progress, or some other earthshaking, life-threatening event. One of the endless trials and tribulations of city life, one of many that would occur on that day alone in New York. They both gazed mutely down at the envelopes in her hand. With a sigh, Jill put the envelopes in her purse, and they walked away down Hudson Street toward home.
He stared at the photograph on the inside of the back cover of the paperback. Then he got a beer from the tiny fridge in the comer of the room and settled down in the armchair at the window with his new purchase.
He’d followed them to the Sixth Precinct on Tenth Street about an hour ago. Then, deciding that they’d probably be there for a while, he left them there and went over to Partners & Crime Bookshop a couple of blocks away. There he had bought three paperbacks and a shiny new hardcover: the complete works of Jillian Talbot. He’d come back here to wait for her return.
He’d never been much of a reader, and his life of late had provided no time for books. But now it was time, he’d decided; time to get to know Jillian Talbot better. He looked down at her four published suspense novels.
The cover of her first novel, Darkness , showed anattractive, terrified young woman staring out from the doorway of an attractive, suburban-type house. In the otherwise empty front lawn in the foreground lay a discarded Raggedy Ann doll. The copy proclaimed the book to be an Edgar Award winner, and a quote from a newspaper review read, “A mother’s greatest fear . . . a modem masterpiece of suspense.”
He turned to page one and began. For the next two hours he only glanced up from the book once, when he heard the motorcycle start up and roar away down the street. Then he saw the lights go on in the apartment across the way. Jillian Talbot was home, and Nate was no longer with her. He watched her moving about for a few moments, then returned his attention to her novel.
The attractive suburban housewife’s seven-year-old daughter had vanished in the very first paragraph. The first sentence, actually: “ At the moment that her daughter disappeared, Lauri O’Connell was in the utility room, adding fabric softener to the rinse cycle. The most mundane, everyday thing, she would later think: even as we do these, we are never safe . . . .” What followed were three hundred twenty-seven pages of sheer suspense. He’d never read such a book before, but even he admitted that this was addicting. Not until the final moment of the story, after Lauri had overpowered the shell-shocked Vietnam vet/school custodian, and the police had finally arrived to drive her and herdrugged-but-otherwise-okay child away, did he put the paperback down and reach for his binoculars. Moments later, the tape recorder on the table next to him sprang into action.
“You’ve reached the home and office of Dr. Dorothy Philbin. I’m not able to come to the phone now, but if you leave a message, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Please wait for the beep.”
Beep.
“Hello, Dr. Philbin, this is Jillian Talbot. I’m sorry to be calling you on a Sunday, but I—I was wondering if I could make an appointment. Umm, this week, if you have any openings. I—I’ll explain when I talk to you. My number is . . .”
She left her number and hung up. She was reaching again for the receiver when she stopped herself. No, she thought, don’t call Nate. He’s busy.
Nate. Smiling, she relaxed back into her chair. This wasn’t the longest relationship she’d ever had; not yet, at any rate. But it was the most complete, the most satisfying. From the moment they’d met, she’d been acutely aware of that amazing combination of sexual attractiveness, artistic brilliance, humor, and tenderness that seemed to define the man. Her women friends were forever stressing the vast differences between the genders and decrying their men’s roughness, their lack of attentiveness, their frequentmoods, their covert attraction to other
He stared at the photograph on the inside of the back cover of the paperback. Then he got a beer from the tiny fridge in the comer of the room and settled down in the armchair at the window with his new purchase.
He’d followed them to the Sixth Precinct on Tenth Street about an hour ago. Then, deciding that they’d probably be there for a while, he left them there and went over to Partners & Crime Bookshop a couple of blocks away. There he had bought three paperbacks and a shiny new hardcover: the complete works of Jillian Talbot. He’d come back here to wait for her return.
He’d never been much of a reader, and his life of late had provided no time for books. But now it was time, he’d decided; time to get to know Jillian Talbot better. He looked down at her four published suspense novels.
The cover of her first novel, Darkness , showed anattractive, terrified young woman staring out from the doorway of an attractive, suburban-type house. In the otherwise empty front lawn in the foreground lay a discarded Raggedy Ann doll. The copy proclaimed the book to be an Edgar Award winner, and a quote from a newspaper review read, “A mother’s greatest fear . . . a modem masterpiece of suspense.”
He turned to page one and began. For the next two hours he only glanced up from the book once, when he heard the motorcycle start up and roar away down the street. Then he saw the lights go on in the apartment across the way. Jillian Talbot was home, and Nate was no longer with her. He watched her moving about for a few moments, then returned his attention to her novel.
The attractive suburban housewife’s seven-year-old daughter had vanished in the very first paragraph. The first sentence, actually: “ At the moment that her daughter disappeared, Lauri O’Connell was in the utility room, adding fabric softener to the rinse cycle. The most mundane, everyday thing, she would later think: even as we do these, we are never safe . . . .” What followed were three hundred twenty-seven pages of sheer suspense. He’d never read such a book before, but even he admitted that this was addicting. Not until the final moment of the story, after Lauri had overpowered the shell-shocked Vietnam vet/school custodian, and the police had finally arrived to drive her and herdrugged-but-otherwise-okay child away, did he put the paperback down and reach for his binoculars. Moments later, the tape recorder on the table next to him sprang into action.
“You’ve reached the home and office of Dr. Dorothy Philbin. I’m not able to come to the phone now, but if you leave a message, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Please wait for the beep.”
Beep.
“Hello, Dr. Philbin, this is Jillian Talbot. I’m sorry to be calling you on a Sunday, but I—I was wondering if I could make an appointment. Umm, this week, if you have any openings. I—I’ll explain when I talk to you. My number is . . .”
She left her number and hung up. She was reaching again for the receiver when she stopped herself. No, she thought, don’t call Nate. He’s busy.
Nate. Smiling, she relaxed back into her chair. This wasn’t the longest relationship she’d ever had; not yet, at any rate. But it was the most complete, the most satisfying. From the moment they’d met, she’d been acutely aware of that amazing combination of sexual attractiveness, artistic brilliance, humor, and tenderness that seemed to define the man. Her women friends were forever stressing the vast differences between the genders and decrying their men’s roughness, their lack of attentiveness, their frequentmoods, their covert attraction to other
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