The Art of Racing in the Rain - Chapter 34

34 They took him to a small room with a large table and many chairs. The walls were perforated with windows that looked out to the surrounding office, which was filled with police detectives doing their police work at their desks, just like on Law & Order. Wooden blinds filtered the blue light that crept into the room, rippling the table and floor with long shadows. No one bothered him. A bad cop didn’t pull his ears or hit him with a telephone directory or smash his fingers in the door or smack his head against the chalkboard, as often happens on television. No. After being booked and fingerprinted and photographed, he was put in the room, alone, and left there, as if the police had forgotten him entirely. He sat by himself. He sat for hours with nothing. No coffee, no water, no restrooms, no radio. No distractions. His crime and his punishment and himself. Alone. Did he despair? Did he silently berate himself for allowing himself to be in that situation? Or did he finally realize what it is like to be me, to be a dog? Did he understand, as those interminable minutes ticked by, that being alone is not the same as being lonely? That being alone is a neutral state; it is like a blind fish at the bottom of the ocean: without eyes, and therefore without judgment. Is it possible? That which is around me does not affect my mood; my mood affects that which is around me. Is it true? Could Denny have possibly appreciated the subjective nature of loneliness, which is something that exists only in the mind, not in the world, and, like a virus, is unable to survive without a willing host? I like to think that he was alone for that time, but that he wasn’t lonely. I like to think that he thought about his condition, but he did not despair. And then Mark Fein burst into the East Precinct on Seattle’s Capitol Hill; he burst in and began shouting. That is Mark Fein’s blustery style. Bombastic. Boisterous. Bold. Bellicose. Mark Fein is a capital letter B. He is shaped like the letter, and he acts like the letter. Brash. Brazen. Bullish. Bellowing. He blew down the door, bull-rushed the desk, blasted the sergeant on duty, and bailed out Denny. “What the fuck is this all about, Dennis?” Mark demanded on the street corner. “It’s nothing,” Denny said, uninterested in the conversation. “The fuck it is! A fifteen-year-old? Dennis! The fuck it’s nothing!” “She’s lying.” “Is she? Did you have intercourse with this girl?” “No.” “Did you penetrate any of her orifices with your genitals or any other object?” Denny stared at Mark Fein and refused to answer. “This is part of a plan, do you see that?” Mark said, frustrated. “I couldn’t figure why they would file a bogus custody suit, but this changes everything.” Still, Denny said nothing. “A pedophile. A sex offender. A statutory rapist. A child molester. Do these terms fit anywhere in the concept of ‘the best interest of a child’?” Denny ground his teeth; his jaw muscles bulged. “My office, eight thirty tomorrow morning,” Mark said. “Don’t be late.” Denny burned. “Where’s Zoë?” he demanded. Mark Fein dug his heel into the pavement. “They got to her before I could,” he said. “The timing on this was not an accident.” “I’m going to get her,” Denny said. “Don’t!” Mark snapped. “Let them be. Now is not the time for heroics. When you’re stuck in quicksand, the worst thing you can do is struggle.” “So now I’m stuck in quicksand?” Denny asked. “Dennis, you are in the quickest of all possible sand right now.” Denny wheeled around and started off. “And don’t leave the state,” Mark called after him. “And, Jesus Christ, Dennis, don’t even look at another fifteen-year-old girl!” But Denny had already rounded the corner and was gone.