no time that was good for a teenager to die. That it was Christmas made it no worse than it would have been at any other time of year. She nodded, not trusting herself to do anything more.
“I’ll call you later, Phil,” said Harper.
The line seemed endless, and by the time everyone who attended the memorial service had left the chapel, Susan was afraid she would not be able to walk as far as the car. She reached out for her two remaining sons, touching them blindly and with ill-concealed desperation. “We’re going home.”
“Okay, Mom,” said Mason, reaching out to take her hand. Despite his youth, he was curiously mature and responsible, as if he had been born thirty years old and was growing ancient before he reached high school.
“You did a fine job, Susan,” said Harper, his face closed and remote, as if he were lost in study rather than grieving for the loss of his child.
“How does anyone do a fine job with something like this?” she asked, but there was no heat in the words, only listlessness.
“We do the best we can,” Harper said, starting down the steps of the chapel.
Seattle was swathed in cold; snow had fallen the day before and now there was a frigid mist that hung over the harbor and lakes and hid most of the city. The chapel, which was only two blocks from the University of Washington campus, seemed suspended in clouds; the massive buildings of the university, most of them perched on the hill, were all but invisible.
“I wish the doctors could tell us more,” said Grant, who at sixteen was clearly the best-looking of the Ross boys. He had spent most of the fall in California, at a ranch near Santa Rosa in a program for drug abuse. His uncle, Susan’s brother, had served as his guardian. Only Kevin’s death had brought him back to Seattle.
“I wish they could, too, son,” said Harper as he led them toward their Trooper III. “Hurry up; it’s too cold to stay outside long.”
“But what was it?” Grant asked, still bewildered and beginning to be angry. “Why don’t they know yet?”
“Sometimes they . . . don’t have enough to go on,” said Harper in a distant way as he fumbled for his keys in his coat pocket. His heavy gloves made his fingers awkward.
“Isn’t what they do like solving crimes?” Mason asked. “I mean, they’re similar, aren’t they?” It was a deliberate ploy; Harper Ross was a professor of criminology. As he got into the back seat, Mason added another thought to his inquiry. “Couldn’t you help them out, Dad? You’ve got the experience to help them.”
“They think it had something to do with toxic wastes,” Susan said, so tired that she might as well have been up for three days without sleep.
“And you, Dad?” Mason prompted.
“It’s possible,” said Harper as he waited for the engine to warm up before putting the four-wheel-drive Trooper III in gear. “It fits with what we do know about it.”
“It could be . . . anything,” said Susan. “He died. That’s the one thing we’re all sure of.” She put her hand to her eyes so that she would not have to explain her tears.
“But if it’s something we can learn about,” Mason began, and saw that Grant was staring at him in unconcealed anger.
“It won’t change anything,” Grant said.
“It might mean that someone else won’t die,” Mason responded, meeting his brother’s hostile stare. “That wouldn’t bring Kevin back, but it could make a difference.”
“Mason, for God’s sake,” said his mother.
“He’s right,” Harper agreed unexpectedly.
“Not you, too.” Susan smeared her tears over her face, her mascara leaving wide, dark tracks.
“I don’t think I could sit by and watch this happen to another family,” said Harper as he concentrated on holding the car on the road. “It would be too much, if there was something I could do to prevent it.”
“There’s nothing anyone could have done,” said Susan. “If there were, they would have. They ran
“I’ll call you later, Phil,” said Harper.
The line seemed endless, and by the time everyone who attended the memorial service had left the chapel, Susan was afraid she would not be able to walk as far as the car. She reached out for her two remaining sons, touching them blindly and with ill-concealed desperation. “We’re going home.”
“Okay, Mom,” said Mason, reaching out to take her hand. Despite his youth, he was curiously mature and responsible, as if he had been born thirty years old and was growing ancient before he reached high school.
“You did a fine job, Susan,” said Harper, his face closed and remote, as if he were lost in study rather than grieving for the loss of his child.
“How does anyone do a fine job with something like this?” she asked, but there was no heat in the words, only listlessness.
“We do the best we can,” Harper said, starting down the steps of the chapel.
Seattle was swathed in cold; snow had fallen the day before and now there was a frigid mist that hung over the harbor and lakes and hid most of the city. The chapel, which was only two blocks from the University of Washington campus, seemed suspended in clouds; the massive buildings of the university, most of them perched on the hill, were all but invisible.
“I wish the doctors could tell us more,” said Grant, who at sixteen was clearly the best-looking of the Ross boys. He had spent most of the fall in California, at a ranch near Santa Rosa in a program for drug abuse. His uncle, Susan’s brother, had served as his guardian. Only Kevin’s death had brought him back to Seattle.
“I wish they could, too, son,” said Harper as he led them toward their Trooper III. “Hurry up; it’s too cold to stay outside long.”
“But what was it?” Grant asked, still bewildered and beginning to be angry. “Why don’t they know yet?”
“Sometimes they . . . don’t have enough to go on,” said Harper in a distant way as he fumbled for his keys in his coat pocket. His heavy gloves made his fingers awkward.
“Isn’t what they do like solving crimes?” Mason asked. “I mean, they’re similar, aren’t they?” It was a deliberate ploy; Harper Ross was a professor of criminology. As he got into the back seat, Mason added another thought to his inquiry. “Couldn’t you help them out, Dad? You’ve got the experience to help them.”
“They think it had something to do with toxic wastes,” Susan said, so tired that she might as well have been up for three days without sleep.
“And you, Dad?” Mason prompted.
“It’s possible,” said Harper as he waited for the engine to warm up before putting the four-wheel-drive Trooper III in gear. “It fits with what we do know about it.”
“It could be . . . anything,” said Susan. “He died. That’s the one thing we’re all sure of.” She put her hand to her eyes so that she would not have to explain her tears.
“But if it’s something we can learn about,” Mason began, and saw that Grant was staring at him in unconcealed anger.
“It won’t change anything,” Grant said.
“It might mean that someone else won’t die,” Mason responded, meeting his brother’s hostile stare. “That wouldn’t bring Kevin back, but it could make a difference.”
“Mason, for God’s sake,” said his mother.
“He’s right,” Harper agreed unexpectedly.
“Not you, too.” Susan smeared her tears over her face, her mascara leaving wide, dark tracks.
“I don’t think I could sit by and watch this happen to another family,” said Harper as he concentrated on holding the car on the road. “It would be too much, if there was something I could do to prevent it.”
“There’s nothing anyone could have done,” said Susan. “If there were, they would have. They ran
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