14

After lunch, Booker and Erin took a walk along the shore. As the wind buffeted them and waves crashed against the rocks, occasionally spraying them with a fine mist, they talked about anything and everything. It was stream of consciousness. Time passed without Booker even noticing. When he did look at his watch, he saw that it was going on six.

“I’m freezing,” he said, shivering as he crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you say we find ourselves some hot chocolate?”

They climbed the graveled path up to the Hofbrau, a small chaletlike building perched at the edge of the King’s Bay that served both alcohol and food. Finding a table near one of the three fireplaces, Booker spread the menu between them. “Or,” he said, glancing down the row of drinks, “we could have Irish coffee.”

“As long as it comes with whipped cream,” said Erin, “it’s fine with me.”

Booker stepped up to the bar to place the order. While he was waiting for one of the bartenders to notice him, he saw an old drinking buddy of his, Clark Miller, come through the front door. Turning his back, he ordered the Irish coffees with extra whipped cream, and then slipped back to the table, keeping his face averted. But as soon as he pulled out his chair, Clark spotted him and began to head over. The look on his face, part sympathy, part eagerness, told Booker that he’d heard the news about his father.

“You know, Erin, there’s something I need to tell you,” Booker began, realizing how weird it would look if he didn’t break it to her before Clark did.

She switched her attention from the menu to Booker. “Sounds serious.”

“It is. It’s about my dad. I didn’t say anything before because—”

“Hey, Booker,” said Clark, reaching the table and slapping him on the back. “Long time, man.”

“Yeah, long time.”

Smiling at Erin, Clark said, “Who’s the lovely lady?”

“A friend,” said Booker, introducing them.

Clark shook her hand. “Hey, man, I was so sorry to hear about your dad. It’s all over the news. I mean, fuck. What the hell happened?”

“What about your father?” asked Erin.

“You haven’t heard?” said Clark, glancing over his shoulder at the group he came in with, giving them a nod to tell them that he’d be right back. “He was out for a morning run and someone shot him. Unreal. Have the police found the guy who did it? Man, I am so sorry. Your family must be devastated.”

“Your father … is dead?” said Erin, her eyes almost doing pinwheels. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s kind of … um … I didn’t want to—”

“Jesus. What’s wrong with you?”

Before he could come up with a reasonable answer, the believable excuse, Erin was up and on her way out of the bar. “Hey, wait,” he called after her.

A waiter set the Irish coffees on the table in front of him, momentarily blocking his line of sight. “Shove off, okay?” he said to Clark.

“Sure, man. Again, sorry.”

Booker wanted to go after her, but instinct told him to hang back. He watched her take out her cell phone and tap in a number. She stood in front of the reservation desk, speaking heatedly to the person on the other end of the line, so caught up in the conversation that she never even glanced Booker’s way. Waiting for her to finish and hopefully return to the table, he began to form a question: Why had his father’s death, a man Erin barely knew, caused such a huge reaction in her? Sure, she had a right to wonder about Booker’s priorities because he hadn’t said anything up front, but her pacing, the almost frightened look in her eyes … what the hell was that about?

*   *   *

3:14 A.M. With only a small table lamp burning, the therapist, Dr. James Stratton, sat on the leather couch in his home office. Having been awakened at such an early hour by a madman banging on his front door, he wore a bathrobe over his pajamas. His hair was rumpled, his eyes puffy, and gray stubble was visible on his fleshy cheeks.

Archibald sat in his usual chair across from the couch, shoes flat on the floor, hands resting in his lap. He’d been coming to see Stratton on and off for sixteen years. He stared straight ahead at nothing in particular. “Thank you for seeing me,” he began. Not that he’d given the man much of a choice. “I’m here because I need to make a decision.”

“All right,” said Stratton. “Go on.”

“I’m thinking about doing something I probably shouldn’t. Something, for lack of a better word, that’s wrong.”

“And you want me to talk you out of it.”

“No, not really.”

Stratton seemed confused. “Perhaps you’d like to tell me a little more about this decision.”

“I’m not sure I should. Or that I want to.”

The therapist tapped a pen against his chin, trying, but failing, to hide his exasperation. “All right. Let’s approach it another way. Can you tell me why you want to do it?”

That was an easy one. “Love.” When Stratton merely nodded, Archibald felt like he should say something more. “For the people I love.”

“Your family?”

“I can’t let them down again. I have to protect them. The mess they’re in, it’s my fault. My failure.”

“And why is that?”

His hand crawled up the front of his shirt. “Because, and I know this may sound somewhat grandiose, I see more clearly than they do. It’s all moot now. Something terrible happened and I could have stopped it, but … I didn’t. I’ll have to live with that until the day I die. What I can’t live with is … would be … if I allowed … there’s someone … like I said, I have to be the one who helps them.” This was harder than he thought it would be.

Shifting his position, Stratton said, “It’s hard for me to comment when I don’t have any specifics.”

“Yes, okay. Okay.” He touched the top of his head to make sure what was left of his hair was in its proper place. “I think the police may be about to target someone I care about.”

“Target?”

“Arrest. Charge with murder.”

The light dawned in Stratton’s eyes. “Ah, so this is about your friend’s death. Jordan Deere.”

Archibald gave a tight nod.

“You think someone in his family may be responsible.”

“Did I say that?” he snapped. “You’ll never hear me say that.”

“No, of course—”

“I try to understand myself, you know? What makes me tick? What makes others do what they do. The unexamined life—and all that.”

“And I find that an admirable quality.”

“I’ve always thought of myself as a good person. Helpful. Loyal. Giving.”

Stratton nodded.

“So explain this to me,” he continued, trying to drill down on why he’d come. “Are some people born evil and others born good? Is it physically impossible for some to be faithful to their partners? Do people vary in how deeply they feel? If so, are the ones who feel more deeply better human beings, or are they, by some odd twist of fate, cursed? Most importantly, does anybody ever really change?”

“I think,” said Stratton, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees, “that those are hard questions. I also think we’ve moved into the realm of moral philosophy here. I can give you my opinion, but that’s all it would be.”

Archibald made a keep-talking gesture with his hand.

“Well, for one thing, I don’t believe in fate, in the classical sense of predetermination. Some might say that temperament, our inborn gifts, shape who we become. I would agree with that—to the extent that we act on those gifts. I don’t view the world as a conflict between good and evil, in the metaphysical sense. People aren’t black and white. Marriage is always a negotiation. Humans make mistakes, and the reasons are complex. As for those who feel more deeply—and I do think that’s a viable category—I think it can be both a gift and a curse. And finally, do humans ever really change? Archibald, if I didn’t believe change was possible, I would never have devoted my life to psychotherapy. Of course we can change.”

“For good or ill.”

“Yes, either way I suppose.”

Archibald reached into his pocket and removed a coat button, the one Beverly had placed in his hand before he left the lake house. He tried to recall the words from the first chapter of Genesis: The woman … she did give me from the tree and I did eat. Beverly had explained what needed to happen, and that he was the only one who could do it. Brushing his thumb across the smooth surface, he whispered to himself.

“I’m sorry,” said Stratton. “I didn’t catch that.”

“I said, ‘cleverness and stupidity.’”

“Ah, yes. Your two behavioral poles. While I’m not sure that’s an entirely accurate assessment, let me make a guess. You think what you’re about to do is … stupid. That it lacks moral intelligence.”

“I guess we’ll know tomorrow,” said Archibald. He stood and reached for his coat.

“You’re leaving?”

“You’ve helped me, Doctor. And now, I’ve got somewhere I need to be.”