“They’re my kids and I’ll get it done for them. Just like you and Daddy did for us. You didn’t have rich relatives help you out. And I’m not going that route, either. You didn’t raise me that way.”
“Just pray on it, Frederica, just pray on it.”
White clicked off and just shook her head. She hadn’t prayed or been to church since Donte had been killed.
And I’m not starting now. Because where was God when Daddy got killed? Where was he when Donte died? Not anywhere near where I fucking live.
An instant later she felt both her pulse and blood pressure rise dramatically.
Shit! She’d started having these panic attacks a while back. It was never to do with work. It was always to do with her kids. And her conversation with her mother had put it all front and center again. She took deep breaths and willed herself to calm.
She’d never talked about this with anyone at work. She didn’t want anyone there to think she couldn’t handle herself, the pressures, no matter where they came from. She had thought about getting help, talking to a counselor, but then decided to try to manage it on her own.
She left her unfinished drink on the counter and went to bed.
And Frederica White didn’t sleep any better than Amos Decker did.
Chapter 25
HE COULDN’T GET THE DAMN image of Lancaster putting the gun in her mouth out of his head. It was like a heartbeat you heard in your eardrum. It just wouldn’t go away and you couldn’t ignore it. Decker tossed and turned in his bed and finally gave up.
He rose, dressed, and headed out. He reached the beach. It was two in the morning. He wasn’t fearful for his personal safety. He was a huge guy and carried a big gun. And anyway, he didn’t give a crap right now.
He walked to the edge of the sand and peered out at the ocean, pounding and whirling and doing its thing, like it always did.
The sky held a scattering of stars, a few smoky wisps of clouds. At the higher altitude he saw the contrails of a jet crossing the Gulf on its way somewhere.
His gaze returned to the earth, and he drew in a deep lungful of salt air.
And he started walking on the sand. It crunched and compacted under his bulk, giving him some purchase. It felt good, for some reason. Loose granules coming together to form something solid. Or was that just wishful thinking from a tired, overwrought mind?
Yeah, that could definitely be the case.
He walked near the water and then plopped down on his butt, pulled his knees up, and wrapped his arms around them.
He and Cassie had taken Molly to Disney World once when she was six. It was the only time he’d been to Florida on something non-football related. The only time other than now.
They’d had fun and emptied their bank account. But it had been worth it. He remembered the character breakfast when Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck and Goofy and their pals had come by. Molly had been terrified at first, hiding behind her father and only peeking out at the costumed characters as they walked past.
But little by little, she had gained confidence, and come out of hiding. She’d held hands with Donald and had her picture taken with Mickey. Cassie had tears in her eyes, and even Decker, who didn’t get any of this at all, picked his daughter up so she could kiss the tall Goofy.
It was a wonderful, if overpriced, trip, and it also felt like a million years ago. And in most respects, it was.
He snagged a shell and looked at it. It was white and gray and cracked and felt fragile in his huge hand.
So, what are you going to do, Decker? You got some dead bodies and a load of stuff to look at, most of which is total bullshit. There will be junk popping up that doesn’t make any sense but I will have to make sense out of it. If I can. And I don’t know if I can. Or if I even want to. And those are two big ifs.
He rose and kept walking.
Out over the waves he conjured images of people who had been important in his life. Unlike his wife and daughter, they were all alive.
There was Melvin Mars, once on death row and now leading a wonderful life with a woman he loved. There was Ross Bogart, now retired, but with whom Decker had solved dozens of cases. And out beyond them both was a young woman who was once a journalist back in Burlington, Ohio, and now was a full-fledged FBI agent, kicking ass and doing good.
He took out his phone and hit speed dial, hoping she would answer.
Alex Jamison did, on the very first ring.
“I was wondering how long it was going to take for you to call me,” she said.
“I’m sorry for calling in the middle of the night.”
“I’m in a car pulling graveyard-shift surveillance, and I can think of no one else I’d rather talk to than you. So, how is it going with your new partner?”