I’d moved back home, of course, but for some reason I found myself getting up early every day and driving over to St. Remigio’s for the six o’clock mass. Robbie or one of the other St. Remigio boxers would serve. Father Lou gruffly announced I could read the lesson as long as I was there. All that week, as I made my way through the book of Job, I thought about the women at Coolis. If there was a God, had He delivered the women into the hands of Satan for a wager? And would He appear finally in the whirlwind and rescue them?

Chapter 49: Scar Tissue

49 Scar Tissue

My vindication by the Chicago press was something of a nine–day wonder. Clients who’d left me for Carnifice called to say they’d never doubted me and they would have assignments for me as soon as I got off the disabled list. Old friends in the Chicago Police Department called, demanding to know why I hadn’t complained to them about Douglas Lemour; they would have fixed the problem for me. I didn’t try to argue with them about all the times in the past they’d told me to mind my own business and leave police work to them. And Mary Louise Neely showed up one morning, her face pinched with misery.

“Vic, I won’t blame you if you feel like you can never trust me again, but they called to threaten me. Threaten the children. The man who called knew the exact address of Emily’s camp in France and told me what she’d eaten for dinner the night before. I was terrified and I felt trapped—I couldn’t send the boys back to their father, and I didn’t know what else to do with them. I thought if I told you, you’d go riding off half–cocked and get all of us killed.” She twisted her hands round and round as if she could wash off the memory.

“You could be right.” I tried to smile, but found I couldn’t quite manage it. “I’m not going to sit in judgment on you for being scared, let alone for trying to look after Nate and Josh. What hurt was the way you were judging me. Claiming I was running hotheaded into danger when I was fighting for my life. I had to go into the heart of the furnace to save myself. If you could have trusted me enough to tell me why you were withdrawing from me, it would have made a big difference.”

“You’re right, Vic,” she whispered. “I could have gone to Terry about Lemour; maybe it would have stopped him from trying to plant the coke on you or from beating you when he arrested you. I can only say—I’m sorry. If you’re willing to let me try again, though, I’d like to.”