Sympathy Between Humans Part 15

Marlinchen looked down, at a fingernail slightly discolored by grease from her bicycle chain. "Couldn't that mean," she said stiffly, "that it's the truth?"

"Is it?" I said. "Did you know the author bio for A Rainbow at Night A Rainbow at Night says that your father has four children?" says that your father has four children?"

She knew, instantly, what I was talking about. "It says he lives in Minnesota in Minnesota with his four children," she said quickly. "That's technically true." She meant that Aidan had been sent away by the time of with his four children," she said quickly. "That's technically true." She meant that Aidan had been sent away by the time of Rainbow Rainbow's publication.

"It still makes it sound like your father has only four kids," I said.

"Dad doesn't even write those things," Marlinchen said. "Somebody at his publisher does."

"Based on information from who?" I said.

An outboard engine hummed on the lake in a bouncing rhythm, as though it were bucking waves.

"You and your brothers all say that you haven't seen Aidan in five years," I went on. "Not a phone call, not a letter, not a visit home for the holidays. That's not an arrangement of convenience. That's banishment, Marlinchen. Aidan hasn't just been erased from your father's bio. He's been erased from your lives."

Marlinchen's color was still high, and I didn't think it was left over from the exertion of her ride. "You're making way too much of this," she said. "Fostering out children used to be a common tradition. Your own father did it, you said."

"My father was a truck driver. He was on the road the better part of the year. It's not a comparable situation," I said. "Did Aidan do something? Was there some reason your father thought he needed to be isolated in Illinois, and then Georgia?"

"No," she said softly. "He didn't do anything." The sudden quietness of her voice was like barometric pressure dropping.

"What about your father, then?" I said. "If this wasn't about Aidan, was it something to do with him?"

"No," Marlinchen said, even more quietly.

"Okay, I get it," I said. "Everybody loves everybody, and then suddenly Aidan's sent away permanently to live with virtual strangers. Yeah, that makes perfect sense."

"I don't understand what you're getting at," Marlinchen said, her voice rising at last. "You're not supposed to be psychoa.n.a.lyzing my family, you're supposed to be finding Aidan. Instead you haven't done anything except find a yearbook photo and cast slights on my brother's character and my father's!"

I sat back slightly. As long as I'd known her, Marlinchen had been almost achingly polite. Now the Marlinchen who was emerging from that sh.e.l.l wasn't the one I'd expected: an imperious princess, giving orders to a member of the servant cla.s.s.

"You know what?" I said. "I've done about as well as anyone could with the constraints you've put on me. You want to feed me half-truths and pretend it won't impede my search for Aidan. You're half interested in finding Aidan and half interested in protecting your father's image. You've got one foot on each horse, and you're trying to pretend they're running in the same direction."

I'd expected her anger to completely boil over, but that wasn't what happened. Some women, particularly small ones, learn to wield exquisite courtesy like a weapon. Suddenly, she seemed to draw on a reservoir of poise. When she spoke, I heard a thousand closed doors in her voice.

"I know you've done everything you can, Detective Pribek, and spent more time than you can afford," she said. "I'm sure my father will want to thank you, when he's fully recovered."

"Marlinchen, I'm not saying that-"

"I'm sorry," she said, "I really have to put the groceries away."

Then she was gone, the French doors closing firmly behind her.

Marlinchen was the last person I should have come off second best to in an interview situation; she was just a kid. But she outcla.s.sed me; that was the problem. For all that I wore the authority of a county detective, I was still keenly aware of my rough edges when the job took me into the graceful homes and worlds of middle- and upper-cla.s.s citizens, especially those like Marlinchen, who wore the intellect she'd inherited from her father as comfortably as she might have worn family jewels. She was the princess, in her shabby-elegant old castle on a shining lake, and I, a civil servant, was the commoner, feeling obligated to help her for reasons I didn't fully understand. I should have come off second best to in an interview situation; she was just a kid. But she outcla.s.sed me; that was the problem. For all that I wore the authority of a county detective, I was still keenly aware of my rough edges when the job took me into the graceful homes and worlds of middle- and upper-cla.s.s citizens, especially those like Marlinchen, who wore the intellect she'd inherited from her father as comfortably as she might have worn family jewels. She was the princess, in her shabby-elegant old castle on a shining lake, and I, a civil servant, was the commoner, feeling obligated to help her for reasons I didn't fully understand.

A lot of cops profess a special concern and protectiveness for the young. Asked to explain, they'll tell you, "Cops are moms and dads, too." That wasn't true with me. I alone among my peers in the detective division was childless. If anything, I was too close to my own youth. When Colm had made his dig at women and guns, I'd made my b.i.t.c.hy remark about the TV remote. When Marlinchen had attacked me on the issue of my professional abilities, I'd given it back to her, and twice as hard. I was acting less like a surrogate parent than an insulted sibling.

At 29, though I tried to cover up for it, I often felt raw and unfinished inside, psychologically colt-legged and wrong-footed. It was still too easy for me to reach out and touch the feelings of adolescence.

When I was 13, my mother's aunt, Virginia, a waitress-bartender with long gray-streaked hair and my mother's eyes, picked me up at the Greyhound station in Minneapolis. We'd driven three and a half hours to the Iron Range town in which she lived. Much of the year that followed was a blur.

I slept poorly and had bad dreams, all of which were set in my native New Mexico, the details of which were lost to me on waking. Memory, overall, was a problem that year; I was so forgetful that after a teacher conference, Ginny agreed to have me tested by the school psychologist, to see if something was seriously wrong.

The results were apparently inconclusive, but my memory did not immediately improve. I racked up several detentions for incomplete homework, not because I refused to do the a.s.signments, but because I'd forgotten to bring home the textbook or write down the page and question numbers. I left the lunches I packed at home in the refrigerator. This was during the growth spurt that eventually took me to five-eleven, and the hunger pangs I experienced when I forgot to bring lunch to school crossed the line from unpleasant to painful. Once, after only having two sticks of chewing gum on lunch break, I grayed out in PE and ended up in the nurse's office.

My father called twice a week to start, dropping back to once a week by mid-autumn. I used the word fine fine a lot. In early December, he asked if the weather was bothering me. a lot. In early December, he asked if the weather was bothering me.

I'd experienced snow in the mountains of New Mexico, but nothing could have prepared me for what happened in northern Minnesota in January: the full-dark skies before even five in the evening, the warlike rollout of snowplows on the streets after every fresh snow, the eerie abandoned streets of a minus-thirty-degree morning. One day, wrapping myself in a scarf to walk home from school after detention in subzero weather, I commented to a janitor on the possibility of snow later.

"Have to warm up for that," the janitor said, looking out at the clear sky. It was the first time I'd heard that it could be too cold to allow precipitation. Late that night, I'd looked out my window to where an ice-colored moon glowed in the airless reaches of the sky, and wondered how I had ever come to live in a place where it could get too cold to snow.

More than anything, it was basketball that turned things around, in my freshman year of high school. I didn't have any feeling for the sport, other than having thrown a ball at a dilapidated netless hoop a few times in New Mexico. But Ginny suggested that I try out, and I was too apathetic to refuse her anything, so I did.

I never try to explain to people what basketball was to me; it'd come out sounding like inspirational sports-movie cliches. It wasn't just that it was my first experience of being part of a larger unit, an understanding that I'd bring to cop work. It was as simple as this: after a year of numbness, in which I'd had no adolescent hungers, basketball gave me something to want. Halfway through the season, I started showing up early for practice, doing box jumps to strengthen my calf muscles and shuttle drills for agility, running after school for stamina. As I did, I'd felt a tension ease in my chest that had been there so long I hadn't even recognized it.

"I was worried about you last year," Ginny told me.

"I know," I'd said. "I'm okay."

It remained my habit to this day, taking my anxieties to the gym. Glad for the old T-shirt and shorts I kept in the trunk of the Nova, I went there now. But after I'd changed in the women's locker room and gone upstairs, I stopped in the doorway of the cardio room, seeing a familiar form. Gray Diaz was running on the treadmill at a pretty good clip. I felt a reaction flush under my skin, but he was looking down at the machine's readout. He hadn't seen me yet. my habit to this day, taking my anxieties to the gym. Glad for the old T-shirt and shorts I kept in the trunk of the Nova, I went there now. But after I'd changed in the women's locker room and gone upstairs, I stopped in the doorway of the cardio room, seeing a familiar form. Gray Diaz was running on the treadmill at a pretty good clip. I felt a reaction flush under my skin, but he was looking down at the machine's readout. He hadn't seen me yet.

I turned and went down the stairs. It didn't matter, I told myself. I'd go out for a run tomorrow morning, when it was cool.

"You shouldn't let him chase you off."

A voice as low-timbred as a radio announcer's stopped me by the locker-room door. I turned and looked around. There was n.o.body that Deputy Stone could have been talking to but me.

Jason Stone was 26, tall, and handsome. He had a smooth, low voice, and fluttered some pulses among the unmarried women in the department. He had recently been cleared of wrongdoing in an excessive-force complaint.

"I'm sorry?" I said.

"Gray Diaz," Stone said. "I know who he is. Don't let him get to you."

The correct response, if there was one, wouldn't come to me.

"Detective Pribek... may I call you Sarah?" he asked, solicitous. "I just wanted to tell you that a lot of us are behind you," he said.

"Behind me on what?" I said.

"What you did in Blue Earth," he said.

"I didn't do anything in Blue Earth," I said. "Whatever you heard, you heard wrong."

"Royce Stewart needed to take a dirt nap," he said. His voice sounded extremely reasonable. "That a guy like Diaz would try to come up here and further his career on it, at your expense- Sarah, that's reprehensible to a lot of us."

"I don't think you heard me," I said. "I didn't do anything in Blue Earth."

"I know," Stone said, his expression saying we both knew better. "Keep your head up."

I stayed in the shower and the locker room as long as possible, and then left as quickly as I could. I'd had enough of running into co-workers for one night.

That wasn't, though, how it worked out.

I drove to Surdyk's, a liquor store in the East Hennepin district, where I aimlessly cruised the aisles until I decided on a marked-down Australian cabernet. It was when I was walking back through the parking lot that Christian Kilander stepped out between two parked cars and into my path.

"Detective Pribek," he said, recovering smoothly from the surprise.

It occurred to me that I'd never seen him off duty before, not like this. He wore good suits to work, and tank shirts and shorts to the basketball courts, but tonight he was wearing slightly faded jeans and a cream-colored shirt.

"How have you been?" I said awkwardly.

"Pretty well, thanks," he said. "And you?"

"Fine," I said. "You know, I saw you the other day."

"You did?" he said.

"With Gray Diaz."

I didn't know exactly why I was bringing it up. Perhaps it stung just a little, imagining Kilander to be friendly with this man who'd come to the Cities to nail me for something I didn't do.

"I know him," Kilander acknowledged.

"He's a friend of yours?" I asked.

Kilander held up a palm. "I don't think I want to be in this conversation." He started moving away from the gleaming black hindquarter of his BMW and toward the store.

"What?" I said blankly. "Chris." "Chris."

He turned, or half turned, to face me.

"You can't seriously think I was working up to asking for inside information. Do you?" I demanded.

He said nothing.

"For G.o.d's sake, I didn't seek you you out last winter. It was you who came to out last winter. It was you who came to me, me, to tell me I was a suspect." to tell me I was a suspect."

"Yes, I did." Kilander's eyes, so often amused and ironic, were serious. "And I expected you to deny being the person responsible for Stewart's death. You never did." He turned away.

"I didn't think I had to," I said, to his retreating form.

Back in my car, I sat for a moment, looking out at the post-sunset sky. I'd been trying to ask Kilander how he knew Diaz, that was all. I wouldn't have asked for inside information. Would I? I sat for a moment, looking out at the post-sunset sky. I'd been trying to ask Kilander how he knew Diaz, that was all. I wouldn't have asked for inside information. Would I?

I realized that I couldn't say for sure. I was more afraid of Gray Diaz than I had been letting on, even to myself.

How could Kilander think I was guilty of Royce Stewart's murder? Jason Stone was one thing, but Kilander's words had hurt.

Go home, Sarah. Have a gla.s.s of wine, go to sleep early.

Instead I rummaged in my bag for my cell phone, dialed 411.

"What listing, please?"

"Cicero Ruiz."

Get real. He's a reclusive guy deeply involved in a highly illegal activity. He's not going to have a listed phone number.

"I have a C. Ruiz," the operator said.

Unlikely. "Go ahead, give it to me," I said. "Go ahead, give it to me," I said.

I would call and stumble through a conversation with a stranger in my rusty Spanish. Lo siento. Lo siento. Sorry to bother you. Sorry to bother you.

Cicero picked up on the third ring.

"It's me," I said.

"Sarah," he said. "How are you?"

"I'm all right," I said. "I'm not sick. My ear is fine."

"That's good," he said.

"And I... I can't sleep with you again," I said. "Because of my husband."

"You called to tell me that?" Cicero asked.

"No," I said.

"What, then?"

"Can I come see you anyway?" I said.

Through the open window I could see Venus just starting to pierce the fading light of the sky.

"I can't think why not," Cicero said.

An hour later I was standing on the roof of Cicero's building, looking up at the light-bleached sky over Minneapolis; only a few constellations were distinguishable. The real astronomy lay twenty-six stories below: the industrial-tangerine grid of city streets, the ascension and declination of the world most of us knew. I was standing on the roof of Cicero's building, looking up at the light-bleached sky over Minneapolis; only a few constellations were distinguishable. The real astronomy lay twenty-six stories below: the industrial-tangerine grid of city streets, the ascension and declination of the world most of us knew.

Behind me, Cicero lay on his back on a blanket we'd brought up, arms crossed behind his head in the traditional stargazer's position, wine in a chipped eight-ounce gla.s.s within arm's reach. His wheelchair nowhere in sight, he looked very much able-bodied, like a hiker at rest.