His hands stilled. “We don’t have a tally sheet.”
Frank made no other comment as Bret finished removing the left wrist restraint. His impatience to be freed was nearly unbearable now, and he immediately reached to remove the one on the right wrist, only to grow dizzy again. But Bret did not try to interfere; he waited, let Frank free himself, first from the rail, then from the restraint itself. He did not say anything when Frank threw the strap hard to the ground like a hated thing.
Frank blew out a breath, tried to control the rush of emotion he felt as the strap made a satisfying slap on the floor.
He rubbed his wrists as Bret lowered the rail, slightly embarrassed now at the display of temper. But that passed with the anticipation of another measure of freedom.
“Careful now,” Bret said, and helped him from the bed.
He was ridiculously wobbly and dizzy as all hell, but he was on his own two feet. He didn’t know how long he had been here or how long he would remain, but at least he wasn’t tied to the damned bed.
“Thank you,” Frank said, and saw that Bret had some idea of how deeply he meant it.
He walked like an old man to the table, leaning on Bret for the first few steps, then on his own. He eased into a chair, rolled and stretched the stiff muscles of his shoulders and back. He looked at the bed.
“Don’t think about being back there,” Bret said, following Frank’s anxious line of thought. “We have time now, and we should make the most of it. Are you hungry?”
“Yes,” Frank said in the tone of one making a discovery. He felt awkward, unsure of how to proceed.
“Just sandwiches this time, I’m afraid,” Bret said, going to an ice chest.
“You said you have something for me to read?” Frank asked as Bret arrived with paper plates wrapped in plastic wrap, a sandwich and fresh fruit on each. He did not doubt that all of his food would be of a kind that could be eaten without utensils. No makeshift weaponry.
“You can read it after we eat,” Bret said. “Do you remember the Szals?”
“Bernard and Regina? Yes, of course.”
They talked of the Szals and telescopes and aikido. Bret politely steered the conversation away from any potentially touchy subjects, such as the years of silence. Still, Frank could not deny that it was a genuinely pleasant exchange. Bret had come alive, had been enthusiastic, was always eager for Frank’s thoughts and opinions.
After eating, Frank stood and walked slowly around the tent, which was roomy but sparsely furnished. Barefoot, he was fairly certain the floor beneath the tent was wooden. There were several locked trunks of various sizes along one side of the tent; he was curious about them but decided against asking about them now.
His head itched. He reached back to scratch it and felt the shaved and slightly tender skin around the stitches.
“God, it feels good to be able to scratch that damned itch,” he said.
Bret’s face fell. “I’m so sorry. I should have thought of that.”
You try hard to anticipate what others are feeling, Frank thought. Aloud he said, “It wasn’t so bad. I probably shouldn’t be touching it, anyway.”
“There shouldn’t be much of a scar,” Bret said.
“Your hair will cover it, I’m sure.”
“You put in the stitches?”
He couldn’t fail to notice Bret’s sudden pallor.
“No,” Bret said. “No, Samuel did.”
“I’ll have to thank him,” Frank said. “I seem to remember bleeding.” He touched the slightly puffy place on his upper lip. “My lip?”
Bret was looking away now. “Your lip, your nose. Your head. It was terrible.” He shuddered. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Sure.”
He made his way back to the table. He was still plagued by dizziness and weakness, but they seemed to be lessening: the drugs clearing from his system, no doubt. He tried to keep from touching the IV device.
“Here,” Bret said, handing him some papers as he was seated. “I think it’s time you read this.”
While the title — “Father’s Day” — came as no real surprise, almost everything that followed did.
27
I DIDN’T EAT MUCH, even though the food was terrific. The cooks didn’t take it personally. Pete, for one, was too busy glaring at Cecilia.
I had forgotten that Pete — for reasons he had never confided in me — disliked her intensely. He did little to disguise that fact at dinner. Rachel kept muttering things to him in Italian, while Cookie — as I was learning to refer to Nat Cook — was doing his best to distract Cecilia. He needn’t have bothered.
Cookie was the oldest of the three. Bear was next, then Gus. Gus was still brawny, while Cookie appeared to be quite frail.
Bea suggested we adjourn to the living room, but Rachel agreed only on the condition that she and Pete would clear the table and do the dishes. I could see Pete’s rebellion forming, but not in time to save himself — she all but grabbed him by the ear. Cassidy took in all of this with amusement.
Before the trio arrived, Cassidy had taken me aside and asked me not to jump in with any questions of my own until he asked one about the Ryan-Neukirk case. From there, he said, I’d be asking most of them, at least in the beginning. “And don’t go convicting Bradshaw just yet,” he added sternly. “You’ve got to act as calm and natural as you can tonight. I’m depending on it. Don’t let me catch you giving him the evil eye or fidgeting like you’ve got a bumblebee in your drawers. You think of him as the man who brought you and Frank together — that guy you talked
