answer the question. No one really seemed interested in the man on death row.
Maybe that was the whole problem, she thought as she drove home that night. Nobody gave a damn about John William Otis.
And maybe it was time someone did.
C HAPTER 4
18 Days
S eamus Rourke looked across the breakfast table at his father, and figured there was little in the world he less wanted to see.
Danny had been with him three days now, and Seamus was beginning to feel as if his life was coming apart at the seams. The old man was a constant reminder of things he absolutely didn't want to think about.
Worse, after three days the old man still smelled like booze. Seamus, who'd always considered himself a reasonably tolerant man, was discovering there was something he couldn't tolerate at all.
“Did you go to AA yet?” he asked.
Danny looked up from his plate of bacon and eggs, his eyes still reddened and bleary. “Nope.”
“Look, Dad, I told you that was a condition of staying here.”
“And I said I'd do it.”
It was the voice of an annoyed father speaking to an importunate son. The thing was, it didn't work anymore on
this
son.
Seamus pushed his plate aside, his breakfast half-eaten. “I told you how it's gonna be. That's my final word on the subject. I'm sure as hell not going to live with a drunk.”
He stomped out of the kitchen, grabbing his jacket from the chair where he'd laid it. His gun was already holstered on his belt. He pulled his car keys off the peg beside the door without sparing a backward glance for the man he held partly responsible for turning his life into a living hell.
As he walked out the door, he heard his father say forlornly, “I wasn't drunk that night, boy. I wasn't drunk.”
But he'd been drunk every night ever since, Seamus thought bitterly. He slammed the door, then slammed the car door after he climbed in. Fuck him, he thought. Fuck him anyway.
He peeled out of the driveway with a squeal of tires, and left rubber when he had to brake for a stop sign. “Dammit!” He slapped his hand on the steering wheel and forced himself to calm down. Little in this world could make him as angry as Danny Rourke—or Carissa Stover.
But he didn't want to think about her either. Christ, what was she doing, turning her show into a John William Otis marathon? The last three nights she had opened with a monologue about the guy, and the ensuing discussion had revolved around the death penalty and whether society was responsible for making monsters like Otis. He was thinking about not even tuning in tonight.
Because she made him listen. This time he couldn't just soak up the liquid honey of her voice. No, he found himself listening to her arguments, and getting madder than an angry wasp. Four times last night alone he'd had to stop himself from picking up the telephone and giving her a piece of his mind. Just what did she think she was doing?
He sure as hell didn't like the way she was making him think about John Otis as a man. He didn't like the creeping sense of guilt she was giving him over what that murdering son of a bitch had been through as a child. Hell, he was a cop. When somebody brought something like that to his attention, he did his damnedest to put an end to it. But nobody had told anybody about what was happening to that boy. Why should he feel guilty about something he hadn't even known about?
Finding that thoughts of Carey were only making him angrier, he wrenched them away from her and thought about the old souse, otherwise known as his dad. He was just barking when he threatened to throw Danny out if he didn't go to AA, and he knew it.
That was the worst of it. He couldn't throw the old man out. He'd seen what happened to people like Danny when they had no one to turn to anymore. They wound up living under highway overpasses or in cardboard boxes in alleys, going hungry and spending whatever money they could find or beg on a bottle of cheap wine.
Well, he wasn't going to have that on
Maybe that was the whole problem, she thought as she drove home that night. Nobody gave a damn about John William Otis.
And maybe it was time someone did.
C HAPTER 4
18 Days
S eamus Rourke looked across the breakfast table at his father, and figured there was little in the world he less wanted to see.
Danny had been with him three days now, and Seamus was beginning to feel as if his life was coming apart at the seams. The old man was a constant reminder of things he absolutely didn't want to think about.
Worse, after three days the old man still smelled like booze. Seamus, who'd always considered himself a reasonably tolerant man, was discovering there was something he couldn't tolerate at all.
“Did you go to AA yet?” he asked.
Danny looked up from his plate of bacon and eggs, his eyes still reddened and bleary. “Nope.”
“Look, Dad, I told you that was a condition of staying here.”
“And I said I'd do it.”
It was the voice of an annoyed father speaking to an importunate son. The thing was, it didn't work anymore on
this
son.
Seamus pushed his plate aside, his breakfast half-eaten. “I told you how it's gonna be. That's my final word on the subject. I'm sure as hell not going to live with a drunk.”
He stomped out of the kitchen, grabbing his jacket from the chair where he'd laid it. His gun was already holstered on his belt. He pulled his car keys off the peg beside the door without sparing a backward glance for the man he held partly responsible for turning his life into a living hell.
As he walked out the door, he heard his father say forlornly, “I wasn't drunk that night, boy. I wasn't drunk.”
But he'd been drunk every night ever since, Seamus thought bitterly. He slammed the door, then slammed the car door after he climbed in. Fuck him, he thought. Fuck him anyway.
He peeled out of the driveway with a squeal of tires, and left rubber when he had to brake for a stop sign. “Dammit!” He slapped his hand on the steering wheel and forced himself to calm down. Little in this world could make him as angry as Danny Rourke—or Carissa Stover.
But he didn't want to think about her either. Christ, what was she doing, turning her show into a John William Otis marathon? The last three nights she had opened with a monologue about the guy, and the ensuing discussion had revolved around the death penalty and whether society was responsible for making monsters like Otis. He was thinking about not even tuning in tonight.
Because she made him listen. This time he couldn't just soak up the liquid honey of her voice. No, he found himself listening to her arguments, and getting madder than an angry wasp. Four times last night alone he'd had to stop himself from picking up the telephone and giving her a piece of his mind. Just what did she think she was doing?
He sure as hell didn't like the way she was making him think about John Otis as a man. He didn't like the creeping sense of guilt she was giving him over what that murdering son of a bitch had been through as a child. Hell, he was a cop. When somebody brought something like that to his attention, he did his damnedest to put an end to it. But nobody had told anybody about what was happening to that boy. Why should he feel guilty about something he hadn't even known about?
Finding that thoughts of Carey were only making him angrier, he wrenched them away from her and thought about the old souse, otherwise known as his dad. He was just barking when he threatened to throw Danny out if he didn't go to AA, and he knew it.
That was the worst of it. He couldn't throw the old man out. He'd seen what happened to people like Danny when they had no one to turn to anymore. They wound up living under highway overpasses or in cardboard boxes in alleys, going hungry and spending whatever money they could find or beg on a bottle of cheap wine.
Well, he wasn't going to have that on
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