darkened and a single vertical line cut her forehead. She glanced away, then looked back and seemed to be studying him. Her face was still, but Holman felt the furious motion of wheels and cogs and levers behind her eyes as she struggled with her answer.
She said, "You."
"I don't understand."
"You were being released the next day. That's what was different that night, and we both knew it. We knew you were being released the next day. Richard never spoke about you with me. Do you mind me telling you these things? This is just so awful, what we're going through right now. I don't want to make it worse for you."
"I asked you. I want to know."
She went on.
"I tried talking to him about you--I was curious. You're his father. You were my father-in-law. When Donna was still alive we both tried--but he just wouldn't. I knew your release date was coming up. Richard knew, but he still wouldn't talk about it, and I knew it was bothering him."
Holman was feeling sick and cold.
"Did he say something, how it was bothering him?"
She cocked her head again, then put down her cup and turned away.
"Come see."
He followed her back to a bedroom that was arranged as an office. Two desks were set up, one for him and one for her. The first desk, hers, was stacked with textbooks and binders and paperwork. Richie's desk was backed into a corner where corkboards were fixed to the adjoining walls. The corkboards were covered with so many clippings and Post-it notes and little slips of paper they overlapped each other like scales on a fish. Liz brought him to Richie's desk and pointed out the clippings.
"Take a look."
Shootout Ends Crime Spree, Takeover Bandits Stopped, Bystander Killed in Robbery. The articles Holman skimmed were about a pair of takeover lunatics named Marchenko and Parsons. Holman had heard about them in Lompoc. Marchenko and Parsons dressed like commandos and shot up the banks before escaping with their loot.
She said, "He became fascinated with bank robberies. He clipped stories and pulled articles off the Internet and spent all of his time in here with this stuff. It doesn't take a doctorate to figure out why."
"Because of me?"
"Wanting to know you. A way of being close to you without being close to you was my guess. We knew you were approaching your release date. We didn't know if you would try to contact us or if we should contact you or what to do about you. It was pretty clear he was working out his anxiety about you."
Holman felt a flush of guilt and hoped she was wrong.
"Did he say that?"
Elizabeth didn't look at him. Her face had closed, and now she stared at the clippings and crossed her arms.
"He wouldn't. He never talked about you with me or his mother, but when he told me he was going to see the guys, he had been in here all evening. I think he needed to talk to them. He couldn't talk to me about it, and now look--now look."
Her face tightened even more with the hardness that anger brings. Holman watched her eyes fill, but was too scared to touch her.
He said, "Hey--"
She shook her head and Holman took it as a warning--like maybe she sensed he wanted to comfort her--and Holman felt even worse. Her neck and arms were bowstrings pulled taut by her anger.
"Goddamnit, he just had to go out. He had to go. Goddamnit--"
"Maybe we should go back in the living room."
She closed her eyes, then shook her head again, but this time she was telling him she was all right--she was fighting the terrible pain and determined to kill it. She finally opened her eyes and finished her original thought.
"Sometimes it's easier for a man to show what he feels is a weakness to another male rather than to a female. It's easier to pretend it's work than to deal honestly with the emotions. I think that's what he did that night. I think that's why he died."
"Talking about me?"
"No, not you, not specifically--these bank robberies. That was his way of talking about you. The work was like an extra duty assignment. He wanted to
She said, "You."
"I don't understand."
"You were being released the next day. That's what was different that night, and we both knew it. We knew you were being released the next day. Richard never spoke about you with me. Do you mind me telling you these things? This is just so awful, what we're going through right now. I don't want to make it worse for you."
"I asked you. I want to know."
She went on.
"I tried talking to him about you--I was curious. You're his father. You were my father-in-law. When Donna was still alive we both tried--but he just wouldn't. I knew your release date was coming up. Richard knew, but he still wouldn't talk about it, and I knew it was bothering him."
Holman was feeling sick and cold.
"Did he say something, how it was bothering him?"
She cocked her head again, then put down her cup and turned away.
"Come see."
He followed her back to a bedroom that was arranged as an office. Two desks were set up, one for him and one for her. The first desk, hers, was stacked with textbooks and binders and paperwork. Richie's desk was backed into a corner where corkboards were fixed to the adjoining walls. The corkboards were covered with so many clippings and Post-it notes and little slips of paper they overlapped each other like scales on a fish. Liz brought him to Richie's desk and pointed out the clippings.
"Take a look."
Shootout Ends Crime Spree, Takeover Bandits Stopped, Bystander Killed in Robbery. The articles Holman skimmed were about a pair of takeover lunatics named Marchenko and Parsons. Holman had heard about them in Lompoc. Marchenko and Parsons dressed like commandos and shot up the banks before escaping with their loot.
She said, "He became fascinated with bank robberies. He clipped stories and pulled articles off the Internet and spent all of his time in here with this stuff. It doesn't take a doctorate to figure out why."
"Because of me?"
"Wanting to know you. A way of being close to you without being close to you was my guess. We knew you were approaching your release date. We didn't know if you would try to contact us or if we should contact you or what to do about you. It was pretty clear he was working out his anxiety about you."
Holman felt a flush of guilt and hoped she was wrong.
"Did he say that?"
Elizabeth didn't look at him. Her face had closed, and now she stared at the clippings and crossed her arms.
"He wouldn't. He never talked about you with me or his mother, but when he told me he was going to see the guys, he had been in here all evening. I think he needed to talk to them. He couldn't talk to me about it, and now look--now look."
Her face tightened even more with the hardness that anger brings. Holman watched her eyes fill, but was too scared to touch her.
He said, "Hey--"
She shook her head and Holman took it as a warning--like maybe she sensed he wanted to comfort her--and Holman felt even worse. Her neck and arms were bowstrings pulled taut by her anger.
"Goddamnit, he just had to go out. He had to go. Goddamnit--"
"Maybe we should go back in the living room."
She closed her eyes, then shook her head again, but this time she was telling him she was all right--she was fighting the terrible pain and determined to kill it. She finally opened her eyes and finished her original thought.
"Sometimes it's easier for a man to show what he feels is a weakness to another male rather than to a female. It's easier to pretend it's work than to deal honestly with the emotions. I think that's what he did that night. I think that's why he died."
"Talking about me?"
"No, not you, not specifically--these bank robberies. That was his way of talking about you. The work was like an extra duty assignment. He wanted to
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