“Once upon a time you cut open a cantaloupe and it was full of maggots,” she said. “That happened, you know it did. Why can’t you believe this happened?”
“Even if I did, I couldn’t stop. Don’t you see that?”
“What I see is that the man sitting in our living room was right about one thing: it’s over. Frank Peterson is dead. Terry is dead. You’ll get back on active duty, and we . . . we can . . . could . . .”
She trailed off, because what she saw in his face made it clear that going on would be useless. It wasn’t disbelief. It was disappointment that she could possibly believe moving on was an option for him. Arresting Terry Maitland at the Estelle Barga ballfield had been the first domino, the one that started a chain reaction of violence and misery. And now he and his wife were having an argument over the man who wasn’t there. All his fault, that’s what he believed.
“If you won’t stop,” she said, “you need to start carrying your gun again. I know I’ll be carrying the little .22 you gave me three years ago. I thought it was a very stupid present at the time, but I guess you were right. Hey, maybe you were clairvoyant.”
“Jeannie—”
“Do you want eggs?”
“I guess so, yeah.” He wasn’t hungry, but if all he could do for her this morning was eat her cooking, then that was what he would do.
She got the eggs out of the fridge and spoke to him without turning around. “I want us to have police protection at night. It doesn’t have to be from dusk to dawn, but I want somebody making regular passes. Can you arrange that?”
Police protection against a ghost won’t do much good, he thought . . . but had been married too long to say. “I believe I can.”
“You should tell Howie Gold and the others, too. Even if it sounds crazy.”
“Honey—”
But she rode over him. “He said you or any of them. He said he’d leave your guts strewn in the desert for the buzzards.”
Ralph thought of reminding her that, while they did see the occasional buzzard wheeling in the sky （especially on garbage day）， there wasn’t much in the way of desert around Flint City. That alone was suggestive that the whole encounter had been a dream, but he kept quiet on this, as well. He had no intention of winding things up again just when they seemed to be winding down.
“I will,” he said, and this was a promise he meant to keep. They needed to put it all out on the table. Every bit of the crazy. “You know we’re having the meeting at Howie Gold’s office, right? With the woman Alec Pelley hired to look into Terry’s trip to Dayton.”
“The one who stated categorically that Terry was innocent.”
This time what Ralph thought of and didn’t say （there were oceans of unspoken conversation in long marriages, it seemed） was, Uri Geller stated categorically that he could bend spoons by concentrating on them.
“Yes. She’s flying in. Maybe it will turn out that she’s full of shit, but she worked with a decorated ex-cop in that business of hers, and her procedure seemed sound enough, so maybe she really found something in Dayton. God knows she sounded sure of herself.”
Jeannie began to crack eggs. “You’d go on even if I’d come downstairs and found the burglar alarm had been shorted out, the back door was standing open, and his footprints were on the tile. You’d go on even then.”
“Yes.” She deserved the truth, unvarnished.
She turned to him then, the spatula held high, like a weapon. “May I say that I think you’re being sort of a fool?”
“You can say anything you want, but you need to remember two things, honey. Whether Terry was innocent or guilty, I played a part in getting him killed.”
“You—”
“Hush,” he said, pointing at her. “I’m talking, and you need to understand.”
She hushed.
“And if he was innocent, there’s a child-killer out there, running free.”
“I understand that, but you may be opening the door on things far beyond your ability to understand. Or mine.”
“Supernatural things? Is that what you’re talking about? Because I can’t believe that. I will never believe that.”
“Believe what you want,” she said, turning back to the stove, “but that man was here. I saw his face, and I saw the word on his fingers. MUST. He was . . . dreadful. It’s the only word I can think of. Having you not believe me makes me want to cry, or throw this skillet of eggs at your head, or . . . I don’t know.”