Read Online The Judas Glass by Michael Cadnum - Free Book Online Page A

couldn’t stand to look at it happen, over and over again.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with my finger?”
    His look was quizzical.
    â€œThere was blood all over the sheets.”
    Dr. Opal considered this. “That’s very unlikely, Richard. From a little cut like that. You’re exaggerating.”
    â€œLook at it—it’s still bleeding.” But it wasn’t. The blood on my hand was already drying to a brown, Turkish-coffee glue.
    â€œAll over the sheets,” I repeated, without much conviction. How much had it bled?
    He applied a bandage. His touch was gentle. In ancient times, when people knew little about medicine, Dr. Opal was the kind of individual who still would have cured the sick. His presence, the way he pressed the white tape over the cut, made me believe that healing had already begun. The adhesive strip on my finger was pristine, white and comforting. I crooked the finger, straightened it. It no longer hurt.
    â€œWhat you want to remember is that time teaches us,” said Dr. Opal. “I think it’s the only thing that really does.”
    â€œWhat kind of advice is that?”
    â€œAnd you also want to remember that Connie will try to keep you. Not because she bears tremendous affection for you.”
    â€œI thought you liked Connie.”
    â€œI do.” He gave an apologetic smile, as though to say, It’s just my insight acting up again . “Take care of yourself. Come over for dinner sometime. It’s only a mile or so away, but we only see each other around Christmas, maybe run into each other at Park & Shop.” He moved a chair squarely in front of me, and sat down. “Do you know how few people write a personal letter to me—actually put a letter in an envelope and lick a stamp? Or pick up the phone and give me a call to see how I’m doing?”
    I wanted to tell him, just then, how I had really cut my finger. Not just a vague story of a package—tell him what had arrived, unexpectedly, after so many years. But for some reason I didn’t.
    I kept it secret.

10
    Half the house was still there.
    The brown-shingled walls were charred, the shiny black of graphite. The brick chimney towered out of sodden wreckage. But some of the upper windows remained unbroken, and wisteria clung to some of the unburned portions of the house. A cushion leaned on the front step, the remains of the sofa. A rain gutter dangled.
    Yellow police tape spun and straightened slowly in the light breeze. An official notice had been stapled to the charred front door, declaring the dwelling sealed. The lawn was flattened, trodden.
    I didn’t hear a step until someone was beside me, and when I was aware of him he had already spoken.
    Simon gave me a sad smile. “The chief of police was here about twenty minutes ago. Getting his picture taken.”
    His round spectacles reflected the morning light. He wore a v-necked gray sweater, and carried a large manila envelope.
    â€œChief Timm thinks he’s running for mayor or state senator or maybe Secretary of Defense next year,” I said. “On the Public Hanging ticket. I like Joe, but he thinks every homeowner should have a neutron bomb.”
    â€œHe gave me these.” They were mug shots, serial killers, police composites, a coloring book of police failure. There are good reasons why I’m not a criminal lawyer. I didn’t even want to take these pictures from Simon’s hands, but I did.
    â€œThey have no idea, do they?” I said.
    â€œThey say it was probably someone she knew,” said Simon.
    â€œLet me guess—male, furtive, a red can with inflammable in yellow lettering.”
    â€œThey say it could possibly be one of these people.”
    He selected a large glossy from the array in my hands, a man with a narrow face and thick eyebrows, a child’s memory of how almost all adult males look.
    â€œHe wanted to know if Mom or Dad or I had seen one of