Page 48 of Cold, Cold Bones
“Your daughter is one impressive young lady.”
I said nothing.
“She phoned me last week.” Cadence suggesting he’d clicked into lawyer mode. “She explained her desire to start a charitable foundation and wanted to know if I could offer legal advice.”
“Is that something you do?”
“If she’s serious, my partner can definitely help her. But first I’d like to get a better feel for where her head’s at.” He paused, as if debating whether to expound. Didn’t. “Could we have coffee, exchange a few thoughts?”
“Sure.” Relieved that Charlie wasn’t a stalker. Concerned that he’d detected something amiss with Katy.
“Great. I’ll have my secretary get back to you with details as to when and where.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Stay home and off the roads.”
“They’re bad?”
“Unless you’re driving a Zamboni. It won’t last. The snow’s already beginning to melt.”
“And Charlotte has plows.”
“We do?”
“I heard one.”
“I’ll be damned. Ciao.”
“Ciao.”
I sat a minute, bombarded by images from our high school years. Charlie in a tux at the senior prom, Sallie Banderman at his side. Charlie in math class, pencil-tapping his temple, deep in thought. Charlie on the cafeteria floor, sweaty and pale from a reaction to a cookie. Charlie flying high for his signature slam-dunk.
Mixed in with the oldies were a few more recent recollections. Charlie across the table at the Beef and Bottle, face more lined and a widower, but still lady-killer handsome.
Jesus. Enough.
What to do next?
I had to think about something other than Charles Hunt. Other than eyeballs and heads and mummies. Anything.
Grabbing a Terry Pratchett novel, I moved into the study. Birdie joined me on the couch and was soon snoring.
Though I tried, my brain refused to chill. I couldn’t concentrate on happenings in the Discworld.
I ran through options. Found few. Agitated, I gave up on the wizards and returned to the kitchen. Booted my Mac and transferred the latest batches of pics from my phone.
The screen was offering a magnified image of the strange object I’d extracted from the hanging man’s pocket when a fist pounded on the back door. I looked up, startled.
A hooded figure stood on my porch, tall and hunched, back turned toward the window. I rose and crossed to open the door.
My neighbor’s glasses were fogged by breath rising from inside the non-tartan scarf wrapping his face. Bushy brows filled the space between the black frames and the lower edge of his tuque.
“Finlay has had another setback,” Campbell launched, going right to full throttle.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Chilly as the air oozing through the gap between us.
“That abominable creature terrifies him.”
