Here was the thing: The Asian guy was about to escape. He had hurt Freddy. He had hurt a cop; she was sure of it. By the time the cops responded, he would be gone. They wouldn’t find him. It would be too late.
And if he got away, then what?
He had seen her. She knew that. At the window. He had probably already figured out that she was the one who called the police. Freddy could be dead. So too the cop. Who was the only witness left?
Charlaine.
He would come back for her, wouldn’t he? And even if he didn’t, even he decided to let her be, well, at best, she would live in fear. She’d be jumpy in the night. She’d look for him in crowds during the days. Maybe he would simply want revenge. Maybe he would go after Mike or the kids. . . .
She could not let that happen. She had to stop him now.
How?
Wanting to prevent his escape was all fine and good, but let’s stay real here. What could she do? They didn’t own a gun. She couldn’t just run outside and jump on his back and try to claw his eyes. No, she had to be cleverer than that.
She had to follow him.
On the surface it sounded ridiculous, but add it up. If he got away, the result would be fear. Pure, unadulterated, probably unending terror until he was captured, which might be never. Charlaine had seen the man’s face. She had seen his eyes. She couldn’t live with that.
Following him—running a tail, as they say on TV—made sense, when you considered the alternatives. She would follow him in her car. She would keep her distance. She would have the cell phone. She would be able to tell the police where he was. The plan did not involve following him long, just until the police could take over. Right now, if she didn’t act, she knew what would happen: The police would arrive; the Asian man would be gone.
There was no alternative.
The more she thought about it, the less nutsy it sounded. She’d be in a moving car. She’d stay comfortably behind him. She’d be on her cell phone with a 911 operator.
Wasn’t that safer than letting him go?
She ran downstairs.
“Charlaine?”
It was Mike. He stood there, in the kitchen, standing over the sink eating peanut-butter crackers. She stopped for a second. His eyes probed her face in a way only he could, in a way only he ever had. She fell back to her days at Vanderbilt, when they first fell in love. The way he looked at her then, the way he looked at her now. He was skinnier back then and so handsome. But the look, the eyes, they were the same.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I need”—she stopped, caught her breath—“I need to go somewhere.”
His eyes. Probing. She remembered the first time she ever saw him, that sunny day at Centennial Park in Nashville. How far had they come? Mike still saw. He still saw her in a way that no one else ever had. For a moment Charlaine could not move. She thought that she might cry. Mike dropped the crackers into the sink and started toward her.
“I’ll drive,” Mike said.
chapter 18
Grace and the famous rocker known as Jimmy X were alone in the den-cum-playroom. Max’s Game Boy was lying on its back. The battery case had broken, so now the two double As were held in place by Scotch tape. The game cartridge, lying next to it as if it’d been spit out, was called Super Mario Five, which, according to Grace’s less than sophisticated eye, appeared to be exactly the same as Super Mario One through Four.
Cora had left them alone and returned to her role as cybersleuth. Jimmy had still not spoken. He sat with his forearms against his thighs, his head hanging, reminding Grace of the first time she’d seen him, in her hospital room not long after she regained consciousness.
He wanted her to talk first. She could see that. But she had nothing to say to him.
“I’m sorry to stop by so late,” he said.
“I thought you had a gig tonight.”
“Already over.”
“Early,” she said.
“The concerts usually end by nine. It’s how the promoters like it.”
“How did you know where I lived?”
Jimmy shrugged. “I guess I’ve always known.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He didn’t answer and she didn’t push it. For several seconds the room was dead silent.
“I’m not sure how to begin,” Jimmy said. Then, after a brief pause, he added, “You still limp.”
“Good opening,” she said.
He tried to smile.
“Yes, I limp.”
“From . . . ?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I got off easy.”
The shadow crossed his face. His head, the one he’d finally worked up the nerve to lift, dropped back down as if it had learned its lesson.
Jimmy still had the cheekbones. The famed blond locks were gone, from either genetics or a razor’s edge, she couldn’t tell which. He was older, of course. His youth was over and she wondered if that was true for her too.
“I lost everything that night,” he began. Then he stopped and shook his head. “That didn’t come out right. I’m not here for pity.”
She said nothing.
“Do you remember when I came to see you at the hospital?”
She nodded.
“I’d read every newspaper story. Every magazine story. I watched all the news reports. I can tell you about every kid that died that night. Every one of them. I know their faces. I close my eyes, I still see them.”
“Jimmy?”
He looked up again.
“You shouldn’t be telling me this. Those kids had families.”
“I know that.”
“I’m not the one to give you absolution.”
“You think that’s what I came here for?”
Grace did not reply.
“It’s just . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know why I came, okay? I saw you tonight. At the church. And I could see you knew who I was.” He tilted his head. “How did you find me anyway?”
“I didn’t.”
“The man you were with?”
“Carl Vespa.”
“Oh Christ.” He closed his eyes. “Father of Ryan.”
“Yes.”
“He brought you?”
“Yes.”
“What does he want?”
Grace thought about that. “I don’t think he knows.”
Now it was Jimmy’s turn to stay silent.
“He thinks he wants an apology.”
“Thinks?”
“What he really wants is his son back.”