her before she could get up, and she stiffened, then gave in. She was shaking.
“It’s just the adrenaline after the accident,” he said. “It goes on awhile.” She held up a trembling hand and laughed. Shiny flecks of glass were embedded in the reddened skin below her knuckles.
Jack’s heart rattled in his chest to see her scared.
She looked at him. “The deer just leaped out in the road.”
“How fast were you going?”
“Not fast. No faster than normal.”
“Were you smoking hash?”
“Jesus. Dad. No.”
“I have to ask that.”
“You don’t have to ask.”
“Where did the stuff in the console come from?”
“Who knows — one of Adrian’s friends, probably.”
“The one-handed man.”
“I have broken glass in my hand.” She waved it in front of him.
“It should be a reminder,” he said, and thought of her plunging headfirst through the windshield, hair and blood. His legs weakened.
“Is that what you tell burned people? This should be a reminder?”
“If they’re the ones who started the fire, sure.”
She was suddenly silent, and he knew she was thinking of the ice cream shop. He leaned forward and kissed the top of Sam’s head. She’d always been lucky. Always favored. Which made him worry all the more.
THIS IS WHAT Rosa Heller, a reporter covering the murders for the Chronicle, remembers: She’s seven years old, walking hand in hand with her dad toward the Lab School on the South Side of Chicago. She’s tall for her age, and in fifth grade she’ll begin to slouch to hide it. It’s early morning, still, and a fog off Lake Michigan clings to the yards and stoops. They stop at a corner grocery that sells the Wacky Packages stickers that she’s obsessed with, and her father gives her money to buy some because she loves him so much. When they turn the corner they walk alongside a vacant lot with a billboard for NuGrape soda and beneath it there’s a large blackened oval in the grass where someone set a fire. She wonders who would do something like that and decides that boys would, just to see what happened. She sees something shiny in the grass that she thinks is a bottle cap for her collection, and so pulls away from her dad and scuffs the dirt and grass with her shoe. She finds a half-dollar-size hoop earring. In the weeds near a metal fence, not twenty feet away, she sees a mustard-colored jacket. Then a brown leather purse, a string of toiletries, a pair of panties, a hair pick, and a compact mirror. Near the compact mirror, a brown hand that once held it. At first Rosa thinks the face staring back from a clump of weeds is a Halloween mask. She looks at her dad to be in on the joke, but he just stares. She can feel her skin prickle, but it takes a while for her to realize that it’s a woman’s face, missing nose and ears.
Rosa’s dad, Peter, was a politics reporter for the Chicago Tribune. They lived with her mother in a partly rehabbed two-flat surrounded by run-down rentals, used car lots, and liquor stores. The area was segregated, but a number of liberal white families, like hers, had moved into it in the late sixties, even given all the turbulence. Even partly because of it. Her parents had participated in freedom marches and seen violence up close. Her dad had had his nose broken. Someone had hit her mother in the head with a D-cell battery. On her dad’s desk at the Tribune she remembered a photo of him between the writer Alex Haley and the actor and activist Ossie Davis, smiling broadly.
Occasionally in their neighborhood someone would overturn a car and set it on fire, which secretly thrilled Rosa — she could often see the glow from her upstairs bedroom window. Her dad took great pains to explain to her that this was a symptom of an illness. Like the chicken pox or a rash? she asked. That’s right, her dad said, a warning on the surface about what was going on inside. There was so much anger that maybe it couldn’t be contained. Better a car than a passerby, he said. Better things than a person.
She doesn’t think it happened that way. Her dad wouldn’t have allowed her to get so close to the dead woman. She would have heard about the nose and ears most likely from someone at school, or maybe her dad talking to one of the local politicos on the phone. Or possibly she’d imagined it. She’d even looked in the Tribune archives to find the story, but couldn’t find any mention of mutilation. She wondered if this was like her memory of her dad one day cutting the TV power cord with a pair of gleaming shears while she was watching it, or the time she was forced to leave for summer camp while her Labrador, Ali, was dying on the living room floor — memories she suspected she made up to confirm what she already believed about her dad. Some lack in him. What had she believed? That he was high-principled but cruel. A gifted journalist who abused his talent. A secret racist who helped black people so that he could feel better about bitter feelings he harbored against them. He was guileless to a fault. He’d eventually driven off Rosa’s mother with his various lost causes and under-the-table funding of his younger brother, Bill, who was constantly strung out on back pain medicine and running from creditors. Much of what she’d accepted about her dad when she was younger she was unsure about now, which had both helped and hurt their relationship, she suspected. She can see her dad’s hands, their neatly trimmed, milky nails, the lump on the outside of his left hand where a benign tumor made the bone brittle and caused him to break the hand half a dozen times. How could the tumor be benign, she wondered, if it ate away the bone? On a recent visit to Chicago, she’d asked him if he’d had his checkup, his scheduled colonoscopy and PSA blood work. He said to be honest, he couldn’t remember when he’d last seen a doctor. He smiled a little boy’s smile that pretended not to know. On the table in front of her, his left hand seemed frail, the lump more pronounced. She loved his guileless eyes, the way they took in everything and denied it all.
It would have happened this way: Her dad takes her hand, leads her away from the vacant lot and the dead woman. Rosa never sees what she thinks she did — holes where the woman’s nose and ears should be. Voids. The woman’s skirt hiked up, the greenish glass of the Coke bottle stuck between her legs. When Rosa begins pointing near the fence, her dad makes light of what they see there, someone asleep in the weeds. Siesta time, he’d say, then make a snoring sound and pull Rosa away. The woman’s body sprawled languidly on the ground as if she were in her own bed and not a vacant lot. Her compact mirror open beside her, a quick powder touch-up when she wakes. Lazy bones, Rosa’s dad would say. Get up and get on your way. Don’t stray from the path. Don’t tarry.
He would have protected her.
HOLLIS OFTEN CONFUSES what’s already happened with what’s to come. He knows this. Still, they feel the same.
The light was like a sudden blow to the head. It filled the interior of Hollis’s art car, made night into day. He could make out the titles of his books stacked between the seats, the three-legged metal horse with its Civil War rider and the shellacked horned frog perched on the front dash. Along the ceiling of the car, his pale green topographic maps of Austin with their concentric patterns. Blown-up photos of the three murdered girls, their faces so exaggerated in scale and singularly focused on one element — the convolutions of an ear, a forest of lash reflected in a green iris, a knuckle against the
