Free Guilt by G. H. Ephron Page A

the people who are supposed to take care of them don’t.”
    â€œHow the hell do you know he’s white?”
    â€œI told you, I don’t know squat. This is pure blue-sky speculation.”
    â€œYeah, yeah, yeah. But?”
    â€œBut you don’t get lots of anarchists of color in the U.S. these days.”
    MacRae’s pen scratched on the paper.
    â€œLocal. Urban. Narcissistic,” Peter said, rattling off some more half-baked but educated guesses. “He has to announce what he’s doing. To have time to do all this—plan it, make the bombs, set them up to blow on a weekday morning—he’s probably not working. Un-or underemployed. May have a criminal record of some kind.”
    MacRae gave Peter a look of genuine appreciation. “This gives us some new avenues to explore.”
    â€œMotive. That’s the key. He’s smart, not impulsive, and he’s got an agenda. Figure out why and you’ll be a lot closer to knowing who.” Acting as if this were an aside, Peter added, “Chip mentioned the possibility that he or Annie might be the target. Chip was working with Mary Alice Boudreaux, and Chip and Annie were due to be at the courthouse when the bomb went off.”
    Peter thought MacRae would dismiss the idea out of hand but he didn’t. “I’d thought of that, too,” he said. “Something to rule out.”

10
    â€œS ORRY, I was vacuuming,” Annie admitted when it took her five rings to pick up Peter’s call that night.
    â€œYou were doing what?” Peter sounded stunned. He was right. Annie usually avoided anything that smacked of housekeeping. But when she got home from the zoo she’d straightened, dusted—including the windowsills and ceiling moldings—and sorted her underwear drawer.
    Yes, she knew what it was about. Anything to keep from facing how devastated she’d be if Peter and Chip got erased in an instant. As Annie cleaned, she’d found herself thinking about Mary Alice, remembering her voice, the drawl, the salt and vinegar that seasoned her sweetness, the unflinching way she appraised others.
    â€œAfter that I scarfed down a bag of potato chips and a Sam Adams.”
    â€œThat sounds more like it,” Peter said. Then his voice turned serious. “Listen, when this kind of thing happens, the only sane response is to go a little nuts.”
    If anyone else had told her that, Annie would have found it patronizing. Instead, she found the observation calming. Peter was solid, grounded, and so perceptive about everyone’s inner turmoil except his own.
    â€œNothing can happen to you out on the river,” he pointed out. “How about meeting at my house after work tomorrow? We’ll go for a row.”
    In a weak moment she’d agreed. But as she drove over to Peter’s house with Jackie the next afternoon, she was having second thoughts. What had she been thinking, anyway?
    Peter loved everything about rowing—the rhythm, the way the boat glided across the water, the two of them working in perfect synchrony, the sun glinting off the Hancock Tower.
    Not to put too fine a point on it, she hated everything about the sport. It made her cold and wet, she couldn’t see where she was going, and the boat got all tippy when she so much as changed her mind. The worst part was Peter telling her to watch the set, raise her starboard oar, and make sure she caught at the same time he did. She couldn’t stand taking orders, especially from a man, even Peter. You’ll grow to like it—Peter kept telling her. Trust me, I won’t, she was tempted to shoot back.
    Maybe she could talk him into a run along the river instead.
    Sophie was with Pearl that afternoon—that’s why Annie had Jackie along. She glanced over at her. Jackie still seemed listless, her face tired and drawn as it had been all day.
    â€œYou okay?” Annie asked.
    â€œI’m tired. I