can.”
“We’re talking about the weather,” she pointed out.
“I’m sure even Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir talked about the weather on occasion,” I said.
“They never married, did they?”
“They felt it was bourgeois,” I said, “but you’re missing the point.”
“Which is?”
“Even the strongest relationships have ups and downs, and the fact that you’re on the other side of the planet doesn’t help.”
“Are you mad at me for leaving?”
“Maybe a little,” I admitted, “but when I look at it objectively, I realize I’m being selfish.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be,” I replied. “You’re doing something you have always wanted to do.” I paused, then added, “Hell, I’d love to live
in China for a year too, but I don’t speak Mandarin, and even if I did, I doubt the university offers any courses I’m qualified
to teach. Imagine the things I could teach those kids in a week. The poor bastards probably don’t even know who Jerry Jeff
Walker is or how to throw a nice spiral.”
“It’s a frightening thought,” she said. “I do love you,” she added.
“I know,” I said. “Enjoy your time there and don’t worry about us. You’ll come home for Christmas and things will be fine.”
We talked another five minutes and she became more chipper as she told me about her classes, her research, and her faculty
colleagues. Jayne is one of the nation’s leading experts in a field known as fractal geometry—the study of irregular patterns.
She loves her work. And I suppose that is one of the things I love about her.
I had met Jayne Smyers more than a year ago when she had hired me to look into the mysterious deaths of three math professors—all
specialists in fractal geometry. That case, which came to be known as “the Fractal Murders,” had lifted me into the upper
echelon of private investigators in the region, but during the course of working for Jayne I had fallen in love with her.
And being an expert in geometry, she saw the need for symmetry and so fell in love with me.
“I’m monopolizing the conversation,” she said at last. Her tone was apologetic.
“I was hoping if I let you talk you’d eventually find your way back to the phone-sex thing,” I said. She laughed.
“I love you,” she said again. “Please be careful.”
Scott McCutcheon. Unemployed astrophysicist. Former Navy SEAL. Fifth-degree black belt. One-time field goal kicker for the
Colorado Buffaloes. Brad Pitt with a receding hairline. I thought about him as I sipped coffee at a small table beside the
fireplace inside Nederland’s Pioneer Inn this cold Saturday morning.
We’d known each other since before kindergarten, and he was still my best friend and spiritual cut man. I felt reassured knowing
he was watching Karlynn while I sipped coffee in the mountain-rustic decor of the Pioneer, stared out at the falling snow,
and waited for Thadeus Bugg.
I picked up a spoon and studied my reflection in the convex side of the stainless steel utensil. The stripe was gone. My hair
is black, but I’ve always had a small tuft of white just above my right temple. It’s a genetic fluke known as mosaicism, though
some people call it a witch’s stripe. In preparing to meet Bugg it had occurred to me that I had better rid myself of this
distinctive trait. Anvil had probably told Bugg of his encounter with Karlynn and me at the mall, and in describing me the
stripe would have been one of the first things he mentioned.
Bugg showed up at 8:45—fifteen minutes early. But I’d been there since 8:15 on the theory it’s always best to arrive first
in these situations. I had positioned myself to have a good view of the door, and there was no mistaking the leader of the
pack when he walked in. He matched the description on his criminal history, except he weighed far more than two-fifty. He
was fat but also big. Like a big-time fullback who had decided
“We’re talking about the weather,” she pointed out.
“I’m sure even Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir talked about the weather on occasion,” I said.
“They never married, did they?”
“They felt it was bourgeois,” I said, “but you’re missing the point.”
“Which is?”
“Even the strongest relationships have ups and downs, and the fact that you’re on the other side of the planet doesn’t help.”
“Are you mad at me for leaving?”
“Maybe a little,” I admitted, “but when I look at it objectively, I realize I’m being selfish.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be,” I replied. “You’re doing something you have always wanted to do.” I paused, then added, “Hell, I’d love to live
in China for a year too, but I don’t speak Mandarin, and even if I did, I doubt the university offers any courses I’m qualified
to teach. Imagine the things I could teach those kids in a week. The poor bastards probably don’t even know who Jerry Jeff
Walker is or how to throw a nice spiral.”
“It’s a frightening thought,” she said. “I do love you,” she added.
“I know,” I said. “Enjoy your time there and don’t worry about us. You’ll come home for Christmas and things will be fine.”
We talked another five minutes and she became more chipper as she told me about her classes, her research, and her faculty
colleagues. Jayne is one of the nation’s leading experts in a field known as fractal geometry—the study of irregular patterns.
She loves her work. And I suppose that is one of the things I love about her.
I had met Jayne Smyers more than a year ago when she had hired me to look into the mysterious deaths of three math professors—all
specialists in fractal geometry. That case, which came to be known as “the Fractal Murders,” had lifted me into the upper
echelon of private investigators in the region, but during the course of working for Jayne I had fallen in love with her.
And being an expert in geometry, she saw the need for symmetry and so fell in love with me.
“I’m monopolizing the conversation,” she said at last. Her tone was apologetic.
“I was hoping if I let you talk you’d eventually find your way back to the phone-sex thing,” I said. She laughed.
“I love you,” she said again. “Please be careful.”
Scott McCutcheon. Unemployed astrophysicist. Former Navy SEAL. Fifth-degree black belt. One-time field goal kicker for the
Colorado Buffaloes. Brad Pitt with a receding hairline. I thought about him as I sipped coffee at a small table beside the
fireplace inside Nederland’s Pioneer Inn this cold Saturday morning.
We’d known each other since before kindergarten, and he was still my best friend and spiritual cut man. I felt reassured knowing
he was watching Karlynn while I sipped coffee in the mountain-rustic decor of the Pioneer, stared out at the falling snow,
and waited for Thadeus Bugg.
I picked up a spoon and studied my reflection in the convex side of the stainless steel utensil. The stripe was gone. My hair
is black, but I’ve always had a small tuft of white just above my right temple. It’s a genetic fluke known as mosaicism, though
some people call it a witch’s stripe. In preparing to meet Bugg it had occurred to me that I had better rid myself of this
distinctive trait. Anvil had probably told Bugg of his encounter with Karlynn and me at the mall, and in describing me the
stripe would have been one of the first things he mentioned.
Bugg showed up at 8:45—fifteen minutes early. But I’d been there since 8:15 on the theory it’s always best to arrive first
in these situations. I had positioned myself to have a good view of the door, and there was no mistaking the leader of the
pack when he walked in. He matched the description on his criminal history, except he weighed far more than two-fifty. He
was fat but also big. Like a big-time fullback who had decided
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