listening to the slam of the car door and the roar of his engine as he drove off.
Finally, moving as if through molasses, she got her coffee mug from the kitchen and went to the living room, where she turned on all the lights, put some quiet music on the stereo, and collapsed in the recliner. It had once been her dad's chair, and she still found comfort sitting in it.
But tonight there was little comfort to be had. The storm battering her windows didn't come close to the storm battering her mind.
John William Otis was going to die.
She forced herself to face it, to turn the idea around in her mind, much as she wanted to shy away from it. He was going to die, and it was going to be as much her fault as anyone's. She wondered if she'd feel any different if she were absolutely convinced of the man's guilt but she had no way of knowing. Otis had been her first and last death-penalty case. All she could know was that she had done her job despite her feelings about the case, and a man was going to die. Because of her.
Stupid of her to have thought that Seamus might be the one person on earth who could understand how she felt. He'd always had a simplistic concept of the justice system: If the jury said it was so, it was so. He even seemed able to accept that when the verdict went against him.
To hell with it, she thought. She'd been running around in circles on this for years, and she was fed up to the gills with the whole question.
John William Otis was going to die, and there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it. Seamus Rourke didn't give a damn about it, and she couldn't change that either.
He had looked older, she thought suddenly. Five years had added some gray to his dark hair, and lines to his face. Even his gray-green eyes looked older, as if they had seen almost too much to bear. He looked tired. Haggard.
And impatient. She didn't remember him being so impatient, at least not until the end, when they had seemed to be fighting all the time.
She sighed, and felt the aspirin drive out the last of the headache. The alcohol fog was fading, too, leaving her clear-headed, wired on caffeine, and all too aware of her shortcomings.
She wasn't happy with herself, but there was nothing new in that. It had been a long time since she had been happy with herself.
Life, she thought, was an absolute bitch.
C HAPTER 3
21 Days
T he blazing afternoon sun filled the air with moisture from last night's rain. By the time Carey completed the short walk from her car to the station door, a sheen of perspiration already covered her face, and her hair clung damply to the base of her neck. It was a relief to step into the chilly air of the small reception room.
Becky Hadlov, the receptionist, sat at her desk, talking cheerfully on the phone. Becky had once cherished the hope of becoming a TV news anchor. She had the blond good looks for the job, but not the voice. Disappointed dreams, Carey thought. The world was full of them.
A young couple sat in the chairs before the front window, talking in quiet voices while they waited for someone. Nervousness crackled in the air around them. Job interview?
Carl Dunleavy, the afternoon host, was on his way out, heading for his second job in his own business as an auto detailer.
It was a sad fact that radio didn't provide job security. Most everyone here had some kind of backup job, or worked for more than one station. Carey considered herself lucky in that her ratings and the syndication of her show on a hundred other stations gave her a nice income. But all of it could dry up as fast as she could say “ratings.”
She paused to talk to Carl. He was a tall, lean man with a runner's build and a Renaissance man's knowledge. She hadn't yet found a subject he couldn't discuss intelligently, and, like a good talk host, he had an opinion on every one of them.
She liked him probably more than anyone else at the station. Carl was happy with what he was doing, and happy to be doing it. He never
Finally, moving as if through molasses, she got her coffee mug from the kitchen and went to the living room, where she turned on all the lights, put some quiet music on the stereo, and collapsed in the recliner. It had once been her dad's chair, and she still found comfort sitting in it.
But tonight there was little comfort to be had. The storm battering her windows didn't come close to the storm battering her mind.
John William Otis was going to die.
She forced herself to face it, to turn the idea around in her mind, much as she wanted to shy away from it. He was going to die, and it was going to be as much her fault as anyone's. She wondered if she'd feel any different if she were absolutely convinced of the man's guilt but she had no way of knowing. Otis had been her first and last death-penalty case. All she could know was that she had done her job despite her feelings about the case, and a man was going to die. Because of her.
Stupid of her to have thought that Seamus might be the one person on earth who could understand how she felt. He'd always had a simplistic concept of the justice system: If the jury said it was so, it was so. He even seemed able to accept that when the verdict went against him.
To hell with it, she thought. She'd been running around in circles on this for years, and she was fed up to the gills with the whole question.
John William Otis was going to die, and there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it. Seamus Rourke didn't give a damn about it, and she couldn't change that either.
He had looked older, she thought suddenly. Five years had added some gray to his dark hair, and lines to his face. Even his gray-green eyes looked older, as if they had seen almost too much to bear. He looked tired. Haggard.
And impatient. She didn't remember him being so impatient, at least not until the end, when they had seemed to be fighting all the time.
She sighed, and felt the aspirin drive out the last of the headache. The alcohol fog was fading, too, leaving her clear-headed, wired on caffeine, and all too aware of her shortcomings.
She wasn't happy with herself, but there was nothing new in that. It had been a long time since she had been happy with herself.
Life, she thought, was an absolute bitch.
C HAPTER 3
21 Days
T he blazing afternoon sun filled the air with moisture from last night's rain. By the time Carey completed the short walk from her car to the station door, a sheen of perspiration already covered her face, and her hair clung damply to the base of her neck. It was a relief to step into the chilly air of the small reception room.
Becky Hadlov, the receptionist, sat at her desk, talking cheerfully on the phone. Becky had once cherished the hope of becoming a TV news anchor. She had the blond good looks for the job, but not the voice. Disappointed dreams, Carey thought. The world was full of them.
A young couple sat in the chairs before the front window, talking in quiet voices while they waited for someone. Nervousness crackled in the air around them. Job interview?
Carl Dunleavy, the afternoon host, was on his way out, heading for his second job in his own business as an auto detailer.
It was a sad fact that radio didn't provide job security. Most everyone here had some kind of backup job, or worked for more than one station. Carey considered herself lucky in that her ratings and the syndication of her show on a hundred other stations gave her a nice income. But all of it could dry up as fast as she could say “ratings.”
She paused to talk to Carl. He was a tall, lean man with a runner's build and a Renaissance man's knowledge. She hadn't yet found a subject he couldn't discuss intelligently, and, like a good talk host, he had an opinion on every one of them.
She liked him probably more than anyone else at the station. Carl was happy with what he was doing, and happy to be doing it. He never
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