Tracking Shot, Colin Campbell [moboreader TXT] 📗

a daughter of her own. The sister he’d come to America to find. He wondered how much she remembered of what had happened at Crag View Children’s Home. He wondered if it was a good idea, bringing it back up after all these years. So, after the joy of reuniting with her, he’d become withdrawn, unsure how to proceed, insecure in his ability to make things right.

Amy showed she had more than just a cop’s way of coping with disaster. She led McNulty through the evidence to help him see what was obvious to her. She took it one step at a time. First step: “She found you after the sinking of the Manticore made the news.”

Second step: “Your name coming up in the story.”

A pause, then the third step: “The story being linked to Titanic Productions.”

She looked him in the eye and ran the next few steps together. “Titanic Productions is going to be all over today’s story. The shooting’s going to hit big on the news. People killed. People injured. She’s going to see that and know you were involved.”

She patted his hand again. “After learning she’s got a brother.” She squeezed it. “You think she wants to find out you got shot on national television?”

FIVE

McNulty put it off as long as he could but Amy was right, his sister deserved better. He phoned her and arranged to visit later that evening. He was still driving around in circles three hours later when he crossed the I-90 into Newtonville, three miles south as the crow flies and a lifetime away from where they had begun. He parked outside Newton North High School and wasted another thirty minutes staring at the junction with Kirkstall Road. There’d been a Kirkstall Road in Yorkshire, not a million miles from Crag View Children’s Home. Kirkstall Road, Newtonville, was a whole lot better. Susan had done well for herself.

The sun was slanting low across the front lawn when McNulty finally summoned the courage to pull into the drive. The Carter residence was the smallest house on the street, but that didn’t make it small. The white painted clapboard bungalow occupied the corner lot at the mouth of Kirkstall Road. The drive led to a doublewide basement garage with the traditional basketball hoop in the corner.

Susan came to the window above the garage and waved McNulty round the side. He parked and took a moment to calm his nerves. A door opened along the garden path. He got out and leaned against the car, took a deep breath, then went to see his sister.

“You sure I can’t fix you something to eat?”

The hug had been long and desperate, and it was ten minutes before Susan offered to feed the brother she’d only met twice since finding him at Quincy. The uncle with the strange accent fascinated Susan’s daughter, Tilly. She was five years old and looked just like her mother at the same age—the age she’d been when Mr. Cruckshank slapped her across the face, provoking McNulty to break the headmaster’s nose.

“I’ve eaten. Thanks.”

“Lemonade on the deck then?”

“Lemonade sounds good.”

Susan indicated a picnic table at the back of the house then went inside. Tilly simply sat and stared. There was no man about the house. McNulty knew his sister was divorced but he hadn’t delved into her personal life or financial situation. It was too soon for that. When she returned, the lemonade broke the ice. When Tilly got bored with the stranger and went to play, the conversation turned to what had brought him here today.

Susan went first. “It must have been terrible.”

The standard opening for people who hadn’t seen terrible things.

“It wasn’t good.”

Being slapped by the headmaster was the tip of the iceberg when it came to Crag View, but McNulty wondered how much Susan remembered of her life before America. It hadn’t been as bad as today’s massacre at Chester Brook, but at five years old the scars must run deep. If she bore a grudge she didn’t show it.

“Did you know any of them?”

McNulty took a sip of lemonade. “In passing. Not well. Most were extras, hired in for a few days.” He put the glass on the table. “I knew a few of the cast and crew who were there. Not the ones who were…” He shrugged. There was no need to say more.

Susan looked at her brother. “But you’re okay?”

McNulty met her gaze. He wanted to ask her the same thing, about all those years ago, but it wasn’t a question he knew how to ask. “Hi, Susan, did the child abuse at Crag View mess you up or are you okay now?” Instead he gave the answer she would no doubt have given him. “I’m fine.”

There didn’t seem to be any mileage in that line of questioning so Susan changed the subject. “The movies.” She threw up her hands. “Wow. That must be exciting.”

McNulty toyed with his glass. “It’s different.”

Susan crossed one leg and leaned sideways against the table. “From being a cop.”

It seemed strange, his sister using Americanisms in her speech. There was no trace of the Yorkshire accent. There was nothing left of being English at all. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected when he set off on his quest to find her, once he’d learned she’d been adopted in America.

“Being in the police helped people more than working for Larry,” he said.

Susan turned steady eyes on her brother. “Helping people being your purpose in life.”

McNulty couldn’t meet her eyes. He kept his down, looking at his hands. “It’s what the police do.”

Susan lowered her voice. “It’s what you do.” Then she broke his heart. “I remember, you know. In the headmaster’s office.”

McNulty looked into her eyes but said nothing.

Susan spoke in a whisper. “You were my hero.” Her voice trembled. “It’s all I remember.”

McNulty cleared his throat and glanced toward the setting sun. It was still bright and stung his eyes. He rubbed them clear then turned back to his