the bones.”
Adam said, “They’ll need something from her–like hair on a
brush, an old envelope that would have her saliva, barring that, then
a family member would have to give up some blood.”
“Yeah. Thing is, though, it wouldn’t be admissible in court if it
ever came to it. It’ll take some time, a couple of weeks. No one
sees any big rush on it.”
“I don’t like the feel of this, Hatch. We’ve got this other mess
and now this damned skeleton falling out of Becca’s basement wall.
It’s enough to make a man give up football.”
“Nah, you’ve always told me that God created the fall just for
football. You’ll be watching football when you throw that last
pigskin into the end zone in the sky, if they still have the sport that
many aeons from now. You’ll probably lobby God to have pro football
in Heaven. Stop whining, boss. You’ll figure everything out.
You usually do. Hey, I hear that Maine’s one beautiful place. That
true?”
Adam stared at the phone for a moment. He had been whining.
He said, “Yeah. I just wish I had some time to enjoy it.” He suddenly
yelled into the receiver, “No smoking, Hatch. If you even think
about it, I’ll know it. Now, call me tomorrow at this same time.”
“You got it, boss.”
“No smoking.”
Silence.
Becca said very quietly, “Who is Krimakov?”
Adam turned around very slowly to face her. She was standing
in the doorway of the moldy-smelling guest room where he’d
spent his first night in Jacob Marley’s house. She’d opened the door
and he hadn’t heard a thing. He was losing it.
“Who is Krimakov?”
He said easily, “He’s a drug dealer who used to be involved with
the Medellin cartel in Colombia. He’s dead now.”
“What does this Krimakov have to do with all this craziness?”
“I don’t know. Why did you open the door without knocking,
Becca?”
“I heard you on the phone. I wanted to know what was going
on. I knew you wouldn’t tell me. I also came up to get you for
breakfast. It’s ready downstairs. You’re still lying. This doesn’t have
anything to do with drug dealing.”
He had the gall to shrug.
“If I had my kitchen knife, I’d run at you, right this minute.”
“And what? Slice me up? Come on, Becca, why can’t you just
accept that I’m here to do a job and that job is to make sure that
you don’t get wiped out? Get off your high horse.”
He stood up then and she backed up a step. She was afraid of him
still. Hell, after seeing him all civilized that entire evening with
four-year-old Sam, it surprised him. “I told you I wouldn’t hurt
you,” he said patiently. He realized at that moment that he didn’t
have a shirt on. She was afraid he might attack her? Well, after his
teenage attempt last night to prove to her he wasn’t gay, he supposed
he couldn’t blame her. He moved slowly, deliberately, and picked up
his shirt from where it was hanging over a chair back, then turned
his back to put it on. He faced her again as he buttoned it up.
“Who are you?”
He sighed and tucked in his shirt. Then he nipped the sheet and
blanket over the bed. He straightened the single too-soft pillow
that smelled, unexpectedly, of violets.
When he finally turned to face her again, she was gone. She’d
heard Krimakov’s name. It didn’t matter. She’d never hear it again.
The bastard was dead. Finally dead, and Thomas Matlock was free.
To come and finally meet his daughter. Why hadn’t Thomas said
anything about that? He combed his hair, brushed his teeth, and
headed downstairs.
She fed him pancakes with blueberry syrup and crispy bacon,
just the way he liked it. The coffee was strong, black as Hatch’s fantasies,
the fresh cantaloupe she’d sliced, ripe and sweet.
Neither of them said a word. She ate a slice of dry toast and had
a cup of tea. It looked like she was having trouble getting that
much down.
He said, a dark eyebrow arched, his mouth full of bacon, “What