Joel Goldman - Deadlocked

Abby swallowed hard, her mouth a silent cry, her eyes filling. "And what do you call it? Diving in the dark water or self-destruction?"

She left him on the curb. Mason watched her wade into the crowd, joining in their cheers, taking her place behind Seeley, Mickey at her side. Mickey looked across the crowd, finding him and lighting up when Mason gave him a salute. Abby tugged at Mickey's sleeve, forcing him back to their business. Together, they ushered the candidate into his car, directing the troops to their next destination, gone again.

Mason found Esther Byrnes in the food court on the lower level of the hospital, the first floor rotunda giving him a view below. She was by herself, a tray of uneaten food in front of her. She was wearing the same blue slacks and pale green blouse she'd had on the night before. Trying to gauge her mood, Mason watched her for a moment before going downstairs.

"Mrs. Byrnes," he began when he reached her table. "I'm Lou Mason, Nick's lawyer."

She looked up at him, her face a clouded patchwork of wrinkles and sorrow, his name registering in the deepening downturn of her mouth. "Nothing's changed," she said. "They've got him sedated so he doesn't move around. Otherwise the bullet might press more against his spinal cord."

She gave him the news with flat, rote precision, looking away as if that should be enough to satisfy him and leave her alone. Mason forced a weak smile and pulled out a chair.

"You know, Nick's a strong kid. He'll pull through just fine," Mason said, her blank stare saying she knew no such thing. "Is your husband with him?"

She shook her head. "He went home. He can't take it. He couldn't take it when Graham and Elizabeth were…when they died," she said, choosing the easier explanation. "It's different for a mother, I think. We're used to the pain our children bring us. It starts when they're born and keeps on hurting with every scraped knee and broken heart. Fathers, I just don't know. Martin is like a lot of men. They're so full of their feelings they don't know what to do with them, so they just get all balled up and mad all the time."

"I've seen pictures of your son. Nick looks just like him," Mason said.

She nodded this time. "I don't know what to make of that," she said. "It's a bitter comfort, I suppose."

"I know you didn't want Nick to hire me, Mrs. Byrnes," Mason said. "But Nick wants Whitney King to be held accountable for what he did. That's really important to him and I think he's right to want to do that."

Esther looked at him, studying him as if she was only just then aware of his presence. "My son and daughter-in-law are dead, Mr. Mason. For no reason other than Whitney King decided to kill them. Now he's ruined Nick, maybe left him worse than dead. There's no way to hold him accountable for that. It's a debt that can't be paid."

Mason asked her, "What about Ryan Kowalczyk? Wasn't he guilty too?"

Esther shook her head, a rueful smile easing the burden on her face for a moment. "I never believed that. Never did," she said, clasping her hands together, her arms stretched out in front of her.

Mason pulled his chair closer to the table, leaning toward her. "Why not?"

"Ryan was a lost boy. You could see it in his eyes. He was sweet, tender. Good to his mother. I could tell, watching them in the courtroom. He could never have hurt my children."

Mason sat back, disappointed but not surprised that Esther had no proof of Ryan's innocence, just a grandmother's intuition. "What about Whitney King?"

Her face darkened. "He has the devil's cruelty," she answered. "And an ugliness about him that I've never seen. He killed my children because he could, no more than swatting a fly. I truly believe that, Mr. Mason. All through the trial, he acted like it was a lark, a high school field trip to the courthouse, like he knew he was going to get off. Sometimes he'd look at me, his eyes so black it made me cold."

"Then why didn't you and your husband sue him? It's easier to win a civil suit for wrongful death than it is to get a murder conviction."

Esther stood, putting distance between her and Mason's suggestion, waving one hand in front of him, the other shielding her heart. "No, no it isn't. Not with that one. You see what he's done. He's taken enough from us. That boy is a killer."

Gaylon Dickensheets parked his bus in the company lot at exactly four o'clock. Mason had been there for fifteen minutes, marking the time as he waited in his car, knowing it was Gaylon's bus by the number on its side, 451, which corresponded to the legend in the route map he had picked up.

Gaylon drove an east-west route, covering the city's eastern border with Independence, Missouri, reaching into the west side along Southwest Boulevard, all the way to the Kansas state line. The route kept him south of the Missouri River and north of midtown, navigating an urban artery, a straight line distance of some thirty miles, longer with the zigs and zags of city streets.

Mason had found a picture of Mary when he returned to her house earlier that day, taking it with him to show people who might have seen her. It was a snapshot of her sitting at her kitchen table holding a cup of coffee, not posed for the camera, her sober expression hiding the vitality Mason had detected in her. The date was superimposed on the print, the picture taken in the last year. He found it in the kitchen, beneath the glass covering a small desk, along with other pictures, one of her, Ryan, and her husband, the rest pictures of Ryan before he was arrested.

Gaylon climbed down from the bus, a small, slender man with a button face, barely five-five, dwarfed by the rig he drove. Mason got out of his car, cutting across the lot.

"Mr. Dickensheets," Mason called out. The driver turned, shielding his eyes from the sun.

"Sure I am," Gaylon said as Mason approached.

"I'm Lou Mason," he said, extending his hand, the driver wiping his own against his pants, taking Mason's.

"Sure you are. The dispatcher said you wanted to talk to me about a passenger. That right?"

"That's right," Mason said, showing him Mary's picture. "Do you recognize this woman?"

"Sure thing. That's Mary Kay."

"Mary Kowalczyk?" Mason asked.

"The same. I like to give my regulars nicknames, you know. Makes the ride a little friendlier. I tease her about being that cosmetics lady. Tell her she should be driving one of them big pink Cadillacs instead of riding the bus. She always gets a kick out of that one."

"Did you pick her up yesterday?"

"Sure thing. On my morning run, nine-o-five."

"Where'd she get off?" Mason asked.

"Downtown, like she always does. Tenth and Main. Transfers to a southbound."

"She didn't happen to say where she was going, did she?"

"Didn't have to," Gaylon said. "Yesterday was Wednesday. She goes to the church every Wednesday. St. Mark's."

"What's she do there?" Mason asked.

"Volunteers. Helps out one of the priests, I think. Father Steve, she calls him. Mary's a real sweet little lady. Had a hard time, she has, but you'd never know it. Always has a

nice word for me."

"Does she ride your bus on the way home?"

"Depends on when she goes home. Could be mine, could be one of the other buses. There's six of us drive this route. We all know Mary."

"You wouldn't mind checking with the other drivers, would you? Ask them if they gave her a ride home yesterday," Mason said, handing Gaylon a business card. "Call me and let me know what they say, will you?"

"Sure thing. Say, she's okay isn't she?"

"Yeah," Mason answered. "Sure thing."

St. Mark's Catholic Church was at Forty-first and Main, a limestone cathedral, a parsonage, and a high school on ten acres of ground surrounded by a high wrought-iron fence. Mary had attended the church for thirty years, she had told Mason. Ryan Kowalczyk and Whitney King had attended the high school, and played their last basketball game in its gym.