He tried but failed to keep his bitterness from showing. She was playing word games with someone she’d never met who lived on the other side of the world. His world was crumbling. It seemed to him an unfair imbalance. After all, everything he did, he did to try and win her approval, to elevate her regard of him, to make their godawful life a little better.
r /> Of course it wasn’t her fault that he was having a bad day. She didn’t deserve being the scapegoat for it. But he felt defeated and resentful, so rather than saying something that would set off a quarrel, he left his briefcase there in the den where he’d found her and went into Lanny’s room.
The boy’s eyes were closed. Tom wondered if they simply hadn’t reopened after blinking, or if Lanny was actually sleeping. Did he dream? If so, what did he dream about? It was masochistic to ask himself these questions. He would never have answers to them.
He continued to stare down at the motionless boy and recollected something that had happened shortly after Lanny’s birth, when he and Janice were still trying to come to terms with the extent of his limitations and how they would impact their future. A Catholic priest had called on them. He came to comfort and console, but his platitudes about God’s will had upset and angered them. Within five minutes of his arrival, Tom had showed him to the door.
But the cleric had said one thing that had stuck with Tom. He’d said that some believed impaired individuals like Lanny had a direct line to God’s mind and heart, that although they couldn’t communicate with us here on earth, they communed constantly with the Almighty and his angels. Surely it was another banality that the priest had taken from a how-to-minister-to-the-flock manual. But sometimes Tom wanted desperately to believe it.
Now he bent down and kissed Lanny’s forehead. “Put in a good word for me.”
When he entered the kitchen, Janice, who had prepared a meal for him, served the plate at the single place setting on the table, saying apologetically, “I didn’t know when you’d be home, or if you would be, so I didn’t cook.”
“This is fine.” He sat down at the table and spread the napkin over his lap. Although the shrimp salad, buttered French bread, and sliced melon had been artfully arranged on the plate, he had no appetite.
“Would you like a glass of wine?”
He shook his head. “I’ve got to go back to the office for a while. I should be there if something breaks.”
Janice sat down in the chair across from him. “You look done in.”
“I feel done in.”
“Nothing new on the kidnapping?”
“Nothing, and everyone including the dogcatcher is out looking for them. Or their bodies.”
Janice crossed her arms over her middle and hugged herself. “Don’t even say it.”
He placed his elbow on the table and leaned his head into his hand, rubbing his eye sockets with his fingers. Janice reached across the table and covered the hand resting beside his water glass.
“I don’t think he’ll kill them, Tom.”
“Then why did he take them?”
“Ransom?”
“No call. We’re monitoring the father-in-law’s home phone. He’s had a lot of concern calls from acquaintances, but nothing else. Same on his cell phone.” He picked up his fork and thoughtfully tapped it against the rim of his plate, but he didn’t take a bite of food. “I don’t think this is about ransom.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Coburn doesn’t fit the profile of a guy who shoots up his place of employment, or an office, or a school.”
“How so?”
Realizing he wouldn’t be eating, he set down his fork and tried to organize the thoughts that had been bouncing around inside his head. “Typically those guys are making a final and defiant stand against the dirty, rotten world and everybody in it who’s wronged them. By golly, they’re going to make a statement that will have a memorable impact, then go out in a blaze of glory.
“When they don’t commit suicide at the scene, they usually go home, kill their wife and kids, their parents, their in-laws, whoever, then kill themselves.” He lowered his hands and looked at Janice. “They may hold some hostages for a while before either killing them or releasing them. But they typically don’t disappear with them.”
“I understand what you’re saying, but…” She gave a small shake of her head. “I’m sorry, Tom. I don’t know how to respond because I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“What I’m getting at is that Lee Coburn isn’t your textbook mass murderer.”
“Is there such a thing?”
“Of course there are exceptions, but he doesn’t fit the accepted profile.” He hesitated, then added, “Even Hamilton picked up on it.”
“Clint Hamilton? I thought he was in Washington now.”