Page 42 of Cold, Cold Bones
“I don’t know. But he smells of booze.”
“What else can you say about him?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“There are things we don’t ask. I’m told that now and then he pitches a tent outside on the grounds. I assume the rest of the time he bounces around on the street.”
Etiquette.
A vehicle crept past on Kenmore, its headlights slicing through gaps in the white-out covering our windows. Slowly, the slices moved across us, making their way toward the back seat. Katy’s face looked pale and drawn in the brief slash of light.
“You know what?” Her voice startled me. “I really am actingsection eight tonight. This guy’s probably not a predator. It’s an instinct you develop in a war zone where you’re constantly gauging the locals. Is this kid a friendly or will he shoot my ass? Is that granny hiding a gun under her burqa? Does that goat have an IED up its butt? This guy is just trying to get my attention, maybe to prove he’s tough, maybe to shock me. If I see him again, I’ll just tell him to fuck off.”
She leaned over and hugged me.
“In more diplomatic language, of course. I really am sorry for being a jerk. Nice metaphor, by the way.”
I was lost.
“The cricket in the fry pan.”
“I think it was a simile.”
“Later gator!”
I watched until she was inside her house.
All the way home our conversation replayed in my head. Katy’s mood swings frightened me. How could she be scared, surly, evasive, witty, loving, and apologetic all within the span of an hour? It was clearly not snow that had set her off.
Sudden stab of guilt. Had I increased Katy’s fearfulness by discussing my work? Was she being melodramatic, falsely linking a set of harmless coincidences?
Or had she run across a genuine psychopath? Someone who could hurt her.
Should I phone the police?
And the question I’d been avoiding since Katy’s return. Was my daughter suffering from PTSD?
Should I phone the army psychologist?
At the annex, I shared the stew with Birdie, then soaked in a tub while Coltrane blew sax in the background.
Sleep was a long time coming, but eventually my mind yielded. I went down hard and deep.
Good thing. The next day would be a nightmare.
10
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY8
Knowing the storm would put Charlotte in lockdown, I hadn’t bothered to set an alarm. May as well have. Birdie started nudging me well before seven.
I kept my eyes closed, my body still, pretending sleep. The cat didn’t buy it. Or didn’t care.
I spent a short time playing Freud with a dream my brain had offered sporadically during the night. More like dream fragments, the snippets a disjointed montage involving a head and torso I couldn’t fit together, a mummy singing “I Will Survive,” and Katy driving a jeep through dunes. Didn’t need ol’ Sigmund to explain any of that.
By seven-thirty the head-butts had grown aggressive. I got up, did a brief morning toilette, and headed for the kitchen.
