John Connolly - The Lovers

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “We all are.”

He nodded dumbly.

“I don’t know if-,” she began, then stopped. “No, I know it won’t help, but maybe you might like to see your son?”

She led him to a glass-walled room, and she pointed out the tiny child who lay sleeping between two others.

“That’s him,” she said. “That’s your boy.”

They were called into the meeting room minutes later. Those present were introduced to them, all except for one man in a su R q man in ait who had followed the two cops into the room, and was now watching Will carefully. Epstein leaned toward Will and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Will did not reply.

It was the deputy commissioner, Frank Mancuso, who formally broke the silence.

“They tell me you’re the father,” he said to Will.

“I am.”

“What a mess,” said Mancuso, with feeling. “We need to get the story straight,” said Mancuso. “Are you two listening?”

Will and Jimmy nodded in unison.

“The child died,” said Mancuso.

“What?” said Will.

“The child died. It lived for a couple of hours, but it seems that there was some damage caused by the knife wound to the womb. It died as of”-he checked his watch-“two minutes ago.”

“What are you talking about?” said Will. “I just saw him.”

“And now he’s dead.”

Will tried to leave, but Epstein grabbed his arm.

“Wait, Mr. Parker. Your child is alive and well, but as of now, only the people in this room know it. Already he’s being taken away.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere safe.”

“Why? He’s my son. I want to know where he is.”

“Think, Mr. Parker,” said Epstein. “For a moment, just think.”

Will was silent for a time. When he spoke, he said, “You believe that someone is going to come after the child.”

“We believe that it’s a possibility. They can’t know that he survived.”

“But they’re dead. The man and the woman. I saw them both die.”

Epstein looked away. “There may be others,” he said, and, even amid his grief and confusion, the cop in Will wondered what Epstein was trying to hide.

“What others? Who are these people?”

“We’re trying to find that out,” said Epstein. “It will take time.”

“Right. And in the meantime, what happens to my son?”

“Eventually, he’ll be placed with a family,” said Mancuso. “That’s all you need to know.”

“No,” said Will, “i R qll, &ldqut isn’t. He’s my son.”

Mancuso bared his teeth. “You’re not listening, Officer Parker. You don’t have a son. And if you don’t walk away from this, you won’t have a career either.”

“You have to let him go,” said Epstein gently. “If you love him as a son, then you have to let him go.”

Will looked at the unknown man standing by the wall.

“Who are you?” Will asked. “Where do you fit into all of this?”

The man didn’t answer, and he didn’t flinch under the glare of Will’s anger.

“He’s a friend,” said Epstein. “That’s enough for now.”

Mancuso spoke again. “Are we all singing from the same hymn sheet, Officer? You’d better tell us now. I won’t be so good-natured if this matter raises its head outside these four walls.”

Will swallowed hard.

“Yes,” he said. “I understand.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mancuso.

“Yes, sir,” repeated Will.

“And you?” Mancuso turned his attention to Jimmy Gallagher.

“I’m with him,” said Jimmy. “Whatever he says goes.”

Glances were exchanged. It was over.

“Go home,” said Mancuso to Will. “Go home to your wife.”

And when they passed the glass-walled room again, the cot was already empty, and the receptionist’s face was creased with grief as they passed her desk. Already, the cover-up had begun. Without words to convey her sympathy for a man who had, in one night, lost his child, and the mother of his child, she could only shake her head and watch as he disappeared into the night.

When Will at last returned home, Elaine was waiting for him.

“Where have you been?” Her eyes were swollen. He could tell that she had been crying for hours.

“Something came up,” he said. “A girl died.”

“I don’t care!” It was a scream, not a shout. He had never heard her utter such a sound before. Those three words seemed to contain more pain and anguish than he had ever thought could be contained inside the woman he loved. Then she repeated the words, this time softly, forcing each one out, expelling them like phlegm from her mouth.

“I don’t care. You weren’t here. You weren’t here when I needed you.”

He knelt down before her, and took her hands in his.

“What?” he said. “What is it?”

“I had to go to the clinic today.”

“Why?”

“Something was wrong. I felt it, inside.”

He tightened his grip on her, but she would not, could not, look up at him.

“Our baby’s dead,” she said softly. “I’m carrying a dead baby.”

He held her then and waited for her to cry, but she had no more tears left to shed. She simply lay against him, silent and lost in her grief. He could see his reflection in the mirror on the wall behind her, and he closed his eyes so he would not have to look at himself.

Will led his wife to the bedroom and helped her to get between the sheets. The doctors at the clinic had given her some pills, and he made her take two.

“They wanted to induce it,” she said, as the drugs took hold. “They wanted to take our baby away, but I wouldn’t let them. I wanted to keep it for as long as I could.”

He nodded, but now he could not speak. His own tears began to fall. His wife reached up and wiped them away with her thumb.

He sat beside her until she fell asleep, then stared at the wall for two hours, her hand in his until slowly, carefully, he released it and let it fall to the sheets. She stirred slightly, but she did not wake.

He went downstairs and called the number that Epstein had given him when they first met. A woman answered sleepily, and when he asked for the rabbi, she told him that he was in bed.

“He had a long night,” she explained.

“I know,” he replied. “I was there. Wake him. Tell him it’s Will Parker.”

The woman clearly recognized the name. She put the phone down, and Will heard her walk away. Five minutes passed, and then he heard Epstein’s voice.

“Mr. Parker. I should have told you at the hospital: it’s not good for us to stay in contact this way.”

“I need to see you.”

“That’s not possible. What’s done is done. We must let the dead rest.”

“My wife is carrying a dead baby,” said Will. He almost vomited the words out.

“What?”

“You heard me. Our child is dead in the womb. They think the umbilical cord got wound around its throat somehow. It’s dead. They told her yesterday. They’re going to induce labor and remove it.”

“I’m sorry,” said Epstein.

“I don’t want your pity,” said Will. “I want my son.”