Stephen White - Blinded

Simon and I talked football and relatives and hockey and snowmobiles-that part was new for us; he’d never ridden one before this trip-for about three minutes, which was about all the conversation he could ever manage on the phone. But the contact with him eased something inside me that desperately needed easing. When he was saying his version of good-bye, he asked if I was going to be at his grandpa’s in time for turkey, and the question almost sliced me in two. In my heart I felt that awful sucking thing you hear when the cranberry sauce is sliding reluctantly out of the can.

To distract myself from the reality of the fact that I was in South Bend and Simon was up in Minnesota, I went back to my cell phone and scrolled through the other messages.

Lucy, just wishing me a happy Thanksgiving.

Yeah, you too.

And Gibbs. Sounding a little frantic, letting me know she was in Vail. I tried her back but didn’t get an answer.

No call from Alan. That surprised me.

Carmen climbed back in the car. She was shivering just a little. She should have worn her coat.

“Anything?” I asked.

“Nothing. No Sterling, no Brian.”

I said, “Gibbs called, left me a message. She’s anxious. One of us should be watching her, you know.”

I expected Carmen to disagree with me. She didn’t. “Probably. She’s as much at risk as Holly is, but she wasn’t as cooperative about being watched as Holly is. Gibbs should be in Safe House.”

“Yeah, she should. Maybe Holly should be, too.” I liked that idea. Hell, if we could talk Holly into going to South Bend’s version of Safe House, I could drop off Carmen at O’Hare and maybe-just maybe-get to Minnesota before Simon crawled into bed. I could read him a Bialosky or two, and he could explain to me what he found so fetching about that little bear.

But Holly wasn’t about to go to Safe House. Part of me knew that a part of Holly was enjoying the current situation. Where sex was concerned, she was a roller-coaster, bungee-jumping freak. In this situation there was more than enough danger to get her sexual heart really pumping. Add in a heavy dose of anticipation-it was clear that anticipation stirred something in her that had been dormant in me for a long, long time-and for her this could be almost as big a rush as sneaking into the pope’s bed in the Vatican.

Carmen and I cooling our heels out here on the curb meant that there were strangers watching Holly’s every move and, even better for her, the possibility of judgmental Artie walking around any corner. Yep, the setup was almost as good as that afternoon in the Basilica of the Sacred Heart.

All that, and a turkey in the oven, too.

No Native Americans. No Pilgrims. But nonetheless, for Holly it had the makings of a Thanksgiving to remember.

The dashboard clock informed me that it was exactly three minutes after four o’clock.

Why was that important? Sometime in the last couple of hours, a world or two away from South Bend, Mary Ellen Wolf had carved a long slender knife through the crisp skin on the outside of a beautiful Georgia turducken. After a little downward pressure-it would take just a little because after eighteen hours in a slow oven those nested birds would be as tender as a grandmother’s whisper-the sequential beauty would be revealed. Turkey, duck, chicken, followed by some dark andouille, and then all the glorious components of oyster stuffing.

There are times in life when you just know that the train has left the station without you and that it’s not coming back around, ever. A county fair and a girl you could have kissed. A job and a promotion you might have had. Some friends in a beat-up old car and a trip you might have taken.

Twins, and a meal you might have eaten.

The Wolf sisters and that turducken were going to haunt me for a while. I was 110 percent sure about that.

A foot away from me Carmen was doing something with her fingernails and a sharp wooden stick. Sherry did the same thing occasionally, but Sherry doing it never captured much of my attention. Carmen doing it did. She distracted me even more when she started humming the melody of one of those tunes she’d sung the night before at bedtime in the Days Inn.

While the turkey was resting on the cutting board prior to carving, Lauren asked me if I’d spoken with Jon Younger.

“Maybe after dinner,” I said. “But I’m still not convinced this can’t wait until Monday.”

She kissed me. “Call him. Please.”

Dinner? The turkey was dry, the gravy a little salty, and the cranberries overcooked, but the caramelized Brussels sprouts were perfection, and the merlot that Lauren had picked was as supple as a young dancer. Jonas, our neighbor Adrienne’s son, and his nanny joined us for the meal because Adrienne was taking call at the hospital. Grace made it through the entire affair without a meltdown, and Lauren fought her steroid malaise with a determination that was inspiring.

The dogs slept like dogs.

It was a pretty damn good Thanksgiving.

Lauren and I cleaned up the kitchen together. I grabbed my pager off my hip a moment after I started the dishwasher and promptly excused myself to make a couple of phone calls. Five minutes later I tracked Lauren down at the pool table in time to watch her rerack the balls and begin to fondle the white cue ball in a way that made me just the slightest bit jealous.

I said, “Our guests are gone?”

She nodded. “Jonas was approaching a cliff at high speed. We thought he should have a mattress under him when he went over it.”

I pointed at my pager and said, “Emergency, unfortunately. I have to go into the office for a couple of hours.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Yeah?”

I said, “Yeah.”

She didn’t believe me.

She leaned over the table and with a single powerful stroke turned the triangle of pool balls into a physics lesson in vectors.

I didn’t make the third phone call, the crucial phone call, until I was in my car on the way downtown to my office.

“Jim? Alan Gregory.”

“Alan. This is a surprise.”

“Are you out somewhere, Jim? Am I disturbing your dinner?” The truth was that I didn’t really care whether I was intruding, but feigning politeness was called for, and I was feigning politeness.

“I’m with some friends. We just finished. What’s up?”

“It’s about the problem with… your client’s secrets. I have some information that you should know.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m not comfortable going into it on the phone. Could you drop by my office later on? Maybe five o’clock?”

“On Thanksgiving? This is necessary?”

“I think you should know what’s going on. Some of what I want to talk with you about other people already know, so I’d like to bring you up to speed as soon as possible in case some of it becomes public, Jim.”

“Really. Five o’clock?”

“I’m heading into the office now, and I have an emergency-something with another patient-that I need to take care of first. She and I should be done by five at the latest.”

“See you then,” he said.

When I arrived in downtown Boulder, I detoured into the parking lot of one of the banks on Walnut near Fourteenth and withdrew the maximum amount that was permitted from an ATM. My plan required cash. Quite a bit of it, actually.

A few blocks farther west I pulled down the driveway of the building that held my office. She was waiting for me on the steps that led up to the French doors at the rear of the building.

“You got the money?”

I flashed the thick pile of twenties.

“Let’s go, then, get this done. They’re holding dessert until I get back. My sister makes a sweet potato pie that…”