in Sasha Goodall’s mobile number. She answered on the second ring.
“Dad’s gone,” I said, meaning more than she could know.
Earlier, in anticipation of Dad’s death, Sasha had expressed her
sorrow.
Now her voice tightened slightly with grief so well controlled that
only I could have heard it: “Did he . . . did he go easy at the
end?”
“No pain.”
“Was he conscious?”
“Yeah. We had a chance to say good-bye.”
Fear nothing.
Sasha said, “Life stinks.”
“It’s just the rules,” I said. “To get in the game, we have to agree
to stop playing someday.”
“It still stinks. Are You at the hospital?”
“No. Out and about. Rambling. Working off some energy.
Where’re You?”
“In the Explorer. Going to Pinkie’s Diner to grab breakfast and work
on my notes for the show.” She would be on the air in three and a half
hours. “Or I could get takeout, and we could go eat somewhere
together.”
“I’m not really hungry,” I said truthfully. “I’ll see You later
though.”
“When?
“You go home from work in the morning, I’ll be there. I mean, if
that’s okay.”
“That’s perfect. Love You, Snowman.”
“Love You,” I replied.
“That’s our little mantra.”
“It’s our truth.”
I pushed end on the keypad, switched off the phone, and clipped it to
my belt again.
When I cycled out of the cemetery, my four-legged companion followed
but somewhat reluctantly at first. His head was full of squirrel
mysteries.
I made my way to Angela Ferryman’s house as far as possible by
alleyways where I was not likely to encounter much traffic and on
streets with widely spaced lampposts. When I had no choice but to pass
under clusters of streetlamps, I pedaled hard.
Faithfully, Orson matched his pace to mine. He seemed happier than he
had been earlier, now that he could trot at my side, blacker than any
nightshadow that I could cast.
We encountered only four vehicles. Each time, I squinted and looked
away from the headlights.
Angela lived on a high street in a charming Spanish bungalow that
sheltered under magnolia trees not yet in bloom. No lights were on in
the front rooms.
An unlocked side gate admitted me to an arbor-covered passage. The
walls and arched ceiling of the arbor were entwined with star
jasmine.
In summer, sprays of the tiny five-petaled white flowers would be
clustered so abundantly that the lattice would seem to be draped with
multiple layers of lace. Even this early in the year, the hunter-green
foliage was enlivened by those pinwheel-like blooms.
While I breathed deeply of the jasmine fragrance, savoring it, Orson
sneezed twice.
I wheeled my bike out of the arbor and around to the back of the
bungalow, where I leaned it against one of the redwood posts that
supported the patio cover.
“Be vigilant,” I told Orson. “Be big. Be bad.”
He chuffed as though he understood his assignment. Maybe he did
understand, no matter what Bobby Halloway and the Rationality Police
would say.
Beyond the kitchen windows and the translucent curtains was a slow
pulse of candlelight.
The door featured four small panes of glass. I rapped softly on one of
them.
Angela Ferryman drew aside the curtain. Her quick nervous eyes pecked
at me-and then at the patio beyond me to confirm that I had come
alone.
With a conspiratorial demeanor, she ushered me inside, locking the door
behind us. She adjusted the curtain until she was convinced that no
gap existed through which anyone could peer in at us.
Though the kitchen was pleasantly warm, Angela was wearing not only a
gray sweat suit but also a navy-blue wool cardigan over the sweats.
The cable-knit cardigan might have belonged to her late husband; it
hung to her knees, and the shoulder seams were halfway to her elbows.
The sleeves had been rolled so often that the resultant cuffs were as
thick as great iron manacles.
In this bulk of clothing, Angela appeared thinner and more diminutive
than ever. Evidently she remained chilly; she was virtually colorless,
shivering.
She hugged me. As always it was a fierce, sharp-boned, strong hug,
though I sensed in her an uncharacteristic fatigue.