Split Second
Page 78
Her head jerked up, but she wasn’t there, she looked as though she were a million miles away, and where she was, he thought, was a mad and lonely place—and where was this place? He couldn’t stand to see that look, couldn’t stand that she was so far apart from everyone. From him. He’d known her for only six and a half months, not long at all in the scheme of things, but he realized at that moment he didn’t want her to hide herself from him. He realized in that moment that she was perhaps the one human being with whom he wanted to share his life. He rocked back on his heels. How had this happened? It didn’t matter; it had happened, and he accepted it, relished it. He waited, said nothing.
He was right about the place Lucy was. Nothing around her could take her mind away from the ring for very long. But she hadn’t even thought of the ring during the shoot-out at the Texas Range Bar & Grill, only afterward. Would she have used it to stop Comafield and Kirsten? Was it her duty as an FBI agent to do whatever she could to stop people from getting hurt, getting shot?
What is past is done; it can’t be changed. That was so much a part of her experience, it rarely even needed to be said. How did a person make peace with the power to change the past, even only a few seconds of it?
Should she try to become some kind of hero, undoing every tragedy and accident she came across, giving back a suddenly orphaned child his parents again? If so, how should she live? Out patrolling all the time so she’d have a better chance of using the eight seconds to make things right? Or would she come to use the ring on a whim, playing with people like marionettes to get her way, or simply for sport, for the fun of it?
Wasn’t life about accepting what came down the pike, both the joys and the sorrows, being responsible for what we did ourselves, facing it, making the best of it?
Like facing what had happened tonight?
She thought again of her grandfather, what her grandfather had written about her grandmother’s unhealthy obsession with the ring. Lucy couldn’t remember a single time she’d been with her grandmother and wondered if something was wrong with her. Had her father seen the obsession in his mother? Had he understood it? He’d known about the ring, but had he known what it did? She didn’t think so, but it didn’t matter now; they were all dead, there would be no answers for her.
Twenty-two years her father had protected his mother, and he’d protected her, too.
Twenty-two years he’d known his father’s body was buried in the attic, waiting for the day it no longer mattered.
The strange thing was, it still mattered. She thought it might matter forever. And she wondered again, had the stress of all of that killed him too young?
Her grandfather had believed her father wouldn’t have wanted her to have the ring. But her father hadn’t known the ring could have saved Claudine.
Coop snapped his fingers in her face. “Lucy? Are you with me?”
She looked blank, then quickly focused. “I was thinking about all the chaos—the local cops crowding around us to see for themselves what a mess the feds had made. Everybody knew she was long gone before they cordoned the area.”
That isn’t what you were thinking at all. She’d lied to him, nice and clean, but he decided not to call her on it. He grinned at her. “Yeah, we sure got to enjoy a lot of their jokes. The worst one I heard was from that young rookie—he looked about eighteen?” Coop mimicked him: “‘But I thought you guys were the best in the whole world!’”
Lucy said, “Yeah, well, we’re supposed to be. Serves us right, I guess.”
She hoped she’d never see anything like tonight’s fiasco again. The ring. They’d been so lucky no one was killed. The two civilians Comafield had shot had suffered only minor wounds, thank God.
She said, “This was a learning lesson, and my father always told me learning lessons had to be painful to be worth anything. I’m afraid the price of this one is going to be too high.
“Where does Kirsten go from here, Coop? On a rampage? You know she’s unstable, and now she’s got to be enraged—at us, and at Sherlock in particular. Don’t forget Savich gut-shot her boyfriend. What is she going to do now?”
Coop laid his hand on her shoulder. He could feel the bones. She’d lost more weight. Well, her father had died, and she’d remembered her own father and grandmother dumping her grandfather into a trunk. And now there was the blasted ring.
The bloody ring—he shook his head. He wanted to ask her, but more, he wanted to press her face against his shoulder and comfort her, maybe tell her a joke, but he didn’t do either of these things.
He was right about the place Lucy was. Nothing around her could take her mind away from the ring for very long. But she hadn’t even thought of the ring during the shoot-out at the Texas Range Bar & Grill, only afterward. Would she have used it to stop Comafield and Kirsten? Was it her duty as an FBI agent to do whatever she could to stop people from getting hurt, getting shot?
What is past is done; it can’t be changed. That was so much a part of her experience, it rarely even needed to be said. How did a person make peace with the power to change the past, even only a few seconds of it?
Should she try to become some kind of hero, undoing every tragedy and accident she came across, giving back a suddenly orphaned child his parents again? If so, how should she live? Out patrolling all the time so she’d have a better chance of using the eight seconds to make things right? Or would she come to use the ring on a whim, playing with people like marionettes to get her way, or simply for sport, for the fun of it?
Wasn’t life about accepting what came down the pike, both the joys and the sorrows, being responsible for what we did ourselves, facing it, making the best of it?
Like facing what had happened tonight?
She thought again of her grandfather, what her grandfather had written about her grandmother’s unhealthy obsession with the ring. Lucy couldn’t remember a single time she’d been with her grandmother and wondered if something was wrong with her. Had her father seen the obsession in his mother? Had he understood it? He’d known about the ring, but had he known what it did? She didn’t think so, but it didn’t matter now; they were all dead, there would be no answers for her.
Twenty-two years her father had protected his mother, and he’d protected her, too.
Twenty-two years he’d known his father’s body was buried in the attic, waiting for the day it no longer mattered.
The strange thing was, it still mattered. She thought it might matter forever. And she wondered again, had the stress of all of that killed him too young?
Her grandfather had believed her father wouldn’t have wanted her to have the ring. But her father hadn’t known the ring could have saved Claudine.
Coop snapped his fingers in her face. “Lucy? Are you with me?”
She looked blank, then quickly focused. “I was thinking about all the chaos—the local cops crowding around us to see for themselves what a mess the feds had made. Everybody knew she was long gone before they cordoned the area.”
That isn’t what you were thinking at all. She’d lied to him, nice and clean, but he decided not to call her on it. He grinned at her. “Yeah, we sure got to enjoy a lot of their jokes. The worst one I heard was from that young rookie—he looked about eighteen?” Coop mimicked him: “‘But I thought you guys were the best in the whole world!’”
Lucy said, “Yeah, well, we’re supposed to be. Serves us right, I guess.”
She hoped she’d never see anything like tonight’s fiasco again. The ring. They’d been so lucky no one was killed. The two civilians Comafield had shot had suffered only minor wounds, thank God.
She said, “This was a learning lesson, and my father always told me learning lessons had to be painful to be worth anything. I’m afraid the price of this one is going to be too high.
“Where does Kirsten go from here, Coop? On a rampage? You know she’s unstable, and now she’s got to be enraged—at us, and at Sherlock in particular. Don’t forget Savich gut-shot her boyfriend. What is she going to do now?”
Coop laid his hand on her shoulder. He could feel the bones. She’d lost more weight. Well, her father had died, and she’d remembered her own father and grandmother dumping her grandfather into a trunk. And now there was the blasted ring.
The bloody ring—he shook his head. He wanted to ask her, but more, he wanted to press her face against his shoulder and comfort her, maybe tell her a joke, but he didn’t do either of these things.
