Angel Interrupted (38 page)

“ We haven’t told Rosemary D’Amato yet,” Morty explained. “But I’ve already called the father, and he’s on his way in from Scranton.”

“We think it’s best to wait until he gets here to tell her,” Peggy explained. “It’s going to overwhelm her.”

Maggie and I were thinking the exact same thing at the exact same time, both of us remembering the apologetic woman who had sat in the lobby of police headquarters, sipping tea, grateful for every small gesture of kindness shown her.

Her life had become such a single-minded quest for her missing son that she had no friends beyond the people in this room.

Her whole world had consisted of working and waiting and the occasional interaction with Morty or Peggy, her sole allies in her lonely vigil.

And now, both of them, knowing how much Rosemary D’Amato needed them, were willing to be there beside her, guiding her through the heart-wrenching journey that awaited her. They knew what she did not—that as much as she would think she had her son back, the man lying in that hospital bed would not be the little boy she had once loved. He would be a stranger, and a bitter and cruel one at that.

There was no way to escape it. With the life he had led over the past sixteen years, it was impossible to believe he’d remember her or still carry with him even a scrap of the love she had once shown him. When she realized this, it would be a blow as massive as when he’d first been taken from her. They would be there to help her get through it.

The basic decency of what they had done for Rosemary D’Amato over the years, and what they were prepared to do for her now, shamed me. Between them, they had put in over seventy years of service to the department, yet neither had ever been noticed much by others or given the respect they had been due. Peggy had been ridiculed for her awkward spinsterhood; Morty for choosing to walk a beat, even when his gait had slowed with age.

And yet, I realized, they had been the conscience of the department for all of those years. They had accepted the insignificance their position of conscience bestowed on them, and they had continued to do the right thing regardless.

“I want to prepare Bobby for this,” Maggie told Gonzales. “Please, sir. I’ve already talked to him. He didn’t want anyone to know his real name. He wouldn’t tell me.”

“So he knows it?” Gonzales asked her, skeptical.

“I’m not sure. But he knows he used to be someone else, and he’s ashamed of what’s been done to him over the years, and he’s terrified people will find out.”

“Or what he may have done to others,” Gonzales reminded her.

“Maybe.” Maggie was reluctant to admit it. “I can’t go that far, sir. I just know that we can’t simply send two people strolling into his room who say they’re his parents. Not without preparing him. Let me go to him and let me bring in the woman who hypnotized Robert Michael Martin. She’s a trained therapist. She was very kind. She has experience with abuse victims.”

Gonzales was not going to be the bad guy in this scenario. He had just emerged as the hero of the year, thanks to Tyler Matthews and Maggie, and he wasn’t about to come off as the heavy now. “Do what you think you need to do,” he decided. “Peggy and Morty are going to take care of preparing the family. Call the shrink and take care of the boy. But there’s a news blackout on this until further notice, understand?”

“Thank you, sir.” Maggie said.

Gonzales looked done with her. I think Maggie and I both thought she was going to get away with her renegade act, especially since both cases had ended so well. After all, the testimony of Bobby D’Amato, victim, would be more compelling to a jury weighing Serena Holman’s fate than the testimony of Cody Wells, arsonist and murderer.

But we were wrong about Gonzales. He glanced up at Peggy and Morty. “If I could have a moment with Gunn?” he asked pointedly.

The old veterans rose as one and left the room, Morty giving Maggie a fatherly pat on the shoulder as he went.

Maggie started to explain, but Gonzales cut her off at the start. “Stop, Maggie,” he said. “Neither one of us has the time. You get a pass on this one. You’re the only one in the history of the department who has ignored seven of my phone calls and lived to tell about it.” He smiled at her and she relaxed. A little.

“And I talked to legal,” he continued. “We’re in the clear on the arrest of the doctor. We’ll get her on the murder charges.” He waved his hand, making it plain that Serena Holman was not going to pull rank on him. He loved bringing high society killers down; he loved hearing them rant about it even more. He had survived the poorest, toughest neighborhood in the state growing up. This was his revenge.

“She’s going to be a pain in the ass, of course,” he warned Maggie. “But there was probable cause and the arrest was a good one. I would have preferred it if you had been up there with me on the podium for the Tyler Matthews press conference, however. I can’t let that happen again. That was your win, Maggie. You deserved to be up there.”

“I can’t do that stuff, sir. You know that. The guys would hate me if I became the department’s pet detective, trotted out for sound bites. Can you imagine what the press would start calling me? I have to work with these guys.”

Gonzales’s smile was genuine. “Point well taken. But you may end up not getting the credit you deserve if you continue to take that approach.”

“I don’t care about the credit,” Maggie explained—and she meant it. But Gonzales could not even grasp that concept. In the end, he let it go.

“Once again I find myself granting you a favor,” he said to her instead. “I feel like a fairy godmother. But you’ve earned one. Name your price.”

She was ready. But I was flabbergasted at what she wanted. “Sir,” she said. “I want you to give Calvano another chance.”

“Are you shitting me, Gunn?” he said, and I think it was the first time I had ever heard Gonzales use profanity. “That guy almost screwed up the case not once, not twice, but three times. He’s a disaster.”

“He’ll learn,” she promised. “I’ll teach him.”

“Please don’t tell me that the two of you . . .” Gonzales began.

“God, no,” Maggie interrupted. “It’s not that. It’s just that . . .” Her voice trailed off as she sought the words. “Sir, he wants it so badly. He really wants to be a detective, a good one. How many people in this building can you say that about? Let’s just give him one more chance. He’s learned his lesson. I’ll keep a close eye on him. Please, talk to Internal Affairs. See what you can do. I know it won’t be easy.”

“I can get them to do whatever I want,” he said, with no small satisfaction. “I just don’t know if it’s best for the department—or best for you.”

“He helped us,” she pointed out. “Do you want Bobby D’Amato to go to prison after all that’s happened to him? Getting shot in the back like that will make him more sympathetic to a jury. So, really, Adrian sort of did us a favor.”

Gonzales laughed. “Fine. I’ll make it happen. But, Gunn, really—do you realize what you just said? With logic like that, maybe you should have been a lawyer instead of a detective.”

Maggie had not slept for a day and a half, but her fatigue was gone by the time she showered and changed and returned to the hospital. She knew that the rest of Bobby D’Amato’s life depended on what happened now. Would he spend it harming himself and harming others, or would he find a way to reconcile what had happened to him and somehow keep living? She had seen the cycle too often in her career—hate and pain begetting more hate and pain. She wanted it to end here.

The therapist was waiting for Maggie outside Bobby D’Amato’s room. I remembered her from the hypnosis session, when she had sensed sorrows in Robert Michael Martin that the rest of us had overlooked. Miranda carried with her an air that was as safe and welcoming as a sanctuary. I stood close to her, letting her aura of tranquility wash over me. I hoped Bobby D’Amato would be able to feel it, too. I did not know how this woman found the ability to radiate such serenity when she spent so much of her time around other people’s pain, but she had a gift, and I was glad for it. Bobby D’Amato would need it.

“Ready?” Maggie asked her. They had already spoken by phone. Miranda was prepared. They entered the room together.

Bobby D’Amato was lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, trying hard to keep his mind blank, with no inkling that he had not been alone in the room—the now-familiar little boy apparition stood solemnly by his bed. He looked at no one but Bobby.

“Bobby?” Maggie asked softly as she approached him. “How are you feeling?”

“Is that my name? Bobby?”

“Yes,” Maggie told him. “Bobby D’Amato. Do you not remember?”

I could feel a slash of pain as deep as a knife wound surface in him. He’d known who he was; that was why he had visited his own grave the day I spotted him at the cemetery, hiding in the trees. He just couldn’t face who he had become. “I don’t like remembering,” he said.

But he was remembering.
Like a touchstone that would keep him safe, his mind was returning again and again to the moment in that small bathroom in the cedar-shingled house by the lake when Tyler Matthews had reached out and placed his chubby little hand on Bobby’s head, trying to steady himself. It had been such a small gesture, and yet it had a power I did not fully understand. Perhaps it was his proof, I thought, the one scrap of proof he had that he was not the soul-destroying monster that the man who had called himself Colonel Vitek had raised him to be.

I’ll admit it: I had no compassion for anyone when I was alive. I was too busy feeling sorry for myself. But compassion fascinates me now. It transforms ordinary people into avatars for what human beings can be at their best. When people are filled with compassion, it opens their senses to so much more than they might feel otherwise. It’s almost as if a conduit opens between two hearts and souls, giving a glimpse of what we would be if we could be bigger than ourselves. I saw the power of compassion before me now: although neither Maggie nor Miranda could possibly know what Bobby D’Amato was thinking, both seemed to know exactly what he needed to hear.

“Do you remember what I told you earlier this morning?” Maggie asked him gently. “That the boy was home safe with his mother? He’s safe.”

Bobby nodded, eyes tightly shut. A tidal wave of emotions was overwhelming his ability to hear or see or think. But beneath this flood of regret and pain and fear, far beneath the surface, I felt a tiny spark of hope.

I felt him thinking yet again of the little hand placed on his head, and his breathing grew more even. That was when I finally understood. That moment when he had made a choice, when he had decided to break away from the colonel at long last? It
was
his spark of hope. Reliving it was his mantra, his assurance that it had been real.

“I don’t want you to worry about anything but getting well right now,” Maggie said. “We’ll work it out. Can you put those worries aside?”

No. Of course he could not. But it helped him to hear it.

“Bobby?” the therapist said quietly. “My name is Miranda. Maggie has asked me to be here as your advocate. To make sure you feel safe and feel comfortable, because a lot is going to happen to you now. Your life is going to change.”

“Good.”
It was only one word, but he meant it.

Miranda took Bobby’s hand, and he did not pull away. I could feel her empathy washing over him like a gentle wave, easing his pain. “Did you know that for the last sixteen years, your parents have never stopped looking for you?” she asked. “They’ve never given up hope.”

His body thrashed back and forth as if he was in unbearable pain.

Miranda’s voice was soothing, almost hypnotic. “They’re on their way here. They want to see you.” Something in Bobby twanged: it was shame as dark and deep as an ocean. “They know what’s happened to you. They love you so much. They need to see you and know that you are safe. They’re so glad that you are safe.”

As Miranda continued to talk, repeating the words
you are safe
over and over, the little boy specter standing by the bed inched closer, as if drawn in by her voice. His blank eyes remained fixed on Bobby’s face as the therapist continued to talk, telling Bobby of how proud his parents were that he had had the courage to stand up to the colonel, that he had not harmed Tyler Matthews. A strange connection grew between the little boy and Bobby D’Amato in those few seconds. I could actually see it, though I am certain the others could not. It was like a tarnished gold ribbon that wound through the air, connecting a point on Bobby’s breastbone with a similar point on the boy’s. It was barely a shimmer, but it grew thicker and stronger with each word Miranda spoke. As the connection grew, I felt the fear in Bobby start to dissolve. The shame he carried started to crumble and dissolve. I felt the stranglehold of self-hate loosen and peace settle over him. Bobby’s eyes were closed, but his heart opened, even if just a little.