Free Intent to Kill by James Grippando

which seemed to draw them closer to each other. No regrets. It’s just a fact.”
    Her concern for Paul and everyone else but herself was classic caregiver syndrome. Emma couldn’t help but notice how much Rachel had aged in the three years since her daughter’s death. Some of the lines on her face seemed carved in wax.
    “How is Babes holding up?”
    Rachel breathed in and out, as if taken by the size of the question. “It depends on which doctor you talk to. One thinks he’s taking on aspects of obsessive compulsive disorder.”
    “How so?”
    “He obsesses about keeping people safe. But if you talk to other doctors, they will say it’s not OCD, that it’s perseveration of thoughts.”
    “What does that mean?”
    Rachel glanced across the porch at her son. He was still devouring his newspaper. No way was he listening. “He can get stuck on a certain event or situation and be unable to let go. It was really bad right after Chelsea died. Getting Babes to ride in a car was virtually impossible. He walked or took the bus everywhere. Sometimes he walked a mile out of his way just to avoid crossing certain busy streets.”
    “Is that still the case?”
    “It’s not as bad. But in other ways, he’s worse. I’m sure you remember how he’s totally into anagrams, right?”
    “Yeah. Baseball, as I recall.”
    “His anagrams are less about sports these days. They’re more about danger and violence—particularly against women.”
    Emma’s gaze shifted toward Babes. He was still reading the same page of the newspaper, but his hands were out of his hair. He was squeezing a Koosh ball, one of those squishy stress relievers made of rubber.
    “That looks to be the sports page he’s reading now,” said Emma.
    “Baseball is still his special thing. He probably reads three or four sports sections a day. Babes says it’s important to know your enemy,” she said, with a wan smile, “so we also got him a subscription to the New York Times . And he never throws anything away. Like I said, he reads to collect information. You should see his bedroom. Stacked floor to ceiling.”
    “He saves newspapers?” said Emma.
    “And magazines. Everything from the Pawtucket Times to Sports Illustrated . Paul says that one of these days the floor will collapse under all that weight.”
    Emma suddenly had a thought. “Did this Lieutenant Benjamin speak to Babes?”
    “As a matter of fact, he seemed determined to speak to Babes alone. Paul and his tough love for Babes—he insisted that we leave the room and let that impostor have his time alone with Babes. Poor boy is still traumatized about it.”
    “What did he and Babes talk about?”
    “I don’t know. I was in the kitchen with Paul, and I can’t get Babes to open up about it.”
    Emma glanced in Babes’s direction. “Do you mind if I talk to him?”
    Rachel bristled.
    “I won’t push,” said Emma. “I’ll keep it light.”
    “Well,” Rachel said tentatively, “I guess that would be okay.”
    Emma crossed the porch and sat in the wire chair on the other side of the little round table from Babes. He was so into his newspaper that he didn’t notice her. She took her BlackBerry from her purse and laid it on the table beside his newspaper.
    “You have one of these, Babes?”
    His gaze slowly shifted from the sports page to the BlackBerry.
    Emma said, “I can get the Internet on that. You want to pull up some baseball scores?”
    He picked up the BlackBerry and pushed a few buttons, his focus now on the device. “Can I get the Times article I’m reading?” he asked.
    “Absolutely. What’s it about?”
    His posture straightened, his eyes brightened. He was suddenly engaged; they were talking about what he wanted to talk about. “The San Diego Padres are in New York to play the Mets this week.”
    “Are you a Mets fan?”
    “Heavens, no.”
    Heavens, no , thought Emma. She had forgotten how stiff and formal Babes’s speech could be.
    Babes continued, “The