The Nomination (22 page)

“YOU OKAY, DADDY?” Said Katie.

He glanced at her and smiled. “Just daydreaming, I guess.”

They were on Route 84 in the southern part of Connecticut. They'd been on the road a little over two hours. More than halfway there. Katie had tuned the car radio to an NPR station when they left Concord, and when it began to fade, she'd surfed the dial until she found another NPR signal, and she'd kept doing that, looking for the serious talk or the classical music, skipping past the fast-talk stations and the classic rock stations and the easy-listening stations and the hip-hop and rap and other contemporary music stations.

Mac Cassidy figured she was doing that out of consideration for his tastes, although he wouldn't have minded listening to some classic rock.

It was disturbing. Teenage girls were supposed to be selfish about car music. They were supposed to get sulky if they couldn't listen to their own stations. Or else they brought their own iPods with them—Katie had one—that they played so loud into their earphones that other people could hear the noise leaking out.

That's what Katie used to do, back when she rode in the backseat with her two parents up front.

Now she had found some classical music from a station out of Danbury. Cassidy didn't recognize it, but it was melodic and he liked it.

“So what're you daydreaming about?” said Katie.

He glanced at her beside him in the front seat. She was looking out the window, acting almost too casual. He tried to read her body language. He wondered if she could read his mind. He wondered if she wanted him to initiate a conversation about Jane. He wondered if she wanted to talk about guilt and responsibility, about grieving and healing, about moving on.

She gave him a quick, perfunctory smile, and he decided that she was just making conversation, so he said, “Oh, nothing. Sorry. My mind was wandering, that's all.”

Then she turned and looked hard at him for just an instant, and he thought he saw in her eyes that she knew.
You were thinking about Mom
, he could practically hear her say.
You were blaming yourself
.

He found his response actually forming in his mouth. The words were right there. He could feel them on his tongue. All he had to do was say them.
It wasn't your fault, honey. It was just an accident. Please don't blame yourself. If you'll stop blaming yourself, I won't blame myself anymore. Deal?

But he couldn't make himself speak those words. Instead, he smiled at her and said, “We've got to stop for gas pretty soon. Keep an eye out for a place. We can get something to drink.”

A LITTLE AFTER ten-thirty, a tall blonde woman pushed a wheelchair out onto the wooden deck on the back of the house. Through his binoculars, Eddie Moran could see that the blonde was somewhere in her thirties, quite good-looking in a slender, muscular way. She was wearing shorts and a tank top. Nice tan. Good skin. Strong arms and legs. If he hadn't been working, Moran supposed he wouldn't be able to prevent himself from thinking about her sexually, imagining her shucking off her shorts and wrapping those long tanned legs around his hips, him cradling her hard round ass in his hands . . .

But now he
was
working, so he banished those thoughts as quickly as they came into his head. He'd learned a long time ago that sex and work didn't mix, unless the sex was part of the work the way it had been with Bunny.

Maybe the time would come for him and the blonde, but not today.

He shifted his binoculars to the figure in the wheelchair. It was Li An—she might be called Simone now, but she was still Li An to Eddie Moran—and she was apparently an invalid.

He studied her face. It was amazing. She looked just the same. He supposed her body had gone to hell—why else would she be in a wheelchair with a blanket spread over her legs?—but her face . . . she still looked about fourteen, the way she looked back then. That same smooth bronze color, those amazing cheekbones, those big almond-shaped dark eyes, skin like silk, no wrinkles, not even around her mouth or eyes, even after all these years.

The blonde went back inside. Li An had a book opened on her lap, but after about ten minutes, her chin slumped onto her chest, and Moran figured she'd gone to sleep.

Around noon the blonde came back out with a tray. It held a teapot and a couple of silver pitchers and two teacups. She put the tray on a table, then leaned close to Li An and spoke to her.

Li An lifted her head. Moran saw her smile, and then the blonde cradled Li An's face in both of her hands and kissed her on the mouth.

Moran found himself smiling. So that's how it was.

He watched the two women sit there sipping their tea and holding hands. After a while the blonde went inside, and Li An started reading her book again.

Moran had been taking notes in his notebook, keeping track of the time everything happened. He didn't know how or if any of it would be useful. It was his habit, and he knew it was a good habit. Keep track of everything. Plan carefully. Be more alert than the enemy. Anticipate the worst.

Do all that and you might survive for one more night.

A GREEN SEDAN—a Toyota Camry, several years old—pulled up beside the old Wagoneer at ten minutes before two, according to Eddie Moran's watch. He noted the time in his notebook.

A tall bearded guy and a girl, looked like a teenager, got out. A minute later the blonde came out of the house. She shook hands with both the man and the girl, and from where he was hiding in the clump of hemlocks, Moran could hear their voices, although he couldn't make out their words. It sounded as if they all knew each other and were happy to see each other.

They went into the front door, and a minute later they emerged onto the deck behind the house. The bearded guy sat beside Li An and gripped her hand in both of his for a minute. The girl went and stood in front of Li An's wheelchair, and Moran could see her bend a little and speak to her.

Then the guy said something to the girl, and she went into the house.

Moran picked up his camera, zoomed in on the guy with the beard, and snapped a few shots. Then he turned the camera onto the green Camry. The way it was parked he could see the rear license plate, although it was at an angle. He couldn't read the plate, but he knew he could manipulate the digital image on his computer and get the numbers, so he snapped a couple of shots.

A little while later the blonde and the girl came out with trays piled with sandwiches and drinks.

They all sat there on the deck and ate.

Eddie Moran snapped a few more photos. Then he found an apple and a Hershey bar in his backpack, and he ate, too, and washed it down with a swig from one of his water bottles.

TRYING TO BE entertaining and upbeat exhausted Simone, and by the time the four of them had finished eating their lunch out there on her sunny deck, she was spent. Having Mac and Katie for company, however, and thinking about their book energized her, too.

Katie helped Jill pile the lunch dishes and glasses onto the tray and the two of them went inside. Jill was going to take the girl with her on her afternoon errands, leaving Simone and Mac alone for an hour or so to give them a chance to talk about their book.

Katie was an adorable girl. Smart and poised and innocent, devoted to her father. Also profoundly sad, deeply troubled. Simone guessed Katie was a little older than Simone had been when she had given birth to May.

Simone heard Jill's car start up and drive away. Mac was sitting beside her. They were both gazing off toward the distant hills. Simone's eyelids were growing heavy.

“It's very peaceful here,” Mac said.

Simone blinked her eyes open. “I'm lucky to have found it,” she said. “I will live out the rest of my life here.”

“How have you been feeling?”

She hesitated. “I think we should try to finish our book very soon.” Then she told him about Jessie Church, without revealing the details of her birth. He would learn about that in the tapes. She needed him to understand now, as they sat together, that she had a daughter out there somewhere with whom she felt an urgent need to share her story, to reconnect with before it was too late.

Mac looked at her for a moment, then nodded.

“I have made eight tapes for you,” she said. “I know you want to take them home with you. I tried to include everything, but I'm sure when you hear them you will have questions. Next time you come to see me, you can ask them. It was very painful for me, but I did it. The next parts will not be so difficult.”

“I look forward to hearing them.” He hesitated. “I've been reading about your disease.”

“You want to write about it, do you?”

“It's part of your story. Maybe it will give inspiration to others who have it.”

“I doubt if I will inspire anybody,” she said. “I don't want sympathy. Many people who have my disease are no doubt more courageous and . . . and more tragic than I am. But I have no secrets from you, Mac Cassidy. You may ask your questions.”

THE BLONDE AND the teenager drove away in the old Jeep Wagoneer at 3:12. While they were gone, Simone and the tall guy sat on the deck and talked. Eddie Moran watched them through his binoculars. He wondered what they were talking about. It looked quite intense.

The Wagoneer returned at 4:27, and the blonde and the kid got out. Each carried a paper bag into the house.

One hour and fifteen minutes, exactly. Moran thought about the distance from this house to the nearest . . . anything. Mini-mart in one direction, and the center of the little town in the other direction where, besides the fishing shops and restaurants, there was a market, a post office, a hardware store, a library. Nothing was closer than twenty minutes away. He figured anytime the blonde left, she'd be gone for at least an hour.