At that, Whitaker said, “But if you want to sit this one out, no one would point any fingers.”
Lucas swiveled his head back out to the ocean and took off his sunglasses, taking in the HD image of the Atlantic. A couple of fishermen were walking the surf, life vests festooned with stainless steel tools, rods overhead. They were looking at the helicopter and the house, no doubt wondering if Snoop Dogg had come to the beach to smoke a little jazz cabbage and snack on Pop-Tarts. The world behind them looked like an old master come to life, heavy on the grays and blues, perfectly preserved with no cracks in the over-varnish. For an instant he wondered if the view held any less magic than when he had his old ocular setup.
Kehoe stood up and crossed into his field of vision. He looked like he was lifted out of a Life magazine photo shoot at the Kennedy compound, circa 1962; he had that well-heeled vibe that a lot of the people up here wore on their sleeves, earned the old-fashioned way—through an industrious ancestor. Kehoe was the black sheep of his family; he had turned his back on an agricultural empire in order to bring law to the lawless. “I just want you to do a walk-through and get a feel for what happened. Look at it as an exercise in basic physics and chemistry. That’s all—basic physics and chemistry. Then look at the data. At the victim list. See if there’s a there there. One day. Maybe two. Then you’re back here getting sand in your socks.”
Lucas looked up without moving his head and zeroed in on Kehoe with what he knew was his spooky stare, the one where his eyes didn’t align. He thought about the photo of the scorched partygoer. And about the other 701 victims. More than most, he knew what an explosion could do. And the ripple effect it had.
“And of course Whitaker here is your chaperone.” He paused and glanced at his watch. “So, are you in or did I catch you in one of your cranky moods?”
“Who did you put in charge of the investigation?”
“An agent by the name of Samir Chawla. He’s from the Los Angeles office, transferred in four years back.”
Lucas turned to Whitaker and was about to ask if this Chawla guy was smart, but she was already ahead of the question. “Very,” she said.
Lucas tried not to smile but it was difficult—he had forgotten about that little magic trick of hers, the way she preemptively answered his questions as if she had a Bluetooth connection to his brain. He looked back up at Kehoe. “Brett, you know I don’t play well with others. There is no I in team. I’m not being facetious, but I know my own weaknesses.”
“I don’t want you for teamwork.”
“Then what is it—precisely—that you do want from me?”
In an uncharacteristic display of camaraderie, Kehoe said, “Just do do that voodoo that you do so well.”
6
Lucas had to concentrate not to let his focus shift from Erin to the helicopter down on the beach. He was going—he knew it; she knew it. They just hadn’t figured out how to put it into words without yelling. So they stared at each other for a few moments, Erin doing a bad job of hiding her disappointment, he doing a good job of not looking at the chopper.
Not that it was any secret he would be going back every now and then. But Erin was an optimist, and for her, every now and then meant at some undefined point in the future—far off and likely never to arrive. Lucas could no longer play the reluctant antihero; he was back because he needed to do this. He and Erin had discussed it ad nauseam, and they had reached one of those untenable middle grounds where one person got everything they wanted while the other pretended to be happy for them.
Lucas led with the good news. “Two days and then I’m coming home.”
“And the schmuck?” Erin asked, jabbing a thumb over her shoulder toward one of the FBI men parked at the corner of the patio, his form exaggerated by the thick bulletproof vest.
“The schmuck will be here until I get back, which will be by tomorrow night. Maybe sooner. I can take the train.” He knew he’d get one of Kehoe’s men to bring him back, but the train sounded like routine, like it was part of the way things always were in Optimist Town.
“Which means that you’ll be free for Friday so we can register Maude at LaGuardia?”
“I should be. Yes.”
She eyed him skeptically but remained silent, and he could see that she was struggling not to say anything that would hurt him.
He walked over and pulled her in. They held each other for a moment, and for an instant their world didn’t include FBI men on the patio and a helicopter down on the beach.
Laurie came into the kitchen, holding Alisha’s hand. At seven, Laurie had been their resident youngest until Alisha showed up. They worried that there might be a little tension over that, but Laurie happily switched into big-sister gear. And now, going on the better part of a year, the two girls were inseparable. They were also the quietest of the kids, and would often show up silently when Lucas and Erin were trying to work something out. Like now.
“Are you going away?” Laurie asked.
“Just for a little while.”
Laurie looked over to Erin to see if he was telling the truth, which almost broke Lucas’s heart. He squatted down—putting all of his weight on his good leg, and steadying himself on the island with his hand—and the two little girls came over. “I have some work in the city.”
Laurie reached out and touched his face in a gentle little sign of affection that she had never used before. “Stopping the bad people?” she asked. It was poignant how a seven-year-old could convert the complex to the simple without missing any of the meaning.
Lucas and Erin tried to talk to the kids about what had happened last year. The conversation had morphed into a discussion about Lucas and his work for the FBI. It had been relatively easy with Maude, Hector, and Stevie—or at least they had understood the general idea. But explaining what had happened proved more problematic with Laurie and Alisha. In the end it came down to good people and bad people and which side they were on.
None of the kids—not even Alisha, who was still struggling with the fundamentals of language—had forgotten what had happened last Christmas. The whole family had their heads candled after that one. All of them except Lucas, who had a pretty defined perception of events that he had worked out in his singularly pragmatic way. Lucas and Erin saw the on-again/off-again struggle with what had happened in all the children as they tried to work it out. Except for Maude; she insisted that she was fine—and she most certainly looked and acted as if she were. She had voluntarily endured a single therapy session. In that one hour her therapist came to the conclusion that the girl was already very good at dealing with trauma and would need a return visit only if she felt it necessary. Score one for the good guys.
That the kids had bounced back demonstrated that they were somehow coalescing into a functioning family. Lucas often wondered how he was doing as a father—a line of questioning that would be completely inconceivable in every other aspect of his life. That he occasionally got it right had to mean something.
Alisha kissed him on his ear, a loud sucking sound that depressurized his sinuses, and hollered, “Can we come, too?” straight into his head.
He kissed her back, and her face rolled into a smile. “Sorry, sweetheart, Daddy can’t bring you guys to work.”