What each of them got from the relationship was a friendly ear,
patience, and genuine sympathy without maudlin excess.
That evening he talked about Jeremy, which was not a subject conducive
to romance even if there had been any prospect of it. Mostly he worried
over the signs of Jeremy’s congenital madness that he’d failed to
realize-admit-were signs.
Even as a child Jeremy had been unusually quiet, invariably preferring
solitude to anyone’s company. That was explained away as simple
shyness. From the earliest age he seemed to have no interest in toys,
which was written off to his indisputably high intelligence and a
too-serious nature. But now all those untouched model airplanes and
games and balls and elaborate Erector sets were disquieting indications
that his interior fantasy life had been richer than any entertainment
that could be provided by Tonka, Mattel, or Lionel.
“He was never able to receive a hug without stiffening a little,” Jonas
remembered. “When be returned a kiss for a kiss, he always planted his
lips on the air instead of your cheek.”
“Lots of kids have difficulty being demonstrative,” Kari insisted. She
lifted the wine bottle from the ice, leaned out, and refilled the glass
he held.
“It would seem like just another aspect of his shyness. Shyness and
self effacement aren’t faults, and you couldn’t be expected to see them
that way.”
“But it wasn’t self-effacement,” he said miserably. “It was an
inability to feel, to care.”
“You can’t keep heating up like this, Jonas.”
“What if Marion and Stephanie weren’t even the first?”
“They must have been.”
“But what if they weren’t?”
“A teenage boy might be a killer, but he’s not going to have the
sophistication to get away with murder for any length of time.”
“What if he’s killed someone since he slipped away from the rehab
hospital?”
“He’s probably been victimized himself Jonas.”
“No. He’s not the victim type.”
“He’s probably dead.”
“He’s out there somewhere. Because of me.”
Jonas stared at the vast panorama of lights. Civilization lay in all
its glimmering wonder, all its blazing glory, all its bright tenor.
As they approached the San Diego Freeway, Interstate 5, Hatch said,
“South. He’s gone south.”
Lindsey flipped on the turn signal and caught the entrance ramp just in
time.
At first she had glanced at Hatch whenever she could take her eyes off
the road, expecting him to tell her what he was seeing or receiving from
the man they were trailing. But after a while she focused on the
highway whether she needed to or not, because he was sharing nothing
with her.
She suspected his silence simply meant he was seeing very little, that
the link between him and the killer was either weak or flickering on and
off.
She didn’t press him to include her, because she was afraid that if she
distracted him, the bond might be broken altogether-and Regina lost.
Hatch continued to hold the crucifix. Even from the corner of her eye,
Lindsey could see how the fingertips of his left hand ceaselessly traced
the contours of the cast-metal figure suffering upon the faux dogwood
cross.
His gaze seemed to be turned inward, as if he were virtually unaware of
the night and the car in which he traveled.
Lindsey that her life had become as surrealistic as any of her
paintings.
Supernatural experiences were juxtaposed with the familiar mundane
world. Disparate elements filled the composition: crucifixes and guns,
psychic visions and flashlights.
In her paintings, she used surrealism to elucidate a theme, provide
insight. In real life, each intrusion of the surreal only further
confused and mystified her.
Hatch shuddered and leaned forward as far as the safety harness would
allow, as if he had seen something fantastic and frightening cross the
highway, though she knew he was not actually looking at the blacktop
ahead. He slumped back into his seat. “He’s taken the Ortega Highway
exit. East. The same exit’s coming up for us in a couple of miles.
East on the Ortega Highway.”
Sometimes the headlights of oncoming cars forced him to squint in spite
of the protection provided by his heavily tinted glasses.
As he drove, Vassago periodically glanced at the unconscious girl in the