and infant were both behaving, and all was good.
To hear Nancy tell it, falling in love with Will had been utterly predictable. His hunky, dangerous bad- boyishness was as alluring as a bug zapper to a moth and just as deadly. But Nancy was not going to let herself be incinerated. She was too tough and savvy. She had gotten comfortable with the age difference-seventeen years-but not the attitude difference. She could happily deal with the naughtiness. But she refused to permanently hook up with a Wrecking Ball, the sobriquet Will’s daughter, Laura, had bestowed on him in honor of years of destroyed marriages and relationships.
She didn’t know or much care if his heavy drinking was a cause or an effect, but it was toxic, and he had to promise it would stop. He had to promise to be faithful. He had to promise to let her develop her career. He had to promise to let them stay in New York at least until she could get a transfer to someplace that floated both their boats. He didn’t have to promise to be a good father; she had a sense that wasn’t going to be a problem.
Then she accepted his marriage proposal, her fingers crossed.
While Nancy napped with the baby, Will finished the dinner prep and celebrated with a small Merlot to wet his whistle. The rice was steaming, the table was set and right on time, his daughter and son-in-law arrived.
Laura was just beginning to show, all beaming and radiant. She looked like a willowy free spirit, a latter-day hippie in a gauzy dress and thigh-high boots. In truth, he thought, she looked a lot like her mother a generation ago. Greg was in town covering a story for the Washington Post. There was a hotel room on the company’s nickel, and Laura was tagging along for a break from her second novel. Her first, The Wrecking Ball, loosely based on her parents’ divorce, was selling modestly to good reviews.
For Will, the book still stung, and as a kicker, whenever he looked at his copy, proudly displayed on an end table, he couldn’t help thinking about its role in cracking the Doomsday case. He’d shake his head and get a faraway look in his eyes, and Nancy would know where his mind was straying.
Will picked up on Greg’s moodiness before he was over the threshold and shoved a glass of wine into his paw. “Cheer up,” Will told him, as soon as Laura and Nancy slipped into the bedroom for some baby time. “If I can do it, you can do it.”
“I’m fine.”
He didn’t look fine. Greg always had a lean and hungry look, caved-in cheeks, angular nose, sharply dimpled chin, the kind of face that cast shadows on itself. It didn’t look like he ever ran a comb through his hair. Will always thought he was a caricature of a beat reporter, caffeined-up and sleep-deprived, taking himself way too seriously. Still, he was a good guy. When Laura got pregnant, he stepped up to the plate and married her, no questions, no drama. Two Piper weddings in one year. Two babies.
The men sat. Will asked what he was working on. Greg monotoned about some forum on climate change he was covering, and both of them got bored quickly. Greg was in early-career doldrums. He hadn’t found a big story yet, one he could latch onto to change his oblique trajectory. Will was well aware of this when Greg finally asked, “So Will, last time I checked, nothing ever materialized on the Doomsday case.”
“Nope. Nothing.”
“Never got solved.”
“Nope. Never.”
“The killings just stopped.”
“Yep. They did.”
“Don’t you find that unusual?”
He shrugged. “I’ve been out of it for over a year.”
“You never told me what happened. Why they took you off the case. Why they had a warrant out for you. How it all got resolved.”
“You’re right. I never did.” He got up. “If I don’t stir that rice, we’re going to need chisels.” He left Greg behind in the living room to glumly finish his wine.
Over dinner, Laura was ebullient. Her hormones were in fine fettle, stoked by holding Phillip in her arms and imagining her own. She ladled heaping spoonfuls of chili into her mouth and in between was gabby. “How’s Dad doing with retirement?”
“He’s lost momentum,” Nancy observed.
“I’m sitting right here. Why don’t you ask me?”
“Okay, Dad, how’re you doing with retirement.”
“I’ve lost momentum.”
“See?” Nancy laughed. “He was doing so well.”
“How many museums and concerts can a man stand?”
“What kind of man?” Nancy asked.
“A real one who wants to go fishing.”
Nancy was exasperated. “Then go to Florida! Go fishing in the Gulf for a week! We’ll get the nanny to do more hours.”
“What if they want you to do overtime?”
“They’ve got me on identity theft, Will. I’m just online all day. There’s no chance of overtime till they put me back on real cases.”
Will changed the subject, petulant. “I want to go every day, whenever I want.”
She stopped smiling. “You just want us to move.”
Laura kicked Greg under the table, his cue. “Do you miss it, Will?” he asked.
“Miss what?”
“Working. The FBI.”
“Hell no. I miss fishing.”
He cleared his throat. “Have you ever thought about writing a book?”
“About what?”
“About all your serial killers,” then off Will’s piercing stare, he quickly added, “except Doomsday!”
“Why would I want to revisit that crap?”
“They were infamous cases, popular history. People are fascinated.”
“History! I think it’s sordid crap. Besides, I can’t write.”
“Ghost it. Your daughter writes. I write. We think it’ll sell.”
Will got angry. If he’d been drunk, he would have exploded, but the new Will just frowned and deliberately shook his head. “You guys need to make your own way. I’m not a meal ticket.”
Nancy slapped his arm. “Will!”
“That’s not what Greg was saying, Dad!”
“No?” The apartment buzzer went off. Will pushed himself out of his chair and hit the intercom button hard with irritation. “Hello?” There was no response. “Hello?” The buzzer went off again. And again. “What the hell.”
Will angrily rode the elevator down to the lobby and peered at the empty vestibule. Before he could jump onto the street for a look-about, he saw a business card stuck at eye level onto the lobby door with a piece of tape. THE 2027 CLUB. HENRY SPENCE, PRESIDENT. And a phone number with a 702 area code. Las Vegas. There was a handwritten note in small block letters: Mr. Piper, Please call me immediately. 2027.
The date made him suck air through his teeth.
He pushed the door open. Outside, it was cool and dark, a few men and women on the sidewalks bundled up against the chill, walking purposefully, the way people did in this residential neighborhood. There was no one loitering and no bus.
His mobile phone was in his pocket, where he kept it during the day to trade baby calls with Nancy. He entered the number.
“Hello, Mr. Piper.” The voice was upbeat, borderline jocular.
“Who is this?” Will asked.
“It’s Henry Spence. From the motor home. Thanks for returning my message so promptly.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“About 2027 and other topics.”
