Read Online What Comes Next by John Katzenbach - Free Book Online
Authors: John Katzenbach
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vortex. A whirlpool. A hole in the emptiness of the universe. Her legs shook and she was powerless to prevent the sobs from returning. She gave in to the fear, and her entire body was wracked with agonizing spasms right until the moment she heard the muffled sound of a door opening.
She bent to the sound. Someone was in the room with her.
She thought in that split second that being alone created the terror echoing within her. But in truth being alone was far better than knowing that she was not. Her back arced, her muscles tightened; if she could have seen herself, she would have imagined that her body reacted to the sound in the same way it would have to an electric current.
I have become an old man, Adrian told himself as he stared in the mirror above his wife’s bureau. It was a small, wooden framed mirror and over the years she had used it to do little more than make a final check of her appearance before heading out on a Saturday evening. Women liked that last-second examination, making certain that things matched, blended, and complemented each other before they sallied forth. He was never that precise in how he’d appeared to the world. He affected a far more haphazard look—rumpled shirt, baggy pants, tie slightly askew—in keeping with his academic life. I always looked like a caricature of a professor, because I was a professor. I was a man of science . He reached up and touched the streaks of white-gray hair that fell from his scalp and rubbed his hand across the gray-flecked stubble on his chin. He ran a finger down a line creased in his flesh. Age had scarred him, he thought; age and all the experiences of life.
From behind he heard a familiar voice.
“You know what you saw.”
He looked into the mirror.
“Hello, Possum,” Adrian said, smiling. “You said that already. A few minutes ago.”
He stopped. Maybe it had been an hour. Two. How long had he been standing in the bedroom, surrounded by images and memories with a weapon in his hand?
He used his wife’s nickname, one that had been shared only with the closest members of the family. She had acquired it as a nine-year-old, when a crew of the slightly more than rodents had moved into the attic of the family’s summer home. She had insisted to her brothers, sisters, and parents that any attempt to oust the unwanted invaders would be met with all the retaliatory resources that a dedicated child could muster, from tears to tantrums. So, for that one summer, at least, her family had put up with the nocturnal scratching sounds of clawed feet racing through the eaves, undefined threats of disease, and general distaste for the beasts, who had the unsettling habit of staring intently at the family members from the shadows. The possum family, for its part, had not taken long to discover the many wondrous attractions of the kitchen, especially since the creatures instinctively seemed to understand the unique status that their nine-year-old protector had bestowed upon them. Cassandra was like that, Adrian thought. A fierce defender.
“Adrian. You know what you saw, ” she repeated herself, this time far more forcefully. Her voice had a familiar rhythmic insistence to it. When Cassie had wanted something done in all the years of their marriage, usually it had been expressed in tones more suited to a 1960s folk song.
He turned to the bed. Cassie was stretched out, languid, with a come hither look on her face. She was the most beautiful hallucination he could have imagined. She wore a loose-fitting cornflower blue shift with nothing underneath, and it seemed to him that a breeze pulled it invitingly tight to her body although there wasn’t a window open, nor even a hint of wind within the bedroom. Adrian could feel his pulse accelerate. The Cassie looking at him from her perch on the bed couldn’t have been more than twenty-eight, as she was at the beginning of their first year together. Her skin glowed with youth; each curve of her body—her slight
She bent to the sound. Someone was in the room with her.
She thought in that split second that being alone created the terror echoing within her. But in truth being alone was far better than knowing that she was not. Her back arced, her muscles tightened; if she could have seen herself, she would have imagined that her body reacted to the sound in the same way it would have to an electric current.
I have become an old man, Adrian told himself as he stared in the mirror above his wife’s bureau. It was a small, wooden framed mirror and over the years she had used it to do little more than make a final check of her appearance before heading out on a Saturday evening. Women liked that last-second examination, making certain that things matched, blended, and complemented each other before they sallied forth. He was never that precise in how he’d appeared to the world. He affected a far more haphazard look—rumpled shirt, baggy pants, tie slightly askew—in keeping with his academic life. I always looked like a caricature of a professor, because I was a professor. I was a man of science . He reached up and touched the streaks of white-gray hair that fell from his scalp and rubbed his hand across the gray-flecked stubble on his chin. He ran a finger down a line creased in his flesh. Age had scarred him, he thought; age and all the experiences of life.
From behind he heard a familiar voice.
“You know what you saw.”
He looked into the mirror.
“Hello, Possum,” Adrian said, smiling. “You said that already. A few minutes ago.”
He stopped. Maybe it had been an hour. Two. How long had he been standing in the bedroom, surrounded by images and memories with a weapon in his hand?
He used his wife’s nickname, one that had been shared only with the closest members of the family. She had acquired it as a nine-year-old, when a crew of the slightly more than rodents had moved into the attic of the family’s summer home. She had insisted to her brothers, sisters, and parents that any attempt to oust the unwanted invaders would be met with all the retaliatory resources that a dedicated child could muster, from tears to tantrums. So, for that one summer, at least, her family had put up with the nocturnal scratching sounds of clawed feet racing through the eaves, undefined threats of disease, and general distaste for the beasts, who had the unsettling habit of staring intently at the family members from the shadows. The possum family, for its part, had not taken long to discover the many wondrous attractions of the kitchen, especially since the creatures instinctively seemed to understand the unique status that their nine-year-old protector had bestowed upon them. Cassandra was like that, Adrian thought. A fierce defender.
“Adrian. You know what you saw, ” she repeated herself, this time far more forcefully. Her voice had a familiar rhythmic insistence to it. When Cassie had wanted something done in all the years of their marriage, usually it had been expressed in tones more suited to a 1960s folk song.
He turned to the bed. Cassie was stretched out, languid, with a come hither look on her face. She was the most beautiful hallucination he could have imagined. She wore a loose-fitting cornflower blue shift with nothing underneath, and it seemed to him that a breeze pulled it invitingly tight to her body although there wasn’t a window open, nor even a hint of wind within the bedroom. Adrian could feel his pulse accelerate. The Cassie looking at him from her perch on the bed couldn’t have been more than twenty-eight, as she was at the beginning of their first year together. Her skin glowed with youth; each curve of her body—her slight
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