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"Trooper," Bo Haumann barked, "you'll do what she says."
"Sir," he protested, "I'm ESU."
"Got news," Sachs muttered, "you're Crime Scene now."
Carole Ganz was lying on her back in a very beige bedroom, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the time a few weeks ago when she and Pammy and a bunch of friends were sitting around a campfire in W
isconsin at Kate and Eddie's place, talking, telling stories, singing songs.
Kate's voice wasn't so hot but Eddie could've been a pro. He could even play barre chords. He sang Carole King's "Tapestry" just for her and Carole sang along softly through her tears. Thinking that maybe, just maybe, she really was putting Ron's death behind her and getting on with her life.
She remembered Kate's voice from that night: "When you're angry, the only way to deal with it is to wrap up that anger and give it away. Give it to somebody else. Do you hear me? Don't keep it inside you. Give it away."
Well, she was angry now. Furious.
Some young kid--a mindless little shit--had taken her husband away, shot him in the back. And now some crazy man had taken her daughter. She wanted to explode. And it took all her willpower not to start flinging things against the wall and howling like a coyote.
She lay back on the bed and gingerly placed her shattered wrist on her belly. She'd taken a Demerol, which had eased the pain, but she hadn't been able to sleep. She'd done nothing but stay inside all day long, trying to get in touch with Kate and Eddie and waiting for news about Pammy.
She kept picturing Ron, kept picturing her anger, actually imagining herself packing it up in a box, wrapping it carefully, sealing it up . . .
And then the phone rang. She stared for a moment then yanked it off the cradle.
"Hello?"
Carole listened to the policewoman tell her that they'd found Pammy, that she was in the hospital but that she was okay. A moment later Pammy herself came on the phone and they were both crying and laughing at the same time.
Ten minutes later she was on her way to Manhattan Hospital, in the back seat of a black police sedan.
Carole practically sprinted down the corridor to Pammy's room and was surprised to be stopped by the police guard. So they hadn't caught the fucker yet? But as soon as she saw her daughter she forgot about him, forgot the terror in the taxi and the fiery basement. She threw her arms around her little girl.
"Oh, honey, I missed you! Are you okay? Really okay?"
"That lady, she killed a doggie--"
Carole turned and saw the tall, red-haired policewoman standing nearby, the one who'd saved her from the church basement.
"--but it was all right because he was going to eat me."
Carole hugged Sachs. "I don't know what to say. . . . I just . . . Thank you, thank you."
"Pammy's fine," Sachs assured her. "Some scratches--nothing serious--and she's got a little cough."
"Mrs. Ganz?" A young man walked into the room, carrying her suitcase and yellow knapsack. "I'm Detective Banks. We've got your things here."
"Oh, thank God."
"Is anything missing?" he asked her.
She looked through the knapsack carefully. It was all there. The money, Pammy's doll, the package of clay, the Mr. Potato Head, the CDs, the clock radio . . . He hadn't taken anything. Wait . . . "You know, I think there's a picture missing. I'm not sure. I thought I had more than these. But everything important's here."
The detective gave her a receipt to sign.
A young resident stepped into the room. He joked with Pammy about her Pooh bear as he took her blood pressure.
Carole asked him, "When can she leave?"
"Well, we'd like to keep her in for a few days. Just to make sure--"
