John Lutz - Pulse

“She wouldn’t talk. Remember, she comes already lawyered up.”

Quinn nudged half-eaten ravioli with his fork. “You should know,” he said. “You’re her mother.”

Upstairs in her room, Jody read again some of the Enders and Coil files she’d pirated from the firm’s computers. She’d broken the encryption code easily, and was now trying to make sense of what she suspected.

If it turned out to be true, what did it mean?

“You’re gonna ruin your figure with this pizza,” Jorge, the kid from Mexitaliano, warned Mildred Dash.

Jorge was nineteen and skinny enough that he’d never had to worry about eating too much pizza. The regular deliveryman when Mildred ordered food from the restaurant, Jorge had developed an obvious crush on the hermit-like Mildred, trapped as she was in her apartment.

Mildred, acutely aware that she was almost old enough to be his-my God-grandmother, kept him at a polite distance. Not that he’d have nerve enough to make his feelings known.

She paid him for the pizza, and the soda in its tall white foam cup with its plastic lid, along with a generous tip. He was, after all, one of her only lifelines to the outside world. Though she did sometimes leave the apartment, she always took great care not to be seen or followed. She didn’t put it past Meeding Properties to have her under almost constant observation.

Jorge gave her a large smile and a lingering look at her ankles extending from beneath her long robe. “Thanks, Missus D.”

“You’re welcome, Jorge. By the way, have you seen Cookie?”

Cookie was Mildred’s large golden tabby, a cat she’d shared her life with for the past several years.

“Ain’t seen him,” Jorge said. “But I’ll watch for him when I leave, bring him back to you if I see him.” The big smile again, meaningful. “Maybe there’ll be some kind of reward.”

Jorge, Jorge…

“He isn’t really lost, Jorge, just not home.” Mildred hoped that would throw cold water on Jorge’s naive sexual ambitions.

“I’ll keep an eye out for him anyway. Anything for you, Missus D.”

Mildred thanked him and watched him pocket the money and go out the door. She locked the door behind him, then went to the window overlooking the street in front.

Jorge came into sight below, mounted his delivery bike, and pedaled away, weaving through construction and destruction debris. It was dusk, and she hoped he’d be clear of the vast and unlit deserted area before it became dark enough to be dangerous.

She stood at the window for a while after Jorge was out of sight, looking for some sign of Cookie, telling herself not to worry, he was probably happily hunting mice or rats.

It wasn’t like Cookie, though, not to appear this time of evening for his regular tuna-flavored meal.

Mildred went to the kitchen and ran the electric can opener, just in case Cookie was hiding somewhere in the apartment. The sound of the opener was usually an irresistible invitation to dine.

No cookie.

She remembered that when she’d called for the pizza there had been a text message on her phone. She went to the phone and read the text.: “if u have a cat don’t put him out.”

The anonymous message was from yesterday. Written in time but read too late.

She waited. Hoping. A lump of worry in her throat.

No Cookie.

Just before midnight Mildred was awakened by footfalls and what sounded like muffled laughter out in the hall. Then something soft but not completely soft slammed into her door and thump ed to the hall floor.

She knew what it was. She worked the doorknob, opened the door a few inches, and looked out into the hall with the chain on to be sure. She returned to her bed and wept.

Leighton, Wisconsin, 1986

T he lost dog posters had brought no response. They faded in the sun and wrinkled in the rain and mists of mornings. Rory no longer felt a twinge of guilt when he walked or drove past them.

In fact, the posters lifted his spirits now in an unexpected way. He knew logically that he’d done the right thing with Duffy the dog, so there were no longer twinges of regret. Now the posters reminded him of Sherri Klinger. Sometimes when he drove past them, he smiled.

Rory suspected his mother knew he was sneaking off with the car when she was away, and sometimes even when she was in the house asleep. She was becoming worn down, and simply didn’t want to confront him again.

He was driving better all the time, obeying traffic laws so he wouldn’t have a run-in with the law, parallel parking with greater skill so he no longer bumped up on the curb or dented cars in front of or behind him.

She must know he was driving more frequently and becoming better at it. Or maybe his mother was looking the other way when he “borrowed” the car because she approved of him seeing Sherri Klinger.

Yes, that was possible.

Sherri was, in everybody’s estimation, a Nice Girl. Meaning she was possibly still a virgin. She would be good for Rory.

Well, he went along with that.

On the pretense of searching for Duffy, Rory would pick up Sherri at a prearranged spot-sometimes Creamery Curb Service, near the back, where people drinking soda or milkshakes in their cars were facing the other way and she wouldn’t be noticed getting in the car-and they would simply drive around, Sherri keeping an eye out for the lost Duffy, Rory pretending.

They talked as they rode, getting to know each other better. After a while, Duffy was seldom mentioned, though they carried on the charade of searching for him.

“Gas is expensive,” Rory told Sherri one day, as they were tooling along the county road in his mother’s Impala.

Sherri laughed. “What is that, a news announcement?”

Rory smiled and took a curve a little too fast. It was a nice sensation. “What I mean is, maybe we oughta park a while and search for Duffy on foot.”

“That doesn’t sound very efficient.”

“It’s getting harder and harder to keep the gas gauge off empty,” Rory said.

“So you’re saying we don’t have much choice.”

“My wallet’s saying it.”

“You don’t have a credit card?”

“I used one my mom gave me, but she confiscated it when it got up near a thousand dollars.”

“Jesus, Rory! She’s got some nerve. I mean, it’s your card.”

“It does have her name on it.”

“So?”

“Anyway, it’s a nice day for a walk.”

Rory found a place where they could pull off the road and the trees were spaced out so they could drive the Impala into the woods just far enough so that it was invisible from the road. The underbrush might have scratched the paint on the side of the car, but not so much that Rory’s mom would notice. And if she did notice, she’d probably think she’d done it herself.

Rory leaned over to work the door handle for Sherri just as she was leaning forward to grip it herself. Unexpectedly, they were close. This had to be more than coincidence. This was fate. They kissed. Then kissed harder, using their tongues.

The kisses became more than kisses. And then became something wonderful.

Afterward Rory folded his shirt so Sherri could sit on it and not get blood on the Impala’s seat.

“What are we going to do now?” Sherri asked.

“That,” Rory said. “Again.”

They both laughed.

“God, Rory!”

“Nobody has to know,” he said.

“In a way,” she said, “I want everybody to know.”

He stared at her, horrified.

“Don’t worry,” she said, and patted his knee.

“We’re acting like an old married couple,” Rory said.

She punched him hard in the side of the neck and then hugged him. They hugged each other, not wanting to let go. This was fine. This could be perfect. If no one would ever disturb them. Ever.