the truck. He had a way of coming close all of a sudden. It felt good when that happened, but it didn’t happen often, and it never seemed to last. "Yes," he admitted. "Either."
"And didn’t you once tell me most depressed people feel the shittiest in the morning?" he asked.
"A lot of them."
"That’s because when they get out of bed, they’re still exactly who they were the night before. But this guy was having his brain cut up. Anything could have happened."
There was real simplicity and real logic in what Billy was saying. Snow had been trying to break free, to leave his life behind and begin anew. With suicide always an option, wouldn’t he at least wait to see how surgery turned out for him? As an inventor, wouldn’t the chance to reinvent himself be intoxicating? "That’s a very interesting way to look at it," Clevenger said. "You may be right." His gut told him to move on. He really didn’t want Billy dwelling on murder or suicide. "Back to Casey," he said. "You really have no idea why she’s so worried about you with other girls?"
"I’ve been hanging out," Billy said. "It’s nothing like she thinks." He stared straight ahead again.
That was about as far as Clevenger figured he was going to get. "We can talk later," he said.
"Yeah," Billy said. "Later’s good."
Chapter 6
5:20 P.M.
Billy stayed at home just long enough to grab some food — then took off to meet a few friends. That left Clevenger in the two-thousand-square-foot loft they shared, its wall of towering, arched windows framing the Chelsea night, dominated by the river of headlights flowing over the upper deck of the Tobin Bridge into Boston, steam from a nearby twenty-story smokestack billowing through its green, iron skeleton.
Beneath the bridge were two square miles of tenement houses, factories and brick row houses that had played host to wave after wave of immigrants who rolled into Chelsea like it was a second womb — enrolling their children in her schools, registering for benefits at the Social Security Administration on Everett Avenue, learning to speak the language, getting their first jobs in her gas stations and liquor stores and warehouses — then being reborn, moving up and out to more affluent towns like Nahant, Marblehead and Swampscott.
Clevenger turned on the computer he kept on an antique pine desk facing the windows. He wanted to do his own search on John Snow, Collin Coroway and Snow-Coroway Engineering. And he wanted to find out what he could about Grace Baxter. While he waited for it to reboot, he walked to Billy’s doorway and looked into his room. His weight bench and barbells sat in the middle of it. A mattress was pushed against one wall. A couple hundred CDs and DVDs were stacked along another. Clothes spilled out of his closet. He smiled at a photograph taped to the closet door — him and Billy, the day Billy had moved in.
Most of the time, parenting a troubled teen — even one as tough as Billy — felt surprisingly good. It structured Clevenger’s existence, the way being responsible for another human being can. And Clevenger’s psychiatric training helped him deal with the fact that life with Billy could make him feel isolated and angry, because it reminded him of his own hellish adolescence, his own sadistic father.
The part of parenting Clevenger was least equipped for was the fact that raising a teenager really was isolating. You focused a lot of your time and energy on one other person — a person who wasn’t your friend, who wasn’t supposed to help you through your bad days or bear your lousy moods.
Clevenger was finding out how alone you could feel in the room next to your child, even when you loved that child as much as he loved Billy. And he couldn’t make the loneliness go away in the easy ways he once had.
Take women. Clevenger had had love affairs during the past two years, including an on-again, off-again
"And didn’t you once tell me most depressed people feel the shittiest in the morning?" he asked.
"A lot of them."
"That’s because when they get out of bed, they’re still exactly who they were the night before. But this guy was having his brain cut up. Anything could have happened."
There was real simplicity and real logic in what Billy was saying. Snow had been trying to break free, to leave his life behind and begin anew. With suicide always an option, wouldn’t he at least wait to see how surgery turned out for him? As an inventor, wouldn’t the chance to reinvent himself be intoxicating? "That’s a very interesting way to look at it," Clevenger said. "You may be right." His gut told him to move on. He really didn’t want Billy dwelling on murder or suicide. "Back to Casey," he said. "You really have no idea why she’s so worried about you with other girls?"
"I’ve been hanging out," Billy said. "It’s nothing like she thinks." He stared straight ahead again.
That was about as far as Clevenger figured he was going to get. "We can talk later," he said.
"Yeah," Billy said. "Later’s good."
Chapter 6
5:20 P.M.
Billy stayed at home just long enough to grab some food — then took off to meet a few friends. That left Clevenger in the two-thousand-square-foot loft they shared, its wall of towering, arched windows framing the Chelsea night, dominated by the river of headlights flowing over the upper deck of the Tobin Bridge into Boston, steam from a nearby twenty-story smokestack billowing through its green, iron skeleton.
Beneath the bridge were two square miles of tenement houses, factories and brick row houses that had played host to wave after wave of immigrants who rolled into Chelsea like it was a second womb — enrolling their children in her schools, registering for benefits at the Social Security Administration on Everett Avenue, learning to speak the language, getting their first jobs in her gas stations and liquor stores and warehouses — then being reborn, moving up and out to more affluent towns like Nahant, Marblehead and Swampscott.
Clevenger turned on the computer he kept on an antique pine desk facing the windows. He wanted to do his own search on John Snow, Collin Coroway and Snow-Coroway Engineering. And he wanted to find out what he could about Grace Baxter. While he waited for it to reboot, he walked to Billy’s doorway and looked into his room. His weight bench and barbells sat in the middle of it. A mattress was pushed against one wall. A couple hundred CDs and DVDs were stacked along another. Clothes spilled out of his closet. He smiled at a photograph taped to the closet door — him and Billy, the day Billy had moved in.
Most of the time, parenting a troubled teen — even one as tough as Billy — felt surprisingly good. It structured Clevenger’s existence, the way being responsible for another human being can. And Clevenger’s psychiatric training helped him deal with the fact that life with Billy could make him feel isolated and angry, because it reminded him of his own hellish adolescence, his own sadistic father.
The part of parenting Clevenger was least equipped for was the fact that raising a teenager really was isolating. You focused a lot of your time and energy on one other person — a person who wasn’t your friend, who wasn’t supposed to help you through your bad days or bear your lousy moods.
Clevenger was finding out how alone you could feel in the room next to your child, even when you loved that child as much as he loved Billy. And he couldn’t make the loneliness go away in the easy ways he once had.
Take women. Clevenger had had love affairs during the past two years, including an on-again, off-again
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