relationship with Whitney McCormick, the FBI’s chief forensic psychiatrist, who had worked the Jonah Wrens case with him. But he couldn’t abandon himself to romance, even with her, even though she still appeared in his dreams. He couldn’t pour himself into a woman and dissolve his anxieties in a haze of passion. Giving your son the very decided impression he was your main focus in life meant going to sleep and waking up by yourself. It meant managing love affairs like part-time jobs.
And then there was his on-again, off-again love affair with alcohol and drugs. He had found it less stressful to stay sober for himself, one-day-at-a-time, than to make that commitment in the name of raising a healthy child. Because a slip now and then was at least thinkable when the only person you were likely to hurt was yourself. If the pain got too intense, you knew you could turn it off, even if you had to pay for it in spades down the road. Now, with Billy’s future linked to his own, with the fact that taking a drink would mean that Billy’s father was a drinker , Clevenger could never touch the stuff. He was wedded to reality, no matter how painful that reality became.
He thought again of what John Snow had been preparing to do, his plan to free himself from his tangled neurons — and, quite possibly, from all entanglements. On the one hand, the idea was intoxicating. Snow could have lived the unfettered life of a stranger in a distant land, with no obligations to anyone, no guilt over past sins, nothing defining or limiting him. On the other hand, the question had to be asked how much Snow’s freedom would have cost the people who considered him part of their life stories, their realities? With him gone, could they ever resolve the dramas in which he had been an actor, or would they be burdened by them forever? And should that be his concern? Are any of us free to the extent that we are free to move on completely?
What would it do to Billy if Clevenger were to decide that their emotional bonds — positive and negative — were null and void, that they had no future together, and not even a shared past? Would Billy be able to survive the abandonment? Would he be able to hold all the love and fear, trust and resentment that had been theirs together? Or would their sheer weight crush him?
Was Snow’s plan to leave an act of self-preservation, an act of destruction, or both?
The phone rang. Clevenger walked back to his desk and answered it. "Frank Clevenger."
"Bad news," North Anderson said.
"What? Where are you?"
"The office. I just got a call from Mike Coady. The police responded to a 911 call from 214 Beacon Street. George Reese, Grace Baxter’s husband."
"God, no," Clevenger said, thinking she had murdered him, or tried to. His legs felt weak. Baxter had given him a glimpse of her desperation, and he had made the wrong decision, letting her go home, instead of committing her to a locked psychiatric unit. "How bad?" he asked.
"The paramedics worked it hard, but they never had a chance. Body’s been there quite a while, probably a couple hours."
Clevenger managed to ease himself into his desk chair before his legs gave out. "How did she kill him?"
"How did she..." Anderson started, then stopped. "The husband is fine, Frank."
Clevenger’s mind couldn’t — or wouldn’t — add up the facts to come up with the awful answer. "I don’t understand."
"It’s Grace," Anderson said. He was silent a few seconds. "She killed herself."
Clevenger closed his eyes. He saw Baxter walking to her car at the shipyard, tears streaming down her face. He looked out into the Chelsea night. "How?" he managed.
"It’s not a pretty story."
"Are they ever?"
"This one..."
"Just tell me."
"She went into the master bath and sliced her wrists, then her throat. Then she stumbled into bed and bled out."
"Who found her?"
"Her husband. She was supposed to
And then there was his on-again, off-again love affair with alcohol and drugs. He had found it less stressful to stay sober for himself, one-day-at-a-time, than to make that commitment in the name of raising a healthy child. Because a slip now and then was at least thinkable when the only person you were likely to hurt was yourself. If the pain got too intense, you knew you could turn it off, even if you had to pay for it in spades down the road. Now, with Billy’s future linked to his own, with the fact that taking a drink would mean that Billy’s father was a drinker , Clevenger could never touch the stuff. He was wedded to reality, no matter how painful that reality became.
He thought again of what John Snow had been preparing to do, his plan to free himself from his tangled neurons — and, quite possibly, from all entanglements. On the one hand, the idea was intoxicating. Snow could have lived the unfettered life of a stranger in a distant land, with no obligations to anyone, no guilt over past sins, nothing defining or limiting him. On the other hand, the question had to be asked how much Snow’s freedom would have cost the people who considered him part of their life stories, their realities? With him gone, could they ever resolve the dramas in which he had been an actor, or would they be burdened by them forever? And should that be his concern? Are any of us free to the extent that we are free to move on completely?
What would it do to Billy if Clevenger were to decide that their emotional bonds — positive and negative — were null and void, that they had no future together, and not even a shared past? Would Billy be able to survive the abandonment? Would he be able to hold all the love and fear, trust and resentment that had been theirs together? Or would their sheer weight crush him?
Was Snow’s plan to leave an act of self-preservation, an act of destruction, or both?
The phone rang. Clevenger walked back to his desk and answered it. "Frank Clevenger."
"Bad news," North Anderson said.
"What? Where are you?"
"The office. I just got a call from Mike Coady. The police responded to a 911 call from 214 Beacon Street. George Reese, Grace Baxter’s husband."
"God, no," Clevenger said, thinking she had murdered him, or tried to. His legs felt weak. Baxter had given him a glimpse of her desperation, and he had made the wrong decision, letting her go home, instead of committing her to a locked psychiatric unit. "How bad?" he asked.
"The paramedics worked it hard, but they never had a chance. Body’s been there quite a while, probably a couple hours."
Clevenger managed to ease himself into his desk chair before his legs gave out. "How did she kill him?"
"How did she..." Anderson started, then stopped. "The husband is fine, Frank."
Clevenger’s mind couldn’t — or wouldn’t — add up the facts to come up with the awful answer. "I don’t understand."
"It’s Grace," Anderson said. He was silent a few seconds. "She killed herself."
Clevenger closed his eyes. He saw Baxter walking to her car at the shipyard, tears streaming down her face. He looked out into the Chelsea night. "How?" he managed.
"It’s not a pretty story."
"Are they ever?"
"This one..."
"Just tell me."
"She went into the master bath and sliced her wrists, then her throat. Then she stumbled into bed and bled out."
"Who found her?"
"Her husband. She was supposed to
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