jiggling under the slick polyester skin of his shirt. “Free? I don’t believe I’m familiar with that word.” For the first time in her life Rune had an assistant. Bradford Simpson volunteered to help her. She suspected he was motivated partly by his desire to go out with her - though she couldn’t for the life of her guess why he’d want her and not some beautiful debutante who was tall and blonde (two of her least-favorite adjectives when applied to other women). On the other hand, he hadn’t exactly asked her out again after the first rejection and she supposed that his reappearance had more to do with journalistic crusading than romance. “What can I do to help?” he’d asked. And she’d gotten a little flustered, since she didn’t have a clue - never having had
anyone work for her. “Hmm, let me think.” He’d offered, “How about if I dig through the archives for information about
Hopper?” “That sounds good,” she’d said. He was now at her cubicle with another armful of files. He laid them out on her desk
as neatly as his Robert Redford hair was combed and his penny loafers were polished. “Did you know Lance Hopper?” she asked him. “Not real well. He was killed a month after I started my first summer internship here.
But I worked for him once or twice.” “You worked for the head of Network News?” “Well, I wasn’t exactly an anchorman. But he gave assignments to all the interns. Scut work usually. But he also spent a lot of time with us, telling us about journalism, getting stories, editing. He’s the one who started the intern program. I think he would’ve made a good professor.” Bradford fell quiet for a moment. “He did a lot for me, for all of us interns.” Rune broke the somber spell by saying, “Don’t worry. We’ll pay him back.” Bradford turned his blue eyes toward her questioningly. She said, “We’re going to find who really killed him.” 8 What’s that? Rune opened her eyes, stared up at the ceiling of her houseboat’s bedroom, watching the ripples of the morning sun reflecting onto the off-white paint. She turned her head, squinting. What’s wrong? She felt the boat gently rocking in the Hudson, water lapping against the hull. Heard the baritone grind of a boat engine that seemed near but was probably two hundred yards away- she’d learned how noise carries on the water. The sound of rush-hour traffic too. So what was it? What was missing? What wasn’t here that ought to be? The tie-dye sheet had tangled around her feet, a percale Gordian knot. Her white Joy of Movement T-shirt had ridden up to her neck and her hair was in her face. Rune was a restless sleeper. She untangled her feet and pulled the shirt down. She brushed a crescent of pizza crust out of the bed and sat upright.
Well, part of it was the silence - a special kind of silence, the sort that comes from the absence of a human being. Rune realized that Claire was gone. The young woman always had her Walkman plugged in by nine A.M. Even upstairs, in the houseboat’s bedroom, Rune usually could hear the raspy chunk of decibels murdering Claire’s ears. But today, nothing. Rune went into the white-enameled head, thinking: Maybe she got up early to go shopping. But no, none of her stores - clothing and cosmetics - opened before ten or eleven. Which meant that maybe she’d already moved up to Boston! Which is exactly what happened. Rune, downstairs, stood in the middle of the living room and read the note Claire had left. As she scanned the words she grinned like a kid on Christmas Eve. Excellent! she thought. Thank you, thank you, thank you . . . The note was all about how Claire appreciated (spelled wrong) everything Rune had done for her in the past couple of weeks (six and a half) even though she was a moody bitch a lot but that was good
because if she could live with her she could live with anybody (Rune, trying to figure v-ho the shes were and not liking the conclusion).
Claire
anyone work for her. “Hmm, let me think.” He’d offered, “How about if I dig through the archives for information about
Hopper?” “That sounds good,” she’d said. He was now at her cubicle with another armful of files. He laid them out on her desk
as neatly as his Robert Redford hair was combed and his penny loafers were polished. “Did you know Lance Hopper?” she asked him. “Not real well. He was killed a month after I started my first summer internship here.
But I worked for him once or twice.” “You worked for the head of Network News?” “Well, I wasn’t exactly an anchorman. But he gave assignments to all the interns. Scut work usually. But he also spent a lot of time with us, telling us about journalism, getting stories, editing. He’s the one who started the intern program. I think he would’ve made a good professor.” Bradford fell quiet for a moment. “He did a lot for me, for all of us interns.” Rune broke the somber spell by saying, “Don’t worry. We’ll pay him back.” Bradford turned his blue eyes toward her questioningly. She said, “We’re going to find who really killed him.” 8 What’s that? Rune opened her eyes, stared up at the ceiling of her houseboat’s bedroom, watching the ripples of the morning sun reflecting onto the off-white paint. She turned her head, squinting. What’s wrong? She felt the boat gently rocking in the Hudson, water lapping against the hull. Heard the baritone grind of a boat engine that seemed near but was probably two hundred yards away- she’d learned how noise carries on the water. The sound of rush-hour traffic too. So what was it? What was missing? What wasn’t here that ought to be? The tie-dye sheet had tangled around her feet, a percale Gordian knot. Her white Joy of Movement T-shirt had ridden up to her neck and her hair was in her face. Rune was a restless sleeper. She untangled her feet and pulled the shirt down. She brushed a crescent of pizza crust out of the bed and sat upright.
Well, part of it was the silence - a special kind of silence, the sort that comes from the absence of a human being. Rune realized that Claire was gone. The young woman always had her Walkman plugged in by nine A.M. Even upstairs, in the houseboat’s bedroom, Rune usually could hear the raspy chunk of decibels murdering Claire’s ears. But today, nothing. Rune went into the white-enameled head, thinking: Maybe she got up early to go shopping. But no, none of her stores - clothing and cosmetics - opened before ten or eleven. Which meant that maybe she’d already moved up to Boston! Which is exactly what happened. Rune, downstairs, stood in the middle of the living room and read the note Claire had left. As she scanned the words she grinned like a kid on Christmas Eve. Excellent! she thought. Thank you, thank you, thank you . . . The note was all about how Claire appreciated (spelled wrong) everything Rune had done for her in the past couple of weeks (six and a half) even though she was a moody bitch a lot but that was good
because if she could live with her she could live with anybody (Rune, trying to figure v-ho the shes were and not liking the conclusion).
Claire
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