“Part of what?”
“Why you liked going after pedophiles. Alcoholics, well, they can quit. Pedophiles are simpler—there really is no chance for redemption and thus forgiveness.”
“Do me a favor, Mr. Grayson. Don’t psychoanalyze me. You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
He nodded. “Fair point.”
“So get to yours.”
“It’s pretty simple. If Dan Mercer isn’t stopped, he will hurt another child. That’s a fact. We both know it.”
“You should probably be telling this to the judge.”
“She can’t do me any good now.”
“And I can?”
“You’re a reporter. A good one.”
“A fired one.”
“More reason to do this.”
“Do what?”
Ed Grayson leaned forward. “Help me find him, Wendy.”
“So you can kill him?”
“He won’t stop.”
“So you said.”
“But?”
“But I don’t want to be part of your plans for revenge.”
“You think that’s what it’s about?”
Wendy shrugged.
“It’s not a question of vengeance,” Grayson said, his voice low. “Just the opposite, in fact.”
“I’m not following.”
“This decision is calculated. It’s practical. It’s about taking no chances. I want to make sure that Dan Mercer never hurts anyone ever again.”
“By killing him?”
“Do you know another way? This isn’t about bloodlust or violence either. We are all human beings, but if you do something like this—if your own genetics or pathetic life are so messed up that you need to harm a child—well, the most humane thing you can do is put a man down.”
“Must be nice to be judge and jury.”
Ed Grayson looked almost amused by that. “Did Judge Howard make the right call?”
“No.”
“So who better than us—the ones in the know?”
She thought about that. “Yesterday, after court. Why did you say I lied?”
“Because you did. You weren’t worried about Mercer killing himself. You went inside because you were afraid he might destroy the evidence.”
Silence.
Ed Grayson stood, crossed the kitchen, stopped at the sink. “Do you mind if I take some water?”
“Help yourself. The glasses are on the left.”
He took one down from the cabinet and turned on the faucet. “I have a friend,” Grayson began, watching the water fill the glass. “Nice guy, works as a lawyer, very successful. So a few years ago, he told me that he was a big supporter of the Iraq war. Gave me all the reasons and how the Iraqis deserve a chance at freedom. I said to him, ‘You have a son, right?’ He says, yes, he’s going to Wake Forest. I say, ‘Be honest, would you sacrifice his life for this war?’ I asked him to really dig deep. Pretend God comes down and says, ‘Okay, here’s the deal. The USA wins the war in Iraq, whatever that means, but in return, your son gets shot in the head and dies. Just him. No one else. Everyone else goes home safe, but your son dies.’ So I ask my friend: Do you make that trade?”
Ed Grayson turned and took a deep sip.
“What did he say?” she asked.
“What would you say, Wendy?”
“I’m not your lawyer friend who backed the war.”
“What a cop-out answer.” Grayson smiled. “In truth, in those honest moments in the dark, none of us would make that trade, would we? None of us would sacrifice our own child.”
“People send their children to war every day.”
“Sure, right, you might be willing to send them to war, but not to death. There’s a difference, albeit one that includes a strong dose of self-denial. You may be willing to roll the dice, to play the odds because you don’t really believe your child will be the one to die. That’s different. That’s not a choice, like I’m talking about.”
He looked at her.
“Are you waiting for applause?” she asked.
“You don’t agree?”
“Your hypothetical belittles sacrifice,” Wendy said. “And it’s nonsense.”
“Well, yes, perhaps it is unfair, I grant you that. But for us, Wendy, right now, there is an element of it that is very real. Dan isn’t going to hurt my child again, and your son is too old for him. Are you going to let it go because your child is safe? Does that give you or me the right to wash our hands of this—because it’s not our child?”
She said nothing.
Ed Grayson rose. “You can’t wish this away, Wendy.”
“I’m not big on vigilantism, Mr. Grayson.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Sounds like it.”
“Think about this then.” Grayson stared at her, made sure she was looking at him and giving him her full attention. “If you could go back in time and find Ariana Nasbro—”
“Stop,” she said.
“If you could go back to her first DUI or her second or even her third—”
“You need to shut the hell up right now.”
Ed Grayson nodded, satisfied, it seemed, that he’d drawn blood. “I think it’s time I left.” He moved out of the kitchen and toward the front door. “Think about it, okay? That’s all I ask. You and I are on the same side here, Wendy. I think you know that.”
ARIANA NASBRO.
After Grayson left, Wendy kept trying to forget that damn letter sitting in her waste bin.
She snapped on her iPod for a while, closed her eyes, tried to let the music calm her down. She put on her calm sound track, the one with Thriving Ivory singing “Angels on the Moon” and William Fitzsimmons doing “Please Forgive Me” and David Berkeley playing “High Heels and All.” It didn’t help, all these songs about forgiveness. She went the other route, changed into workout clothes, cranked up everything from childhood songs like “Shout” by Tears for Fears to The Hold Steady doing “First Night” to Eminem’s “Lose Yourself.”
It wasn’t working. Ed Grayson’s words kept chasing her. . . .
“If you could go back in time and find Ariana Nasbro . . .”
She would do it. No questions asked. Wendy would go back in time and hunt the bitch down and cut off her head and dance around Nasbro’s still-twitching torso.