She went downstairs, and I heard her go into the office below.
“Sam wrote to us around Thanksgiving,” Bernard said. “He had gone skiing with some friends. Regina kept the photo.”
“How often do you hear from them?”
“Not too often. Once or twice a year they’ll send us a card or a letter. Last time we saw them in person was about four years ago.”
She ran back up the stairs, trailed by Stan the cat, who apparently enjoyed the activity — he continued to run around the loft. Regina handed me a 4 x 6 photograph.
“Turn the lights on,” she said.
Bernard complied, and I found myself staring at a group shot of four young skiers.
“I don’t know who the others are, but that’s Sam,” Regina said, pointing to a young man in a blue ski cap. He looked more relaxed in this shot than he did in the driver’s license photo that was shown on the eleven o’clock news, but he was easily recognizable as the same person. There was a dark-haired woman standing next to him. I didn’t recognize her, but I knew the faces of the other two men in the photo.
“Lang and Colson,” I said.
22
IT WAS AFTER TWO IN THE MORNING when we pulled into Bea’s driveway. The reporters were gone, although once the story broke in the
He was reading through some papers, apparently the latest faxes from Hank Freeman. Pete and Rachel murmured, “Good night,” and went inside. I sat on the swing and handed the photo to Cassidy.
“I think Lang’s and Colson’s neighbors might recognize her,” I said. “The Szals think she might be Sam’s girlfriend.”
Cassidy studied the photo. “She fits the description the neighbors gave us all right. This is terrific. What else did you learn?”
“What an M number is,” I answered, ignoring his puzzled look as I went on to tell him what the Szals had said about Sam and Bret. Not long after I started, Cassidy took out his notebook and began making notes — lots of them.
“This is great,” he said, far too enthusiastic for the hour. “This is the kind of information we can only get from people who know them. We can predict Bret and Sam a little better because of it — especially the info about how they work with each other. And this photo — these folks you talked to have done us a world of good.” Then he sobered and added, “I suppose it wasn’t too easy on them.”
“No,” I said “But it seems to be in their natures to be helpful. And they care about Frank. Fortunately for us, that prevailed over their loyalty to Bret and Sam.”
“Yes. I’m going to take them up on their offer for a talk.” He stood up and stretched. “Well, I better get this off to Hank while it’s fresh in my mind.”
“Don’t you sleep?”
“Had a short nap while you were working. I’ll be fine. You look like you’re all tuckered out, though.”
“I am,” I said. “I just don’t know if I can sleep.”
“Give it a try,” he said, and we walked in. I said good night as he went into his room, which was across the hall from mine.
I fell asleep almost as soon as I lay down but awakened at four-thirty. I could hear Cassidy talking, and although I couldn’t make out what he was saying, there was an urgency in his voice that was unmistakable. I put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and was reaching for my socks when I heard him fall silent. I listened and decided to forgo footwear when I heard him stumbling down the hallway at a hurried pace. I opened the bedroom door but could not see him. I heard the front door open and rushed to follow. By the time I reached him, he was standing on the front porch, gripping the railing, taking deep breaths.
“Cassidy?”
He whirled to face me, his eyes wild and unseeing, his face covered with sweat. My own eyes widened — Cassidy, frantic? What god-awful news had he received?
In the next moment, though, I understood what was happening. “Wake up, Cassidy,” I said quietly but firmly. “Wake up.”
He looked at me, and I could see the change in his eyes when he focused on me as something more than a voice invading a dream. Those eyes were quickly lowered in shame.
“God damn,” he said with feeling.
“Somebody once told me that you shouldn’t be embarrassed about having nightmares,” I said.
“That guy is more full of horseshit than a rodeo wheelbarrow,” Cassidy said, still not looking at me, sounding none too steady. “Everybody knows that.”
“Yeah, but they like him anyway. Let’s sit on the swing until you get your land legs back.”
He went along with the suggestion, maybe because he wasn’t in any shape to move much farther. It takes a lot of energy to have a really horrific nightmare. They wear you out.
I set the swing in motion, and we rocked back and forth in it for a time.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he finally said, still not making eye contact.
“Who asked you to? You think I give a crap about your problems?”
He looked at me then and abruptly started laughing. Doubling over, wheezing laughter. He did his best not to wake the household, but it looked like the effort was going to give him a hernia.
