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She and Alex had problems in their marriage, as all couples did, but Alex was a good man who loved her and loved their kids, andshe loved them all back. At night, her mind would flow helplessly through the lost histories: one that recurred was the trip they’d taken when the kids were small, to western Nebraska, to see a total eclipse of the sun.
The trip was the first long car journey for the boys, but they’d been great, driving through the badlands of South Dakota, then through the crowds at Mount Rushmore, and hooking south to Nebraska to get into the path of totality.
The trip had been perfect, and hung in her mind like a postcard. There were other postcards and then came the horror movie.
There was one shattering image—the most awful thing of all, that her mind couldn’t avoid as hard as she tried: when the bullet smashed through Arthur’s head, it forced one eyeball out of its socket, and it came to rest on the floor, with a trail of bloody eye muscle or nerves or ligaments—she’d never asked which it was—and the single blue eye staring up at her.
Right at her, like an accusation: why weren’t you’re here to save me?
Irrational, crazy, but there it was, absolutely unavoidable, a flash of horror that came to her whenever she relaxed, whenever her mind lost immediate focus.
She tried to twist away from it before the Ambien pulled her under; tried to think of Davenport and Flowers, two men who’d made an effort to be thoughtful, but for whom the murders were simply a part of their jobs. They’d even seen worse.
They didn’t live the horror as she did...
—
At eight o’clockthe next morning, Cooper and Melton were moving, the baby dozing in a car seat in back. They drove straighteast out I-94, to the St. Croix River, the border between Minnesota and Wisconsin. They turned north without crossing the bridge, to the old town of Stillwater, once a major stop for St. Croix and Mississippi steamboats.
In the light of day, Melton asked, “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. If there’s any doubt, I’ll apologize and back away.”
“I’m feeling kinda shaky.”
“So am I, but I’m gonna do it anyway,” Cooper said. They’d driven by the apartment on a scouting trip, and Cooper pointed through the windshield: “There it is. Take the car around the corner, where you’re out of sight. I’ll walk.”
They found a parking space on a hillside, and the women looked at each other, and Cooper said, “Take care of Chelsea. If, you know...”
“I will. Go.”
—
Cooper put onsunglasses and walked down the hill, nearly stumbled on broken concrete, turned the corner, trying to keep it casual and unnoticeable, and strolled down the block. Henry James Carter lived in a four-story condo on Stillwater’s main drag, a redbrick building with dark glass windows looking out toward the river.
The entry opened to a lobby with a locked door to the interior. Cooper found Carter’s name on a mailbox and pushed the call button above it. A man answered, “Hello? Who is it?”
“I’m a friend of the court, Mr. Carter. I need to see you on important business.”
“What kind of business?”
“The kind you’d want to keep confidential. If you let me up, I can explain it all.”
“You sound strange,” Carter said.
“I assure you, this conversation will be greatly to your benefit, if you wish it to be.”
Cooper could hear a woman’s voice, apparently behind Carter, asking, “Who is it?”
“I dunno. I’m going to let her up.”
The door lock buzzed, and Cooper walked over to the interior door and pulled it open.
Carter lived on the third floor. There was an elevator, but she took the stairs. At the top, she pushed open the door and saw Carter, in crazy-quilt patterned sweatpants, a black tee-shirt and suede slippers, standing in a doorway, looking down at her. He was balding and overweight. A pair of copper-rimmed glasses sat on his button nose.
Cooper walked that way and as she came up, Carter frowned and asked, “Who are you?”
“Elizabeth Cooper. Judge Alex Sand’s wife.”
