As we read the confession, I glanced at Jack now and then, anxious about his reaction. There was nothing personally addressed to Jack beyond the words on the outside of the envelope; the confession itself was both brutally explicit and absolutely unsentimental. No remorse, no excuses. Simply a means to protect Paul from a double-cross by Gannet.

As we finished reading, Jack walked away from us, to stand leaning against a rail. Frank watched him for a moment, then went over to him. For the remainder of our time on the cutter, they spoke to one another in low voices. Without hearing what they were saying, I could still tell that Jack seemed more at ease as a result of the conversation. All Frank would say about it later was, “Jack just needs some time.”

Slow remedy, time.

When we finally got home that evening, we were both talked out. We had been met at the dock by members of the press (which included Mark Baker) and the police (which included Pete and Lieutenant Carlson); answering their questions had drained the last of our energy.

From listening to Frank, Pete, and Carlson, I learned that the police had already discovered the real function of the cable-TV van not long after Jack and I had left to go sailing. Frank had thought over the list of things I had said Gannet knew about us. While he was sure Gannet must have also had a connection to someone from the department or the D.A.’s office, Frank decided that even a friend in Robbery-Homicide couldn’t have told Gannet so much.

Pete, who can make a badger look like a creature that gives up too easily, talked the department expert on bugging devices into dropping everything he was working on, and checking out Frank’s house. The man suspected the cable-TV van the minute he laid eyes on it. Its occupant wasn’t able to drive off before Pete showed him his detective’s shield and asked to see cable company identification in exchange. No I.D. Lots of listening devices.

Most of the other members of the department weren’t too happy with Mr. Gannet at that point, including Carlson and Bredloe. Frank realized that our plans to go sailing had probably been reported to Gannet. When we were late getting back, Bredloe didn’t hesitate to ask the Coast Guard if they would initiate a search for us. The cutter had just cleared the breakwater when they saw the flare.

It was almost six in the morning before we got to sleep on Wednesday, which ended up being something of a lost day. Bright and early – very early – Thanksgiving morning, we got ready for the three-hour drive to Bakersfield.

Frank had helped me into the Volvo and put our overnight bag in the trunk. When he packed the overnight bag, I almost backed out of the whole deal.

“We’re staying overnight?”

He looked at me and said, “Sure, why not?”

“I didn’t know you wanted to stay there overnight.”

“Look, you’re going to have a hard time coping with the car ride out there and the day’s activities. If we try to drive back tonight, you’ll be tired and sore as hell.”

It made sense, of course.

“We’re staying at Cassie’s?” I said hopefully.

He shook his head. “All they could offer us is a couch. We’ll stay at my mom’s.”

“She’s expecting this?”

“Yes, I told her we would be staying overnight.”

“What about Cody?”

“Jack is going to feed him.”

I couldn’t think up any other objections right at that moment. I was trying to let the whole idea sink in. Somewhere on the 405 Freeway, it sank all right.

“What if I have a nightmare?”

“I’ll be there.”

“What? Your mom is going to put us up in the same room?”

“I don’t see why not. I’ve told her we’re living together.”

“I’ll bet that went over big.”

“Irene, we’re both in our late thirties. We’re not a couple of college kids trying to sneak into each other’s dorm rooms. If she hassles us, we’ll get a hotel room.”

I sighed. “I don’t know, Frank. Age might not have anything to do with it. I don’t want your mom to think I’m corrupting you.”

That brought out a big enough laugh to make us ride along those little lane-dividing bumps for a minute.

I was enjoying the photos, and had stopped thinking about the coffee. There was the usual plethora of grandchildren’s images one might find in any proud grandmother’s home. There were a few of Frank and Cassie. And on the closest end of the mantel, there was a wedding photo of Frank’s parents.

She was beautiful. She was fine looking now, but what a knockout she was at – how old? She looked to be in her twenties. And next to her was the spitting image of Frank Harriman. Or rather, the man Frank was the spitting image of. I studied it a little more. No, there were subtle differences. His father was a little broader in build. His eyebrows were different, and maybe, slightly, his chin. Hair color a little lighter than Frank’s? Hard to tell from a black-and-white portrait.

“Irene! Oh Jesus, I’m sorry.” Frank was looking at me, awash with guilt and taking the cup and saucer from me.

His mother drew in a sharp breath. “No need to use the Lord’s name in vain, Franklin.”

Franklin? Franklin ignored her and started to hand the cup back to me. “No, it’s cold. I’ll get you a fresh cup.” He got up and strode off into the kitchen, leaving me with his mother before I could protest.

“I’m sorry, Irene. It was thoughtless of me.”

I mouthed a gracious response while wondering if I was being overly sensitive again, this time about something I thought I heard in her tone. Lack of sincerity? Couldn’t be. Could it?

Frank returned with the coffee, bringing a cup without the saucer.

They soon went back to Bakersfield prattle and I went back to studying photos while enjoying the coffee. I found my eyes drawn again and again to a handsome photo of Frank and his dad. Both men were in uniform, the father’s arm around the son, his pride in Frank fairly bursting from the photo.

“About twelve years ago?” Frank was saying to me.

“Pardon?”

“We met here about twelve years ago?”

“Yes. About then. Just after college.”

“How could you ever leave Bakersfield?” his mother asked me.

“Las Piernas is my hometown, and I guess I’ve grown attached to it.”

“Frank used to feel that way about Bakersfield.”

“Something smells great,” he said, changing the subject. “When are Mike and Cassie due to arrive?”

“Are you hungry? I’ll fix you something.”

He was watching me polish off the last of my coffee, and took the cup from me so that my hand would be free. He made room for it on an end table by shoving half a dozen gewgaws aside with a nonchalance that said he’d had practice at it.

“No, Mom. I’m not hungry. I just wondered when they would be here.”

“Oh, about noon. Listen, would you be a dear and pick up a few things at the store for me?”

“Sure. What do you need?”

“I made a list.” She went into the kitchen, and we held hands again. We were getting to be like a couple of teenagers, sneaking affection when Mom wasn’t looking. She was in there for a while, and I realized she was on the phone with someone.

“Are you okay?” Frank asked.

“You already asked me that.”

“Are you still okay?”

“Fine.”

“Sorry to be so boring with all the talk of people you don’t know. I’ll be sure to bring up other topics of conversation when we get back from the store.”

“I’m enjoying the photographs, actually.”

He looked over at them. It was apparent that he had seen them so many times that they were now just part of the furnishings. He smiled.

“That’s one of my favorites.” He pointed to the one of him and his dad.

“Mine too. You look a lot like your dad.”

“I wish you could have met him.”

His mom came back in with the list, and we forgot to let go of our hands.

“Ready to go?” he said to me.

His mother protested with surprising vehemence. “Oh, Frank, don’t be ridiculous! Don’t drag poor Irene all over town with you.”