Read Online Boldt 03 - No Witnesses by Ridley Pearson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ridley Pearson
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it.” She gathered the sheets around her like a cocoon and her head sank back into the pillow, and he felt a desperate urge to make love with her. To erase the death of that young boy.
For forty-five minutes Miles would have nothing of going back to sleep. He finally did so, clutched in the warm arms of his father, who subsequently fell asleep sitting up on the living room couch. At six-thirty Boldt was once again awakened, this time by his son struggling to be free. Late, he rose quickly from the couch and crashed to the floor when his legs and back failed him. Miles ran into their bedroom. Liz appeared in her underwear and said in a groggy voice, “If you’re alive, please move your right hand.” She pulled off his shoes, rubbed his feet, and helped him to stand.
He made coffee and toast for her and poured himself a bowl of granola, waiting for his pot of tea to steep. Miles was assisted by his father in smearing part of a banana and some instant oatmeal over most of his face. Liz appeared at twenty to eight wearing jeans and a T-shirt—weekend clothes. Boldt felt tempted to explain his evening to her but didn’t know where to start. He was a mass of confusion, fatigue, and frustration. He glanced at the wall clock. Late.
“I miss you,” he heard her say sometime during his frantic efforts to change shirts and shave. He had been a lousy father and an even worse husband these past four days, and though he wasn’t keeping score, he feared maybe she was.
Back in the kitchen with her, the two of them talked over each other as they hurried through a running list that included shopping that had to be done, oil that needed changing, the plumber that had overcharged for shoddy work, a dental appointment Boldt had missed, and then, dropped as a bombshell, Liz said, “I’m two months late.”
“Late?”
“My period. I’m two months late.”
“Months?” he asked, stunned.
“That’s the usual way it happens.”
“Two months late.” He made it a statement.
Liz wiped her son’s chin.
“And?” Boldt asked.
“And what?”
“When are you going to the doctor?”
“I’m going to buy one of those in-home kits first.”
“When are you going to do the test?” He had unknowingly stepped closer to her. They stood only inches apart, their voices gentle. He took her by the waist. The world seemed a miraculous place to him. A place where one child lost was so quickly replaced by another.
“When would you like me to?” she asked.
“Will you wait?”
“Of course I will.”
“I’ll bring Chinese.” Her favorite. “And beer,” he added.
“Better make it nonalcoholic.”
“I can’t believe this.”
“I’m thirty-eight, love. It’s a long road between here and there. It may be nothing, don’t forget.”
“I love you,” he said.
“Those are nice words to hear.”
He squeezed her waist. “I miss you, too.”
“You don’t look very good,” she said honestly. She meant that he was old for this. She meant that he belonged behind a desk with regular hours, or maybe she was suggesting that he might have to quit the department—again—if a child came.
“Never felt better,” he lied.
“Go on,” she said, amused, shoving him gently toward the door.
“Chinese,” he reminded her. “Seven o’clock. I’ll call.”
“Like last night?” She obviously couldn’t resist saying this, and he couldn’t blame her—but he did.
“I’ll call. I promise.”
Her eyes apologized to him. And there seemed in this expression of hers an appreciation of him—of their shared feelings, of their mutual efforts to define and maintain some semblance of a life together, and perhaps even for his part in creating the child that might be within her at this very moment.
“Seven,” she confirmed.
“And if it’s a boy,” Boldt added, “I have a name for him.”
Following the eight o’clock shift change, when Boldt’s skeleton crew, weekend squad replaced Pasquini’s, inheriting a gang
For forty-five minutes Miles would have nothing of going back to sleep. He finally did so, clutched in the warm arms of his father, who subsequently fell asleep sitting up on the living room couch. At six-thirty Boldt was once again awakened, this time by his son struggling to be free. Late, he rose quickly from the couch and crashed to the floor when his legs and back failed him. Miles ran into their bedroom. Liz appeared in her underwear and said in a groggy voice, “If you’re alive, please move your right hand.” She pulled off his shoes, rubbed his feet, and helped him to stand.
He made coffee and toast for her and poured himself a bowl of granola, waiting for his pot of tea to steep. Miles was assisted by his father in smearing part of a banana and some instant oatmeal over most of his face. Liz appeared at twenty to eight wearing jeans and a T-shirt—weekend clothes. Boldt felt tempted to explain his evening to her but didn’t know where to start. He was a mass of confusion, fatigue, and frustration. He glanced at the wall clock. Late.
“I miss you,” he heard her say sometime during his frantic efforts to change shirts and shave. He had been a lousy father and an even worse husband these past four days, and though he wasn’t keeping score, he feared maybe she was.
Back in the kitchen with her, the two of them talked over each other as they hurried through a running list that included shopping that had to be done, oil that needed changing, the plumber that had overcharged for shoddy work, a dental appointment Boldt had missed, and then, dropped as a bombshell, Liz said, “I’m two months late.”
“Late?”
“My period. I’m two months late.”
“Months?” he asked, stunned.
“That’s the usual way it happens.”
“Two months late.” He made it a statement.
Liz wiped her son’s chin.
“And?” Boldt asked.
“And what?”
“When are you going to the doctor?”
“I’m going to buy one of those in-home kits first.”
“When are you going to do the test?” He had unknowingly stepped closer to her. They stood only inches apart, their voices gentle. He took her by the waist. The world seemed a miraculous place to him. A place where one child lost was so quickly replaced by another.
“When would you like me to?” she asked.
“Will you wait?”
“Of course I will.”
“I’ll bring Chinese.” Her favorite. “And beer,” he added.
“Better make it nonalcoholic.”
“I can’t believe this.”
“I’m thirty-eight, love. It’s a long road between here and there. It may be nothing, don’t forget.”
“I love you,” he said.
“Those are nice words to hear.”
He squeezed her waist. “I miss you, too.”
“You don’t look very good,” she said honestly. She meant that he was old for this. She meant that he belonged behind a desk with regular hours, or maybe she was suggesting that he might have to quit the department—again—if a child came.
“Never felt better,” he lied.
“Go on,” she said, amused, shoving him gently toward the door.
“Chinese,” he reminded her. “Seven o’clock. I’ll call.”
“Like last night?” She obviously couldn’t resist saying this, and he couldn’t blame her—but he did.
“I’ll call. I promise.”
Her eyes apologized to him. And there seemed in this expression of hers an appreciation of him—of their shared feelings, of their mutual efforts to define and maintain some semblance of a life together, and perhaps even for his part in creating the child that might be within her at this very moment.
“Seven,” she confirmed.
“And if it’s a boy,” Boldt added, “I have a name for him.”
Following the eight o’clock shift change, when Boldt’s skeleton crew, weekend squad replaced Pasquini’s, inheriting a gang
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