Before I Sleep (35 page)

“Nothing would be reasonable,” Danny said drily. “I ain't got a thing left.”

“You've got me, Dad.”

The older man looked straight at his son and asked, utterly without self-pity, “Do I?”

Seamus felt his throat clog. He had to look away and breathe deeply to steady himself. Finally, he was able to look at the old man again. “Yeah, Dad,” he said. “You do.”

Danny nodded and turned his attention to something off in the distance. After a bit, he said, “I wouldn't blame you if you forgot you ever knew me.”

“I'm not gonna do that. Not ever. I've been … kind of crazy the last few years. Ever since … ever since Seana and Mary died.”

“We've both been kind of crazy since then. I sit up a lot of nights wondering why I didn't ever tell that woman to put the child in the car seat. I finally got to drinking so I wouldn't think about it anymore.”

“You didn't think about it then, Dad. Hell, she was Seana's mother. If she didn't think about it, why should you?”

“They didn't have those car seats when you were little,” his dad said as if he hadn't heard. “I guess I just never thought a thing about it. Your mom used to carry you on her lap all the time in the car.”

“Yeah.”

“And the baby was so sick …” Danny swallowed hard, and when he looked at his son again, his eyes were wet. “I never told you how damn sorry I am that I was driving … that I didn't do enough …”

Seamus reached out suddenly and gripped his father's frail hand. “Dad, I've been blaming you, and I've been blaming myself. But I wasn't there, and anybody could have been driving that car. You didn't cause that accident. A drunk driver did. Hell, you weren't even speeding.”

“But if I hadn'ta had that beer—”

“That beer wasn't enough to make a difference. I know that. I just needed somebody to blame …” His throat closed again, and he had to wait a moment before he could clear it and continue. “The simple fact is that there are some things that just happen. Some things you just have no control over, and nothing you do will make any difference …” His voice broke and he looked away.

He felt Danny's hand turn over beneath his, and then for the first time in years felt the comforting strength of his father's grip. He squeezed back, and tried to swallow the tears that blurred his vision.

Neither of them spoke for a long time. The sun rose higher, and a large egret strolled slowly across the lawn, ignoring them as it searched for lizards and bugs. A seagull landed on a nearby table, but realizing after a moment that the humans had no food, took flight again.

Seamus spoke finally. “I'm selling the house.”

“Good. Good. Sometimes you need to make a clean break in order to get on with life. It's time you got on, son.”

Seamus nodded. “I've been marking time for too long.”

“That you have.”

“So, when you get out of here, you'll come stay with me, right?” He thought he felt his father's hand tremble.

“Sure,” Danny said. “For a while. Until I find me a job and a place of my own.”

“You don't have to do that, Dad.”

“Yes. I do. We both need to build a life for ourselves, son, and we'll never do that if we're hanging on to each other and reminding each other of the past. You need to find a good woman and start a new family for yourself. And so do I.” A dry laugh escaped him. “The good woman part, not the family part. At my age, I want grandchildren, not babies of my own.”

“You never know.” He turned to look at his dad, and saw an almost-forgotten twinkle in the old man's eyes. To his own surprise, he laughed. God, it felt good to be free to laugh. “Yeah, right,” he said, rising. “I'll stop by again in the next day or two, okay? But there's a case going on right now that I need to keep an eye on. And don't you be bothering those young nurses.”

Seamus walked away, followed by his father's chuckle.

And then he heard Danny say quietly, “I love you, son.”

He made it to his car before the tears reached his cheeks.

C
HAPTER
20

2 Days

C
arey jolted awake, her heart pounding in terror, and stared into the inky black of night. She had been talking to John Otis, had watched him turn with a sad smile and begin the long walk down a narrow corridor from which he would never return. She screamed that he was innocent, she tried to run after him, but no one had listened, and no matter how hard she ran, she hadn't been able to catch him.

Now she was sitting in her bed, drenched with sweat, her heart pounding wildly.

“Carey?” Seamus's sleepy voice came out of the darkness beside her. “What's wrong?”

“Nightmare.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” Part of her wanted to turn toward him and feel the comfort of his arms around her, but she knew she wasn't going to be able to go back to sleep. Less than forty-eight hours remained. She patted his arm reassuringly. “I'm just going to get something to drink.”

“Okay.” His breathing slowed and deepened. He was already back asleep.

She envied him. Easing out from beneath the covers, she rose from the bed and felt around for her bathrobe. It was four in the morning, and her body felt chilled, even though she kept the house at eighty degrees. She found the robe and slipped it on, wrapping it tightly around herself.

The lights were still on downstairs. She felt almost guilty as she remembered the laughing chase through the house that had ended with them both sprawled on her bed. How could she have had fun when a man was about to die?

The question struck her foggy brain as puerile. Of course she had fun. And she would go on living and having fun no matter what happened. She couldn't seriously think that she was going to spend every minute of her life in mourning over something she couldn't stop.

It was like seeing somebody in front of a train, she thought as she pulled out the milk and poured herself a glass. All you could do was try to save them. And if you failed, you couldn't spend the rest of your life trying to atone through self-flagellation. That's what Seamus had been trying to do for the last seven years, and she couldn't see that it had done a damn bit of good.

But all this reasoning did little to ease the panic that kept her heart fluttering. She was afraid to look at the clock, for fear that she would count the minutes that were slipping away.

She stood at the patio doors and looked out into the moonlit night. With the kitchen light off, she could see her garden, frosted in silver, looking deep and mysterious in the quiet of the predawn hours.

She wondered if the governor's office would call this morning, or if she would have to make some kind of threat to get his attention. She wondered if Jamie was out there somewhere, prowling, looking for another victim to make his point. She wondered if John Otis was sleeping tonight, or if he was sitting awake, afraid to relinquish even a few of the last precious minutes of his life to sleep.

The flutters of panic intensified, making her heart pound until she wondered if it would hammer its way out of her chest.

All weekend long, all the law enforcement agencies in Pinellas County had been looking for Jamie Otis. They'd had only minor success. A convenience store operator in Gulfport thought he'd seen him a couple of times. A pizza shop thought they'd sold him pizza once, and maybe a sandwich another time. A grocery clerk in South Pasadena, which bordered Gulfport on the west, thought he'd bought a few groceries there. None of the apartment houses in the area recognized him as a tenant, but that didn't mean much. He could be crashing with a friend. Or, at this time of year, before the snowbirds returned, there were an awful lot of vacant houses where he could be hiding.

Given that the only photo they had of him was five years old, he might look so different now that he could walk the streets right under the noses of the police and never be recognized.

Shit Her heart gave a big lurch, and she turned from the window, wondering how hours could seem at once so long and so short She couldn't wait to get to the station this morning and start working on the governor again. It was their best hope at this point, and a very poor one at that She knew the political climate in this state too well to believe that the governor was going to order a stay based on what they had. But she had to try. Trying was all she could do.

“Can't sleep?”

Seamus must have moved as quietly as a cat, because she didn't hear him until his shadowy figure filled the kitchen doorway.

“I'm having a glass of milk.”

“You're worrying.”

“Better yet,” she admitted, “I'm having a panic attack.”

“Thought so.” He crossed the room and took the milk from her cold hand, putting it on the table. Then he wrapped her snugly in his arms and held her against the warm, solid strength of his chest. “I wish I could help.”

“There's only one thing that can help.”

“I know.” He squeezed her tighter. “Why don't we go for a walk?”

“I'd rather run.”

“Fine. Go get your stuff on.”

“You don't have anything to run in.”

“I can run in my Top-Siders.”

“You'll kill your knees.”

“They died years ago. They'll never notice. Come on, let's go change.”

Ten minutes later they stepped out into the moon-silvered world. The air was calm, humid the way it always was in the early morning. The night was quiet enough that they could hear the whine of individual vehicles over on Roosevelt.

Carey turned and headed the way she always went when running. She ran as fast as she could go, not caring whether she made her full three miles, and Seamus kept pace.

The only sound now was the slapping of their soles on the pavement and their labored breathing.

And the taunts of the demons on their heels.

At ten o'clock, when the governor's office still hadn't called, Carey called them.

“I'm sorry, Ms. Justice,” the press secretary said, “but Governor Howell has a function to attend this evening. He won't be able to call your program.”

“I'm sure he can steal five minutes to talk to me. I have information that John William Otis may be innocent of murder, and I'm sure the governor would prefer to hear about it
before
the execution.”

There was a brief pause. “Ms. Justice, if there had been any evidence to exonerate Otis, it certainly would have turned up by now. All the man's appeals are exhausted. The courts have spoken, and the governor is going to let justice take its course.”

“Well, you tell the governor for me that if he doesn't think a man's life, even a
guilty
man's life, is worth five minutes of his time, then I'm going to use my entire three-hour program this evening to discuss his campaign-funding problems and the recent cuts to the education budget I might even get around to remembering the incident in Ocala six years ago.” When Howell, not yet the governor, had gotten drunk at a State Bar Association meeting and had shoved his hand up her dress. She'd had to sock him in the jaw to get him off.

“What incident in Ocala?”

“Trust me, he'll remember. I've never mentioned it to anyone, but you never know when the urge to talk about it might overwhelm me.” She’d never mentioned it because Howell had been drunk, and then so abjectly apologetic the next morning. However, Otis was important enough that she was willing to use every tool in her arsenal.

“This sounds suspiciously like extortion.”

“No, it’s a statement of fact. He can give me the five minutes so I can discuss the subject I want to, or I will have to discuss something equally attention-getting.”

“But your program isn’t about politics, it’s about the law.”

“Amazing, isn’t it, how politics and the law get tangled up—especially when politicians make the laws?”

There was a sigh from the other end of the phone. “Very well, I’ll give it another shot. But I’m give it another shot. But I’m not making any promises. I’ll call you back in an hour.”

She didn’t have to wait that long; he called back in just under twenty minutes.

“He’ll give you five minutes just after ten o’ clock tonight.”

“Make it 10:10, and give me seven minutes.”

“Ms. Justice—”

“Seven minutes,” Carey repeated. “I’ve got to intro him and cut off any previous callers.”

The press secretary sighed. “Seven minutes. No more.”

“Good. I’ll start promo-ing his call on the air.” Which was a nice way of saying the governor had damn well better not bail out. his call on the air.” Which was a nice way of saying the governor had damn well better not bail out.

Fifteen minutes later she had taped a thirty-second promotion for her show that highlighted the governor’s call. Twenty minutes after that, it was being slotted into the newsbreaks and commercial breaks for the rest of the day.

Bill Hayes decided he was pleased. Carey though it took him a minute or two to make up his mind, especially since she was going to be dealing with the Otis thing again, but having the governor call was a plus that apparently outweighed his other concerns.

“Just tell me,” said to her, “after this guy is executed are you going to keep harping on it? Because if you are....“He shook his head.

“I promise I’ll drop it.” If she didn’t cut her own throat first. “But I want to do a show tomorrow night that runs through the execution, Bill. I want to be on the air until after they flip the switch.”

I don’t know. I’ll have to talk to Ted. That’s his show.”

“He’ll want to do it. Especially if you suggest that the join my show earlier in the evening. We can cohost the execution watch.”

“Jesus.” He rubbed his chin. “I don’t know about his Let me think.”

She let him think while she went out back to have a cigarette. Running this morning had burned her lungs in a way that it hadn’t in a while. She was letter herself go to pot these last few weeks, and she knew it. She had to start running every day again, and give up the cigarettes.

Later. Once she found a way to live with this goddamn mess.

When she poked her head back into Bill’s office, he sighed. “Okay,” he said. “Ted’s agreeable. You cohost from nine until one. The execution is set for 12:01 Wednesday morning, right?”