Jimmy put his arm around her, pulled her tight, wishing you could freeze moments in your life like snapshots, just stay in them, suspended, until you were ready to come out again, however many hours or days that might take. He turned his head and kissed Annabeth's cheek, and she leaned into him a little more, both of their eyes locked on their daughter, their floating angel of a baby girl.
* * *
THE GUY with the samurai sword stood at the edge of the park, his back to the Pen Channel, one foot raised up off the ground as he pivoted slowly with the other, the sword held at an odd angle behind the crown of his head. Sean, Whitey, Souza, and Connolly approached slowly, giving one another "What the fuck?" looks. The guy continued his slow pivot, oblivious to the four men approaching him in a loose line along the grass. He raised the sword over his head and began to bring it down in front of his chest. They were about twenty feet away now, the guy having pivoted 180 degrees so that his back was to them, and Sean saw Connolly put his hand to his right hip, unsnap the buckle of his holster, and leave the hand resting on the butt of his Glock.
Before this got any nuttier and someone got shot or the guy went all hara-kiri on them, Sean cleared his throat and said, "Excuse me, sir. Sir? Excuse me."
The guy's head cocked slightly as if he'd heard Sean, but he continued that deliberate pivot, revolving in increments toward them.
"Sir, we need you to lay your weapon on the grass."
The guy's foot dropped back to the ground and he turned to face them, his eyes widening and then clicking on each of them? one, two, three, four guns? and he held out the sword, either pointing it at them or trying to hand it to them, Sean couldn't tell which.
Connolly said, "The fuck? you deaf? On the ground."
Sean said, "Sssh," and stopped moving, ten feet from the guy now, thinking about the blood drops they'd found along the jogging path about sixty yards back, all four of them knowing what the drops meant, and then looking up to see Bruce Lee over here brandishing a sword the length of a small plane. Except Bruce Lee had been Asian and this guy was definitely white, youngish, maybe twenty-five, with curly black hair and shaven cheeks, white T-shirt tucked into gray sweats.
He was frozen now, and Sean was pretty sure it was fear that kept that sword pointed at them, the brain seizing up and unable to command the body.
"Sir," Sean said, sharp enough for the guy to look directly at him. "Do me a favor, okay? Put the sword down on the ground. Just open your fingers and let it drop."
"Who the hell are you guys?"
"We're police officers." Whitey Powers flashed his badge. "See? So, trust me here, sir, and drop that sword."
"Uh, sure," the guy said, and just like that it fell from his fingers, hit the grass with a damp thud.
Sean felt Connolly starting to move on his left, ready to rush the guy, and he put out his hand, kept the guy's eyes locked with his, and said, "What's your name?"
"Huh? Kent."
"Kent, how you doing? I'm State Trooper Devine. I need you to just take a couple of steps back from the weapon."
"The weapon?"
"The sword, Kent. Take a couple of steps back. What's your last name, Kent?"
"Brewer," he said, and backed up, his palms held up and out now like he was sure they were going to draw their Glocks all at once and unload.
Sean smiled and threw a nod at Whitey. "Hey, Kent, what was that you were doing out here? Looked like some kind of ballet to me." He shrugged. "With a sword, sure, but?"
Kent watched Whitey bend by the sword and pick it up gently by the hilt with a handkerchief.
"Kendo."
"What's that, Kent?"
"Kendo," Kent said. "It's a martial art. I take it Tuesdays and Thursdays and practice in the mornings. I was just practicing. That's all."
Connolly sighed.
Souza looked at Connolly. "You're dicking me, right?"
Whitey held out the sword blade for Sean to see. It was oiled and shiny and so clean it could have just come off the press.
"Look." Whitey slid the blade across his open palm. "I've had sharper spoons."
"It's never been sharpened," Kent said.
Sean felt that bird in his skull again, screeching. "Ah, Kent, how long you been here?"
Kent looked at the parking lot a hundred yards behind them. "Fifteen minutes? Tops. What's this about?" His voice was gaining confidence now, a shade of indignation. "It's not illegal to practice kendo in a public park, Officer, is it?"
"We're working on it, though," Whitey said. "And that's 'Sergeant,' Kent."
"You account for your whereabouts late last night, early this morning?" Sean asked.
Kent looked nervous again, racking his brain, holding in a breath. He closed his eyes for a moment, then let out the breath. "Yes, yes. I was, I was at a party last night with friends. I went home with my girlfriend. We got to sleep about three. I had coffee with her this morning and then I came here."
Sean pinched the top of his nose and nodded. "We're going to impound the sword, Kent, and we wouldn't mind if you dropped over to the barracks with one of the troopers, answered a few questions."
"The barracks?"
"The police station," Sean said. "We just got a different name for it."
"Why?"
"Kent, could you just agree to go with one of the troopers?"
"Uh, sure."
Sean looked at Whitey and Whitey grimaced. They knew Kent was too scared to be telling anything but the truth, and they knew the sword would come back from Forensics clean, but they had to play out every string and file a follow-up report till the paperwork looked like parade floats atop their desks.
"I'm getting my black belt," Kent said.
They turned back and looked at him. "Huh?"
"On Saturday," Kent said, his face bright under beads of perspiration. "Took me three years, but, ah, that's why I was down here this morning, making sure my form was tight."
"Uh-huh," Sean said.
"Hey, Kent?" Whitey said, and Kent smiled at him. "I mean, not for nothing, right, but who really gives a fuck?"
* * *
BY THE TIME Nadine and the other kids flowed out through the back of the church, Jimmy was feeling less pissed off at Katie, and more worried about her. For all the late nights and sneaking around with boys he didn't know, Katie wasn't one to let her half sisters down. They worshipped her, and she in turn doted on them? taking them to movies, Rollerblading, out for ice cream. Lately she'd been firing them up about next Sunday's parade, acting as if Buckingham Day was a nationally recognized holiday, up there with Saint Pat's and Christmas. She'd come home early Wednesday night and trooped the two girls upstairs to pick out what they were going to wear, making a mini-production out of it as she sat up on her bed and the girls came back and forth into the room modeling their outfits, asking her questions about their hair, their eyes, their manner of walking. Of course, the room the two girls shared turned into a cyclone of discarded clothing, but Jimmy didn't mind? Katie was helping the girls mark yet another event, using the tricks Jimmy had taught her to make even the most minor things seem major and singular.