We drove toward GW Medical Center, where Ned Mahoney was in surgery. While Bree called Chief Michaels and filled him in, I prayed for Ned, and for Delilah Franks, Cathy Dupris, Ginny Krauss, Alison Dane, and Patsy Mansfield, hoping to God that they’d come to find peace with what had happened to them. Somehow, I knew Gretchen Lindel was going to be all right.
I thought about the four mannequins the HRT team had found in the shed, all lying on electric heating pads that made them look like real people on the infrared scopes. I thought about the FBI agent who’d been closest to the first thaa-wumph! in the basement of Edgars’s house, which he’d said held computers and large editing screens.
He said a fireball had gone off in there, fueled by an accelerant, and that, together with the explosion upstairs, had burned the mansion to the ground. Edgars had thought of almost everything; it was as if he’d been certain we’d find him at some point and had planned for it.
Bree ended her call with the chief.
“Michaels says, ‘Well done,’ and you’re on paid leave pending an investigation again.”
“Is it possible to be double-suspended?”
“You’re going to be cleared, Alex. Pratt was going to kill Gretchen Lindel. There are multiple witnesses. You had to shoot him. And Edgars effectively shot himself.”
“I know.”
“Then why the long face?”
I hesitated, wondering if I was still suffering from the effects of the gas, but then I said, “I’ve decided not to go back even if I am cleared.”
She was quiet for a while. “What would you do? Just counseling?”
“No, I’ve got some big ideas. And the best part about them? They all include you.”
When I glanced over at her, she was smiling. “That makes me happy.”
I reached over and squeezed her hand. “Me too.”
CHAPTER
112
TEN DAYS AFTER we reunited his daughter with her family, Alden Lindel passed away in his sleep, a happy man.
I heard the news from his wife on a chill, windy Saturday afternoon as I crutched after my family on the east side of Capitol Hill. Mrs. Lindel was grief-stricken, of course, but also relieved. With Gretchen at his side constantly since she’d returned home, Lindel had found grace, and he’d passed holding his daughter’s hand and his wife’s. I promised Eliza that I would be at the funeral, and I pocketed my phone.
Ali was dancing around. “C’mon, Dad. I’m going to be late.”
“Go on in, then,” Nana Mama said, shooing him toward the door of Elephants and Donkeys, a relatively new pub with a poster in the window advertising the District Open Darts Championship.
Ali yanked open the door like he owned the place and went in.
Bree started laughing.
“What’s so funny, young lady?” my grandmother demanded.
Bree waved a hand. “I just never thought I’d see the day when you’d be attending a darts tournament in a bar, Nana.”
“I’m not done growing yet, dear,” she said good-naturedly and winked.
We followed her inside and found Sampson, Billie, and Krazy Kat Rawlins having drafts at the bar. I helped Ali sort through the release forms and got a number to pin on the back of his shirt.
“They have a practice board,” he said. “I’ll be there.”
“You’ve been practicing every night for two hours.”
He frowned, said, “Repetition is the mother of skill, Dad.”
“Yeah, okay, I’ve heard that too,” I said, surrendering. “Go on.”