"person of interest," but I'm sure the Boston Mail will have you upgraded to suspect by five a.m."
"Nothing about Half-caf?"
"No. Which means the police probably don't have or know about him. Which means he probably wasn't acting alone, which means—ugh, I hate to say this—fleeing in terror down to the harbor was probably the right thing to do."
"Man, I wish I could tape record that. Could I just write 'Ted was right' on your calendar?"
"No."
"So nobody thinks I might have been the guy who got away and was now hiding in terror?"
"Well, that's not as good a story as you flipping out because Michelle docked you for a seventeen-minute break or something. In that scenario, there's only one bad guy, and that's just much simpler and easier for everybody to get their heads around than some kind of conspiracy. Which seems weird, because these psychos almost always work alone. I can't understand why there would be any kind of organization behind this, Ted, I really can't. It doesn't look like terrorists, and it doesn't look like some fair-trade blow against Queequeg's corporate hegemony."
"Is that how you say that word?"
"What?"
"Hege . . . that one. I've only ever seen it written."
"I don't know, Ted, that's the way I say it, okay?"
"Okay,"
"But do you get what I'm saying? I mean, I'm mostly an ATM snoop, but I am a law-enforcement professional, and your story and the data just don't fit."
Ted looked angry. "So you think I did it?"
Maybe. Probably not. "Of course not. I'm just saying that your story rests on a conspiracy that makes no sense."
Ted's face went from angry to embarrassed, and he was now shifting from foot to foot and looking kind of guilty. "I think I might have a clue about the conspiracy."
"What?" Ted reached into his butt pocket and pulled out a CD. "What the hell is that?"
"Uh, it's a CD that fell out of Half-caf's bag that I pocketed."
"Jesus Christ! Why the hell didn't you tell me this?"
Ted's face twisted up and turned red, and Laura felt guilty for snapping at him. "Because!" he yelled through tears that turned into gut-wrenching sobs. "Because this makes the whole fucking thing my fault! Those people . . . " More sobbing. "They just wanted a goddamn latte, and they got their brains plastered all over the walls, and it's my fault! Oh God!" He fell to the floor and tried in vain to vomit, but just crouched there with his mouth open making strangled coughing sounds.
Any annoyance Laura felt fell away. He really was a pathetic creature, and it was saving her that had made him this way. Now she went to him and rubbed his back and pulled his hair away from his face. "It's not your fault, you know," she said quietly. "People leave shit in coffee shops thousands of times a day, and this is the first one I ever heard of who ever came back and shot the place up. You didn't cause this, Ted. You're a victim."
"Yeah . . . " Ted raised his head. "Jesus, Laur, it was so horrible. It was so horrible."
"I know. Why don't you try to get some sleep." She helped him to his feet, wiped the corner of his mouth with her plush purple towel, and brought him down the hall to her room. In spite of the clean, zen simplicity of Laura's room, Ted managed to make the place seem messy and chaotic. His rumpled, dripping form overruled the neatly made bad and transformed Laura's bedroom. She helped him over to the edge of the bed, and he lay down on it. Laura thought about asking him to remove his shoes, then thought better of it.
"Uh, Laur?" he said.
"Yeah, Ted?"
"I know this is silly, but would you mind just sitting here for a minute? I know I'm a baby, but I just don't want to be alone right now."
"You're not a baby," she said, and sat at the foot of the bed. Five minutes later he was asleep, and she took the CD and popped it into her computer.
Five
Ted was eighteen. He was in the library, sitting in a little carrel piled high with books for his paper on vampire legends for his folklore class,
"Nothing about Half-caf?"
"No. Which means the police probably don't have or know about him. Which means he probably wasn't acting alone, which means—ugh, I hate to say this—fleeing in terror down to the harbor was probably the right thing to do."
"Man, I wish I could tape record that. Could I just write 'Ted was right' on your calendar?"
"No."
"So nobody thinks I might have been the guy who got away and was now hiding in terror?"
"Well, that's not as good a story as you flipping out because Michelle docked you for a seventeen-minute break or something. In that scenario, there's only one bad guy, and that's just much simpler and easier for everybody to get their heads around than some kind of conspiracy. Which seems weird, because these psychos almost always work alone. I can't understand why there would be any kind of organization behind this, Ted, I really can't. It doesn't look like terrorists, and it doesn't look like some fair-trade blow against Queequeg's corporate hegemony."
"Is that how you say that word?"
"What?"
"Hege . . . that one. I've only ever seen it written."
"I don't know, Ted, that's the way I say it, okay?"
"Okay,"
"But do you get what I'm saying? I mean, I'm mostly an ATM snoop, but I am a law-enforcement professional, and your story and the data just don't fit."
Ted looked angry. "So you think I did it?"
Maybe. Probably not. "Of course not. I'm just saying that your story rests on a conspiracy that makes no sense."
Ted's face went from angry to embarrassed, and he was now shifting from foot to foot and looking kind of guilty. "I think I might have a clue about the conspiracy."
"What?" Ted reached into his butt pocket and pulled out a CD. "What the hell is that?"
"Uh, it's a CD that fell out of Half-caf's bag that I pocketed."
"Jesus Christ! Why the hell didn't you tell me this?"
Ted's face twisted up and turned red, and Laura felt guilty for snapping at him. "Because!" he yelled through tears that turned into gut-wrenching sobs. "Because this makes the whole fucking thing my fault! Those people . . . " More sobbing. "They just wanted a goddamn latte, and they got their brains plastered all over the walls, and it's my fault! Oh God!" He fell to the floor and tried in vain to vomit, but just crouched there with his mouth open making strangled coughing sounds.
Any annoyance Laura felt fell away. He really was a pathetic creature, and it was saving her that had made him this way. Now she went to him and rubbed his back and pulled his hair away from his face. "It's not your fault, you know," she said quietly. "People leave shit in coffee shops thousands of times a day, and this is the first one I ever heard of who ever came back and shot the place up. You didn't cause this, Ted. You're a victim."
"Yeah . . . " Ted raised his head. "Jesus, Laur, it was so horrible. It was so horrible."
"I know. Why don't you try to get some sleep." She helped him to his feet, wiped the corner of his mouth with her plush purple towel, and brought him down the hall to her room. In spite of the clean, zen simplicity of Laura's room, Ted managed to make the place seem messy and chaotic. His rumpled, dripping form overruled the neatly made bad and transformed Laura's bedroom. She helped him over to the edge of the bed, and he lay down on it. Laura thought about asking him to remove his shoes, then thought better of it.
"Uh, Laur?" he said.
"Yeah, Ted?"
"I know this is silly, but would you mind just sitting here for a minute? I know I'm a baby, but I just don't want to be alone right now."
"You're not a baby," she said, and sat at the foot of the bed. Five minutes later he was asleep, and she took the CD and popped it into her computer.
Five
Ted was eighteen. He was in the library, sitting in a little carrel piled high with books for his paper on vampire legends for his folklore class,
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