I met Ben Madrigas at his office. He ushered me into the same seat as before. He again sat in the second guest chair, both of us on the same side of his desk. He expressed his relief that I had been cleared of all charges related to Jonathan Dennis’s murder. I thanked him and expressed my appreciation for his support through the whole ordeal. After a few minutes, the conversation’s inertia died and he looked at me expectantly.
“Have you found out anything about Victor?” he asked.
“Yeah. You could say. That’s why I’m here.”
“Please. Tell me.” He was anxious and hopeful at the same time.
I cleared my throat. Took a fortifying breath. “Do you have any idea how easy it is to buy drugs at a suburban high school? No? Anyone can do it. Even kids that have never done it before. Within ten minutes you can have a bag of whatever you want.” I looked Madrigas in the eye. “We talked to a lot of folks. Friends, teachers, other kids at his school. The stories were all the same. We’re sure that Victor had never done drugs before. This was the first time.”
Ben Madrigas nodded. “Yes. Yes. I knew it.”
“Here’s the thing. When someone has never done drugs before, they’re sort of like an amateur. A lot of kids, especially good kids, like Victor, cut loose right before going away to college. They see it as a chance to try one crazy thing before leaving high school. Some kids drink. Some kids drag race down the neighborhood street. Some kids engage in unwise sexual activity. And some kids get high. It’s a last blowing off of childhood steam. But some of those kids drag racing wrap their cars around a tree. And some of those kids having sex get pregnant or herpes. Or AIDS. And some of those kids who get high overdose. If you’ve never done it before, you don’t know the limits. It’s dangerous…. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”
“Are you telling me that Victor’s overdose was an accident?”
“Look, Mr. Madrigas. I’ll level with you. We’ll never know for sure. But, based on my investigation, that’s my professional conclusion. He wanted to try something he had never done before and he didn’t know the limits.”
Emotion was welling up in Madrigas. I saw tears in his eyes. “An accident. He made a terrible mistake.”
“Right. A terrible mistake. I don’t have enough to overturn the official police report, but you deserve to know.”
“Yes.” He nodded his head. “Yes. I understand. An accident. An unintentional accident.” He gripped my forearm. “Thank you, Mr. Garrity.”
I nodded back at him. “Yeah. You’re welcome.”
I just couldn’t see how the truth about Victor Madrigas would have helped anyone. It would have destroyed Ben, probably for the rest of his life. Perhaps the truth could have spared one of Victor’s siblings from the same pressure that Victor had felt, but I doubted that it was a concern. I had the admittedly subjective sense that Victor’s death had given Ben Madrigas an appreciation for the fragility of parenthood. I hoped that he would go lighter on his other children, grateful that they remained among the living.
I, too, had a new appreciation for the fragility of parenthood. Experiencing Jennifer’s kidnapping during the summer, the scare with Cam’s pregnancy, and Becky’s abduction, I had a very tangible sense that everything that truly mattered could be taken away at any time. If my experience with cancer had taught me anything, it was that life hangs on a delicate, silken thread: some longer than others, filled with beautiful colors, and capable of snapping at any time.
Before I had left the Starbucks, I persuaded DiNardo to delete the e-mail from Victor. He was happy to abdicate the decisions to me. I tore up the printout of the message. Detective Boyd Bryson would never see it. He would have to live with his unresolved one percent. That was too bad.
Cam had an appointment in Winter Park, so I drove over to meet her for an early dinner. We found a table at P. F. Chang’s. Cam had a craving for something spicy, so that’s what we ordered. We talked about possible names for the baby. There were a few decent candidates. James was good. Or Brian.
“What about Michael Junior?” Cam asked, smiling through a mouthful of noodles.
“I don’t think so. Why burden the kid with my baggage from birth?”
“I think it’s nice. A type of immortality.”
The subtext was obvious. When the brain cancer finally did me in, at least mini-me would still be around. That wouldn’t be fair to the kid. He needed to be himself, not a shrunken version of me, God help him.
“Actually,” I said, “I had something else in mind.”
“Oh?”
“I was thinking of William.” I looked down at the table. “William Michael.”
Cam gave me a sad smile. “After your father.” I nodded. Cam grabbed my hand. “I think it’s perfect. William Michael Garrity. Our son.”
We went back to her apartment to watch a movie. While I had reconciled myself to the fact that we would never remarry, if this was the reality of our divorce, I could do worse. I popped in the DVD while Cam sorted through her mail.
“What’s this?” she asked. She held up a greeting-card-size envelope. It had my name on it with her address.
Cam slit it open and took out the contents. She held up an enclosed gift card to Babies “R” Us. “It’s a two-hundred-dollar gift card.” Then she read the greeting card. “Who’s Debbie?”
I stepped over to the kitchen table and took the card. The front depicted a powder-blue baby rattle. Inside, the printed message read, “Enjoy your new bundle of joy.” Scrawled in cursive handwriting were the words: Congrats on your son. -Debbie.
It was from her, of course. I’d have to show it to the cops and the FBI. But it wouldn’t help them find her. The postmark read Tulsa, Oklahoma. She was probably in Seattle by then. Or San Francisco. Or Tokyo. Or Copenhagen. If I was lucky, the cops would still let me spend the two hundred bucks.
I don’t think it was threat. More a case of Debbie thumbing her nose at all of us than anything else. Still, I might spring for an upgraded security system for Cam’s condo. Just in case.
We nuked a bag of microwave popcorn and settled down on the couch. I put my hand on Cam’s expanding belly.
“Did you feel that?” Cam asked.
“I think so.”
“I think the baby just kicked.” She grinned. “Our little soccer player.”
Debbie, despite her ulterior motives, had once given me a very useful piece of advice. She had told me, as part of her manipulation, that I needed to commit to my future. She couldn’t have been more right. Despite my cancer—hell, because of it—I had committed everything—my mind, my body, and my heart—to the future. This child, William Michael Garrity, was going to change my entire life.
And I couldn’t wait.