Lights Out

the lenses of her glasses. “What makes you the black sheep?”

Eddie shrugged.

“Jack did make an animal analogy last night about you, now that I think of it, although it was to a bird, not a sheep.”

Eddie waited.

“The albatross, specifically. Odd, given our earlier conversation about ‘The Mariner.’ ”

An icy wave flowed across Eddie’s shoulders and down his spine. He hadn’t felt anything like it since the moment in the shower room when he’d come to and realized what Louie and the Ozark brothers had done. Icy: because Jack considered him an albatross; because Jack would tell someone; because of what it said about his own obsession-yes-with the poem.

Karen was looking at him again. This time there was no headlight glare, and her eyes were nothing but black sockets. The trumpeter began something that sounded like “Where or When” and quickly lost its wistfulness. Karen said: “Sometimes there are coincidences that don’t mean anything-like when you’re reading a word and someone says it on the radio at the same time. But some coincidences mean a lot.”

“Do they?” Eddie said.

“If you believe that things go on under the surface.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Eddie said. “I don’t believe you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re smart, and you know something about life. Anyone can see that.”

“Not Floyd K. Messer,” said Eddie.

“Who’s he?”

“An old colleague.”

“In what business was that?”

“Warehousing.”

Karen turned off at an exit, drove through a prosperous town and onto a country road. The headlights picked out details in the darkness: the white fence of a stable, reflective tape on the heels of a jogger’s shoes, a sign that read “Antiques” in Gothic letters, to prove how old they were.

“That’s to prove how old they are,” Eddie said.

Karen laughed. “I was thinking the same thing.”

Some coincidences mean a lot. The icy feeling subsided.

In a few miles they came to the restaurant, Au Vieux Marron. Outside it looked like a barn; inside like a French country inn, or what Eddie imagined a French country inn to be. The maitre d’ welcomed them in French. Karen answered him in French. She said something that made him laugh. He showed them to a table by a window overlooking a pond. A waiter arrived.

“Something to drink?”

“Kir,” said Karen.

“Monsieur?”

Eddie didn’t know what kir was, thought that beer might not be fancy enough. “Armagnac,” he said.

“Prior to the meal, monsieur?”

The waiter was watching him; so was Karen. “With ice,” Eddie said. The waiter withdrew.

Drinks came, and later food. Eddie ordered canard because it was the only word he knew on the menu. He’d never had duck like this-thin underdone slices of breast served with a sauce that tasted like raspberries, only more tart. The name of the recipe seemed to have something to do with Inspector Maigret; Eddie had read several books in the series, liking them mostly for their descriptions of food and drink, and the relish with which Maigret consumed them.

“Good?” said Karen.

“Good.”

She was eating something Eddie couldn’t identify from the menu, still couldn’t identify when it arrived. It didn’t matter. The food was delicious; she had another kir, he had another Armagnac-she taught him how to order it “avec glacons,” and how to say several other things in French, such as, “I’m going to call the cops,” and “Take it or leave it.” Eddie caught a glimpse of what life could be like at the happy-go-lucky end. Under the table their feet touched; Karen waited a few moments before shifting hers away.

It was all false, of course. He knew that deep down the whole time, knew it up front between courses, as soon as Karen looked at him over the rim of her glass and said, “So tell me about yourself, Eddie Nye.”

“There’s not much to tell.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“It’s true.”

“It can’t be. You’re between jobs, for instance.”

“Right.”

“Tell me about that.”

“It’s the same old story.”

“What did you do before?”

Why not just tell her the truth? He knew it wasn’t simply to protect Jack. He didn’t want to tell her because he didn’t want to see the expression that would come into those cool blue eyes when she found out.

“I was involved in a resort development.”

“Was this after the warehousing business?”

“The warehousing business doesn’t count.”

Karen stabbed a strange-looking mushroom. “Where was the resort?” She popped it in her mouth.

“In the Bahamas.”

“Which island?”

“The banana-shaped one.”

Karen laughed, but only for a moment. He was starting to like that laugh-it was loud and came from deep inside-and was trying to think of a way to trigger it again, when she said: “What’s this banana island called on the map?”

“Saint Amour.”

“It’s lovely.”

“You’ve been there?”

“Sailed by a few years ago. I hope you didn’t spoil it.”

“Spoil it?”

“With your development.”

“It wasn’t my development. I just worked there.”

She stabbed another mushroom. “Was Jack involved?”

“Yes.”

“Funny.”

“Funny?”

“He never mentioned that either.”

“He went on to bigger and better things.”

“Don’t I know,” said Karen.

Soon the waiter arrived with coffee. “Another Armagnac, monsieur?”

“Okay,” Eddie said, although he was suddenly conscious of how much he’d been drinking since he’d found Jack.

“Avec glacons?”

“Now I can have it sans, can’t I?” Sans-it came to him from his reading: “La Belle Dame Sans Merci,” whatever the hell that was about. Karen laughed; even the waiter smiled.

Karen stirred her coffee. “So Windward wasn’t involved in the resort.”

“No.”

“J. M. Nye and Associates?”

“It was before all that.”