Perfect Match (26 page)

FATHER GWYNNE.

Tell me what he told you, I'd asked Patrick. Father Glen.

Maybe that is what Patrick heard. But that isn't how Nathaniel would have sa id it.

“He wasn't saying Father Glen,” Nina murmurs to Patrick. “He was saying Father Gwynne.”

“Yeah, but you know how Nathaniel talks. His L's always come out wrong.”

“Not this time,” Nina sighs. “This time he was saying it right. Gwen. Gwynn e. They're so close.”

“Who the hell is Gwynne?”

Nina rises, her hands splayed through her hair. “He's the one, Patrick. He's t he one who hurt Nathaniel and he's still, he could still be doing this to a hu ndred other boys, and-” She wilts, stumbling against the wall. Patrick steadie s her with one hand, and he is startled to feel her shaking so hard. His first instinct is to reach for her. His second, smarter response is to let her take a step away.

She slides down the side of the refrigerator until she is sitting on the floor . “He's the bone marrow donor. He has to be.”

“Does Fisher know about this yet?” She shakes her head. “Caleb?” In that moment, he thinks of a story he read long ago in school, about the s tart of the Trojan War. Paris was given a choice to be the richest man in th e world, the smartest man in the world, or the chance to love another man's wife. Patrick, fool that he is, would make the same mistake. For with her ha ir in knots, her eyes red and swollen, her sorrow cracked open in her lap, N ina is every bit as beautiful to him now as Helen was back then. She lifts her face to his. “Patrick . . . what am I going to do? ” It shocks him into a response. “You,” Patrick says clearly, “are not going t o do anything. You are going to sit in this house because you're on trial fo r a man's murder.” When she opens her mouth to argue, Patrick holds up his h and. “You've already been locked up once, and look what happened to Nathanie l. What do you think's going to happen to him if you walk out that door for more vigilante justice, Nina? The only way you can keep him safe is to stay with him. Let me ...” He hesitates, knowing that on the edge of this cliff, the only way out is to retreat, or to jump. “Let me take care of it.” She knows exactly what he has just vowed. It means going against his depart ment, going against his own code of ethics. It means turning his back on th e system, like Nina has. And it means facing the consequences. Like Nina. H e sees the wonder in her face, and the spark that lets him know how tempted she is to take him up on his offer. “And risk losing your job? Going to ja il?” she says. “I can't let you do something that stupid.” What makes you think I haven't already? Patrick doesn't say the words aloud , but he doesn't have to. He crouches down and puts his hand on Nina's knee . Her hand comes up to cover his. And he sees it in her eyes: She knows how he feels about her, she has always known. But this is the first time she h as come close to admitting it.

“Patrick,” she says quietly, “I think I've already ruined the lives of enough p eople I love.”

When the door bursts open and Nathaniel tumbles into the kitchen on a whirl of cold air, Patrick comes to his feet. The boy smells of popcorn and is car rying a stuffed frog inside his winter coat. “Guess what,” he says. “Daddy t ook me to the arcade.”

“You're a lucky guy,” Patrick answers, and even to his own ears, his voice sounds weak. Caleb comes in, then, and closes the door behind him. He loo ks from Patrick to Nina, and smiles uncomfortably. “I thought you were vis iting with Marcella.”

“She had to go. She was meeting someone else. As she was leaving, Patrick stopped by.”

“Oh.” Caleb rubs the back of his neck. “So . . . what did she say?”

“Say?”

“About the DNA.”

Before Patrick's very eyes, Nina changes. She flashes a polished smile at her husband. “It's a match,” she lies. “A perfect match.” From the moment I step outside, the world is magic. Air cold enough to make my nostrils stick together; a sun that trembles like a cold yolk; a sky so w ide and blue that I cannot keep it all in my eyes. Inside smells different f rom outside, but you don't notice until one of them is taken away from you. I am on my way to Fisher's office, so my electronic bracelet has been deactiv ated. Being outside is so glorious that it almost supersedes the secret I am hiding. As I slow for a stoplight I see the Salvation Army man swinging his b ell, his bucket swaying gently. This is the season of charity; surely there w ill be some left for me.

Patrick's offer swims through my mind like smoke, making it difficult to se e clearly. He is the most moral, upstanding man I know-he would not have of fered lightly to become my one-man posse. Of course, I cannot let him do th is. But I also can't stop hoping that maybe he will ignore me and do it any way. And immediately, I hate myself for even thinking such a thing. I tell myself, too, that I don't want Patrick to go after Gwynne for another re ason, although it is one I will admit only in the darkest corners of the night: Because I want to be the one. Because this was my son, my gri evance, my justice to mete out.

When did I become this person-a woman who has the capacity to commit murder , to want to murder again, to get what she wants without caring who she des troys in the process? Was this always a part of me, buried, waiting? Maybe there is a seed of malfeasance even in the most honest of people-like Patri ck-that requires a certain combination of circumstances to bloom. In most o f us, then, it lies dormant forever. But for others, it blossoms. And once it does, it takes over like loosestrife, choking out rational thought, kill ing compassion.

So much for Christmas spirit.

Fisher's office is decorated for the holidays too. Swaths of garland drape th e fireplace; there is mistletoe hanging square over the secretary's desk. Bes ide the coffee urn sits a jug of hot mulled cider. While I wait for my attorn ey to retrieve me, I run my hand over the leather cushion of the couch, simpl y for the novelty of touching something other than the old sage chenille sofa in my living room at home.

What Patrick said about labs making mistakes has stayed with me. I will not tell Fisher about the bone marrow transplant, not until I know for sure that Marcella's explanation is right. There is no reason to believe that Quentin Brown will dig up this obscure glitch about DNA; so there is no reason to t rouble Fisher yet with information he might never need to know.

“Nina.” Fisher strides toward me, frowning. “You're losing weight.”

“It's called prisoner-of-war chic.” I fall into step beside him, measuring the dimensions of this hall and that alcove, simply because they are unfamiliar t o me. In his office, I stare out the window, where the fingers of bare branche s rap a tattoo against the glass.

Fisher catches the direction of my gaze. “Would you like to go outside?” he asks quietly.

It is freezing, nearly zero. But I am not in the habit of handing back gifts. “I would love that.”

So we walk in the parking lot behind the law offices, the wind kicking up sm all tornadoes of brown leaves. Fisher holds a stack of papers in his gloved hands. “We've gotten the state's psychiatric evaluation back. You didn't qui te answer his questions directly, did you?”

“Oh, come on. Do you know the role of a judge in the courtroom? For God's sake.”

A small grin plays over Fisher's mouth. “All the same, he found you compete nt and sane at the time of the offense.”

I stop walking. What about now? Is it crazy to want to finish the job once yo u've found out you didn't succeed the first time? Or is that the sanest thing in the world?

“Don't worry. I think we can chew this guy up and rip his report to shreds-but I also would like a forensic shrink to say you were insane then, and aren't n ow. The last thing I want is a jury thinking you're still a threat.” But I am. I imagine shooting Father Gwynne, getting it right this time. The n I turn to Fisher, my face perfectly blank. “Who do you want to use?”

“How about Sidwell Mackay?”

“We joke about him in the office,” I say. “Any prosecutor can get through hi m in five minutes flat.”

“Peter Casanoff?”

I shake my head. “Pompous windbag.”

Together we turn our backs to the wind, trying to make a very logical decis ion about whom we can find to call me insane. Maybe this will not be so dif ficult after all. What rational woman still sees the wrong man's blood on h er hands every time she looks down, but spends an hour in the shower imagin ing how she might kill the right man?

“All right,” Fisher suggests. “How about O'Brien, from Portland?”

“I've called him a couple of times. He seems all right, maybe a little squirmy .”

Fisher nods in agreement. “He's going to come off like an academic, and I th ink that's what you need, Nina.”

I offer him my most complacent smile. “Well, Fisher. You're the boss!” He gives me a guarded look, then hands over the psychiatric report. “This i s the one the state sent. You need to remember what you told him before you go see O'Brien.”

So defense attorneys do ask their clients to memorize what they said to the st ate psychiatrist.

“We've got Judge Neal coming down, by the way.”

I cringe. “Oh, you've got to be kidding.”

“Why?”

“He's supposed to be incredibly gullible.”

“How lucky for you, then, that you're a defendant,” Fisher says dryly. “Speak ing of which ... I don't believe we're going to put you on the stand.”

“I wouldn't expect you to, after two psychiatrists testify.” But I am thinkin g, I cannot take the stand now, not knowing what I know.

Fisher stops walking and faces me. “Before you start telling me how you thi nk your defense ought to be handled, Nina, I want to remind you you're look ing at insanity from a prosecutor's perspective, and I-”

“You know, Fisher,” I interrupt, glancing at my watch, “I can't really talk ab out this today.”

“Is the coach turning into a pumpkin?”

“I'm sorry. I just can't.” My eyes slide away from his.

“You can't put it off forever. Your trial will start in January, and I'll be go ne over the holidays with my family.”

“Let me get examined first,” I bargain. “Then we can sit down.” Fisher nods. I think of O'Brien, of whether I can convince him of my insanity. I wonder if, by then, it will be an act.

For the first time in a decade, Quentin takes a long lunch. No one will not ice at the DA's office; they barely tolerate his presence, and in his absen ce, probably dance on the top of his desk. He checks the directions he's do wnloaded from the computer and swings his car into the parking lot of the h igh school. Teens sausaged into North Face jackets give him cursory glances as he passes. Quentin walks right through the middle of a hackeysack game without breaking stride, and continues around the back of the school. There is a shoddy football stadium, an equally shoddy track, and a basketbal l court. Gideon is doing an admirable job of guarding some pansy-ass center six inches shorter than him. Quentin puts his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and watches his son steal the ball and shoot an effortless three-po inter.

The last time his son had picked up the phone to get in touch, he'd been calling from jail, busted for possession. And although it cost Quentin plenty of snide comments about nepotism, he'd gotten Gideon's sentence tra nsmuted to a rehab facility. That hadn't been good enough for Gideon, thoug h, who'd wanted to be released scot-free. “You're no use as a father,” he'd told Quentin. “I should have known you'd be no use as a lawyer, either.” Now, a year later, Gideon high-fives another player and then turns around t o see Quentin watching. “Shit, man,” he mutters. “Time.” The other kids fal l to the sidelines, sucking on water bottles and shrugging off layers of cl othes. Gideon approaches, arms crossed. “You come here to make me piss in s ome cup?”

Shrugging, Quentin says, “No, I came to see you. To talk.”

“I got nothing to say to you.”

“That's surprising,” Quentin responds, “since I have sixteen years' worth.”

“Then what's another day?” Gideon turns back toward the game. “I'm busy.”

“I'm sorry.”

The words make the boy pause. “Yeah, right,” he murmurs. He storms back to the basketball court, grabbing the ball and spinning it in the air-to imp ress Quentin, maybe? “Let's go, let's go!” he calls, and the others rally around him. Quentin walks off. “Who was that, man?” he hears one of the bo ys ask Gideon. And Gideon's response, when he thinks Quentin is too far aw ay to hear: “Some guy who needed directions.”

From the window of the doctor's office at Dana-Farber, Patrick can see the r agtag edge of Boston. Olivia Bessette, the oncologist listed on Father Szysz ynski's medical reports, has turned out to be considerably younger than Patr ick expected-not much older than Patrick himself. She sits with her hands fo lded, her curly hair pulled into a sensible bun, one rubber-soled white clog tapping lightly on the floor. “Leukemia only affects the blood cells,” she explains, “and chronic myeloid leukemia tends to have an onset in patients i n their forties and fifties-although I've had some cases with patients in th eir twenties.”

Patrick wonders how you sit on the edge of a hospital bed and tell someone the y are not going to live. It is not that different, he imagines, from knocking on a door in the middle of the night and informing a parent th at his son has been killed in a drunk driving accident. “What happens to the blood cells?” he asks.

“Blood cells are all programmed to die, just like we are. They start out at a baby stage, then grow up to be a little more functional, and by the time the y get spit out of the bone marrow they are adult cells. By then, white cells should be able to fight infection on your behalf, red blood cells should be a ble to carry oxygen, and platelets should be able to clot your blood. But if you have leukemia, your cells never mature . . . and they never die. So you w ind up with a proliferation of white cells that don't work, and that overrun all your other cells.”

Patrick is not really going against Nina's wishes, being here. All he's doin g is clarifying what they know-not taking it a step farther. He secured this appointment on a ruse, pretending that he is working on behalf of the assis tant attorney general. Mr. Brown, Patrick explained, has the burden of proof . Which means they need to be a hundred percent sure that Father Szyszynski didn't drop dead of leukemia the moment that his assailant pulled out a gun. Could Dr. Bessette, his former oncologist, offer any opinions?