He closed his eyes and tried to summon up exactly what he’d seen in those last few seconds of Terry’s life. The blond anchor’s unlovely sneer as she looked at the blood on her fingers. The hypodermic sign reading MAITLAND TAKE YOUR MEDICINE. The boy with the bad lip. The woman leaning forward to give Marcy the finger. And the burned man who’d looked as if God had taken a giant eraser to most of his features, leaving only lumps, raw pink skin, and holes where a nose had been before the fire had put tattoos on his face far fiercer than those on his hands. And what Ralph saw in this moment of recall was not a bandanna on that man’s head but something far bigger, something that hung all the way down to his shoulders like a headdress.
Yes, that something could have been a shirt . . . but even if it was, did that mean it was the shirt? The one Terry had been wearing in the security footage? Was there a way to find out?
He thought there was, but he needed to enlist Jeannie, who was far more computer-savvy than he was. Also, the time might have come to stop thinking of Howard Gold and Alec Pelley as enemies. Maybe we’re all on the same side here, Pelley had said last night as he stood on the Maitland stoop, and maybe that was true. Or could be.
Ralph put his car in gear and headed home, pushing the speed limit all the way.
3
Ralph and his wife sat at the kitchen table with Jeannie’s laptop in front of them. There were four major TV stations in Cap City, one for each of the networks, plus Channel 81, the public access outlet that ran local news, city council meetings, and various community affairs （such as the Harlan Coben speech where Terry had appeared as an unlikely guest star）。 All five had been at the courthouse for Terry’s arraignment, all five had filmed the shooting, and all had at least some footage of the crowd. Once the gunfire erupted, all the cameras turned to Terry, of course—Terry bleeding down the side of his face and pushing his wife from the line of fire, then collapsing into the street when the killshot struck him. The CBS footage went entirely blank before that happened, because that was the camera Ralph’s bullet had struck, shattering it and blinding its operator in one eye.
After they’d looked at each clip twice, Jeannie turned to him, her lips pressed tightly together. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.
“Run the Channel 81 stuff again,” Ralph said. “Their camera was every whichway once the shooting started, but they got the best crowd stuff before.”
“Ralph.” She touched his arm. “Are you all ri—”
“Fine, I’m fine.” He wasn’t. He felt as if the world were tilting, and he might soon slide right off the edge. “Run it again, please. And mute it. The reporter’s running commentary is distracting.”
She did as he asked, and they watched together. Waving signs. People yelling soundlessly, their mouths opening and closing like fish out of water. At one point the camera panned rapidly across and down, not soon enough to show the man who had spit in Terry’s face, but in time to show Ralph tripping the troublemaker, making it look like an unprovoked attack. He watched as Terry helped the spitter to his feet （like something out of the fucking Bible, Ralph remembered thinking）， and then the camera returned to the crowd. He saw the two bailiffs—one plump, the other lean—doing their best to keep the steps clear. He saw the blond anchor from Channel 7 getting to her feet, still looking with disbelief at her bloody fingers. He saw Ollie Peterson with his newspaper sack and a few clumps of red hair sticking out from beneath his watch cap, still a few seconds from being the star of the show. He saw the boy with the cleft lip, the Channel 81 cameraman pausing his shot long enough to register Frank Peterson’s face on the boy’s tee-shirt before panning further—
“Stop,” he said. “Freeze it, freeze it right there.”
Jeannie did so, and they looked at the picture—slightly blurred from the cameraman’s rapid movement as he tried to get a little bit of everything.
Ralph tapped the screen. “See this guy waving the cowboy hat?”
“Sure.”
“The burned man was standing right next to him.”
“All right,” she said . . . but in a strange, nervous tone of voice Ralph did not remember ever hearing from her before.
“I swear to you he was. I saw him, it was like I was tripping on LSD or mescaline or something, and I saw everything. Run the other ones again. This is the best one of the crowd, but the FOX affiliate wasn’t too bad, and—”
“No.” She hit the power button and closed the laptop. “The man you saw isn’t in any of these, Ralph. You know it as well as I do.”