YULETIDE with CHRISTMAS , cross CHRISTMAS with MYRRH …. Eventually every square will be filled; all words will be complete and will intersect correctly. The predestined solution will have been achieved. Order. Stasis. Peace.
As he fills the squares with letters, a startling thought occurs to Randal. Perhaps he and the selfish Arnie O’Connor are
predestined
to meet.
If he, Randal Six, is predestined to come face to face with the other boy and to take the precious secret of happiness from him, what seems now like a long harrowing journey to the O’Connor house will prove to be as simple as crossing this small room.
He cannot stop working the crossword, for he desperately needs the temporary peace that its completion will bring him. Nevertheless, as he reads the clues and inks the letters in the empty squares, he considers the possibility that finding happiness by relieving Arnie O’Connor of it might prove to be not a dream but a
destiny.
CHAPTER 27
DRIVING AWAY FROM the medical examiner’s office, into a world transformed by what they had just learned, Carson said, “Two hearts? Strange new organs? Designer freaks?”
“I’m wondering,” Michael said, “if I missed a class at the police academy.”
“Did Jack smell sober to you?”
“Unfortunately, yeah. Maybe he’s nuts.”
“He’s not nuts.”
“People who were perfectly sane on Tuesday sometimes go nuts on Wednesday.”
“What people?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Stalin.”
“Stalin was not perfectly sane on Tuesday. Besides, he wasn’t insane, he was evil.”
“Jack Rogers isn’t evil,” Michael said. “If he’s not drunk, insane, or evil, I guess we’re going to have to believe him.”
“You think somehow Luke might be hoaxing old Jack?”
“Luke ‘been-interested-in-viscera-since-I-was-a-kid’? First of all, it would be a way elaborate hoax. Second, Jack is smarter than Luke. Third, Luke—he’s got about as much sense of humor as a graveyard rat.”
A disguise of clouds transformed the full moon into a crescent. The pale flush of streetlamps on glossy magnolia leaves produced an illusion of ice, of a northern climate in balmy New Orleans.
“Nothing is what it seems,” Carson said.
“Is that just an observation,” Michael asked, “or should I worry about being washed away by a flood of philosophy?”
“My father wasn’t a corrupt cop.”
“Whatever you say. You knew him best.”
“He never stole confiscated drugs out of the evidence lockup.”
“The past is past,” Michael advised.
Braking to a stop at a red traffic light, she said, “A man’s reputation shouldn’t have to be destroyed forever by lies. There ought to be a hope of justice, redemption.”
Michael chose respectful silence.
“Dad and Mom weren’t shot to death by some drug dealer who felt Dad was poaching on his territory. That’s all bullshit.”
She hadn’t spoken aloud of these things in a long time. To do so was painful.
“Dad had discovered something that powerful people preferred to keep secret. He shared it with Mom, which is why she was shot, too. I know he was troubled about something he had seen. I just don’t know what it was.”
“Carson, we looked at the evidence in his case a hundred times,” Michael reminded her, “and we agreed it’s too airtight to be real. No file of evidence is ever braided that tight unless it’s concocted. In my book, it’s proof of a frame. But that’s the problem, too.”
He was right. The evidence had been crafted not only with the intent of convicting her father postmortem, but to leave no clue as to the identity of those who had crafted it. She had long sought the one loose thread that would unravel it, but no such thread could be found.
As the traffic light turned green, Carson said, “We’re not far from my place. I’m sure Vicky’s got everything under control, but I feel like I ought to check on Arnie, if that’s okay.”
“Sure. I could use some of Vicky’s bad
As he fills the squares with letters, a startling thought occurs to Randal. Perhaps he and the selfish Arnie O’Connor are
predestined
to meet.
If he, Randal Six, is predestined to come face to face with the other boy and to take the precious secret of happiness from him, what seems now like a long harrowing journey to the O’Connor house will prove to be as simple as crossing this small room.
He cannot stop working the crossword, for he desperately needs the temporary peace that its completion will bring him. Nevertheless, as he reads the clues and inks the letters in the empty squares, he considers the possibility that finding happiness by relieving Arnie O’Connor of it might prove to be not a dream but a
destiny.
CHAPTER 27
DRIVING AWAY FROM the medical examiner’s office, into a world transformed by what they had just learned, Carson said, “Two hearts? Strange new organs? Designer freaks?”
“I’m wondering,” Michael said, “if I missed a class at the police academy.”
“Did Jack smell sober to you?”
“Unfortunately, yeah. Maybe he’s nuts.”
“He’s not nuts.”
“People who were perfectly sane on Tuesday sometimes go nuts on Wednesday.”
“What people?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Stalin.”
“Stalin was not perfectly sane on Tuesday. Besides, he wasn’t insane, he was evil.”
“Jack Rogers isn’t evil,” Michael said. “If he’s not drunk, insane, or evil, I guess we’re going to have to believe him.”
“You think somehow Luke might be hoaxing old Jack?”
“Luke ‘been-interested-in-viscera-since-I-was-a-kid’? First of all, it would be a way elaborate hoax. Second, Jack is smarter than Luke. Third, Luke—he’s got about as much sense of humor as a graveyard rat.”
A disguise of clouds transformed the full moon into a crescent. The pale flush of streetlamps on glossy magnolia leaves produced an illusion of ice, of a northern climate in balmy New Orleans.
“Nothing is what it seems,” Carson said.
“Is that just an observation,” Michael asked, “or should I worry about being washed away by a flood of philosophy?”
“My father wasn’t a corrupt cop.”
“Whatever you say. You knew him best.”
“He never stole confiscated drugs out of the evidence lockup.”
“The past is past,” Michael advised.
Braking to a stop at a red traffic light, she said, “A man’s reputation shouldn’t have to be destroyed forever by lies. There ought to be a hope of justice, redemption.”
Michael chose respectful silence.
“Dad and Mom weren’t shot to death by some drug dealer who felt Dad was poaching on his territory. That’s all bullshit.”
She hadn’t spoken aloud of these things in a long time. To do so was painful.
“Dad had discovered something that powerful people preferred to keep secret. He shared it with Mom, which is why she was shot, too. I know he was troubled about something he had seen. I just don’t know what it was.”
“Carson, we looked at the evidence in his case a hundred times,” Michael reminded her, “and we agreed it’s too airtight to be real. No file of evidence is ever braided that tight unless it’s concocted. In my book, it’s proof of a frame. But that’s the problem, too.”
He was right. The evidence had been crafted not only with the intent of convicting her father postmortem, but to leave no clue as to the identity of those who had crafted it. She had long sought the one loose thread that would unravel it, but no such thread could be found.
As the traffic light turned green, Carson said, “We’re not far from my place. I’m sure Vicky’s got everything under control, but I feel like I ought to check on Arnie, if that’s okay.”
“Sure. I could use some of Vicky’s bad
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