Perfect Match (32 page)

“Nathaniel,” the man tries again.

“No,” Nathaniel sobs. “I don't want to!”

The man turns away. “Judge. May we approach?”

Nathaniel peers over the lip of the box he is sitting in and sees his mother. She's crying too, but then that makes sense. The man wants to hurt her. She must be just as scared of him as Nathaniel is.

Fisher has told me not to cry, because I will get kicked out of the room. B ut I can't control myself-the tears come as naturally as a blush or a breat h. Nathaniel burrows into the wooden chair, all but hidden by the frame of the witness stand. Fisher and Brown walk toward the bench, where the judge is angry enough to be spitting sparks. “Mr. Brown,” he says. “I can't belie ve you insisted on taking this so far. You know very well you didn't need t his testimony, and I'm not going to allow psychological mind games to be pl ayed in my courtroom. Don't even think about making an argument to revisit this.”

“You're right, Judge,” answers that bastard. “I asked to approach because clea rly this child should not have to testify.”

The judge raps his gavel. “This court rules that Nathaniel Frost is not comp etent to stand trial. The subpoena is quashed.” He turns to my son. “Nathani el, you can go on down to your dad.”

Nathaniel bolts out of the chair and down the steps. I think he is going to run to Caleb, in the back of the courtroom-but instead he rushes straight to me. The force of his body sends my chair scooting back a few inches. Nathan iel wraps his arms around my waist, squeezing free the breath I have not eve n noticed I am holding.

I wait until Nathaniel glances up, terrified by the faces in this foreign worl d-the clerk, the judge, the stenographer, and the prosecutor. “Nathaniel,” I t ell him fiercely, drawing his attention. “You were the best witness I could ha ve had.”

Over his head, I catch Quentin Brown's eye. And smile.

When Patrick met Nathaniel Frost, the child was six months old. Patrick's fi rst thought was that he looked just like Nina. His second thought was that, right here, in his arms, was the reason they would never be together. Patric k made an extra effort to get close to Nathaniel, even though sometimes it was painful enough to make him ache for days after a visit. He 'd bring Weed little dolphins to float in the bathtub; Silly Putty; sparkle rs. For years Patrick had wanted to get under Nina's skin; Nathaniel, who'd grown below her heart, surely had something to teach him. So he tagged alo ng on hikes, swapping off with Caleb to carry Nathaniel when his legs got t ired. He let Nathaniel spin in his desk chair at the station. He even babysat for a whole weekend, when Caleb and Nina went away for a relative's wed ding.

And somewhere along the way, Patrick-who'd loved Nina forever-fell just as hard for her son.

The clock hasn't moved in two hours, Patrick would swear to that. Right no w, Nathaniel is undergoing his competency hearing-a procedure Patrick coul dn't watch, even if he wanted to. And he doesn't. Because Nina will be the re too, and he hasn't seen or spoken to her since Christmas Eve. It's not that he doesn't want to. God, he can't seem to think of anything but Nina--the feel of her, the taste of her, the way her body relaxed against hi s in her sleep. But right now, the memory is crystallized for Patrick. Any wo rds that come between them, aftershocks, are only going to take away from tha t. And it isn't what Nina would say to him that worries Patrick-it's what she wouldn't say. That she loves him, that she needs him, that this meant as muc h to her as it did to him.

He rests his head in his hands. Deep inside, there is a part of him that also knows this was a grave error. Patrick wants to get this off his chest, to conf ess his doubts to someone who would understand implicitly. But his confidante, his best friend, is Nina. If she cannot be that anymore . . . and she cannot be his . . . where does that leave them?

With a deep sigh he grabs the phone from his desk and dials an out-of-state number. He wants resolution, a present to give to Nina before he has to take the stand and testify against her. Farnsworth McGee, the police chief in Be lle Chasse, Louisiana, answers on the third ring. “Hello?” he drawls, extend ing the word an extra syllable.

“It's Detective-Lieutenant Ducharme, from Biddeford, Maine,” Patrick says . “What's the latest on Gwynne?”

Patrick can easily envision the chief, with whom he'd met before leaving Be lle Chasse. Overweight by a good fifty pounds, with a shock of Elvis-black hair. A fishing rod propped up in the corner behind his desk; a bumper sticker tacked to the bulletin board: HELL, YES, my neck's RED. “ Y'all got to understand that we move carefully in our jurisdiction. Don't want no hasty mishaps, if you understand my meaning.”

Patrick grits his teeth. “Did you arrest him yet or not?”

“Your authorities are still talkin' to our authorities, Detective. Believe me, you'll be the first to know when something happens.”

He slams down the phone-angry at the idiot deputy, angry at Gwynne, angries t at himself for not taking matters into his own hands when he was in Louis iana. But he couldn't make himself forget that he was a law enforcement off icer, that he was obligated to uphold certain rules. That Nina had said no, even if it was what she really wanted.

Patrick stares at the phone in its cradle. Then again, it is always possible to reinvent oneself. Particularly in the image of a hero.

He's seen Nina do it, after all.

After a moment, Patrick grabs his jacket and walks out of the station, intent on effecting change, rather than waiting for it to steamroll him. It has turned out to be the best day of my life. First, Nathaniel was ruled not competent. Then Caleb asked me to watch Nathaniel after the hearing, a nd overnight, because he is scheduled to do a job up near the Canadian bord er. “Do you mind?” he'd politely said, and I couldn't even form an answer, I was so delighted. I have visions of Nathaniel standing beside me in the k itchen while we cook his favorite dinner; I imagine watching his Shrek vide o twice in a row with a bowl of popcorn bridged between us.

But in the end, Nathaniel is exhausted from the events of the day. He falls a sleep on the couch by six-thirty p.m. and doesn't wake when I carry him upsta irs. In his bed, his hand unfurls on the pillow, as if he is offering me a hi dden gift.

When Nathaniel was born, he waved tight fists in the air, as if he were an gry at the world. They softened moment by moment, until I would nurse him and watch his fingers scrabble at my skin, clutching for purchase. I was m esmerized by that grasp, because of all its potential. Would Nathaniel gro w up to wield a pencil or a gun? Would he heal with his touch? Create musi c? Would his palm be covered with calluses?

Ink? Sometimes I would separate the tiny fingers and trace the lines of his pal m, as if I could truly read his future.

If Nathaniel had been difficult to conceive in the wake of my cyst surgery, he'd been a positively horrendous delivery. Thirty-six hours of labor rend ered me trancelike. Caleb sat on the edge of the bed watching a Gilligan's Island marathon on the hospital TV, something that seemed equally as painfu l as my contractions. “We'll name her Ginger,” he vowed. “MaryAnn.” The vise inside me ratcheted tighter every hour, until agony became a black hole, each pain pulling in another. Over my head Gilligan voted for a chim p as beauty pageant queen, so that he wouldn't offend any of the stranded l adies. Caleb got behind me, propping up my back when I couldn't even find t he energy to open my eyes. “I can't,” I whispered. “It's your turn.” So he rubbed my spine and he sang. “The weather started getting rough . . . th e tiny ship was tossed . . . come on, Nina! If not for the courage of the fear less crew ...”

“Remind me,” I said, “to kill you later.” But I forgot, because minutes afterward Nathaniel was born. Caleb held him up, a being so small he curled like an inchworm in my husband's hands. No t a Ginger or a MaryAnn, but a Little Buddy. In fact, that was what we cal led him for three days, before we decided on a name. Caleb wanted me to ch oose, since he refused to take credit for work that was nearly all mine. S o I picked Nathaniel Patrick Frost, to honor my deceased father, and my ol dest friend.

Now, it is hard to believe that the boy sleeping in front of me was ever so tin y. I touch my hand to his hair, feel it slip through my fingers like time. I su ffered once before, I think. And look at what I got in return. Quentin, who will cross a black cat's path without blinking and walk beneath l adders without breaking a sweat, is strangely superstitious about trials. On m ornings that he's set to go to court, he gets fully dressed, eats breakfast, a nd then takes off his shirt and tie to shave. It's inefficient, of course, but it all goes back to his very first case, when he was so nervous he nearly wal ked out the door with a night's beard. Would have, too, if Tanya hadn't called him back in.

He rubs the shaving lather on his cheeks and jaw, then drags the razor the le ngth of his face. He's not nervous today. In spite of the deluge of media tha t's sure to flood the court, Quentin knows he has a strong case. Hell, he's g ot the defendant committing the crime on videotape. Nothing she or Fisher Car rington do will be able to erase that action from the eyes of the jury. His first trial was a traffic ticket, which Quentin argued as if it were a c apital murder. Tanya had brought Gideon; had been bouncing him on her hip in the back of the courtroom. Once he'd seen that, well, he had to put on a sh ow.

“Damn!” Quentin jumps as he nicks his jaw. The shaving cream burns in the cu t, and he scowls and presses a tissue to the spot. He has to hold it there f or a couple of seconds until it clots, blood welling between his fingers. It makes him think of Nina Frost.

He wads up the tissue and sends it shooting across the bathroom, into the tr ash can. Quentin doesn't bother to watch his perfect shot. Quite simply, whe n you think you're incapable of missing, you don't.

This is what I have tried on so far: my black prosecutor's suit, the one tha t makes me look like Marcia Clark on a tear; the pale rose suit I wore to my cousin's wedding; the corduroy jumper Caleb got me one Christmas that still has the tags on it. I've tried slacks, but that's too mannish, and besides, I can't ever figure out whether you can wear loafers with slacks or if that comes off as too casual. I am angry at Fisher for not thinking of this-dres sing me, the way defense attorneys dress prostitutes-in oversize clothes wit h ugly floral prints, garments handed down from the Salvation Army that neve r fail to make the women look slightly lost and impossibly young. I know what to wear so that a jury believes I'm in control. I have no idea how to dress helpless.

The clock on the nightstand is suddenly fifteen minutes later than it should b e.

I pull on the jumper. It's nearly two sizes too big-have I changed that much? O r did I never bother to try it on in the first place? I hike it up to my waist and pull on a pair of stockings, only to notice that they have a run in the lef t leg. I grab a second pair-but they are ripped too.

“Not today,” I say under my breath, yanking open my underwear drawer, where I keep a reserve pair of stockings for emergencies. Panties and bras spill like foam over the sides of the bureau and onto my bare feet while I searc h for the plastic packet.

But I used that spare pantyhose the day I killed Glen Szyszynski, and since I haven't been working since then, never thought to replace them.

“Goddammit!” I kick the leg of the dresser, but that only hurts my toes and b rings tears to my eyes. I toss out the remaining contents of the drawer, yank the whole thing from its slot in the bureau and throw it across the room. When my legs give out, I find myself sitting on the soft cloud of undergarm ents. I tuck my knees up under the skirt of my jumper, bury my face in my a rms, and cry.

“Mommy was on TV last night,” Nathaniel says as they are driving to the c ourthouse in Caleb's truck. “When you were in the shower.” Lost in his own thoughts, Caleb nearly drives off the side of the road at t his comment. “You weren't supposed to be watching TV.” Nathaniel hunches his shoulders, and immediately Caleb is sorry. So quickly, these days, he thinks he has done something wrong. “It's all right,” Caleb says. He forces his attention to the road. In ten minutes, he'll be at the s uperior court. He can give Nathaniel to Monica in the children's playroom; m aybe she'll have some better answers.

Nathaniel, however, isn't finished yet. He chews the words in his mouth for a bit, then spits them out in one great rush. “How come Mommy yells at me when I pretend a stick is a gun but she was playing with one for real?” Caleb turns to find his son staring up at him, expecting explanations. He p uts on his signal and pulls the truck onto the shoulder of the road. “Remem ber when you asked me why the sky was blue? And how we went to go look it u p on the computer and there was so much science stuff there that neither of us could really understand it? Well, this is kind of the same thing. There 's an answer, but it's really complicated.”

“The man on TV said what she did was wrong.” Nathaniel worries his bottom lip. “That's why today she's gonna get yelled at, right?” Oh, Christ, if only it could be that easy. Caleb smiles sadly. “Yeah. That's w hy.”

He waits for Nathaniel to speak again, and when he doesn't, Caleb pulls the truck back into the line of traffic. He drives three miles, and then Nathani el turns to him. “Daddy? What's a martyr?”

“Where did you hear that?”

“The man, last night, on TV.”

Caleb takes a deep breath. “It means your mother loves you, more than anyt hing. And that's why she did what she did.”

Nathaniel fingers the seam of his seat belt, considering. “Then why is it wro ng?” he asks.

The parking lot is a sea of people: cameramen trying to get their reporters i n their sights, producers adjusting the line feeds from their satellites, a g roup of militant Catholic women demanding Nina's judgment at the hands of the Lord. Patrick shoulders his way through the throngs, stunned to see national newscasters he recognizes by virtue of their celebrity.

An audible buzz sweeps the line of onlookers hovering around the courthouse steps. Then a car door slams, and suddenly Nina is hurrying up the stairs with Fisher's avuncular arm around her shoulders. A cheer goes up from the waiting crowd, along with an equally loud catcall of disapproval. Patrick pushes closer to the steps. “Nina!” he yells. “Nina!” He yanks his badge out, but brandishing it doesn't get him where he needs to be. “Nina!” Patrick shouts again.