he has no time to censor them. "Did you ever think that maybe we just have the same taste in women?"
She gasps. He immediately realizes what he's done. How cruel it was. Before he can recant it, her palm hits his cheek with surprising force. The sting is so severe his eyes water.
"Get out."
When he doesn't move, she yells. "Get out, Jack! Get out now! Before I do something I'll regret."
He thinks of the wife in the
interrogation on Sunday, how she
shouted at the detective, He'd been with another woman! As if that were justifiable cause to smash her husband's skull with a Louisville Slugger.
He remembers Claire's rage after
learning what Jack had done.
Is it true? she'd asked. And when he hesitated answering, when he failed to deny it, she knew. I hate you , she said. I hate you . Screamed it at him, over and over.
Struck him, over and over.
If she'd used anything other than her hands . . .
When Jack pulls out of the garage, he can't see sky for the hard rain that pelts the car. He has a vague sense of having heard the storm when he and Claire were arguing inside the house, but at the time it didn't register. He's now glad she didn't let him take Jamie.
The media vans and SUVs wait for
him, their station call letters on the sides blurred by the curtain of rain. Wishing for a distraction, he considers calling Earl to confirm their meeting. But Earl won't forget. Jack is now his highest profile client.
He's almost at the last Missouri exit when his cell phone rings. The Caller ID
reads Harley Lambert. It's Claire's father, and Jack knows Harley is at his office because when he calls from home, the cell phone simply reads Harley and Ruth. The man makes Jack nervous—he always has
—and Jack dreads talking to him. But Jack especially hates talking to him when he calls from his office, which, because he's been retired from the FBI for years now, isn't really an office where he works, but some sort of space he rents in an office park near his home. Jack knows there's a good chance Harley records the call. He's seen the recorder on Harley's desk, the way it's hooked up to the phone, and though Harley claims to record only those who give him permission, Jack knows better.
"Good morning, Harley." Jack keeps his tone as neutral as possible, but he still hears the resignation in it. He knows Harley must hear it, too. The man doesn't miss a thing.
"Don't 'good morning, Harley' me, you little prick! There's not a damn thing good about this morning because of you."
Jack doesn't respond. After all, what could he possibly say to that?
"Listen to me, and listen to me good."
"I'm listening." The media vehicles trail his car, matching each turn through the downtown streets. They follow too close, close enough to be dangerous even without the rain.
"I won't let you hurt my baby again. I stayed out of it last time at her request, but not this time. Say goodbye to your ticket, Jack, because if I have any say in the matter, Jeff City will be pulling it sooner than you can say boo."
"It'll be a bit difficult to support my family without it." He surprises himself with his nonchalant response to the threat of disbarment. Is he growing numb already?
"Don't you dare talk back to me!"
Harley yells so loud Jack holds the phone away from his ear.
He drives under the interstate, where he's granted a brief reprieve from the rain. In the relative silence he glances out the left window and sees Jenny's homeless friend tucked next to a concrete pillar. All these years later, he still haunts these city streets, even without the few dollars and the food she gave him as she walked by each morning on the way to her office.
Jack almost wants to buy him a plane ticket south somewhere, where at least he'll be warm.
"Did you call simply to harass me or would you like to hear what actually happened?"
"I called to tell you you're done hurting my daughter. She might insist on sticking by you while this is going on, but don't be fooled.
She gasps. He immediately realizes what he's done. How cruel it was. Before he can recant it, her palm hits his cheek with surprising force. The sting is so severe his eyes water.
"Get out."
When he doesn't move, she yells. "Get out, Jack! Get out now! Before I do something I'll regret."
He thinks of the wife in the
interrogation on Sunday, how she
shouted at the detective, He'd been with another woman! As if that were justifiable cause to smash her husband's skull with a Louisville Slugger.
He remembers Claire's rage after
learning what Jack had done.
Is it true? she'd asked. And when he hesitated answering, when he failed to deny it, she knew. I hate you , she said. I hate you . Screamed it at him, over and over.
Struck him, over and over.
If she'd used anything other than her hands . . .
When Jack pulls out of the garage, he can't see sky for the hard rain that pelts the car. He has a vague sense of having heard the storm when he and Claire were arguing inside the house, but at the time it didn't register. He's now glad she didn't let him take Jamie.
The media vans and SUVs wait for
him, their station call letters on the sides blurred by the curtain of rain. Wishing for a distraction, he considers calling Earl to confirm their meeting. But Earl won't forget. Jack is now his highest profile client.
He's almost at the last Missouri exit when his cell phone rings. The Caller ID
reads Harley Lambert. It's Claire's father, and Jack knows Harley is at his office because when he calls from home, the cell phone simply reads Harley and Ruth. The man makes Jack nervous—he always has
—and Jack dreads talking to him. But Jack especially hates talking to him when he calls from his office, which, because he's been retired from the FBI for years now, isn't really an office where he works, but some sort of space he rents in an office park near his home. Jack knows there's a good chance Harley records the call. He's seen the recorder on Harley's desk, the way it's hooked up to the phone, and though Harley claims to record only those who give him permission, Jack knows better.
"Good morning, Harley." Jack keeps his tone as neutral as possible, but he still hears the resignation in it. He knows Harley must hear it, too. The man doesn't miss a thing.
"Don't 'good morning, Harley' me, you little prick! There's not a damn thing good about this morning because of you."
Jack doesn't respond. After all, what could he possibly say to that?
"Listen to me, and listen to me good."
"I'm listening." The media vehicles trail his car, matching each turn through the downtown streets. They follow too close, close enough to be dangerous even without the rain.
"I won't let you hurt my baby again. I stayed out of it last time at her request, but not this time. Say goodbye to your ticket, Jack, because if I have any say in the matter, Jeff City will be pulling it sooner than you can say boo."
"It'll be a bit difficult to support my family without it." He surprises himself with his nonchalant response to the threat of disbarment. Is he growing numb already?
"Don't you dare talk back to me!"
Harley yells so loud Jack holds the phone away from his ear.
He drives under the interstate, where he's granted a brief reprieve from the rain. In the relative silence he glances out the left window and sees Jenny's homeless friend tucked next to a concrete pillar. All these years later, he still haunts these city streets, even without the few dollars and the food she gave him as she walked by each morning on the way to her office.
Jack almost wants to buy him a plane ticket south somewhere, where at least he'll be warm.
"Did you call simply to harass me or would you like to hear what actually happened?"
"I called to tell you you're done hurting my daughter. She might insist on sticking by you while this is going on, but don't be fooled.
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