, that's all."

"You mean you wish there wasn't evil in the world?"

McGuire drained his glass, brought his bloodshot eyes up to Hardy's. "Yeah, maybe that."

"Well, there is," Hardy said. He rested a hand on McGuire's shoulder. "I guess we're going to have to get used to it."