by Brad Parks
She glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was paying too careful attention, then planted a kiss directly on my lips, followed by a full-body hug that made my toes curl.
“Wow,” I said when she released me.
“I really shouldn’t reward behavior like this on your part,” she said. “But I think a lot of stuff hit me afterward, when I thought about how close you came to not making it. I mean, if Pigeon hadn’t bumped into that guy, if she hadn’t made that phone call, if your sister weren’t marrying a state trooper … I thought about how easily I could have lost you and I—” She stopped herself. “I’m sorry,” she said in a raspy voice. “Would you just come out in the lobby with me for a second?”
“Yeah, just let me check to make sure I don’t have to give this speech right now,” I said.
I confirmed with my mother that I had at least five minutes until people would be seated for the toasts. I paused at the double doors to give the microphone guy the thumbs-up, so he would know I was heading out for a minute or two. He responded with his own thumbs-up and I slipped through the doors.
Tina and I found a private corner just outside the room, out of earshot, where she half collapsed on me, leaning in and resting her head on my shoulder.
“I just kept thinking about you and the baby,” she said. “I know I said I would raise this baby without you and that I didn’t want you to have anything to do with it. But then I started thinking about my child really growing up without a father and … Carter, this is your baby too. I get that. And I want you to be a part of this baby’s life, if that’s okay with you.”
“Okay with me?” I said, feeling my throat constrict. “It’s the best thing you could say to me. Tina, I want to raise this baby with you more than anything.”
And then, because I think we were both crying a little—and maybe both feeling a little silly about it all—we just held each other for a moment.
Not that the moment lasted long. I was suddenly hearing all kinds of noise coming from the banquet hall. The doors had been opened and a small crowd was pouring out, led by my mother—looking as wide-eyed and wild as I had ever seen her.
“Baby!” she screamed. “There’s going to be a baby!?”
She rushed up to Tina and hugged her, more or less knocking me out of the way in the process.
I was just watching the whole thing, bewildered by how my mother knew. I mean, sure, mothers have special powers and all, but I didn’t realize mine had suddenly been blessed with supersonic hearing.
Then my brother walked up and clapped me on the shoulder. “Congratulations, Dad,” he said.
“But how did you guys…”
“We heard it over the speaker system, genius,” he said.
“Speaker? But—”
My brother mocked my voice: “I want to raise this baby with you more than anything!”
And that’s when it occurred to me that when I had given the sound guy the thumbs-up, he had taken it as the signal to switch on my microphone. Every private word Tina and I had just shared had been broadcast to the entire room.
Well. At least no one could complain they hadn’t been first to get the news.
My father and sister had joined Tina. No one was paying much attention to me—something I supposed I was going to have to get used to—so Kira came up to me and gave me a quick hug and a peck on the cheek.
“Congratulations. I’ll see you later,” she said, and started peeling away.
“Wait, are you leaving?”
“You have enough on your hands,” she said, in a way that felt friendly. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve still got time to make it to the Zombie Ball.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Oh, Carter. You’re sweet. But at this stage of my life, if it comes down to babies or zombies, I’ll go with the undead every time.”
She waved and skipped out. I turned my attention back to Tina, who was still being mobbed by my family. There was all kinds of excited yelping and chirping—mostly from my mother—and it was making it difficult to hear. I remembered what Tina had said about needing me as a buffer, so I started trying to shuck Rosses off her.
“Okay, break it up, break it up,” I said.
No one was budging. So I just leaned in and kissed Tina on the cheek.
“Love you,” I whispered in her ear. “Welcome to the family.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There’s a shelf in my living room where I display the merry band of books I’ve published.
The hardcovers are the front men, propped up on their own little stands. The paperback, large print, and audio versions of those same books are arranged behind, like background singers.
I was wandering past the shelf the other day when I noticed it was starting to get a little crowded in there. And somehow, for the very first time—five books and counting into this whole mad adventure—it struck me: Wow, I really am an author.
Call me a slow study. But sometimes I still have to pinch myself that I get to do this for a living. And I’m endlessly grateful to all the people who make it possible.
That starts with you, o gentle reader. I consider it an incredible privilege that you let me into your life and allow me—if all goes well, I hope—to entertain you for a few hours. Each day when I sit down to write, my goal is to be the equal of the amazing opportunity you’ve given me.
Kelley Ragland, my editor at Minotaur Books, also deserves a heaping helping of thanks. She and her assistant, Elizabeth Lacks, do a marvelous job of keeping me out of trouble, both on the page and elsewhere. (I still get in trouble, of course, but only when I don’t listen to them.)
I’d also like to acknowledge the untiring efforts of the rest of the Minotaur mafia, including publicist Hector DeJean, library goddess Talia Sherer, the marketing team headed by Matt Baldacci, the Criminal Element crew (including Claire Toohey, who I’m pretty sure meant it as a compliment not long ago when she called me a whore), publisher Andy Martin, and the big boss, Sally Richardson.
Also, I know I’m not the only St. Martin’s Press author who will miss the huge presence of Matthew Shear, taken from us much too soon after a battle with cancer he kept far too quiet. He was a gem of a man whose enthusiasm for books was surpassed only by the size of his smile.
Taking my praise outside the Flatiron Building, just down the street to Writers House, I count myself fortunate to have the counsel of Dan Conaway, the best agent in the business. It’s no accident that his clientele represented 40 percent of the Anthony Award nominees this past year.
Elsewhere, Becky Kraemer of Cursive Communications is a joy to work with. But I warn my fellow authors: Hire her only if you want to get more attention and sell more books.
Speaking of selling books, I remain indebted to book peddlers across the nation, who push my work on people. In particular, I’d like to thank Kelly Justice of Fountain Bookstore in Richmond. She is a friend to me and authors everywhere.
Libraries are also close to my heart and I am constantly asking people to support their local branch. In that spirit, here’s to the library scientists in my backyard: Alice Cooper at the Northumberland Public Library, Bette Dillehay at the Mathews Public Library, Bess Haile at the Essex Public Library, and Ralph Oppenheim at the Middlesex Public Library.
And, no, Lancaster County, I haven’t forgotten Lindsy Gardner. I just felt like she deserved her own paragraph. Roll Tide, Miss Lindsy.
Moving on, I am nourished by friendships in the crime fiction community, truly the best bunch of readers and writers you could ever want to be around. I will borrow the words of my friend, Erica Ruth Neubauer, who recently attended her first Bouchercon and came home gushing, “I have met my tribe.” I know exactly how she feels.
On the road—a place an author finds himself in a lot—I appreciate the continuing hospitality of Tony Cicatiello, James Lum, Jorge Motoshige, and all the folks who have joined me for a meal or beverage during my travels.
Closer to home, I keep doing th
e bulk of my writing at a Hardees (yes, really) where Teresa Owens and the gang treat me like family and where Avis Webster provides excellent protective services. Thanks for letting me clutter up the corner all day.
And now, finally, to my actual family: a million thank-yous and a million more to my in-laws, Joan and Allan Blakely; my brother, Greg, and sister-in-law, Shevon; to my parents, Marilyn and Bob Parks, who are my anchors; and to Mary Lou Olson, to whom this book is dedicated. Sometimes we don’t realize the lessons we learn from our grandparents until we have gotten along a bit in life. My grandmother is a model of elegance, grace and humility—and a thousand other traits I’m still trying to acquire. I feel blessed by the time we’ve spent together through the years.
Finally, I need to thank my children, both of whom, I’m proud to say, are now readers themselves (but, I hope, will not pick up this particular book for several more years yet); and my wife, Melissa, the lough of my life (private joke, don’t ask). Living with a man who spends his days having conversations with imaginary people—and then killing them—is not always easy. Thanks for putting up with me, guys. I love you more than air.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Brad Parks is the first author to win both the Shamus Award and the Nero Award for Best American Mystery for his debut novel, Faces of the Gone. A former reporter for The Washington Post and The [Newark] Star-Ledger, he lives in Virginia, and this is his fifth novel. Visit him online at www.BradParksbooks.com.
ALSO BY BRAD PARKS
The Good Cop
The Girl Next Door
Eyes of the Innocent
Faces of the Gone
