Read Online Darkness, Take My Hand by Dennis Lehane - Free Book Online
Authors: Dennis Lehane
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Understand?”
There’s a look a parent gets when she’s feeling protective of her child and it’s an animal’s look, and the danger that steams off it is palpable. It’s not something that can be reasoned with, and even though it stems from the depths of love, it knows no pity.
Grace had that look now.
“Deal,” I said.
She kissed my forehead. “Still doesn’t solve the identity of the Irish guy who called.”
“Nope. He say anything else?”
“’Soon,’” she said as she came off the bed. “Where’d I leave my jacket?”
“Living room,” I said. “What do you mean—’Soon’?”
She paused on her way to the doorway, looked back at me. “When he said he’d be dropping by your place. He waited a few seconds and then he said, ‘Soon.’”
She walked out of the bedroom and I heard a weak floorboard creak in the living room as she walked through.
Soon.
7
Shortly after Grace left, Diandra called. Stan Timpson would give me five minutes on the phone at eleven.
“Five whole minutes,” I said.
“For Stan, that’s generous. I gave him your number. He’ll call you at eleven on the dot. Stanley’s prompt.”
She gave me Jason’s class schedule for the week and his dorm room number. I copied it all down as fear made her voice sound tiny and brittle, and just before we hung up she said, “I’m so nervous. I hate it.”
“Don’t worry, Doctor Warren. This will all work out.”
“Will it?”
I called Angie and the phone was picked up on the second ring. Before I heard a voice, there was a rustling noise, as if the phone were being passed from one hand to another and I heard her whisper, “I got it. Okay?”
Her voice was hoarse and hesitant with sleep. “Hello?”
“Morning.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “It’s that.” There was another rustling noise from her end, a disentangling of sheets, and a bed spring groaned. “What’s up, Patrick?”
I gave her the rundown on my conversation with Diandra and Eric.
“So it definitely wasn’t Kevin who called her.” Her voice was still sluggish. “This makes no sense.”
“Nope. You got a pen?”
“Somewhere. Let me find it.”
More of that rustling sound and I knew she’d droppedthe phone on the bed as she rummaged around for a pen. Angie’s kitchen is spotless because she’s never used it, and her bathroom sparkles because she hates filth, but her bedroom always looks like she just unpacked from a trip in the middle of a windstorm. Socks and underwear spill from open drawers, and clean jeans and shirts and leggings are strewn across the floor or hang from doorknobs or the posts of her headboard. She’s never, as long as I’ve known her, worn the first wardrobe she’s considered in the morning. Amid all this carnage, books and magazines, spines bent or cracked, peek up from the floor.
Mountain bikes have been lost in Angie’s bedroom, and now she was looking for a pen.
After several drawers were banged open and change and lighters and earrings were moved around on the tops of nightstands, someone said, “What’re you looking for?”
“A pen.”
“Here.”
She came back on the line. “Got a pen.”
“Paper?” I said.
“Oh, shit.”
That took another minute.
“Go ahead,” she said.
I gave her Jason Warren’s class schedule and dorm room number. She’d tail him while I waited for Stan Timpson’s call.
“Got it,” she said. “Damn, I got to get moving.”
I looked at my watch. “His first class isn’t till ten-thirty. You got time.”
“Nope. Got an appointment at nine-thirty.”
“With who?”
Her breathing was slightly labored, and I assumed she was tugging on jeans. “My attorney. See you at Bryce whenever you get there.”
She hung up and I stared out at the avenue below. It seemed cut from a canyon, the day was so clear, striped hard as a frozen river between rows of three-deckers and brick. Windshields were seared white and opaque by the sun.
An attorney? Sometimes in the heady
There’s a look a parent gets when she’s feeling protective of her child and it’s an animal’s look, and the danger that steams off it is palpable. It’s not something that can be reasoned with, and even though it stems from the depths of love, it knows no pity.
Grace had that look now.
“Deal,” I said.
She kissed my forehead. “Still doesn’t solve the identity of the Irish guy who called.”
“Nope. He say anything else?”
“’Soon,’” she said as she came off the bed. “Where’d I leave my jacket?”
“Living room,” I said. “What do you mean—’Soon’?”
She paused on her way to the doorway, looked back at me. “When he said he’d be dropping by your place. He waited a few seconds and then he said, ‘Soon.’”
She walked out of the bedroom and I heard a weak floorboard creak in the living room as she walked through.
Soon.
7
Shortly after Grace left, Diandra called. Stan Timpson would give me five minutes on the phone at eleven.
“Five whole minutes,” I said.
“For Stan, that’s generous. I gave him your number. He’ll call you at eleven on the dot. Stanley’s prompt.”
She gave me Jason’s class schedule for the week and his dorm room number. I copied it all down as fear made her voice sound tiny and brittle, and just before we hung up she said, “I’m so nervous. I hate it.”
“Don’t worry, Doctor Warren. This will all work out.”
“Will it?”
I called Angie and the phone was picked up on the second ring. Before I heard a voice, there was a rustling noise, as if the phone were being passed from one hand to another and I heard her whisper, “I got it. Okay?”
Her voice was hoarse and hesitant with sleep. “Hello?”
“Morning.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “It’s that.” There was another rustling noise from her end, a disentangling of sheets, and a bed spring groaned. “What’s up, Patrick?”
I gave her the rundown on my conversation with Diandra and Eric.
“So it definitely wasn’t Kevin who called her.” Her voice was still sluggish. “This makes no sense.”
“Nope. You got a pen?”
“Somewhere. Let me find it.”
More of that rustling sound and I knew she’d droppedthe phone on the bed as she rummaged around for a pen. Angie’s kitchen is spotless because she’s never used it, and her bathroom sparkles because she hates filth, but her bedroom always looks like she just unpacked from a trip in the middle of a windstorm. Socks and underwear spill from open drawers, and clean jeans and shirts and leggings are strewn across the floor or hang from doorknobs or the posts of her headboard. She’s never, as long as I’ve known her, worn the first wardrobe she’s considered in the morning. Amid all this carnage, books and magazines, spines bent or cracked, peek up from the floor.
Mountain bikes have been lost in Angie’s bedroom, and now she was looking for a pen.
After several drawers were banged open and change and lighters and earrings were moved around on the tops of nightstands, someone said, “What’re you looking for?”
“A pen.”
“Here.”
She came back on the line. “Got a pen.”
“Paper?” I said.
“Oh, shit.”
That took another minute.
“Go ahead,” she said.
I gave her Jason Warren’s class schedule and dorm room number. She’d tail him while I waited for Stan Timpson’s call.
“Got it,” she said. “Damn, I got to get moving.”
I looked at my watch. “His first class isn’t till ten-thirty. You got time.”
“Nope. Got an appointment at nine-thirty.”
“With who?”
Her breathing was slightly labored, and I assumed she was tugging on jeans. “My attorney. See you at Bryce whenever you get there.”
She hung up and I stared out at the avenue below. It seemed cut from a canyon, the day was so clear, striped hard as a frozen river between rows of three-deckers and brick. Windshields were seared white and opaque by the sun.
An attorney? Sometimes in the heady
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