Read Online A Fistful of Rain by Greg Rucka - Free Book Online Page B

almost dark. I sat up and heard glass tinkling as I brushed it with my leg. My head throbbed, but it was endurable, though maybe this lack of illumination helped. My eyes didn’t take long to adjust, and when I thought they and the rest of me were ready, I pulled myself to my feet using the counter, then picked my way to the light switch by the door.
    The downstairs phone was ringing again. Or maybe it was ringing still.
    Using the light from the bathroom, I made it to the switch in the bedroom, and turned that one on, too. Drops of dried blood peppered my new carpet, recounting my travel from bathroom to bed, and then the return trip. I perched on the edge of the mattress and unwrapped the towel from my hand, slowly. It stuck, like the pillowcase had, but not as much, and there was almost no fresh bleeding when it came free.
    The downstairs phone went silent, and I looked for the upstairs one, to find out why it hadn’t been participating, and discovered that I’d yanked the unit free from the cord at some point. Maybe it had been in response to it ringing. The other option was that I’d tried to make a call or four, and the thought of what such conversations would have been like almost sent me back to the bathroom.
    After a while, I got up and found some slippers in the closet. I put them on and made my way downstairs, to the pantry. In the corner, I found the dustpan and brush.
    It took me most of two hours to clean up the mess. When I’d finished, I had the broken glass out of the bathroom, the tile cleaned, the sheets on the bed changed, and the towels in the trash. I used the towels to cover all the empties I’d gathered. There were ten of them, not counting the broken one.
    While I was cleaning up, the phone started ringing again. If someone wanted me badly enough, they could come and get me.
    I took another shower and put a real bandage on the cut in my palm. The laceration didn’t seem to have been so deep as to require much more than that, but once I had the bandage in place, I curled my hand, as if I was holding my pick, just to see if I could still do it. It ached, but I could still play.
    I got dressed in clothes I hadn’t worn for over a year, and discovered that I’d lost more weight than I’d thought. It’s hard to eat well on the road, and I hadn’t been nearly as religious about it as Van had, so it was kind of surprising. As I was tightening my belt, I realized that I was famished.
    Back downstairs, I looked in the pantry again, at the shelves freshly stocked with boxes and cans I’d purchased with Mikel, and I didn’t see anything I wanted to cook, let alone eat. I dug through the drawers and cabinets in the kitchen until I found the Yellow Pages, then found the listing for Kwan Ying’s, picked up the phone to dial. The voice mail tone was active, but I ignored it and ordered dinner. I ordered Szechwan chicken, veggie lo mein, veggie spring rolls, hot and sour soup, won ton soup, and an extra side of white rice. The guy who took my order asked if I was entertaining.
    “I used to be,” I said.
    After he confirmed that I’d be paying in cash, he hung up, and I did, too, then picked up the phone again and called the number to retrieve my voice mail. Voice mail makes getting messages easy when you’re on the road, and I’d used it a lot in the past year.
    The recorded lady told me that I had seventy-eight messages.
    Just for kicks, I played the first one. The recording said it had been left “yesterday,” which didn’t tell me when today was, but made me nervous.
    “Hi, Miriam, this is Jamie Rich, I don’t know if you remember me. I did the piece on Tailhook for
Spin
last April, we had dinner at Canter’s in L.A. I’m calling to see if you have anything to add to the statement Vanessa Parada and Click released this morning regarding your hiatus from the band. You can call me back at—”
    I fast-forwarded through the rest of it, deleted it, and then hung up again.
    Only seventy-seven