“Good,” said Magary. “The only doctor I know is my orthopedist. I’m a dancer.”
“Ah,” said Petra.
“Well,” said Magary. “I’ll be going. I’ll come back tomorrow. If Eric wakes up, tell him I was here.” She kissed her fingertips, waved them at the ICU door. Smiled at Petra and sashayed down the hall.
Shortly after that, Petra spotted Dr. LaVigne exit an elevator, talking to two gray-haired people. The three of them stopped and continued their conversation out of her earshot.
The man was in his sixties, short, slight, wore a brown sport coat, a white shirt under a tan sweater, and pressed beige slacks. Gray crew cut, steel-rimmed glasses. The woman was tiny—maybe five feet tall, also slender. Blue sweater, gray slacks.
LaVigne said something that made both of them nod. They followed him past Petra, into the ICU. LaVigne emerged a half hour later, ignoring Petra as he hurried by. A quarter hour after that, the gray-haired couple came out.
Petra had been slumped in a horrid orange Naughahyde chair that squeaked every time she exhaled. Trying to chase away her thoughts by reading a magazine. The words might as well have been Swahili.
The woman said, “Detective Connor?”
Petra stood.
“We’re Eric’s parents. This is the Reverend Stahl, and I’m Mary.”
“Bob,” said her husband.
Petra reached for Mary Stahl’s hand, covered it with both of hers. “I’m so sorry, ma’am.”
“They say he’ll be all right.”
Reverend Bob Stahl said, “We’ll be praying.”
“We sure will,” said Petra.
“How did it happen?” Mary Stahl asked her. “If you know.”
“What I know,” said Petra, “is that your son’s a hero.”
What she thought was: It didn’t need to happen.
Stahl had stopped calling in an hour before the confrontation with Shull. She’d tried reaching him twice on the tac band but couldn’t get through. Meaning he’d ignored her. Or switched off his radio.
Why?
She sat with Bob and Mary Stahl for over an hour before the answer took shape.
Learning they lived in Camarillo, where Eric had grown up, a short drive from the beach. Eric had been a good student, lettered in baseball and track, loved junk food, played the trumpet. Surfed on weekends—so her initial guess hadn’t been that off, after all. She suppressed a smile. Suppressing wasn’t hard, thinking of Eric lying there, his abdomen stitched from sternum to navel. Shull’s blade had ravaged his intestines, missed the diaphragm by millimeters . . .
Mary Stahl said, “Eric’s always been a good boy. Never a lick of trouble.”
“Never,” Bob agreed. “Almost too good, if you know what I mean.”
Petra urged them on with a smile.
Mary Stahl said, “I wouldn’t say that, dear.”
“You’re right,” said Reverend Bob. “But you know what I mean.” To Petra: “The P.K. syndrome. Preacher’s kids. It’s hard for them—keeping up the image. Or thinking they need to. We never pressured Eric. We’re Presbyterian.”
As if that explained it.
Petra nodded.
Reverend Bob said, “Still, some kids feel the pressure. My other son did. Put himself under serious pressure and sowed some wild oats. He’s a lawyer, now.”
“Steve lives on Long Island,” said Mary Stahl. “Works at a big firm in Manhattan. He’ll be flying in tomorrow. He and Eric used to surf together.”
“Eric never seemed to be bothered by the pressure,” said her husband. “Really easygoing. I used to joke that he’d better get upset about something, or he wouldn’t have any blood pressure.”
Mary Stahl burst into tears. Petra sat there as Reverend Bob comforted her.
“Pardon me,” she said, when she recovered her composure.
“Nothing to pardon, dear.”
“Eric needs me to be strong. I don’t like making a scene.”
Petra smiled. Smiling seemed the only damn thing she could do. She hoped it came across real because it sure didn’t feel real.
Mary Stahl smiled back. Cried some more. Said, “A few years ago, Eric’s life changed.”
“Mary,” said Bob.
“She’s his partner, dear. She should know.”
Bob’s eyes flickered behind his trifocals. “Yes, you’re right.”
Mary sighed, touched her hair. Sat back. Became rigid, again. “Eric used to have a family, Detective Connor. Back when he was in the Army—in Special Forces. A wife and two children. Heather, Danny, and Dawn. Danny was five and Dawn was two and a half. They were all living in Riyadh. Saudi Arabia. Eric was assigned to the American embassy, he never really told us for what—it’s like that, in Special Forces. You can’t talk about what you do.”