Rosa’s dad had been diagnosed with prostate cancer, and she flew up to Chicago to see him. The cancer wasn’t advanced, but his PSA count was way up. On the phone he was lighthearted, said there wasn’t anything to worry about. If you live long enough, you get it. He told her a joke: “A man goes to see his doctor for his test results and the doc says, ‘I’ve got some bad news. You’ve got cancer and dementia.’ The man says, ‘Whew, I really dodged a bullet. I sure thought I had cancer.’ ” Her dad laughed. On the phone, she could hear him take a drag off a cigarette, exhale. He’d quit five years before, with the help of some drug that made you lose your sense of taste, appetite. His good spirits somehow made her feel orphaned already.
He mentioned on the phone that they were going to do some kind of targeted radiation. He wanted her there, she suspected, though he wouldn’t say it. She’d intended to fly to Chicago three weeks ago, but had gotten sidetracked by her fifth anniversary story on the murders. Interviews. The video. Detective Robeson. Hollis Finger. A recent lead on the young man in the overcoat. The caller. And then right before she left, there had been a break in the case, a person of interest identified. She’d heard it from her sources in the department.
At Midway Airport, standing near the luggage carousel, her father seemed more gaunt and stooped than she remembered. He was giddy while they waited for her luggage, touching her back and shoulders from time to time as if making sure she was really there.
“You get lovelier with age.”
“In the genes,” she said, and smiled.
“Got that right,” he said. “There’s some who hold my good looks against me.”
“It’s lonely at the top,” she said.
“I saw your mother recently. At a Tribune retirement party.”
“Did she bring her beau? What’s his name? Phillip?”
“Oh, yes, he was there. Phillip. Did you see that photo on his book jacket? He looks like a serial killer.”
“She seems happy out in Phoenix. He treats her well.”
Her dad was silent for a second. “Your car runs out of gas out in the desert and he’s the one who pulls to the shoulder for you in the unmarked van. And believe me, all his teeth are perfect.”
42
WHEN HE HEARD the shots from inside the ice cream shop, Michael’s first thought was to run away. He’d stay at a friend’s apartment for a few days, then make his way to San Antonio or Houston by bus. He thought of waving down one of the passing cars along Barton Springs Road, telling the drivers that something had gone wrong inside. Something terrible. As he walked around the side of the building toward the road, he saw, behind the drive-through window blinds, a bright, flickering light. The smell of smoke was already in the air.
He didn’t do either of the things he’d thought of. The younger and older man came out the back delivery door before he could, he told himself. They were moving quickly but assuredly to the car and motioned him on. In one hand, the older man was carrying a black bag that said CHAMPION SPORTS and in the other, a light tripod. He was breathing heavily. The younger man had his long coat draped over his shoulder like someone from a magazine ad or TV commercial. He could be anyone or no one at all.
Michael had trouble looking at their faces, knowing that they could read his thoughts. They had an agreement that was inviolable. What good are men without their word?
He fingered the conch in his jacket pocket.
Before he got in the driver’s seat, he asked the younger man what happened, why it had taken so long. He said he was worried they’d forgotten about him. The younger man gave him a disappointed look. “I would never forget you,” he said. “I’ve carved you on the palm of my hand.” Then the younger man plucked a leaf off Michael’s jacket, brushed something off his shoulder. And that was when Michael saw, on the younger man’s cuff, spatters of blood.
Michael got a call on his cell phone from a number he didn’t recognize. He thought of the reporter, the terrifying curiosity in her voice when he’d called her.
“Michael? This is Elise.” At first he drew a blank and then the name arranged itself into an image of a tall girl with dark eyes. A graduation gown, hat.
“Your mom asked me to call,” she said.
“Oh, that’s great,” he said.
“She’s with my dad at the hospital. He’s got a—whadayacallit—heart arrhythmia. They’re running some tests.”
“Who is it, Daddy?” Alice said sleepily from the backseat. “Is it Momma?”
“Is he okay?” Michael asked.
“They think so. They think he’s going to be okay.” Her voice wavered a bit. “I’m sorry to hit you with this.”
He felt the heaviness from the long drive, wondered why they were even here.