“Of course not.”
“They killed his family,” said Mary. “One of the royal family cousins in a fast car—a Ferrari. Heather was walking the children in a stroller on a main street near a big shopping mall. This person came speeding through and hit them, and they were all killed.”
“My God,” said Petra.
“Our grandchildren,” said Mary.
Reverend Bob said, “On top of the trauma, what bothered Eric was the way the government—our government treated him. The killer was never punished. The Saudis claimed Heather had been jaywalking, it was her fault. The Saudis offered Eric a cash payment—one hundred fifty thousand dollars.”
“Fifty thousand for each life,” said Mary.
Bob said, “Eric turned to the Army and the embassy for support. He wanted prosecution. The Army and the State Department told him to accept the money. In the national interest.”
“Eric resigned,” said Mary. “He was different after that.”
“I can understand that,” said Petra.
“I wish he’d talked about it,” said Mary. “To me, his father, anyone. Before that, he could always talk. We had an open family. Or at least I thought so.”
She shook her head.
Bob said, “We did, darling. Something of that magnitude, you can’t prepare for.”
“You’ve been working with him how long?” Mary asked Petra.
“A few months.”
“I’ll bet he doesn’t talk much, does he?”
“No, ma’am.” Petra flashed on something: The stricken look in Eric’s eyes after the interview with Uncle Randolph Drummond. Eric had taken an instant dislike to the man. A drunk who’d crashed and killed his family.
Mary Stahl said, “Now, this. I don’t know what this is going to do to him.”
“He’ll heal up,” said Bob. “Who knows, maybe this will get him to open up.”
“Maybe,” said Mary, doubtfully.
“The main thing, right now, is that he heals up, dear.”
“He gets so depressed,” said Mary. “We’ve got to do something.” To Petra: “Are you a mother?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Maybe one day,” said Mary. “Maybe one day you’ll know.”
She stayed with the Stahls for another three hours. Day broke, and the parents left for an hour to make personal calls.
Petra entered the ICU.
A nurse said, “He’s doing a lot better, Detective. Amazingly better, actually. Vitals are good, temperature’s just slightly elevated. He must’ve been in really great shape.”
“Yup,” said Petra.
“Cops,” said the nurse. “We love you guys, hate when this happens.”
Petra said, “Thanks—can I go in?”
The nurse glanced through the glass. “Sure, but gown up, and I’ll show you how to wash your hands.”
Clad in a yellow paper gown, she approached Eric’s bed. He was draped from neck to toe tip, connected to multiple IV lines and catheters, backed by a bank of high-tech gizmos.
Eyes closed, mouth slightly parted. Oxygen tubes running up his nose.
So vulnerable. Young.
With the gut wound obscured, he looked okay. If you blanked out the apparatus, he could be sleeping peacefully.
She placed a gloved hand on his fingers.
His color was better. Still pale—pale was his normal state—but none of that creepy green around the edges.
“You had an adventure,” she whispered.
Eric kept breathing evenly. His vitals remained steady. No dramatic movie-of-the-week response to the sound of her voice. He couldn’t hear her. Which was fine.
Not a bad-looking guy, when you got past his personality.
She’d thought him weird, now she knew him as another victim.
Life was like a prism; what you saw depended on how you turned the glass.
His mother described him as depressed. Sometimes depressed people duked it out with the police, wanting to end it all but lacking the courage and hoping to force the police’s hand.
Suicide by cop, they called it.
Had Eric chosen suicide by perp?
Experienced guy like that—all that Special Forces experience—how had he ended up getting shanked by a ninny like Shull?
It made you wonder.
She looked down at him.
Not a bad-looking guy at all. Kind of handsome, really. She tried to picture him younger, tan, easygoing as he rode the waves.
“Eric,” she said, “you’re going to pull out of this.”
No response. Just like when they rode together.
Petra stroked his fingers, feeling warmth through the latex of her gloves.