Gail Bowen - The Endless Knot

“Kathryn never told you she was writing a book?”

Howard grimaced. “Of course, she did. She’s a pro. She didn’t want a lawsuit. She said her book was about the price politics exacts on families.”

“And you bit,” I said.

“Hook, line, and sinker,” Howard replied. “I thought Kathryn Morrissey was heaven-sent. As far as I was concerned, she was my path to redemption. Isn’t there a line in the Bible about pride closing a man’s eyes?”

“If there isn’t, there should be,” I said.

“Anyway, now that I’ve lost my pride, I can see clearly. Sam Parker did more than make speeches about family values. He protected his family.” Howard slugged back his rye. “If I’d pulled that trigger, maybe I’d be able to look my son in the eye.”

“Do us both a favour,” I said. “Don’t ever repeat what you just said to me.”

His face softened. “So you haven’t written me off.”

“I’ll never write you off,” I said. “Look, why don’t you come out to the lake and have Thanksgiving with us. We have plenty of beds, two huge turkeys, and kids of all ages for you to bark at.”

“Thanks,” Howard said. “Another time. I’m not very good company these days.”

“If you change your mind, give me a call.” I kissed his cheek. “And treat yourself to a shave. That Miami Vice look went out twenty years ago.”

I had parked in Howard’s driveway. When I stepped outside, Kathryn Morrissey was kneeling beside my Volvo. As I watched, she flattened herself on the asphalt and reached under my car. It was a surreal moment in a day that was shaping up as memorable, but when a long-bodied silvery Siamese shot out and flew past me, all was explained. Instinctively, I grabbed the cat by the scruff of its neck. Just as instinctively, it scratched me. We both yowled. Ears flattened back, brilliantly blue eyes furious, it tilted its head to look at me. It struggled, but I managed to hold on.

Kathryn pushed herself to her feet. She was wearing a red silk jacket shot through with gold tracings of leaves and splotched with dark blotches of fresh oil from Howard’s Buick. She took the cat from my arms, lowered her face into its fur, and began to croon its name: Minoo. Kathryn’s relief at having Minoo safe in her arms was palpable, but when she spotted the blood on my arm, her focus shifted.

“Are you all right?” she said, and her concern seemed genuine.

“It’s just a scratch,” I said.

“Still, it is an animal scratch. Why don’t you come to my place and we can clean it up?” she said. She laughed softly. “Maybe Minoo has done us a favour. It really is time you and I got to know each other better.”

Kathryn’s tone was beseeching, but the images of Howard’s misery were fresh. “I know everything I need to know about you,” I said, opening my car door.

“You don’t know anything about me,” Kathryn said. “And that’s regrettable, because we have common interests.”

“Such as?”

Her three-pointed smile was feline. “Too late now,” she said. “But when you replay this moment in your mind – and you will – remember that you were the one who was uncharitable. You’re going to regret this, Joanne.”

I was met at the door to my house by my soon to be eleven-year-old daughter and, behind her, close as a shadow, the boy with the pentangle. “Zack’s on the phone,” Taylor said, “but Ethan and I are doing something in the kitchen, so could you please use the phone in the living room.” Suddenly, she remembered her manners. “Sorry. Jo, this is Ethan Thorpe. Ethan, this is my mum.”

I smiled at the boy. “Hello again.”

“Hi,” he said. “Talk to you after, I guess.”

“I guess,” I said. Then I went into the living room and picked up.

“How’s tricks?” Zack said.

“Fine,” I said, I glancing at my arm. “Kathryn Morrissey’s cat scratched me.”

“Want to sue?”

“How much do you think I could get?”

“Depends. With a totally unprincipled lawyer, the sky’s the limit, but my plate’s full at the moment.”

“There goes my beach house in Tahiti.”

“Mine too,” Zack said. “But I didn’t call to drum up business. We’ve had a little incident at the office, so we’ve all been told to vamoose until the cops finish checking things out.”

My chest tightened. “What kind of incident?”

“A bomb went off.”

“Oh my God. Was anyone hurt?”

“No, it wasn’t much of a bomb, and I was in the can, so no harm done.”

“But you’re all right?”

“More than all right. The members of what we laughingly refer to as Sam’s dream team are holed up in our accountant’s boardroom. We’re their biggest client, so we are well cared for. At the moment, I’m dipping biscotti into my latte.”

“That’s reassuring,” I said. “But I’m still shaking. Reassure me some more.”

“Come on, Jo. Your late husband was in politics. You know that threats are part of the package. Some guy who’s a few fries short of a Happy Meal stubs his toe and goes a little nuts. Then his toe stops hurting and the threats stop.”

“I know, just be careful, okay?”

“Since I met you, I’m always careful. Now I’ve got six lawyers and a client waiting for me, so I’d better get a move on.”

“Any chance you’ll be at the lake in time for dinner?”

“Not a prayer, but I’ll get there as soon as I can.” He lowered his voice. “You know what I’m looking forward to? Going to bed with you at night and waking up with you in the morning.”

“Getting tired of quickies?” I said.

“Never,” he said. “I’m just greedy. This is going to be a great Thanksgiving, Jo,” and then before I could respond, he hung up.

Obeying the rule that parents can save themselves grief if they make a little noise before they walk in on their children, I rapped on the kitchen door before I walked in on Taylor and her guest. But the scene that greeted me was as innocent as a Leave It to Beaver video. Taylor and the boy were sitting at the kitchen table drinking milk and reading comic books.

Taylor’s greeting was sunny. “Come look at this, Jo.”

“She won’t want to see these,” the boy said, but the look he gave me was hopeful.

“Sure I’ll want to see them,” I said.

“Ethan drew them himself,” Taylor said. I took the chair beside her and opened the comic she handed me. As soon as I saw the first frame, I understood why Taylor and the boy were friends. Taylor had inherited her birth mother’s talent as a visual artist. There weren’t many people her age who could understand what Taylor’s art meant to her, but this boy would understand. The drawing, lettering, and shading in the black and white opening panels of his book were skilful, but I knew at once that I was looking at something more than a series of well-executed drawings. Ethan had created a world, the world of a lonely, alienated boy whose unremittingly bleak vision is transformed when he discovers a pentangle in the crypt of a burned church. From the moment he fastens the chain holding the pentangle around his neck, the boy and his life are transformed. The pentangle brings with it a name for those who wear it. The name is Soul-fire, and as Soul-fire, the boy is strong and fearless, an adventurer in a land that is suddenly drenched in colour and filled with loathsome enemies that the hero dispatches with grace. Not surprisingly, Soul-fire bore a striking resemblance to Ethan.

I finished reading and closed the book. “This is terrific,” I said. “Really, Ethan, it’s a privilege to see your work.”

Taylor shot him a glance. “I told you she’d like it.”

“Well, you were right,” I said. I glanced up at the clock. “Look, I hate to change the focus here, but would you two mind if I put on the radio. I want to hear the news. Somebody planted a bomb at Falconer Shreve today.”