Linwood Barclay - Trust Your Eyes

“Three o’clock.”

“Jesus, what the hell is this about?”

“Well, I can put your mind at ease about one thing. I’m not pregnant.”

BY half past two, Allison’s at a Gramercy Park bar, around the corner from that place where O. Henry wrote “The Gift of the Magi.” Manages to get the same booth they shared on their first date. Date? Was it really a date? Doesn’t “date” imply some kind of adherence to social convention? “Clandestine meeting,” maybe? What’s that old-fashioned word, again? “Tryst?”

She orders herself a gin and tonic, keeps an eye on the door. She’s still rehearsing what she’s going to say, although she wonders why she’s bothering. Despite all the time she spent practicing her lines before making the call to set up this meeting, once the ringing stopped and the cell was answered, she started saying the first thing that came into her head. Winging it. Including that line about being pregnant, which, she has to admit, was pretty goddamn funny.

At three o’clock, right on the dot, someone walks through the door, sees Allison in the booth.

It’s not Morris Sawchuck.

It’s his wife, Bridget.

She doesn’t look like the Bridget Sawchuck Allison saw on the news. She has her hair wrapped up in a red and black scarf Allison is guessing is Hermes. She’s wearing sunglasses that cover up half her face.

But it’s her, all right. The attorney general’s hot little wife. Strutting in on her three-inch heels, hands tucked into the pockets of her trench. Turning a few heads as she walks past the bar. But not getting recognized. She’d turn heads whether you recognized her or not.

Bridget Sawchuck walks straight to the booth where Allison’s sitting, slides onto the leather seat across from her.

“You look like a freaking spy,” Allison says, grinning.

“I only have a few minutes,” Bridget Sawchuck says. “Why the urgent meeting?”

“Like I said to you on the phone, we’ve got some things to talk about.”

“I don’t want you think I’m the sort of person who gets caught up in titles, but what will mine be?”

“Gosh, I don’t know. I must admit, I haven’t really put my mind to it. Do you have any ideas?”

“Assistant director. Not of the entire agency. But of the division I work for.”

“What about Assistant Director, Mapology.”

“Mapology?”

“That was just off the top of my head. I’ll come up with something better. And we need to talk about an office.”

“I won’t need an office, Mr. President. I’ll work from home. I like working from home. My brother is living with me now, and my computer is here.”

“Yes, but don’t forget, once the catastrophe hits, you may be reduced to paper and pencil, or pen. This virus, or whatever it is, will render computers obsolete. You’re going to need lots of big tables, lots of flat space to lay out the maps you draw for us.”

“I could put them on the kitchen table, and the living room floor.”

“Is your brother going to be okay with that?”

“I hope so. He’s like our father. Always trying to get me to do things I don’t want to do. My dad, he made me very angry sometimes. Have I mentioned that?”

“Yes.”

“I feel bad about what happened to him.”

“He never understood the importance of your work. What about your brother? Is he getting in the way of your progress?”

“No. I told my doctor about him, and she gave him some pills. I told the doctor she could tell him about what I was doing.”

“Do you think that was wise?”

“He’s my brother. I’d told my father, too. And besides, if you need me for an emergency, like, right away, he’s going to have to know what I’m doing. There could be another earthquake, or a tsunami.”

“If you think it’s okay to tell him, then fine.”

“And you’re sure you don’t mind my communicating with you directly? I’ve always admired you. At first I was dealing with CIA director Goldsmith, but then he had to resign after all that trouble, and then, as of course you know, he killed himself, and so I thought it just made sense to talk to you.”

“I don’t mind at all.”

“That’s good, B-. Oh, you know what I almost did? I almost called you Bill.”

“Hell, that’s okay. That’s what everybody calls me. We’re becoming good friends, aren’t we?”

“Yes. Yes, we are. I’ll send you another e-mail report later today. Take care.”

Dad didn’t worry about leaving Thomas on his own, and neither did I. While my brother had a number of odd notions and peculiar habits, there was nothing to suggest he was a threat to anyone, or himself. He’d never exhibited any suicidal tendencies, nor had he ever attacked anyone. My father would leave Thomas when he drove into Promise Falls to buy groceries or run other errands. And, as Harry had pointed out, to sit in the diner, order a cup of coffee, and stare out the window.

I’d left Thomas home during Dad’s funeral when he refused to attend. While that had really pissed me off, I wasn’t worried that he’d get into any trouble while I was gone. The one apparent benefit of spending all his time in his room, going on his virtual tours, was that he didn’t get into any mischief. What could happen to him staring at those screens all day, with the possible exceptions of eyestrain or repetitive stress injury to his mouse-clicking wrist?

So I didn’t have any qualms, later that afternoon, telling Thomas I was going to be out for a while. “I’ll bring back dinner.”

“KFC,” he said, his back to me as he advanced up some street in Bolivia or Belgium or who knew the hell where.

“I can’t eat that stuff,” I said. “I was thinking I’d grab a couple of subs.”

“No black olives,” he said, his eyes never leaving the screen.

I had the Audi parked in the Promise Falls Standard lot fifteen minutes later, a couple of minutes after four. I was afraid I’d be keeping Julie McGill waiting in the lobby, but she wasn’t there when I went in. I’d have asked the person at reception to let her know I was there if there’d been anyone at reception, but there was only a phone on the desk inviting me to dial an extension, a list of them taped to the desk beside it.

I was looking up her name when I heard a series of speedy clicks on a set of nearby stairs.

“Hey,” Julie said. “I see you’ve met the receptionist.”

She said the closest place to grab a beer was Grundy’s, a place that was new since I’d left for Burlington. Which still meant it could be more than a decade and a half old. She was dressed in black boots, jeans, a men’s white dress shirt with button-down collar, and a well-worn black leather jacket. An oversized black purse that looked like it could hold little more than a jackhammer and half a dozen cinder blocks was hanging from one shoulder, making her walk slightly lopsided. Her black hair had half a dozen gray streaks that did not appear to have been put there on purpose.

We grabbed a booth and Julie’s purse made a thunking sound as she dropped it next to her.

“I carry around a lot of shit,” she said. She held up a hand to the waitress, caught her eye, and smiled. “Hey, Bee, my usual and something for the lady.”

Bee looked at me. “I’ll have whatever she’s having,” I said.

As the waitress walked away Julie said, “Again, sorry about your dad. But it’s good to see you. Long time.” She smiled.

“Yeah,” I said. There was something in Julie’s voice that suggested we had some kind of history.

Her face broke into a grin. “You don’t remember.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I smiled and said, “I was going to try to bluff my way through something but thought better of it. You look like someone who’d be hard to put one over on.”