“How long has it been, ma’am?”
Terry shook her head. “That’s all I’m going to say.”
“Do you have any idea why we’re interested in him?”
“Something to do with murder. Which is ridiculous. Kevin’s gentle.” Terry’s voice rose on the last word, and she flinched. Petra had a sense someone had used it as an insult when referring to Kevin.
The gentle one.
“I’m sure he is, Mrs. Drummond.”
“Then why are you hounding us?”
“Not trying to, ma’am. I’m sure you know Kevin better than anyone. You care about him more deeply than anyone. So if he does get in touch, you’ll offer him good advice.”
Terry Drummond cried. “I don’t need this. I don’t need this one bit. If my idiot brother-in-law hadn’t finked on Kevin, I wouldn’t have to be dealing with this—why don’t you look at him? He already killed two people.”
“Randolph?”
“His wife and child, the dirty drunk,” snarled Terry. “Frank was always telling Randy to stop drinking. He nearly ruined us—the lawsuits. It’s only cause Frank’s so smart that he managed to climb back up to the top. So you can see why Randy’d have it in for us.”
“All Randy did was confirm he was Kevin’s uncle,” said Petra. “We’d have found out, anyway.”
“Why?” said Terry. “Why are you harassing my boy? He’s good, he’s kind, he’s smart, he’s gentle, he’d never hurt anyone.”
The woman’s entire body had gone rigid, and Petra shifted gears.
“Did Kevin have a friend named Erna Murphy?”
“Who?”
Petra repeated the name.
“Never heard of her. Kevin never had any—I don’t know his friends.”
Asocial Kevin. The admission made Terry blanch, and she tried to cover: “They move out, go their own way. Creative people especially need their space.” That sounded like a well-practiced rationalization for Kevin’s oddness.
“Yes, they do,” said Petra.
“I paint,” said Terry Drummond. “I started taking art lessons, and now I need my space.”
Petra nodded.
“Please,” said Terry. “Let me be.”
“Here’s my card, ma’am. Think about what I said. For Kevin’s sake.”
Terry faltered, then took it.
“One more thing,” said Petra. “Could you just tell me why Kevin called himself Yuri?”
Terry’s smile was abrupt, blinding, and it made her gorgeous. She touched her breast, as if remembering what it had nourished. “He’s so cute. So clever. I’ll tell you, and then you’ll see how off base you are. Years ago, when Kevin was little—just a little guy, but he was always bright—Frank was telling him about the space race. About Sputnik, which was a big thing when Frank was a little guy. The Russians got there first, showed us Americans how we got soft and lazy. Frank used to talk to Kevin like that all the time. Kevin was Frank’s firstborn and he really spent time with him, took him everywhere. Museums, parks, even the office, everyone called Kevin ‘a little lawyer’ because he talked so great. Anyway, Frank was telling Kevin about the Russians and Sputnik and this Russian astronaut—whatever they call them, cosmo-something . . .”
“Cosmonauts.”
“Cosmonauts beating out the astronauts, the first one was a guy named Yuri something. And Kevin, little as he was, was just listening to Frank, and then when Frank finished, Kevin piped up, ‘Daddy, I want to be first. I want to be a Yuri.’ “
Terry’s tears flowed anew. One long-nailed hand plucked at a rhinestone terrier. “After that, whenever he did something good, got a good grade on a test, anything, I called him Yuri. He liked that. It meant he’d done a good job.”
30
Two messages on my machine.
Allison, two hours ago. Robin, a few minutes later. Both asking me to call back when I had a chance. I phoned Allison’s hotel. She picked up on the fourth ring, sounded out of breath. “It’s you, great. You caught me out the door.”
“Bad time?”
“No, no, excellent time. On my way to another seminar.”
“How’s the conference?”
“Boulder’s pretty,” she said. “Thin air.”
“Thin, hot air?”
She laughed. “Actually, there’ve been some good papers, stuff you might enjoy. PTSD in victims of terrorism, a good survey of depression in kids . . . how’s the case coming along?”