Jonathon King - Eye of Vengeance

They propped the painting up against a napkin holder on the table and while Nick ate, Carly showed him homework, her graded papers, and explained in detail how Meagan Marts had been such a pain correcting her and the other girls on the bus that morning when they were discussing what lip gloss was made of. Nick listened. He had set up this nightly ritual on the advice of a divorced friend whose wife had left him. It was invaluable, the friend said, to keep in touch, to keep a semblance of normality, to stay sane.

Elsa had made him one of her famous Bolivian chicken salad sandwiches. Nick couldn't tell the difference between the chopped celery or spring onions, but he truly loved the battle of tastes between the seedless grapes and the rainbow chiles. While father and daughter talked, Elsa stayed busy washing and wiping and straightening a kitchen that Nick knew was already spotless.

"OK, Carlita," Elsa finally said. "It is very late, yes, Mr. Nick?"

Elsa had that wonderful trait of being the boss while using the right phrases to make the man think he was still in charge.

"Elsa's right, babe. Time to get ready for bed," Nick said. "You go, and I'll come in and read."

With a limited amount of preadolescent huffing, his daughter left the room.

Nick spun his chair back to a view of the pool. A random breeze fluttered across the surface, causing the refracted light to dance on the far wall.

"How was she today?" he asked without looking over at Elsa.

"Yo creo que es mejor, Mr. Nick," Elsa said. She too was looking outside through the window over the sink. "She is very smart, though. It is too much to see inside her head."

Nick just nodded, but Elsa went quiet and he turned after a moment to look at her. She was again folding and refolding a dishtowel in her hands, her eyes on the floor now. Nick knew something was bothering her, but let Elsa decide when to tell it.

"She call me Lindsay today," Elsa finally said. "While she is looking for something in the office room she say, 'Lindsay, do you know where the, the thing for the paper staples is?' and I just say, 'No,' like I no hear Lindisita's name."

Elsa was clearly distressed, but Nick was caught between smiling at her attempt to relate the Freudian slip or crying at Carly's use of her sister's name.

"It's OK, Elsa," he said. "I will tell the counselor when she goes for her session."

The housekeeper turned the towel in her hand. Nick looked back out into the light.

"Dad? I'm ready," his daughter called from her room.

"Can you make me some coffee, please, Elsa?" Nick said as he walked through the kitchen.

"You are going out again?"

"After she's asleep," he said. "I'll lock up before I go." Nick did not turn to see Elsa's reaction. He knew she would disapprove. He'd promised to give up the late-night forays into the streets for the sake of a story, both to his wife before and to Elsa afterward. Now he was again going back on that promise.

In his daughter's room, he knelt down in front of the bookcase, searching for a title. Carly was already in bed and had slid over against the wall to give him room to stretch out in his usual position. Nick had taken the second twin bed out of the room after two months. He'd replaced it with a desk and an additional case of the girls' favorite books, some that had been packed away in the garage.

"I've got the Harry Potter over here, Dad," Carly said.

"I'm looking for something else, C. One of my favorites."

Carly didn't complain, just pulled a stuffed tiger closer to her and waited for him to find a thin, worn volume from one of the lower shelves. He finally lay down on the outside edge of the bed and turned away from the nightstand, where he knew a family photo of the four of them looked out upon his back.

"We Were Tired of Living in a House, by Leisel Moak Skorpen," he announced and then peeked over from the side of the opened book to see his daughter's reaction. She rolled her eyes but still smiled.

"Alright, go ahead," she said, giving him permission.

Nick read the book aloud, pausing to give both of them a long look at the accompanying artwork on each double page. It was actually a long, lovely and mischievous poem about two brothers and two sisters who get scolded for misdoings at home and their adventures finding another place to live-a tree, a pond, a cave and the seashore-before finally returning home to their parents to live in a house.

When he finished, Nick closed the book and turned off the bedside lamp and waited in the silence. He could tell by her breathing that she was still awake. Before, he'd always read to the girls from a rocking chair set in between the beds and when he was done he'd continue to rock, the low creak of the runners sounding in a rhythm that would eventually put them to sleep. He found he could no longer stand the sound and had thrown the chair out.

"Was someone killed today?" his daughter's voice finally, quietly broke the silence.

Nick just closed his eyes. Unfortunately, it was not an unusual question from Carly. She was a bright girl.

"Yes, honey," he said.

"Did you write about it?"

"Yes."

"Will I read about it in the newspaper?"

"I'm not sure you should be reading the paper, honey, with all your schoolwork and stuff. You should really concentrate on that reading."

He had never encouraged his daughters to read his work, but Carly had taken more to it since the accident, and the counselors had suggested he let it go instead of trying to ban her from the practice.

"Did it make you sad, the killing?"

"No, Carly. Not really. I was just trying to find out how it happened. That's my job, to report what happened. You know?"

The girl stayed quiet for several moments.

"Why do you ask?" Nick finally said.

"'Cause you always read that book when you're sad, Daddy."

Jesus, Nick thought. He tried to look into his daughter's eyes but couldn't make them out in the dark room. The kids are too smart for you. You can't overestimate their perception. And you can't hide.

"I know, baby," he whispered. "It just makes me feel better."

He touched her hair and she whispered back, "Me too."

When her breathing went soft and rhythmic and she was finally asleep, Nick carefully rolled off the bed and left, closing the door gently behind him.

Nick didn't call the medical examiner's office until he was in the parking lot.

"Would it help you to decide if I told you I was right outside?"

He had called Nasir Petish's cell phone. The doc's midnight autopsy was only just beginning and though the physician had known Nick for several years-they shared an appreciation for Jameson's whiskey and Cannonball Adderley's saxophone-the physician still fell back on administration rules against press access. At least for the first twenty seconds of each conversation.

"You are in my parking area?" Petish said, his East Indian accent flicking high at the end of every sentence.

"Yeah. I figured you'd be up late with this one," Nick said, leaving the assistant M.E.'s heads-up out of it.

"And what you listening to out there, Mr. Mullins?"

"The Adderleys and, uh, George Shearing at Newport," Nick said, quickly rummaging through his collection to see if he actually had the CD in his car.

"Is that the one during which Mr. Adderley comments on the influence of a young pianist named Ray Charles?" Petish said.

"Yeah," Nick said, coming up with the CD, "that's the one."

"Bring it in, if you will, Mr. Mullins."

Nick went around to the loading dock area where the M.E.'s vans and black Ford Explorers were parked. A light mounted above the double-door entrance bathed the raised deck in an orange-tinted glow. One of the doors opened and a small man with tea-colored skin and wire-rimmed glasses ushered him in.