Drowning Instinct(60)
Author: Ilsa J. Bick

―How‘s she doing?‖

I turned, blinking away tears. A man, in gown and gloves and mask, had come up behind me, so quietly I hadn‘t heard.

―Who are you?‖ Then I saw his eyes above the mask. ―You were in the emergency room.‖

He nodded, stuck out his hand and said—

Can you guess, Bobby-o? Do you remember?

―We‘ve met before, though you were a lot younger and probably don‘t remember.

I‘m Robert Pendleton. I‘m a detective.‖ Your eyes crinkled above your mask. ―But, please, just call me Bob.‖

45: a

I don‘t remember if I shook your hand, Bobby-o. Chances are I did. Whatever else you may think of me, my mother brought me up right.

―Detective?‖ I asked. ―Why?‖

―How‘s she doing?‖

―They think she might die.‖ I started to cry. Saying it out loud felt like I was going to make it happen.

―Oh hey, hey, sweetheart, hey, I‘m sorry. Look . . . would you like a cup of coffee or something? Maybe a glass of water? Poor kid, you‘re all done in. I‘ll bet you haven‘t slept. Come on, let‘s go sit down in the waiting room…. It‘s just down the hall, okay? Come on.‖

I was alone. I couldn‘t call Mitch. Meryl was downstairs. My dad had disappeared.

So I let you put your arm around me and guide me out of my mom‘s room. We shucked our gowns and gloves and little booties, and I let you take me to the waiting room. You brought me bottled water. You even unscrewed the cap.

You were so nice, Bob. Like Mitch, in a way, that first day at school. You were kind when I really needed that.

Of course, I was a complete fool. Cops aren‘t nice for nothing.

I took a sip of water just to be polite. ―We‘ve met before, Detective—?‖

―Pendleton….Just Bob. I was in a different department then. I investigated the fire at your grandfather‘s house, when you were eight. I came to see you in the hospital. Do you remember that?‖

―I remember the hospital.‖

―So do I. Poor kid, you were burned pretty bad then, but you look great now. How are you doing?‖

What a stupid question. ―Why are you here?‖

―It‘s like I said.‖ You spread those big dinner-plate hands. ―I‘m investigating the fire at your mom‘s store. We always do, in cases where we suspect arson.‖

My ears perked up at that. ―Someone set the fire? Who?‖

―Well, Jenna.‖ You gave a rueful smile. ―God, I hate to say this, but we think . . .

we think it was your mom.‖

b

I just stared. Your mouth was smiling, but your eyes were hard and bright, like light winking off scalpels. I know now that you were gauging my reaction: Did I know about my mother? Had I suspected? Oh, I knew you believed what you were saying, Bob. There was no tentativeness in your eyes at all.

The thing is, you put into words what I‘d not allowed myself to think. As soon as they registered, I knew the truth. Despite all her talk, I‘d heard her desperation. My father was an ass**le. My mother felt she had nothing to lose, I guess. Having been suicidal a couple times myself, you might say I‘ve got natural empathy where that‘s concerned. I understand the impulse.

What I wasn‘t prepared for was the talon of pain that dug at my chest. My mother had decided there was nothing worth sticking around for. What had she said?

I miss my boy. I miss my baby.

Matt. Always Matt. There was Matt, and there was the bookstore. There was me, but I guess I wasn‘t enough. In her mind, she had no reason to keep on going. Not even for me.

Not even for me.

c

―I don‘t think I should talk to you anymore,‖ I said. ―I think I should find my father.‖

Your Officer Friendly smile remained, but your eyes stayed hard. ―You do what you need to do, sweetheart. But let me tell you one more thing before you go. The pattern of the fire at your mother‘s store, certain characteristics? They‘re really similar to what we found at your grandfather‘s.‖

When the heart sinks, people fall. My knees suddenly wobbled and I knew I was going to collapse the same way my mother had crumpled when my father finally pried her away from the door and let in those Marines. I plopped down hard into my chair, a puppet without strings.

―I‘m sorry, honey,‖ you said. ―This gives me no pleasure. Believe me. Your mom‘s on thin ice here.‖

I said nothing.

―Because the thing is, we found the remains of the same kind of bottle at both scenes. Stolichnaya, actually. At your grandfather‘s, the arson guys figured they‘d been broken in the fire. The fire started with the curtains and there was broken glass in the sink; your grandpa was a pretty heavy drinker. It made sense. Who would burn down an old guy‘s house, anyway?‖

I said nothing.

―But we thought … think your mom might be involved. We looked at her for your grandpa but, well, your brother was a witness. He swore up and down that your mom was with him all night, and the two of them went to pick you up from your grandpa‘s. You know what‘s really funny, though?‖ You cocked your head and looked puzzled. For a second, I thought you were going to pull out a little notebook and a stub of pencil, but you‘re not Columbo, Bobby-o, not by a long shot. ―I never quite understood why you were there but not your brother. Why have your grandpa babysit only one of you? That never made sense, but your brother was older and pretty convincing. But here we are again. You can see why this bothers me.‖

I said nothing.

You leaned forward and pressed your hands together. ―Let me tell you a story, honey. I‘ve kind of pieced this together, talking to various people, reading between the lines. I even looked at your mom‘s poetry. Do you know how hard her book is to find?

Finally tracked it down through the Library of Congress, of all things. You know, they have a copy of every book that‘s ever been published? So nothing ever really vanishes these days, not even if there‘s a fire. Anyway, you just listen, okay; see what you think.‖

I was quiet.

―See, I think there was this guy who was a drunk and one bitter, abusive ass**le.

After his wife died—after she hanged herself—he only had his youngest girl to keep him company. She was everything: cook, housekeeper, nurse, and . . . companion?‖ You said that very carefully, Bob, but that word was a bullet. That word was as loaded as a pistol.

I listened.

―Eventually, that girl got out of there. There were probably secrets because you never can outrun the past. I read somewhere that people are the accumulation of their experiences. Without your memories and secrets . . . you‘re nothing.‖