The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [118]
“That’s the nature of the condition. A small step translates into a huge advancement. I’m very encouraged by his progress.”
“This is what you live for, isn’t it? I mean, I guess it’s a lot like an investigation, tracking a killer. Small pieces of evidence at each crime scene add up over time to help us get a full picture. The small steps make a difference.”
Altman smiled. “They sure do. The day-to-day improvement may be painstakingly slow for some, but I look at it like doing a jigsaw puzzle: I’ll search for the next piece, and the one after that, and the one after that. Piece by piece, until I finally complete the puzzle. Because to answer your question, ‘what I live for’ is the completed puzzle.”
Vail nodded, buoyed by the new perspective.
The law enforcement analogy was one she could grasp. As long as the evidence kept coming, as long as the clues were adding up, she would break the case. If the same principles applied to Jonathan, she could deal with the slow but steady progress.
She thanked the doctor, who nodded and then left the room.
Little by little, she thought. Vail kissed her son’s cheek and whispered in his ear. “Come on, Jonathan. Just like when you were a baby learning how to walk. One foot in front of the other, one step at a time. You’ll pull through this. You’re gonna make it. You hear me, sweetheart?” She waited for a blink, a twitch of his mouth . . . but got nothing.
Wiping away the tears, she walked out of his room and left the hospital, moving past a few members of the press who had camped out near the exit, “no commenting” as she pushed by them.
What she needed now was slow, steady progress on Dead Eyes. As if in response to her thoughts, her cell phone rang: someone at BSU, the Behavioral Science Unit, had information for her.
fifty-two
Wayne Rudnick of BSU was cagey about what he had discovered regarding the Dead Eyes case but told her he couldn’t wait around for her to drive to the Academy. He had an exploding toothache and was heading out to an emergency dental appointment. He suggested they meet tomorrow morning instead.
Vail went back to Robby’s place and found him with an apron on, mixing a pot of tomato sauce. Boiling water sat on the stove beside it, awaiting the introduction of a handful of stiff spaghetti noodles. As he dropped in the pasta, the water calmed like antacid on a queasy stomach.
“Smells good,” she said as she approached the kitchen. Robby’s house, inherited from his mother several years ago when she passed away, showed its age. Nails, tape, and other items permanently embedded in the plaster walls’ surfaces had been covered over by repeated coats of paint. The old casement windows were drafty and needed to be replaced. New carpet had been installed, and it looked as if Robby had made an attempt at home decorating. But it still lacked warmth.
Vail stepped up to the pot and sniffed. “Smells better than it looks. Is that Ragu or Prego?”
“Hey,” Robby said, wooden spoon in hand. “Are you insulting me?”
She looked into the pot again. “Just stating my observations. But if I’m wrong—”
“It’s Prego.”
“I see. Guess I’ll have to help out a bit. Do some of the cooking.”
“You’re definitely insulting me.”
Vail moved into the living room and sat down heavily on the couch. “Jonathan’s showing some more improvement.”
Robby lowered the flames beneath the pots, then settled onto the sofa beside her. “That’s great,” he said, taking her hand in his own. “What’d the doctor say?”
“He’s encouraged, feels it’s all going the way he’d expected. Small steps.” She kicked her shoes off and brought her feet up onto the couch, rested her head in Robby’s lap. “Raising a kid is tough. It’s easy to see how things go wrong, you know?”
“How do you mean?”
“On the drive over, I was thinking about Deacon, and how bad an influence he’s been on Jonathan the past year or so. It’s the kind of stuff that leads to the development of the twisted personalities the offenders develop.”
“Oh, come on. A child