Read Online Now and in the Hour of Our Death by Patrick Taylor - Free Book Online

and you won’t tell me? Do you not trust me?”
    Cal rose and looked down on Sammy. “Listen. You know the rules. The less folks know, the less they can tell.”
    â€œI’d never tell nothing.”
    â€œThat’s what we thought about that shite Christopher Black. Bloody supergrass, singing his head off like a fucking canary. Thirty-five of our lot lifted on his word.”
    Sammy stood and leaned, taking his weight on his hands that were splayed out on the tabletop. “Don’t you make me out to be like Black. You think I’d turn informer?” There was spittle on his lips. “Fuck you.”
    Erin put her hand over Sammy’s. “Not at all, Sam. It’s just the way we do things. You know that. We will tell you when the time’s ripe.” She looked up at Cal. “Sit down, the both of you. You’re like a pair of strange roosters in the one barnyard.”
    â€œJesus, Sam,” Cal said, “if we can’t trust you, who can we trust?”
    Sammy seemed to be satisfied. “I’m sorry I lost the rag there, Erin, but…”
    â€œNever mind.” She squeezed his hand. “We trust you, Sam, and we’ve to rely on you tonight.”
    Sammy forced a smile. “The night? Just you wait ’til you see. It’ll be easy as playing marbles.”

 
    CHAPTER 6
    VANCOUVER. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 1983
    From her window, the grass of the playing fields of Lord Carnarvon Elementary School shone dew-sparkle bright. The four baseball diamonds looked like pieces cut from the same brown pie. On the verges of the avenues surrounding the fields, the birch trees’ September leaves had the dusty, dying look of pages in a book left too long on a library shelf.
    Fiona leaned back in her chair and looked around her office. Bookshelves ran from floor to ceiling on two of the walls of the little room. Files of minutes of meetings, textbooks that were being used by her classes, books about pedagogy, chief among which was a battered copy of Bloom’s Taxonomy , filled the available space.
    Her desktop was cluttered with memoranda, current files, letters awaiting her signature, and next week’s schedule. In her in-box, the pile of paperwork she must deal with before Tuesday crouched like a bad-tempered cat, daring her to reach out her hand and risk being clawed. At least the pile wasn’t growling at her. Och, well, “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” Tuesday was next week.
    Three chairs stood in front of her desk. She had a parent-teacher interview scheduled this morning with the Papodopolous family. Young Dimitris was a holy terror, and his parents, both Greek immigrants, had not a word of English between them. The family should be here soon.
    The high-pitched shouts of the Little League baseball teams playing a postseason recreational game outside sought no permission before intruding through the open window.
    â€œBatter, batter, batter.”
    â€œGood eye. Good eye.”
    Fiona had learned enough about the game to understand that “good eye” meant one team was encouraging their batter not to swing, in the hope that the opposing pitcher would throw a fourth ball and give the batter a walk to first base.
    To her ear, the words sounded very like the “g’dye” that was Tim’s standard greeting. Australian for “good day.” It was funny, she thought, how little things, like the ballplayers’ cries, could bring him to mind. She often found herself thinking of him at incongruous times. His image had a habit of popping up like an unexpected scene in a Bergman movie. Totally unexpected, yet always welcome.
    â€œGood eye. Good eye.”
    â€œG’dye.” That’s what Tim would say when he picked her up tonight to go to Bridges—which was where he’d taken her on the January day they’d first met. She let herself savour thoughts of seeing him tonight and of how