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Provenza looked at Rusty, who was moving away from the boat, and sighed; the old cop looked at the horizon, at the unusually calm sea offshore, and called the young man aloud, signaling for him to come back to him and his colleagues.
Sharon Raydor's adopted son looked around, bewildered, perhaps even a little frightened. With feet that seemed to weigh tons, he slowly walked the few steps that separated him from one of the few decent men he had met in his short life.
"Lieutenant..." Rusty swallowed, as he stared at his feet and still shivered.
"Wes," Provenza ordered the young detective. "Escort Rusty to Presbyterian Hospital. Now ."
"But...sir, I'm fine..." Rusty tried to justify himself. He approached Provenza, who, however, held up a finger, showing the young man that he had no intention of arguing with him.
And anyway, Presbyterian was the last place Rusty would have wanted to go at that moment: it was the hospital where Sharon-the first person who had behaved like a real mother with him-had died, and the pain, a few days after the loss, was still too strong.
"Go to Presbyterian, Rusty," Provenza ordered him, gripping his shoulders in a firm hold his voice low but sure. "And find your mother's doctor, and tell him Stroh is dead."
"But..." The boy stammered, looking around; he would have liked to disobey, or at least counter, object, but there was something in the look in the elderly policeman's eyes that compelled him to follow what was not a request, but a clear-cut order, so he merely nodded his head in assent, and when Wes walked toward the car, walking briskly, his hand on his holster and his eyes alert, as if afraid that some other accomplice of the serial killer might appear at any moment, he followed him in silence. Throughout the journey neither of them said a single word - Rusty looked out the window, and Wes remained alert and focused on the road, casting only occasional fleeting glances at the young man.
Wes wasn't stupid-none of them were: they had figured out who had really shot Stroh-but it was to be hoped that internal affairs would also hold sway over the boy and the man who, Wes was certain, would soon become their Captain.
Wes parked the car in one of the spots designated for emergency and law enforcement vehicles and opened the door for Rusty, who was rhythmically tapping his foot on the floor and didn't seem to want to get out.
"I hate it here," he said, hissing the words through clenched teeth, more for himself than for Wes's benefit. "I don't even know what I'm doing in this damn place."
"I don't know the lieutenant well, but I doubt he ever does anything without a specific reason." The detective smiled at him, his tone bittersweet. Rusty huffed, got out of the car and slammed the door as hard as he could, and walked briskly to the front desk, where he asked for the doctor who had treated Sharon: a man who had prided himself on being the best in his field, but who had underestimated from the start what she was suffering from, with the result that she had died on his operating table.
"Mr. Becks, is there anything I can do for you?" The doctor asked him. He did not seem happy to have to deal with the relatives of a deceased patient; it was probably the part of his job he least appreciated-or perhaps he was just afraid, fearing some grief-driven action, an extreme reaction.
"Lieutenant Provenza sent me." Rusty clenched his fists, and gritted his teeth, struggling to look straight into the eyes of the man he held partly responsible for Sharon's death. "He told me to report to you that Phillip Stroh is dead."
"I see." The doctor nodded, and put a hand on Rusty's shoulder. "Follow me."
The doctor reentered the ward, closely followed by Rusty; he moved through the corridors, swift and sure, turning from time to time to check that Rusty was keeping up-which the young man did with difficulty-and then stopped in front of a double door locked with an electronic lock. He swiped his badge, punched in an alphanumeric code, and signaled the young man to enter with him.
"Can I know what the hell is going on?" Rusty asked, impatient, starting to get nervous, but the doctor did not answer, merely ushering Rusty into a locker room and pointing him to the basin in the corner.
"Wash your hands with disinfectant, then put on a disposable gown, cap, mask, and socks."
Rusty carried out the order, yet he did so with very little desire, with quick, jerky movements, continuing to glare at the doctor: he had always hated it when people just gave him orders, without telling him the truth, giving him explanations.
"Well?" he asked, opening his arms.
"Follow me." The doctor exited through another door, and Rusty, grunting his disappointment and frustration, followed him; however, he promised himself that if within a few minutes he was not given a sensible and decent explanation, he would turn on his heels and walk back to his car, forcing Wes to drive him home. The doctor nevertheless stopped in front of a room door, and turned to Rusty, hesitantly.
"We're here," he told him, grabbing the handle. "However, I cannot let you in. Stay on the threshold, look in, and remain calm. I don't want any running, screaming, hysterics or anything else. Do I make myself clear?"
Rusty nodded his head, beginning to worry, still unaware of what might lie beyond that door, which the young cardiologist slowly opened-or perhaps the interminable length of that act was merely an impression of Rusty, dictated by the icy grip of fear gripping his chest.
Rusty stretched his neck beyond the door, and looked in, still confused as to what was happening; when he saw the hospital bed, his balance was off, and if it had not been for the young doctor, who had supported him, he would certainly have collapsed to the floor.
"But... but what..." He cried, sobbed, laughed, looked now at the doctor, whom he clung to with all his strength, now at the figure, asleep in the hospital bed, hooked up to machines and monitors.
His mother-his adoptive mother. Sharon Raydor.
"When your mother collapsed, I was required to declare her dead." The man explained, with all calm and tranquility, and a coolness that bordered on cynicism. "To k eep her safe from Stroh's sights and eliminate a pawn he could use against her son. Those were not my words. Nor was it my choice to act in this way."
"So..." Rusty whispered in a cautious, uncertain voice, leaning against the doorframe and returning to look at Sharon: she was asleep, in bed, her face rosy, her chest rising and falling in the regular rhythm of her quiet breathing.
"Yes, your mother is out of danger, for now. And these days seem to have convinced her to go ahead with the surgery." The man put his hands in his pockets, and turned around. Arriving halfway down the hall, he stopped, and turned to Rusty, smiling arrogantly at him. "I told you I'm the best in my field."
Rusty did not hear him, however: he kept looking at his mother. Explanations and everything else could have waited; the only thing that mattered was that she was there, alive, and that they would soon be home together.