Public Secrets

anything happen to him.”
“You tried to keep that promise. No one blames you, baby.”
But he was wrong, Emma thought. She blamed herself. And always would.

I T WAS NEARING midnight when Lou got home. He’d spent hours at his desk going over each note, every scrap of information. He’d been a cop for too long not to know that objectivity was his best tool. But Darren McAvoy’s murder had become personal. He couldn’t forget the black-and-white photo of the boy, barely out of babyhood. The image had imprinted itself into his brain.
He had an image of the child’s bedroom as well. The blue and white walls, the scatter of toys as yet unpacked, the little overalls neatly folded on a rocking chair, the scuffed sneakers beneath them.
And the hypodermic, still full of phenobarbitol, a few feet away from the crib.
They’d never had a chance to use it, Lou thought grimly. They hadn’t been able to stick it into a vein and put him soundly to sleep. Had they been going to carry him out the window? Would Brian McAvoy have gotten a call a few hours later demanding money for the boy’s safe return?
There would be no call now, no ransom.
Rubbing his gritty eyes, Lou started up the steps. Amateurs, he thought. Bunglers. Murderers. Where the hell were they? Who the hell were they?
What difference does it make?
It made a difference, he told himself as his hands clenched into fists. Justice always made a difference.

The door to Michael’s room was open. The soft sound of his son’s breathing drew him. He could see in the faint moonlight the wreckage of toys and clothes strewn over the floor, heaped on the bed, mounded on the dresser. Usually it would have made him sigh. Michael’s cheerful sloppiness was a mystery to Lou. Both he and his wife were tidy and organized by nature. Michael was a tornado, a rushing wind that hopped from spot to spot and left destruction and chaos behind.
Yes, usually he would have sighed and planned his lecture for the morning. But tonight, the wild disarray brought tears of gratitude to his eyes. His boy was safe.
Picking his way through the rubble, he crept toward the bed. He had to push the traffic jam of Matchbox cars aside to find a place to sit. Michael slept on his stomach, the right side of his face squashed into the pillow, his arms flung out and the sheets in a messy tangle at his feet.
For a moment, then five, then ten, Lou simply sat, studying the child he and Marge had made. The thick dark hair he’d inherited from his mother was tousled around his face. His skin was tanned, but still had the dewy softness of first youth. His nose was crooked, giving character to what might have been a face too pretty for a boy. He had a firm, compact little body that was already beginning to sprout. Bruises and scrapes colored it.
Six years and two miscarriages, Lou thought now. Then finally he and Marge had been able to unite sperm and egg into strong, vital life. And he was the best and brightest of both of them.
Lou remembered Brian McAvoy’s face. The stunned grief, the fury, the helplessness. Yes, he understood.
Michael stirred when Lou stroked a hand over his cheek. “Dad?”
“Yes. I just wanted to say good night. Go back to sleep.”
Yawning, Michael shifted and sent cars clattering to the floor. “I didn’t mean to break it,” he murmured.
With a half-laugh, Lou pressed his hands to his eyes. He didn’t know what it was, and didn’t care. “Okay. I love you, Michael.”
But his son was fully back to sleep.

Chapter Ten

I T WAS BRIGHT , almost balmy. The breeze from the Atlantic ruffled the tall green grass. Emma listened to the secret songs it whispered. Over its music was the low, solemn voice of the priest.
He was tall and ruddy-faced with his white, white hair a shocking contrast to his black robes. Though his voice carried a lilt very similar to her father’s, Emma didn’t understand much of what he was saying. And didn’t want to. She preferred listening to the humming grass and the monotonous lowing of the cattle on the hill beyond the gravesite.
Darren was to have his farm at last, in Ireland, though he would never ride a tractor or chase the lazy spotted cows.
It was a lovely place, with the grass so green it looked like a painting. She would remember the emerald grass and the fresh, vital scent of earth newly turned. She would remember the feel of the air against her face, air so moist from the sea it might have been tears.
There was a church nearby, a small stone