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“And what about Willie?” Edmund was saying. “His whole world turned inside out this morning. Here, let me help you with that.”
Edmund held the sides of the shopping bag apart so that I could extract from it a big silver get-well balloon. I tied the balloon to the frame of Claire’s bed, then reached over and touched her hand. “Has she said anything?” I asked.
“She opened her eyes for a couple of seconds. Said, ‘Where’s Willie?’ I told her, ‘He’s home. Safe.’ She said, ‘I gotta get back to work,’ then she conked out. That was a half hour ago.”
I searched my mind for the last time I’d seen Claire before the shooting. Yesterday. We’d waved good-bye in the parking lot across from the Hall as we’d left work for the day. Just a casual flap of our hands.
“See ya, girlfriend.”
“Have a good one, Butterfly.”
It had been such an ordinary exchange. Taking life for granted. What if Claire had died today? What if she had died on us?
Chapter 9
I WAS GRIPPING CLAIRE’S HAND as Edmund returned to the armchair, switched on the overhead TV with the remote. Keeping the sound on low, he asked, “You’ve seen this, Lindsay?”
I looked up, saw the disclaimer — “What you’re about to see is very graphic. Parental discretion is advised.”
“I saw it right after the shooting,” I told Edmund, “but I want to see it again.”
Edmund nodded, said, “Me, too.”
And then Jack Rooney’s amateur film of the ferry shooting came on the screen.
Together, we watched again what Claire had lived through only hours before. Rooney’s film was grainy and jumpy, first focusing on three tourists smiling and waving at the camera, a sailboat behind them, and then a beauty shot of the Golden Gate Bridge.
The camera panned across the ferry’s open top deck, past a gaggle of kids feeding hot dog buns to the seagulls. A little boy wearing a backward red baseball cap was drawing on a table with a Sharpie. That was Tony Canello. A lanky bearded man sitting near the railing plucked at his own arm dis-tractedly.
The shot froze, and a spotlight encircled the bearded man.
“That’s him,” Edmund said. “Is he crazy, Lindsay? Or is he a premeditated killer, biding his time?”
“Maybe he’s both,” I said, my eyes pinned to the screen as a second clip followed the first. An ebullient crowd clung to the railing as the ferry pulled into dock. Suddenly the camera swung to the left, focusing on a woman, her face screwed up in horror as she grabbed at her chest and then collapsed.
The little boy, Tony Canello, turned toward the camera. His face had been digitally pixilated by the news producers so that his features were a blur.
I winced as he jerked and spun away from the gunman.
The camera’s eye jumped around crazily after that. It looked as though Rooney had been bumped, and then the picture stabilized.
I covered my mouth and Edmund gripped the arms of the chair as we watched Claire stretch out her hand toward the shooter. Even though we couldn’t hear her over the screams of the crowd, it was clear that she was asking for the gun.
“What bravery,” I said. “My God.”
“Too damned brave,” Edmund muttered, running his hand over the top of his silvering head. “Claire and Willie, both of them, too damned brave.”
The shooter’s back was to the camera as he pulled the trigger. I saw the gun buck in his hand. Claire grabbed at her chest and went down.
Again, the point of view shifted to horrified faces in a roiling crowd. Then the gunman was on the screen in a crouch, his face turned away from the camera. He stepped on Claire’s wrist, shouting into her face.
Edmund cried out, “You sick son of a bitch!”
Behind me, Claire moaned in her bed.
I turned to look at her, but she was still asleep. My eyes flashed back to the television as the shooter turned and his face came into view.
His eyes were down, his beard swallowing the lower half of his face. He was coming toward the cameraman, who finally lost his nerve and stopped filming.
