Out Cold by William G. Tapply Read Free Book Online Page A

the doorway whining. The clock on the bedside table read 7:36. I’d overslept by about an hour, not unexpectedly. I’d lain awake for a long time after hanging up with Evie. I was thinking about the dead girl, picturing her face, trying to convince myself that nothing I could’ve done would have saved her life.
    When I finally fell asleep, I had weird, depressing dreams that kept waking me up. They didn’t make any sense, and the specific images and events dissipated instantly, but the vague feelings of dread and horror lingered, and I’d stared up into the darkness for a long time, reluctant to go back to sleep where I feared the dreams were waiting for me.
    Now, with sunlight filling the bedroom, it all seemed long ago and far away. I couldn’t remember any of those dreams. I couldn’t picture the dead girl’s face. I was convinced that what happened to her was not my fault. It had nothing to do with me. I’d done everything I could for her, I really had.
    It had been two weeks since the last time I’d seen the sun. Amazing, what it did for my spirit.
    It was one of those crispy cloudless winter days—bitter cold and dust dry, with a sky so blue it was almost purple. When I walked to the office, the sunlight glittered and ricocheted off the fluffy new snow as if each flake was a tiny gemstone. I smiled at the people I passed on the sidewalk on Boylston Street, and some of them actually smiled back at me.
    It was that kind of day.
    I spent the morning meeting with clients and the afternoon talking on the telephone. Julie, as usual, had scheduled the whole day, but I did find time to talk with DSS. I found out who Sunshine’s kids’ caseworker was and left her a message to call me. I also talked with an ADA in the Attorney General’s office about investigating Artie Quinlan and getting a warrant out on him for nonsupport. He promised to look into it.
    It wasn’t much, but it was progress, and I felt good about it.
    The next day was Thursday. I spent most of it at the district court in Concord, where I managed to accrue a day’s worth of billable hours, to Julie’s delight. Between no-shows and delays and continuances and recesses, I accomplished very little for any of my clients, which bothered me more than it seemed to bother them. Nobody expects much out of lawyers.
    When I got back to the office, Julie reported that neither the DSS caseworker nor the ADA had gotten back to me on Sunshine’s case. Bureaucracy.
    I called both of them again and left messages.
    One my way home that afternoon I talked with Louise outside the Public Library, and Montana John and Big Tony and Clara at their spots along Boylston and Newbury Streets. They all claimed to have shown the girl’s picture around. I wasn’t sure I believed them. Homeless people, I’ve learned, develop the ability to lie convincingly. It’s a survival skill on the street.
    I gave each of them five bucks, as I always did, and asked them to keep trying.
    I got home from work a little after five. I let Henry out, checked my messages, changed out of my lawyer suit, let Henry back inside, fed him, and told him to guard the house.
    Then, under a star-filled winter sky, I walked down the hill and across the Common to Skeeter’s.
    I sat at the bar between a blond portfolio manager wearing a very short skirt and a young guy with an earring who never took his eyes off the television. When Skeeter came over to take my order, I asked him if Sunshine was there.
    He shrugged, said, “Nope,” and shook his head. “Not tonight. You got any news for her?”
    I shook my head. “Not really. I wanted to tell her that I’ve made some phone calls and expect to hear from her kids’ social worker and a prosecutor who might be able to get some money out of her husband. I was hoping she’d be here.”
    â€œSunshine’s a troubled lady, Mr. Coyne,” he said.