The Last Witness

Chapter Thirty-eight

Mason always found April a soothing month. Its cool breezes and sun-painted skies made promises the rest of the year could never keep. Though the life cycle continued unaltered, April convinced his soul that life had an edge over death.

Mason thought about that perpetual scorecard as he stood at the foot of Amy White's grave, the sun warming his neck without penetrating to the chilled memories he carried of the past winter.

Patrick Ortiz had ruled that Amy White's death was accidental. It had been his first official act after Leonard Campbell had resigned and he was appointed to serve out Campbell 's term as prosecuting attorney. Campbell had gone on the offensive, quitting and denying any wrongdoing before he was indicted.

"What happens to Cheryl White?" Mason had asked Ortiz.

"She's a ward of the state for now, but Howard Trimble has started adoption proceedings. What about you? I hear that Campbell tried to hire you."

Mason had laughed. "I took a pass. He and the mayor have been leaving me messages every day. I hear that Donovan Jenkins made a deal for immunity with the U.S. attorney that will put the mayor away."

"So why not defend one of them?"

"I'm too close to what happened. I'll probably be a witness."

Mason hadn't told Ortiz that he was waiting for his own visit from the Feds. Galaxy Gaming Company had bought the Dream Casino and renamed it the Shooting Star. Mason figured it was just a matter of time before some Galaxy employee found the tape recording he was certain Fiora had made of Mason conspiring to gain Blues's release. He figured that Galaxy would either turn him in or book a favor. He couldn't decide which alternative he dreaded more-the visit from the Feds or the visit from Galaxy.

Beth Harrell had visited him first. He was studying notes he had written on his dry-erase board about his newest case. Mason had agreed to defend a professional wrestler who'd been indicted for involuntary manslaughter when he'd killed his archrival during a match.

"From the ridiculous to the sublime," Beth had said from the open doorway.

Mason had looked up and pointed to the board. "My case or your life?"

"Fair question, "Beth had said. "I suppose an explanation is in order."

"No. I'd say it's out of order," Mason had replied. "You don't owe me an explanation. You just need to quit blaming your weaknesses on your past and move on. You may be kinky or just fucked up. I don't know which and it doesn't matter."

Mason cringed inwardly at his coldness toward Beth, but shook it off with the realization that it was the only way he could break from her. She had a toxic allure that he couldn't risk.

"Meaning you don't care?"

"Meaning it doesn't matter. I can't help you either way."

Mason had picked up the wrestler's file and started reading. When he looked up a moment later, Beth had gone.

That had been a month ago when winter was just releasing its grip. Mason bent down and pulled a dandelion from the sod covering Amy's grave. When he stood up, he saw Harry Ryman walking toward him.

"Blues said I might find you here," Harry told him.

"Yeah," Mason said. "I just thought I'd stop by and pull the weeds. What's up?"

"The chief wants to know if I'm coming back to work." Harry had declined a commendation for solving the murders of Jack Cullan and Shirley Parker, and had been using up his accumulated vacation and sick leave. "There's a lot of outside pressure on him to bring me back, and a lot of inside pressure the other way."

"What are you going to do?"

"Carl was six months shy of a full pension. The department lets you buy out the time so you can retire, and still collect your full pension. I told the chief if he'd let me buy out Carl's time, I'd retire. What do you think?"

"I think we're both pulling weeds," Mason told him. "Maybe that's the best we can do."

Harry looked out over the acres of grave sites. "I suppose so," he said.

"Listen, I'm on my way to a rugby game. You should come along. I promised Rachel I'd take her to a game. You can keep her company while I get beat up."

"Sounds great," Harry said. "I'll pick up Claire and meet you at the game."

Mason thought about Amy's father and his own father, whom he scarcely remembered, as Harry ambled away. Mason had pictures of his father, but little else. Jonathan Mason had been a tall, sturdily built man who his aunt Claire said had an easy laugh.

He couldn't remember the scrape of his father's unshaved cheek against his own. He couldn't summon his father's smell after he'd worked in the yard on a dusty, hot afternoon, nor after he'd slapped cologne on his neck on Saturday night. He couldn't remember the view from atop his father's shoulders. He had never caught a ball his father had thrown, nor measured his own strength against the man who'd given him life. Mason couldn't repeat the stories his father must have read to him. Nor could he conjure the fear he must have felt at his father's raised voice, or the comfort he surely had found in its softer tones. Mason examined his hands, searching without success for the memory of his father's touch.

There were times when Mason would have killed for memories of his father, though he knew the depth of his longing was metaphorical. Amy White's memories of her father had made the metaphor murderous.

Mason bent down to pull another young dandelion. Casting it aside, he placed a small rock on Amy's tombstone in the Jewish tradition of remembering the dead, certain that no one else would remember Amy White.