“If you’re waiting for an encore, there isn’t any,” Hennessey said. “That was it, short and sweet: we busted our humps over nothing. I hope you’re satisfied.”
“Yeah, Neal, I’m satisfied.”
“I want you to be happy, old pal. If you’re not happy, I’m not happy. Is there anything else I can do for you, buddy?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Good. Don’t ever do that to me again.”
“Look, I’m sorry about—”
But he had already hung up.
I called rita McKinley, a futile gesture, I knew.
But, wonder of wonders, she answered the phone. Scooped it up on the first ring.
“Rita McKinley,” she said. I love women who answer the phone that way, crisp and cool and professional. “Go to hell you slob” might have been okay too, when the best I expected was a monotone from the damned answering machine.
“Not the real McKinley! Not the genuine article, in the flesh?”
“Janeway!”
“Was that sound I heard you falling off your chair with pleasure at hearing my voice?”
“Where the hell have you been?”
“So far today, everybody I’ve called has asked me that. I was hoping to get some variation on the main theme from you.”
“I’ve been trying to call you all day. What happened?”
“It’s all in the newspaper, Miss Sunshine. I know how you like the crime news, so I assume you’ve read all about it.”
“I want to see you.”
“Now this is a definite step in the right direction. After you banished me to the National Leprosarium in Carville, Louisiana, I thought the only way I’d get back up there was to practice pole-vaulting.”
“Can you come up? It’s snowing pretty hard.”
“Be just as hard for you to come down. You got anything to eat up there?”
“Two steaks in the fridge.”
“What happened to the diet?”
“Don’t ask.”
“I’ll be up in a while. Better give me at least an hour and a half.”
“I’ll leave the gate open.”
It came again, that chill. “Don’t do that,” I said. “Look, it’s nine-thirty now, I’ll meet you at the gate at eleven. Drive your car down. If I’m not there, come back at half past.”
“Why don’t you want me to leave it open? What’s the problem?”
“Tell you when I get there.”
I headed west, into the stormy mountains.
It was truly a miserable drive. I sloshed along the deserted freeway and slipped into the canyon. By eleven o’clock I still hadn’t reached Evergreen. I stopped at another gas station and called her, but she had the recording on. I left a cheery message and pressed on. The canyon too was deserted, leading to the inescapable conclusion that I was the only damnfool in the state on the highways tonight. The headlights threw up a glare that was blinding, and I couldn’t use my brights. Back and forth went the car, left and right in the twisted contour of the canyon road: it reminded me of a pendulum, or a hypnotist’s watch. Visions floated on the periphery of my sight. I saw Peter walking beside the car: nervous, furtive. He turned slightly and opened a door and there, yawning back into the dark, was my bookstore. It was empty, except for Miss Pride. Peter was upset. He was so upset that Miss Pride was trying to call me at Rita’s house. Then I lost the picture. I knew it was still playing out there but I couldn’t see anything. It was like a TV show with the picture turned off. I could hear voices but I couldn’t see them.
Miss Pride:
Extrapolate, Janeway, figure it out. Figure it out and maybe the lights will come on again.
Someone had come to the front street window. Peter Bon-nema locked eyes with death through a quarter inch of clear plate glass.
Miss Pride:
