Psychlone by Greg Bear Read Free Book Online Page A

tumbler of Scotch in one hand, and her glass of Martini and Rossi in the other. She was wearing a shift with curved stems and stylized flowers flanking the side seams. Her hair was tied up in a bun and she looked upper-middle domestic.
    “No dings?” she asked.
    “Z is clean,” he said. She walked ahead of him through the service porch into the kitchen dining area. She had spread a lunch of fruit and cheese, with a concession of sliced cotto salami for his carnivorous appetite.
    “Who was at the door?” he asked.
    “My other lover. No—sorry. Wrong moment for that kind of crap. It was Tommy, the gardener."
    Fowler nodded. He liked Tom DeCleese. DeCleese had been doing work for the McKinleys ever since Dorothy's father had been a boy. Now her father was dead, her mother was living in New York—"suffering from terminal bitchiness,” Dorothy had once said in a charitable mood. DeCleese still charged the rates he had charged in 1960.
    “Tell me about it,” she said.
    Death and dying. He had been so bored by Kubler-Ross. So far removed from reality.
    “I don't know where to begin."
    “When you came back you were tight as a clam. Something had to have happened. I've been curious, and now you should tell me."
    As he sipped at his Scotch, he told her about the trip to the cabin and everything up to the frozen lynx. She nodded at the right points and offered to refill his glass. He declined.
    “And you're frightened now,” she said.
    “Goddamnit, Dot,” he burst out. “I'm—"
    “Sorry, sorry. I'm not very good at this sort of thing. I don't believe in death very much, or won't until Mom dies, perhaps. Father's death was de rigueur. I mean, he admired John Barrymore so much, how could he go any other way?"
    “And when it's time for you?"
    “Punch my ticket and move to the back of the bus, which is cryptic Dot language for I don't know. You're sure Taggart wasn't going off the deep end—sorry—sure he wasn't crazy before you arrived? He was—ah—exhibiting novelistic behavior with all the talk about ghosts or whatever."
    “He never said it was a ghost."
    “What ‘it'?"
    “Dot, this is off the issue. I don't know anything about what happened except what was in the paper. I'm sure that isn't the complete story. I have to find out more."
    “Then call Bishop, or Lone Pine—whatever the town was."
    “Bishop."
    “Call the police there. The coroner. Find out."
    He shook his head. “How would they know?"
    “Larry, they investigated."
    “I have to do better than that."
    Dorothy leaned back and shook her head. “I've only seen you with that expression once before. You had to find out what school she was sending the kids to.” They never mentioned his wife's name unless it was absolutely necessary. “That was a real fiasco."
    “It was my duty as a father. I didn't like doing it."
    “You got in trouble for doing it. Every six months you can see them for a while, right?"
    “I had to."
    “So now,” she pursued, “this is your duty as a friend?"
    “As a coward,” he said. “I don't believe Jordan Taggart was nuts. It isn't possible."
    “What's the alternative?"
    He wasn't willing to face that, either. For a moment he was more willing to accept Taggart's insanity than the alternative. “For crying out loud,” he said. “I don't know. I have to find out."
    “Larry, your vacation is up. You can't go back now."
    “I can arrange for another week's sick leave. Say it's an emergency.” He suddenly felt queasy. The thought of losing the office and his work was unnerving. His work—and Dorothy—were all he had going for him now. “I can't keep thinking of myself as a coward."
    “There was really something up there?” she asked.
    “No. I don't think so."
    “Then what will you find? The same thing the police could tell you here, on the phone. Call. Don't be silly about this—"
    “I'm not being silly,” he said ominously.
    “Okay, okay,” Dorothy said. “But you're upsetting me now. I've always