by Steve Gannon
Dan, there’s more to life than being a police officer,” said Catheryn, carefully setting down her fork.
I hesitated before answering, not for the first time thinking that my wife looked more beautiful than any woman I’d ever known—even when she was angry. We were having dinner at Patina, a street-level Los Angeles restaurant situated in a corner of the Walt Disney Concert Hall. Around us, amid an atmosphere of muted pastels and understated elegance, an evening-gowned and dinner-jacketed crowd had gradually filled Patina’s interior as we dined, with theatergoers like us arriving early to enjoy an intimate meal before the evening’s performance.
“I could say the same to you, Kate,” I replied, unable to hide my irritation. We had tilled this ground in the past, and more than once. “There’s more to life than being a musician, too. With your added responsibilities at the Philharmonic, you’re gone from home now as much as I am. Maybe more.”
“That’s not true, and you know it. The truth is, you spend more time chasing criminals than you do with your own children. And even when you are home, you’re thinking about your job.”
“I’m a cop. That’s what I do. You knew that when you married me.”
“I knew. I just didn’t know all the things it would do to you. And for what? Arrest one criminal, and two more spring up to take his place.”
“I just take ’em one at a time, Kate. As for the job affecting me—that’s what happens when you’re on the street.”
“Exactly. You’re developing a slanted view of life, and it’s affecting everyone you love. Every time you go to work, you shut down a part of yourself to get the job done. Granted, someone has to do police work . . .”
“And that someone is me. Sure, it affects me some. Maybe a lot, but—”
“You need to make time for your children, Dan. Especially Nate.”
“Nate’s tough. He’ll be fine.”
“Are you that oblivious? Nate is not fine, and he’s not getting any better. Let me put this another way. I know how you feel about our children, Dan. You love them more than you can say.”
I nodded. “We have the finest kids any parent could wish for, and that’s the God’s truth.”
“And you want the very best for them.”
“Absolutely.”
“They all think you’re some kind of hero, Dan. It’s almost painful to see how much they want to please you. You may be a cop, but you’re also a father, and they need something from you that I can’t give—not anymore.”
“I can’t always be there holding their hands.”
Leaning forward, Catheryn reached across the table. Grabbing my arms in frustration, she shook me. “Wake up, Dan! Your children need you.”
“Kate—”
Catheryn shook me again, harder this time. “Your children need you, Dan. Wake up!”
“Dan! Wake up!”
I sat up in bed. “Huh?”
“Something’s happened,” said Dorothy, still gripping my arms.
Instantly, I was fully awake. “What?”
“Nate’s gone.”
I turned on a bedside lamp. “What do you mean, gone?”
“I heard him get up earlier and take a shower. I fell back asleep. Then I woke up again when I heard someone going out the front door. I checked to see who it was. I got there just in time to see Nate driving off in Catheryn’s Volvo.”
Puzzled, I glanced at the clock. 12:37 a.m. “Where the hell would Nate be going at this time of night?”
“I don’t know, Dan. But I’m worried.” Dorothy handed me a sheet of paper. “This was on the kitchen table, next to his cellphone.”
I looked at the paper she’d handed me. On it, in Nate’s printed scrawl, were the words, “I love you all.”
“I’m sure he’s okay,” I said, suddenly not certain of anything. “He probably just—”
I glanced across the room, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
The door to my handgun safe stood open. Even in the dim light, I could see inside.
My service weapon was missing.
Chapter 35
After hurriedly throwing on some clothes, I raced outside and jumped into my Suburban, leaving Dorothy at the house in case Nate returned.
Which way? I wondered, realizing I didn’t have time to make a mistake.
East, toward Santa Monica?
No. He wouldn’t drive into the city. He would want to be alone . . .
The other way. And quickly . . .
Close to panic, I started the Suburban, slammed it into gear, and swerved out onto Pacific Coast Highway. Fortunately, there was little traffic at that time of night. Cranking the wheel, I pulled an illegal U-turn and headed west.
Where is he? Oh, God . . .
Battling a growing premonition of disaster, I frantically scanned both sides of the highway, searching for Catheryn’s Volvo. When I reached the light at Las Flores Canyon, I considered turning right and driving up into the hills, then decided against it. Time was running out. Hunting for Nate in the mountains behind our house would take forever. Besides, by then I thought I knew where he was going.
Ignoring the speed limit, I blasted through a string of red lights on the deserted highway, reaching the Malibu Pier in minutes. Without slowing, I glanced into the Surfrider Beach parking lot.
No Volvo.
After racing past the Adamson House and the California State Park grounds where Allison had been married, I blew across the bridge spanning Malibu Lagoon. As I shot by the Malibu Country Mart and started up the hill toward Pepperdine University, I realized it had only been weeks since my daughter’s wedding.
How could things have gone so wrong since then?
I ran another red light at Malibu Canyon and turned left into the Malibu Bluffs Park, a six-acre facility overlooking the Pacific. The park had two baseball diamonds, and Nate had played ball there when he was younger.
Please, God, please let him be here . . .
The parking lot was empty.
I skidded to a stop. With a sick, hollow feeling, I tried to decide what to do next.
Head back and search Las Flores Canyon?
Again, I rejected that. Not enough time.
Think! Malibu Colony Road? Nate has friends there—
Suddenly I had another idea. Stomping the accelerator, I exited the park and turned west on PCH. A quarter mile down the highway was a geologically unstable bluff that lay between the highway and the beach below, an area that had long been zoned unsuitable for building. Years back I had driven there every morning at dawn to train our family’s first dog, a black Labrador retriever named Sam. Later, after Sammy had died, it was there that I’d brought Nate one morning for a serious, father-son talk. Our conversation had been intended as a discussion regarding the role Nate would play in our family’s next dog, but it had wound up covering considerably more ground than that.
As a result, the abandoned parcel of land there had become a place that held a strong emotional attachment for both of us, and I knew it was a place that Nate would always remember. Considering what had happened between us that morning, it was a place I would always remember as well.
I slowed, scanning the roadside.
Catheryn’s Volvo was there.
I skidded into another U-turn and screeched to a stop behind the Volvo.
The Volvo was empty.
Leaving my engine running, I slammed open the door and vaulted from the Suburban. As I did, I heard a gunshot.
My heart fell.
Too late? Oh, God, am I too late?
“Nate!” I screamed.
Please, God, don’t let me be too late . . .
A second shot echoed across the field. This time, outlined against the moonlit landscape, I saw a muzzle flash.
“Nate, wait!” I screamed again. From years on the job, I knew that test shots were often fired by someone determined to end his life with a gun. Praying I had arrived in time, I raced across the field. Scrub and sage tearing at my clothes, I
sprinted toward a small hill overlooking the ocean—the area from which I’d seen the muzzle flash.
“Nate!” I yelled, stumbling through knee-high chaparral as I neared the knoll.
No answer.
“Nate!”
Oh, Jesus. Please, please don’t let him be . . .
I stopped. Atop the knoll, staring out at the ocean, sat a small, lonely figure.
Nate.
“I know you can hear me,” I said, approaching cautiously. “Don’t do anything yet. Please wait, okay? Please, please just let me talk to you.”
As I neared, I saw that Nate was crying. “Go away,” he sobbed.
“I can’t do that, son,” I said. In the moonlight, I could also see that he was holding my pistol in his lap. “Let me talk to you,” I begged. “I promise I won’t . . . do anything. Just let me talk, okay?”
Tears streaming down his cheeks, Nate lowered his head and shrugged.
Moving slowly, I closed the distance between us and eased down beside him on the knoll, sitting several feet away. More than anything I wanted to put my arm around my son and tell him everything was going to be all right. But I didn’t. Nate still had the pistol, and I didn’t want to do anything that might force his hand. Although I needed to remove the weapon from him as soon as possible, I also knew there was now more at stake than simply wrestling away the gun. There was tomorrow to consider . . . and all the tomorrows after that.
Keeping a careful watch, ready to move if Nate raised the pistol, I sat for several seconds without speaking, wondering what to say to my sweet, hopeless, confused, despairing son. Above all, whatever I said, I knew I had to speak from my heart, and I had to speak the truth.
But what was that?
Wishing I had paid more attention to the department’s suicide-prevention program, I considered telling Nate that things would get better, but I knew saying those words wouldn’t solve anything. Worse, after talking with Berns, I knew that those words might not even be true. I considered telling Nate that I loved him with all my heart, for that was certainly true, but telling him I loved him wasn’t going to solve anything, either. I considered telling him that his death, especially if he were to die in this manner, would forever shatter the lives of everyone who loved him. This was true as well, but I knew from Nate’s sobs that he was far beyond considering the effect his death would have on others.
And in the end, as I sat with my son staring out over the endless Pacific, it was he who finally broke the silence between us. “I’m sorry, Dad,” he said, struggling to bring his tears under control. “Since Mom died . . . I just don’t want to be here anymore.”
“I understand, Nate. Believe me, I do. And it’s not your fault. You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“Yes, I do,” Nate said, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “With Mom gone, things have been hard on everyone, especially you, without having to worry about me.”
I tensed at Nate’s arm movement, but the pistol remained in his lap.
“Remember the first time I brought you here?” I asked, deciding to approach things from a different direction.
“Why?”
“Do you remember?”
Though puzzled, Nate shrugged. “I . . . I guess so,” he sniffed. “It was when Callie was a puppy. We brought her here, and . . . and you gave her to me. You said that Tommy would be going away to college, and Travis and Ali weren’t far behind. So before long it was just going to be you, and me, and Mom. You said that if our family was going to have another dog, she was going to have to be mine.”
“You were so angry at me that morning. Do you remember why?”
“You killed Sammy.”
“It was her time,” I replied. “I should have given you the opportunity to say goodbye, but I didn’t. I felt so bad about putting her down, and I was trying to spare you and the rest of our family that pain. But I was wrong. I don’t know whether I ever apologized for that, but I’m sorry, Nate. I truly am.”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“Yes, it does. Remember what I said when I gave you Callie?”
Nate thought a moment. “You told me she would become my best friend in the world, and that I would love her more than anything—maybe even as much as I had loved Sammy.”
“What else?”
“You promised to help me train her.”
I smiled. “And I did. For the next year we got up early every morning and brought her up here for lessons, remember? And by the end of that year she was marking multiple falls, making water retrieves, accepting hand and whistle commands, and handling like a field-trial champion. We turned her into just about the finest gun dog anyone could ever ask for. What’s more, she loved it. And she formed a bond with you that will last her entire life. You know that, right?”
Nate nodded.
“But when I gave you Callie, I also told you there were some strings attached. Do you remember what they were?”
Nate’s expression darkened. “You said that I would be responsible for feeding her, and taking her to the vet, and giving her pills when she need them, and . . .”
“And?”
“. . . and when her time came to go, it would be my job to help her to do that, too,” Nate finished, tears starting again in his eyes. “Like you did with Sammy.”
“That’s right. I told you that having a dog was one of life’s greatest joys, but there were hard parts to it too. And unless you were willing to accept the hard parts, you were going to miss out on all the good parts as well.” I hesitated, realizing that over the past weeks Dorothy had been telling me the same thing.
“I remember,” said Nate.
“You have so many wonderful things ahead for you in life, Nate,” I continued. “Things like growing up, and falling in love, and having a family of your own. But along the way you’re going to discover that some of the best things in life, the ones you treasure the most, often come with a heavy price. But unless you’re willing to pay that price, you’re going to miss out.”
“Like losing Mom,” said Nate, staring at the gun in his lap.
“Like losing Mom, and Tommy, and all the other hurtful things that our family has gone through,” I said. “Losing your mother the way we did is more than anyone your age should have to bear, and I’m so, so sorry for the part I played in her death. But that isn’t the answer,” I added, glancing at the pistol. Nate’s index finger still lay outside the trigger guard, and I decided to delay taking the weapon from him for just a little longer.
“You may think having kids of your own is a long way off,” I continued. “Take it from me, the years will fly by and it will happen sooner than you think. And when it does, it will be an experience that will change your life, and I mean that in the very best way. You’ll love your children so much that you’ll find yourself trying to protect them from all the things that could hurt them. But in the end, you’ll discover that you can’t. I wish I could take your pain, Nate, but that’s not possible. Which brings us to where we are right now, sitting here in this field trying to decide what to do.”
I paused, wondering how to proceed. Finally I continued with a confession that had been a long time coming. “I see myself in you, Nate. And I’m proud to be your father, more than I can say. I see a lot of Catheryn in you as well, but of all my children, you’re the most like me. This may be hard for you to believe, but I know exactly what you’re feeling right now, because I’ve felt that way, too.”
At this, Nate looked up.
“When we lost your mom, I didn’t want to go on either,” I said quietly. “Every day at work, I carry that weapon you’re holding. And every day after your mother died, and on more than one occasion before that when I was still drinking, I thought about turning it on myself.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No. I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “I could say that I didn’t want to hurt the people who love me. I could say that I knew life woul
d get better and it was foolish to use a permanent solution to fix a temporary problem. I could say that I wasn’t certain whether the place I went afterward, if I went anywhere at all, wouldn’t be worse than it is here. And all those explanations would be true, at least to a point. But I think the real reason I’m still here is because I didn’t want to disappoint your mom.”
“And now Mom is gone.”
“I know. And I still want to honor her memory.”
“I . . . I want that, too,” said Nate. “But . . .”
“. . . you’re afraid you aren’t strong enough.”
“Maybe. I don’t know what to think.”
“Nate, do you trust me?”
Nate didn’t answer.
“Do you trust me?”
Nate took a deep breath, then let it out. Finally he nodded.
“That’s good, Nate. I promise I won’t ever betray your trust. Not ever. I know you’re confused right now about a lot of things, including whether you want to go on living, but please believe me when I say that ending your life isn’t the way. I don’t know what tomorrow may bring, and to be honest, I don’t know if anyone is strong enough to survive your kind of pain. I’m not even sure about myself, but I’m going to try. And I want you to try with me. People get through tragedies, so maybe we can, too. I promise I’ll be with you every step of the way, and there are others who will help. Our whole family will stand with you—Trav, and Ali, and Grandma Dorothy—no matter what. Will you give it a try?”
Nate thought a long time. At last he nodded.
“Good,” I said, realizing that although Nate’s journey was just beginning, this was a hopeful first step. Then, once more glancing at the pistol, “I believe that belongs to me?”
With a look of embarrassment, Nate passed me the weapon, carefully keeping his finger off the trigger.
Pointing the Glock toward the sky, I ejected the magazine and dropped it into my pocket. Next, racking the slide, I cleared a final cartridge from the chamber. As I shoved the pistol into my belt, I asked, “How did you open my handgun safe?”
“Guessing the combo wasn’t hard, Dad. Your badge number?”
“I’ll be changing that combination,” I said, disturbed that Nate had so easily accessed my service weapon. All my children had taken gun-safety training, but I realized with dismay that even safety training and the best security in the world provided no guarantee that a gun in the house couldn’t fall into the wrong hands.
