Page 75 of Cold, Cold Bones
The corpse has morphed into me.
At nine the next morning, I was inside the Market at 7th Street, inching forward in the queue at Not Just Coffee. After waiting out customers with requirements more complex than Montgomery’s at El Alamein, my turn finally came. I ordered a single origin pour-over and took it to a table.
I’d awakened early, still wired to bejeezus from my dream.Needing an outlet for my pent-up energy, I’d thrown a quick glance out my bedroom window. Seen dead grass peeking through what remained of the snow. Thinking the streets would be back to normal, I’d bundled in a hoodie, joggers, mitts, and muffs, and set off on a run.
Bad idea. And poor prep. As though freed from its long, cloudy entrapment, the sun was shining with wild abandon. Within a mile I was soaked with perspiration and the meltwater splashing up from my Nikes. And sorely in need of caffeine.
So here I was. Uptown. At one of Katy’s favorite morning haunts. Hoping for a sighting. Pathetic, I know. But she had talked about some “creep” following her. And she still wasn’t answering her phone.
Perhaps to avoid a hovering mother?
I leaned back in the faux industrial chair. The metal felt cold through my soggy leggings.
Patrons swirled around me, some hurrying, some meandering. High-rise denizens out for donuts or bagels. Businessmen heading to offices. Mothers pushing strollers. None of the hubbub reached me. Two hours awake and I was still obsessed with the dream.
I’ll lay it right out there. I dream frequently but very uncreatively. Most of my nighttime visitations are just reworked gibberish from my daytime intake.
But this little beauty had me freaked out. One didn’t need a doctorate in psychology to understand my unconscious had conjured a vision of death.
Mine? Katy’s?
My old Irish grandmother was a believer in omens. According to Gran, some folks were fey, meaning they possessed magical powers. Clairvoyance. Prescience. Call it what you will. Also according to Gran, our Emerald Isle peeps were the global champs.
I’m not sure I buy into Gran’s thinking. Still, the dream did nothing to reduce my anxiety. Why had Katy slipped off the radar?
Screw dark omens. It was time to get my butt to the MCME.
I was downing the dregs in my mug when my iPhone rang.
Ryan.
“Bonjour, ma chère.”
“Hey.” Smiling like a goof. “You back in Montreal?”
“Still in the islands.”
“Nice.”
“It was ninety-two today.”
Sitting in my cold wet sweats that sounded pretty good. “I know how you love heat.”
“Like a bookie loves an audit.”
“Good one.”
“Thanks.”
“What’s taking so long?”
“The boat owner OD’d on his own product.”
“Wow. A whole new ball game.”
“Premier league. How’s life with Katy?”
“Interesting question. She’s gone incommunicado.”
