Second Honeymoon Part 32

Oops.

Beer in hand, I went out back and turned on the sprinkler, not a minute too soon. Judy's garden was in dire shape. Droopy petunias and begonias everywhere.

After waiting a minute to make sure the sprinkler was reaching them all, I took a seat on a nearby chaise. Stretching my legs out, it occurred to me that this was the first time in days that I actually had a moment to relax. I drew a deep breath, closing my eyes. Maybe it wasn't such a horrible thing, having a little time to kill.

Suddenly I opened my eyes.

"John O'Hara?" came a voice behind me.

Chapter 49

THE BAD FEELING engulfed me well before I turned my head. When I saw who it was, the feeling only got worse.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing here?" I asked.

It was far from a Christian welcome, but I couldn't help it. Hit your thumb with a hammer and you're going to scream. Step barefoot on a piece of gla.s.s and you're going to bleed. See the lawyer for the guy who killed your wife standing uninvited in your backyard?

You're going to be p.i.s.sed off.

"I tried ringing the doorbell," said Harold Cornish. "I think it might be broken."

"I'll put it on my to-do list," I said.

Harold Cornish, perpetually tan and perfectly coiffed, stood before me wearing a three-piece suit and a tie with a Windsor knot. It was late June, hovering in the mideighties, and there wasn't even a suggestion of sweat anywhere on him. Amazing. He was as cool out of the courtroom as he was in it.

I hated the guy.

And that's what really p.i.s.sed me off. Because deep down I knew that I was being completely irrational.

I didn't hate Cornish for representing McMillan. Due process; I get it. Even the biggest p.r.i.c.ks in the world deserve a lawyer.

No, I hated Cornish because he was a good lawyer. Facing a maximum sentence of ten years or even more, McMillan basically got the minimum. Three years. All because of Cornish.

"You certainly don't owe me any favors, but I want to ask you something," he said. "You're aware that my client will be released from prison in a couple of days, right?"

I nodded. Nothing more. I wasn't about to let on that McMillan's release had preoccupied me to the point of near self-destruction.

"So this is what I'd like to ask you," continued Cornish. "McMillan very much wants to apologize to you." He immediately raised his palms. "Now, before you react, please let me finish."

"Did I react?" I asked calmly.

"No, you didn't, and I appreciate that," he said. "I know my client apologized to you and your family in court, but after doing his time he wants to apologize again, in person. Privately. Would you consider that?"

I immediately thought of Dr. Kline and all the great strides I was making with him. I could even hear his voice inside my head, telling me to keep my cool, stay under control. No more Agent Time Bomb.

But I couldn't help it. Cornish had lit the fuse and there was no stopping me. I got up, walked straight over to him, and stood facing him toe to toe. Then, at the top of my lungs, I gave him my answer.

"TELL YOUR f.u.c.kING CLIENT TO GO TO h.e.l.l!"

Cornish blinked slowly, took one step back, and nodded. "I understand," he said.

Whether he really did or not, I didn't know and I didn't care. He turned and left without saying another word.

I waited until he disappeared around the corner, heading toward the front of the house. There was still half a beer left in my hand, and I polished it off with one long swig.

Then, without thinking, I added something else to my to-do list: clean up the broken gla.s.s from the patio.

Smash!

I heaved the bottle against the house so hard my shoulder nearly popped out of its socket.

Apparently, I hadn't made the great strides that I'd thought.

In fact, I still had a long, long way to go.

Book Three

"Oh, the Places You'll Go"

Chapter 50

"YOU MUST BE Agent Brubaker," said the officer greeting Sarah outside the sheriff's office in Candle Lake, New Mexico.

"Yes." And you must still be in high school, Sarah thought as she shook the young man's hand. Seriously, I have food in my refrigerator that's older than you.

"Sheriff Insley asked that I bring you out to the lake as soon as you arrived," he said. "He's there now. You ready to go?"

"Is that where you're looking for John O'Hara?"

"Yeah. O'Hara's wife thought he'd gone either drinkin' or fishin', and there was no one who saw him at any of the bars in town."

Drinkin' or fishin'? Sarah eyed the officer for a moment, wondering if he had any idea how funny that sounded, in a town-of-Mayberry sort of way. He didn't.

"I'm sorry, I didn't get your name," she said.