Текст книги "The Prodigal Spy"

Автор книги: Joseph Kanon

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

He had gone two more blocks before he saw it–a storm drain at the curb that hadn’t been blocked by snow. He looked around, then knelt down, fishing the shirt out from under his jacket. The label. He took off his gloves and ripped off the black tag, his fingers surprised by the cold, then stuffed the shirt into the space behind the grate, pushing it with his bare hands until it fell with a quiet thud into the drain. He stood up and looked around to see if anyone had noticed, but the street was still empty. He remembered then that he hadn’t cut out the laundry mark, but it was too late. And maybe it wouldn’t matter. The sun would melt the snow and the drains would run, carrying the shirt along their underground tunnels until they emptied into the Potomac, or wherever they went, miles from the committee room. When he reached the Capitol a few blocks later, making a circle, he felt happier than he’d been in days. Somebody had finally helped.

There were more phone calls in the afternoon and Mr Benjamin, the lawyer, came to dinner, so Nick ate in the kitchen, catching only bits of the talk in the dining room. No one had to tell him, however. It was there in Nora’s afternoon paper. WELLES TO RE-CALL COCHRANE. NEW COCHRANE TESTIMONY MONDAY. He’d overheard Mr Benjamin say that it was a typical Welles tactic to tie up the weekend papers in speculation. By the time Monday rolled around, people would think she’d already testified and it would hardly matter what she actually said. But it mattered to Nick. He hoped it would be about the shirt, floating away. When he went to bed that night, his mother told him not to worry about anything and he nodded, as if they’d both forgotten to pretend he didn’t know a thing.

The reporters were out in front again the next morning, even though it was Saturday. Nick’s father went out to tell them he had nothing to say, but they lingered anyway, drinking coffee and looking up at the house, waiting for clues. No one came. Nick’s father was shut in the study on the phone while Nora and his mother fitted her dress for the United Charities that night, because now his mother said they had to go, so Nick was invisible again. It was easy to disappear. When his father came out of the study, his face pale and distracted, he looked right past him, not seeing anything. The phone rang, and like a sleepwalker he turned back into the room. Nick had the odd feeling of not having been there at all. His mother told him to go outside–they were building a snow fort across the street–but he wanted to stay close to his father, ready to help. He knew he couldn’t leave him now, alone despite the phone calls. Someone had to be there.

He was sitting listlessly in the club chair after lunch when he heard his father in the hall, putting on his boots. Where was he going? He looked out the front window, checking the street, then went back down the hall to the kitchen, obviously heading for the back door. Nick didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his jacket in the mud room and pulled on his boots without bothering to close the buckles. When he stepped out into the snowy courtyard, he could see his father already turning the alley corner.

He followed about a block behind, not even worrying if his father turned around, trusting his invisibility. His father walked past the Senate Office Building, then turned down the hill, toward Union Station. He wasn’t going out for milk or the afternoon papers. No errand took you to the station. Nick watched the herringbone coat cross D Street, not stopping for the light, then weaving through the moats of clear sidewalks between the banks of snow. Nick picked up his own pace. There were always crowds at the station, and he might lose him.

He darted past the line of taxis and into the great hall, a roar of loudspeaker announcements and newsboys and shoes clicking on marble. Nick moved to the side of the room–a kid alone might be suspicious–and walked quickly past the waiting benches crammed with delayed passengers. His father stopped and looked around, but Nick was lucky, hidden by a swarm of people heading for the track gates. Besides, you never saw what you didn’t expect to see. Then his father went over to the row of telephone booths and, taking off his hat, sat down and closed the folding door. Nick waited by the newsstand, trying to make sense of it. Why come to Union Station to make a phone call when that was all he’d been doing at home? But he hadn’t bought a ticket, that was the main thing. He wasn’t going anywhere. Nick stared blankly at the magazines, warm with relief.

The trip home, up the hill, was longer, and Nick kept his distance, letting the coat stay several blocks ahead. He could probably spin off now, avoiding any risk of being seen, but he wanted to be sure. It was only when his father turned into the alley, back home, that he felt safe again. The sky was darkening for another snowfall, but he couldn’t go in yet. Not so soon. Instead he went around the block to the front and pretended to roll snow with the other kids for the big fort. When they started throwing snow, he was the first to get hit, because he hadn’t seen it coming. He was looking over the reporters’ hats toward the house, protective as a guard dog.

He ate dinner alone again, then went upstairs to watch his parents dress for the ball, his father in a tuxedo with jet cufflinks and shiny shoes, his mother in a tight shoulderless top and a long skirt that swooped out with stiff petticoats. The day was almost over and nothing had happened. Nick kept glancing at his father, wondering if he knew he’d been followed, but he seemed unaware, smoking and fixing his bow tie with some of his old spirit. His mother was wearing her good necklace, the one with the garnet pendant, and she was smiling in the mirror, so that Nick thought maybe their good luck had come back again. It had been like this a hundred times before, the warm busyness before a party, the air rich with powder and aftershave.

The telephone rang.

“Now what?” his mother said, annoyed. “We’ll be late.”

His father answered the phone and listened for a minute without saying a word. Then he put the receiver back gently, as if he were afraid of waking someone, and looked up at them, pale.

“I have to talk to your mother, Nick,” he said simply, and Nick knew that it had come, whatever it was. He glanced at his mother, but her eyes, anxious now, were fixed on his father.

“I’ll be there in a minute, honeybun,” his mother said absently, and Nick, dismissed, went out and closed the door. At first he could hear nothing, then a quiet undertone of voices, a moan. He had to know. He crept back to his room, then through the door of the connecting bathroom, the way he did to fool Nora, watching her vacuum. But now the spy game was real. The door to his parents’ bedroom was open just a crack, and at first he heard only conspiratorial whispers. Then their voices rose, his mother’s a kind of wail.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I couldn’t,” his father said. “I couldn’t.”

“Now?” his mother said, inexplicably.

“I didn’t know it would be tonight. I’m sorry.”

“No, I don’t believe any of it,” his mother said, and Nick could hear a cry beginning in her voice. “What about us? What about us, Walter?”

“I’m sorry,” his father said quietly. Then, more audibly, “Come with me.”

“Are you crazy?” his mother said. “You must be crazy. Everything—” She broke off, sobbing.

“Livia, please,” his father said.

“Don’t touch me!” she shouted, and Nick froze.

For a moment he heard nothing, but he didn’t dare push the door open. Then his father was talking, so quietly that Nick missed the next exchange.

He heard his mother take a quick few steps. “No, you can’t,” she said. “It’s all–Walter, this is crazy. You can’t—”

“Livia, I have to,” he said calmly. “Come with me.”

“Go to hell,” she said, almost spitting the words.

“Livia, please,” his father said.

Nick heard a new sound, then realized she was hitting his father’s chest. “Go,” she said. “Go.”

“Believe me, I never thought—”

“Never thought,” she said, her voice unfamiliar with scorn.

“Never. I love you.”

Now his mother was crying.

“I’ll call tomorrow. The way I said.”

“I don’t care,” his mother said faintly.

“Don’t say that.” Nick heard his father move toward the door, then stop. “You are so beautiful,” he said softly.

For a moment there was absolute silence. Then, “I hope you die,” his mother said.

Nick heard the door close. He rushed into the room and saw his mother sink onto the bed, her head drooping, as if the crying had made her limp. His stomach heaved. Once he had seen a man lying on the sidewalk downtown, people surrounding him and calling for an ambulance, and he’d felt this same fear, of life stopping before he could run away. Then he heard his father below, and he bolted from the room, clumping down the stairs and racing along the hall until, breathless, he caught him at the back door, his coat already on.

“Nick,” his father said, turning, dismayed.

“Where are you going?”

“I have to go away, Nick,” he said, bending down to face him. “Im sorry.”

“I got rid of the shirt,” Nick said.

“You did?” he said, not understanding.

“Fifteen and a half, thirty-three. Like the lady said. I got rid of it. They’ll never find it. You don’t have to go.”

“Nicku,” his father said, holding him by the shoulders. Nick watched his father’s eyes fill with tears. “My God. I never meant any of this to happen to you. Not you. Do you believe me?”

“You don’t have to go.”

“I can’t explain. Not now. I wouldn’t know how.” His father got on one knee, his face level with Nick’s. “I’ll never leave you. Not really.” He paused. “Would you do something for me? Make sure your mother’s all right?”

Nick nodded, but what he heard was that his father was really going. Nothing would stop him now.

“Don’t go,” Nick said quietly.

“Could I have a hug? Would you do that?”

Nick put his arms around his father’s neck, smelling the smoke and aftershave.

“No, a real one,” his father said, clutching him, drawing him tighter and tighter, until Nick felt that he was suspended, without air, holding on for dear life. They stayed that way until Nick felt his father’s arms drop. When he finally let go, he looked at Nick and said, “Okay,” like the handshake of a deal.

He got up and went to the door.

“You need your rubbers,” Nick said, pointing to the shiny formal shoes.

His father gave him a weak half-smile. “It’s all right. It doesn’t matter.” Then he opened the door and started down the stairs, leaving Nick to close it behind him.

Nick watched through the pane of the mud room door. His father didn’t go to the garage but headed across the courtyard to the alley. His shoes made holes in the snow, and even after he was out of sight, pausing only once at the corner to look back, Nick stared at the footprints, waiting for them to fill with new snow until finally every trace was gone.

Upstairs his mother was still crying, slumped over on the bed in her pretty dress like a stuffed doll. When she saw Nick, she opened her arms wordlessly and held him.

“Where did he go?” Nick said, but his mother didn’t answer, just sat rocking him back and forth, the way she did when he was hurt. Finally she wiped her eyes, reached back to undo the clasp of the garnet necklace, and let it fall slowly into her hand. She sat looking at it for a moment, then closed her hand over the bright red stone and got up to put it away with the rest of her things.

Chapter 2

THE PHONE RANG early the next morning, but Nick knew it wasn’t his father because his mother said, “No, I’m sorry, he’s not here,” and immediately hung up. When, a little later, it rang again, she didn’t answer but let it go on and on, shaking the quiet house until Nick thought the entire street must have heard. Then it stopped and she picked up the receiver, put it under her pillow, and went down to make coffee.

Nick found her in the kitchen, holding a steaming mug and smoking, staring at nothing. He took out some cereal and poured milk.

“What if he calls?” he said.

“He won’t.”

Afterward she built a fire and they sat in their bathrobes looking at it, curled up on the couch, pretending to be snowbound. Her face was drawn and tired, and after a while the rhythm of the clock and the crackling of the fire made her drowsy, and he saw her eyes droop, released finally into sleep. When he covered her with an afghan, she smiled without waking up. Nick lay with her on the couch and drifted too, worn out by the night.

The key in the lock startled them. Nora didn’t come on Sundays, and for one wild moment Nick thought it might be his father. But it was Nora, on a draft of cold air, a glimpse of the reporters outside behind her.

“Your phone’s out of order,” she said, stamping her snowy boots on the hall carpet.

“I took it off the hook,” Nick’s mother said, half asleep, sitting up.

“Where’s Mr Kotlar?”

“He’s out,” Nick’s mother said simply.

“Well, he’s picked a fine time.”

“I just wanted some peace, that’s all,” his mother said, still on the earlier thought. “Don’t they ever give up?”

“Mother of God, haven’t you heard?” Nora said, surprised.

“What?”

“She’s killed herself, that’s what. That Rosemary Cochrane. Jumped.” She held out the newspaper. Nick’s mother didn’t move. “Here, see for yourself,” Nora said, putting the paper down and taking off her coat. “It’s a wicked end. Even for her. Well, the burden on that conscience. Still, I won’t speak ill of the dead.”

“No,” his mother said absently, reading the paper, her face white.

“I thought I’d better come. There’ll be no peace today, for sure. The vultures. You’d better put the phone back or they’ll be breaking down the door. Where’s Mr Kotlar gone, out so early?”

But Nick’s mother didn’t answer. “Oh God,” she said, dropping the paper, and walked out of the room.

“Well,” Nora said, “now what?” She looked at Nick, still lying under his end of the afghan. Then, puzzled, she followed his mother down the hall.

Nick stared at the photograph framed by blurred type. She was lying face up on the roof of a car, peaceful, her legs crossed at the ankles as if she were taking a nap. Her shoes were gone and one nylon was visibly twisted, but her dress, high on her thighs, seemed otherwise in place. Only the strand of pearls, flung backward by the fall, looked wrong, tight at the neck, dangling upside down in the dark hair spread out beneath her head. She didn’t look hurt. There was no blood, no torn clothing, no grotesque bulging eyes. Instead the violence lay around her in the twisted metal of the car roof, crumpled on impact, enfolding her now like a hammock. When you looked at it you could imagine the crash, the loud crunch of bones as the body hit, bending the metal until it finally stopped falling and came to rest. The new shape of the roof, its warped shine caught in the photographer’s flash, was the most disturbing thing about the picture. In some crazy way, it looked as if she had killed the car.

Nick’s first thought was that his father could come back now. The hearing would be over. But that must be a sin, even thinking it. She was dead. He couldn’t stop looking at the picture, the closed eyes, the flung pearls. Was she dead before she hit the car, her neck twisted by the fall? She was dressed to go out. Had she looked at herself in the mirror before she opened the window? Then the rush of cold air. But why would anyone do that, the one unforgivable sin? What if she changed her mind after it was too late, not even the split second to repent? Damned forever. And then, his body suddenly warm with panic, another thought: Was it somehow his father’s fault? Was she ashamed of lying? Or was it some kind of new attack? They’d blame him for this too. Nick felt a line of sweat at the top of his forehead. The hearing, their troubles, wouldn’t end–they would get worse. A dead body didn’t go away. It would start all over again–new questions, new suspicions. Her jump from the world would only drag them down deeper.

Now it was important to know. His eyes scanned the surrounding blocks of type, trying to reconstruct what had happened. A room on the sixteenth floor of the Mayflower Hotel. She had checked in that afternoon under a different name. Why go to a hotel? Her apartment was a few blocks away, off Dupont Circle. But a three-story house–too low. So she had planned it. And the newspaper speculated that in the Mayflower she’d found more than just height. All of Washington was in the ballroom below, for the United Charities ball. If she wanted a dramatic final appearance, she’d picked the right stage. Nick imagined her at the window, the cabs and hired black Packards pulling up under the awning, watching all the people who’d tormented her. Welles had been there, everybody. Nick stopped for a moment. His father was supposed to have been there too. Was that it? A final strike against him, in front of everybody? Larry had said she liked the spotlight. There would even be photographers on the street, to record the evening and its unexpected climax. She was dressed to go out.

The other details were sketchy, lost in long paragraphs of people’s responses. Welles, still in black tie in his photo, was shocked and saddened and reserved further comment pending an investigation. She had jumped at 9:35, according to the doorman who’d heard the crash. The ball had been in full swing. She had fallen wide of the sidewalk, hitting the roof of a waiting car and injuring the driver, who had needed treatment. According to the front desk there had been no visitors and according to the District police no signs of struggle in her room–this was a new idea to Nick–but she had ordered liquor from room service and it was assumed she had been drinking. She had made no calls. There was no note. She was survived by a sister, living in New York.

And that was all. Nick read through the reports again, then went back to the picture of her body, staring so hard that he saw the grains of ink. What had she been like? For an instant he hated her. Why had she done this to them? Drawn them into this personal mystery that spread, touching everything, like a spill. It wasn’t just politics anymore. Now someone was dead. And his father wasn’t here. Nick could hear the phone again. What would happen when they found out he was gone? Larry said they could twist anything. Nick looked at the woman, peaceful and inert. They’d blame his father somehow. She’d only sold him a shirt and look what they’d made of that. Nick felt a pricking along his scalp. She hadn’t lied about the shirt. His father had. But only Nick knew that. Had his father seen her at the hotel? There would have been time–he had left the house before the ball started. But no one knew that either. No one would ever know, if he came back.

Nick thought over everything that had happened the night before, remembering the words, the desperate hug, sifting for clues, but none of it seemed to have anything to do with the woman at the Mayflower. Nothing to connect his father with her. Unless she had been the call at Union Station. Nick looked up from the paper. No one, not even his mother, could know about that. Then his father would be safe. No connections at all. It was only his being away that could make things worse now, make people wonder why he was hiding. He had to come back.

Nick grabbed the newspaper and ran upstairs to dress.

Through the bathroom door he could hear running water and knew his mother was soaking in the tub, hiding in a cloud of steam. They were all hiding. But they couldn’t, now. He threw on some clothes and went down to his father’s study, closing the door behind him. When he picked up the phone he heard Nora’s voice, polite and normal. “No, he’s out. Would you like to leave a message or try back later?” He waited for the click, then pressed the receiver button again to get the operator to place a call to the cabin. There were a few more clicks, then the burring of the line ringing a hundred miles away. It was a new line, finally put in last year, and it rang loudly enough to be heard outside. Nick imagined his father shoveling a path in the snow, picking up his head at the sound, then stamping his boots on the porch as he came in to answer. It’s all right, Nick would tell him. But the rings just continued until finally the operator came back and asked if he wanted her to keep trying. He hung up and turned on the radio. Perhaps his father hadn’t got there yet or the snow had blocked the road.

The radio was full of the suicide. Welles was asked if the loss of his witness would call a halt to the hearings. No. Not even this sad tragedy would stop the American people from getting at the truth. Mr Benjamin was saddened but not surprised. The poor woman’s instability had been obvious from the beginning. It had been irresponsible of Welles to use her as a political tool, and now with such tragic consequences. The bellhop who’d delivered the liquor wouldn’t say that she seemed particularly depressed. Pleasant, in fact, a real lady. She’d given him a dollar tip. But you never knew, did you? Meanwhile, Walter Kotlar was still unavailable for comment. Nick listened to it all and he realized that nobody knew. It would still be all right if he could reach his father in time. He tried the number again.

It was Nora’s idea to take a tray up to his mother, as if she were an invalid.

“She got no sleep, I could tell just by the look of her. And where’ve you been all morning?”

“Reading.”

“So it was a ghost, was it, with the radio on?”

“I can do both.”

“Your father’s picked a fine time. Not that I blame him. That phone would drive anyone out of the house.”

But her eyes were shiny with excitement and Nick could tell she was enjoying it all, playing nurse and secretary, busy and important. So his mother hadn’t told her.

After lunch he sneaked back into the study and tried the cabin again. He was listening to the rings, willing his father to come to the phone, when his mother walked in, surprising him.

“Nick,” she said vaguely. “I thought I heard someone. What are you doing?” She was dressed, her skin pink from the bath, but her eyes were dull and tired. She moved across the room slowly, still underwater.

“I’m calling the cabin.”

She looked at him, her face softening. “He’s not there, honey.”

Nick hung up the phone and waited, but his mother didn’t say anything. It scared him to see her withdrawn, drifting somewhere else. They needed to be awake now.

“Where is he?” he said, as if the question itself, finally asked, would break the spell.

“He went away,” she said. “You know that.”

“But where?”

“Not to the cabin,” she said to herself, her voice unexpectedly wry.

“Where?”

“Did he say anything to you? When you saw him?”

Nick shook his head.

“No, he wouldn’t. He’d leave that for me to explain.” She took a cigarette out of the box on the desk and lit it. Nick waited. “Im not sure I can, Nick,” she said. “Not yet. I’m not sure I understand it myself.” Then she looked up. “But it’s nothing to do with you. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know. He wanted to stop the hearing, that’s all. But now—”

“Is that what he told you?”

Nick shook his head. “I just know.” He stared at her, waiting again.

She leaned her hand on the desk, unable to take the weight of his eyes. “Not now, Nick, okay? I need some time.”

“So you can think what to say?”

She looked at him, a half-smile. “That’s right. So I can think what to say.”

There was a knock, then Nora flung the door open, her eyes wide with drama. “There you are. We’ve got the police now.” His mother met her eyes, then glanced to the phone, expecting it to jump. “No. Here,” Nora said, cocking her head toward the stairs.

Nick saw his mother’s face cloud over, then retreat again. She closed her eyes for a second, waiting for this to go away too, then opened them and looked at her wristwatch, as if she were late for an appointment. “Oh,” she said and left the room in a daze. He and Nora glanced at each other, a question mark, then, unable to answer it, they followed her down the stairs.

Nick had expected uniforms, but the two policemen were in suits, holding their hats in their hands.

“We understand your husband’s not here,” one of them was saying.

“Yes, I’m sorry. Can I help?”

“Could you tell me when you’re expecting him?”

“I’m not sure, really. He didn’t say.”

“Any idea where we might be able to reach him?”

“Have you tried his office?” his mother said lightly, not meeting Nick’s look.

“We did that, Mrs Kotlar.”

“Oh. Well, that’s odd. Is something wrong?”

“No. We just wanted to talk to him. You’ve heard about Miss Cochrane?”

His mother nodded, then raised her chin. “My husband didn’t know Miss Cochrane,” she said plainly.

The policemen looked at each other, embarrassed. “Well, we have to talk to everybody. You know. In cases like this. Get some idea what may have been on her mind.”

“That’s one thing we’ve never known.”

In the awkward pause that followed, Nick looked at his mother, surprised at her tone.

“Yes, well, we don’t want to bother you. Just have your husband give us a call when he gets in, would you?” The policeman handed her a card.

His mother took it. “Do you want to talk to his lawyer, Mr Benjamin?”

“No, just have your husband give us a call.”

She jumped when the phone rang, involuntarily glancing at her watch again. “That’s all right, Nora,” she said quickly. “I’ll get it. Excuse me,” she said to the policemen, picking up the phone on the second ring. “Hello. Yes?” Nick couldn’t see her face, but her body leaned into the phone as if she were trying to make physical contact, and Nick knew it was his father. A prearranged contact. Now he understood her distraction. A chance to talk, ruined now by the need to pretend, her voice unnaturally brisk. “Yes, that’s right. Yes.”

She was listening. “No, I’m afraid I can’t.” Would his father know the police were there? Nick wanted to push them out of the room, grab the phone, and tell his father to come back. “I’m sorry, but he’s not here just now. He’s out.” Her voice was odd again, so far from intimacy that Nick knew it must be a message, her own kind of warning. “Yes. Yes, I know.” Now a faint crack, or did only Nick hear it? “He’s fine,” she said, almost softly, and Nick’s heart skipped. His father was asking about him. A pause as the caller talked. “You’ll have to try later,” she said, formal again, her voice rising slightly at the end. “Oh. I see.” Then, finally, her real voice. “Me too.”

She kept her back to them for a minute when she hung up, composing herself, Nick thought, and when she turned he saw that it was only partly successful. She looked the way she had after the bath, slightly drugged and confused. She tried a small smile.

“It seems everyone wants to talk to my husband,” she said apologetically.

“We don’t want to bother you,” the policeman said again, getting ready to go. “What time did you say your husband left?”

“What time?” she echoed weakly. Nick looked up in alarm. She was trying to think what to say again and the call had drained her.

“About eight o’clock,” Nick said suddenly. “He made me cereal first.”

The policeman turned to him, not catching Nora’s surprised expression.

“Eight o’clock? Is that right, Mrs Kotlar?”

“Nick—”

“Mom was still asleep. He didn’t want to wake her.” Nick thought of the shirt, floating down the drains. Now he had lied to the police too.

“Did he say where he was going?”

Nick shrugged. “A meeting, I guess. He took his briefcase.” That was stupid. They’d find it upstairs. “The little one,” he added, digging deeper.

“I see. Eight o’clock. He get a taxi out front?”

Nick saw the trap. They’d already asked the reporters.

“A taxi?” he said, pretending to be puzzled. “No, he went out the back. He always does that when he doesn’t want to talk. To the guys out front. You know.”

The policeman smiled. “No, but I can imagine. Must be like living in a fishbowl here sometimes.” This as a kind of apology to Nick’s mother. “Well, we don’t want to bother you,” he said again, as if he really meant it. “Oh, Mrs Kotlar, one last thing? You didn’t go to the United Charities ball last night?”

“No.”

“You and your husband were in all evening, then?”

He saw his mother waver again.

“We played Scrabble,” Nick said.

“Oh yeah?” the policeman said, friendly.

“I won,” Nick said, wondering if it was another trap. Who would believe that? “My dad lets me win.”

And then they were gone, in a small confusion of thank-yous and promises to call, swallowed up by the reporters’ hats outside.

“That was Dad,” Nick said flatly when he heard the door close. His mother looked at him nervously, afraid to answer. “Is he all right?” She nodded.

“Would someone like to tell me what’s going on around here?” Nora said. “Making cereal,” she added, scoffing.

But his mother’s eyes were filling with tears. “Do you think they knew?” his mother said to him. “I tried—”

“No, just me,” Nick said.

“What?” Nora said again.

“She’s worried about Dad,” Nick said, answering for his mother. “He said he’d be back for lunch.”

Nick’s mother looked up, helpless to correct him.

“Lunch,” Nora said, working at a puzzle.

The phone rang again and Nick’s mother slumped, covering her eyes with one hand. Nick nodded to Nora, who raised her eyebrows and answered it. He led his mother to the couch, sat down beside her, and put one arm around her shoulder.

“When is he going to come back?” he said, almost in a whisper, so Nora wouldn’t hear. His mother shook her head. “But he has to,” Nick said.

“He’s not coming back, Nick,” his mother said wearily. “I wasn’t sure until now.”

Nick looked at her in confusion. “The police will come again. He has to be back before that. They’ll look for him.”

His mother put her hand to the side of his face, shaking her head. “It’s just you and me now. You don’t have to lie for him, Nick. It’s not right.”

But she still didn’t understand; her mind was somewhere away from the immediate danger. “He was here last night,” he said, looking into her eyes. “You have to say that.”

“What are we doing to you?” his mother said in a half-whisper, still holding the side of his face.