Rundown by Michael Cadnum Read Free Book Online

producer.”
    â€œWhat’s he like?” I asked, choosing my words carefully.
    â€œâ€˜What’s he like,’” he echoed, with a chuckle. “ She’s very knowledgeable.” Dad respected knowledge, believed in it.
    â€œReally.” This was more Cass’s intonation than Mom’s, icy charm, keep away from children and pets.
    â€œYou could load those files into my laptop for me on the plane, sit by the pool, run spell-check though my notes.”
    I had to feel a little compassion for my father. Dad moved the knockout spray ad to a safe place, under a century-old crystal ashtray. We used it as a paperweight; both my dad’s parents have emphysema. He thought I was going to spend the day in L.A. watching him tell people maybe the Italian restaurant look was a good idea after all.
    Doors slammed in far away places, Dad getting ready for the airport.

Chapter 9
    Bernice is a tall, correct woman with black hair, a touch of gray at the temples. Dad said she had a “troubled personal history.” She was of Dad’s many projects, people he knows and helps. We had not met her at all until several weeks ago, but she knew from the start that I couldn’t stand the wrinkly skin that forms on hot chocolate. At first Mom would have rather let some of the rooms remain dusty than have this female general marching up and down the stairs. But something about Bernice pleased even my mother. Bernice seemed to have known us for years.
    Her name was pronounced in a slightly unusual way: Burn-us , with the accent on the first syllable, not Burr-niece . The only person who always won a smile from Bernice was me, and it was a little embarrassing how much she clammed up around Cassandra. I was very self-conscious about seeing Bernice this morning, sure that my parents had filled her in on the Incident. So I was surprised when I slipped into the kitchen and got her usual “good morning,” smile, no extra concern.
    She makes wonderful bread, pouring ingredients into the bread machine, wheat germ, handfuls of oats, sage honey, bran, never measuring. And out of the machine come loaves of heaven. I had a slice of her toast, with the smallest possible touch of her apricot preserves, taking my time, not wanting to tell her.
    Mom came down from the bedroom, dressed for work, a boardroom pinstripe and a strawberry sherbet scarf. She said, “Bernice, I need a word with you.”
    Bernice returned pale and drawn, taller than ever.
    She looked away from me, sifting flour, like I wasn’t there, as Mom bustled in, poured herself a tidy half cup of coffee, added some nonfat milk, and drank it off, all without a change of expression. My mother looked years older this morning, her hair just about recovered, her eye makeup perfect, if you like that sort of thing. She couldn’t hide the parentheses around her mouth, the fine wrinkles, or the waves of weary tension that flowed out of her like cold weather.
    Mom gave me an embrace, dangerously close to damaging her makeup. “I’ll call you from the office. Put that new little phone in your backpack. And turn the ringer on, so you can hear it.”
    In the morning light there was no talk of me seeing a psychiatrist, as there had been no mention of bodyguards.
    Then I was alone with Bernice.
    Bernice was not acting the way I expected. I had imagined a hug of concern, a promise of tiramisu or crème caramel, and a long talk about capital punishment, which she believed was the foundation of a sane society.
    I didn’t expect this silence.
    â€œIt’s a sickening thing,” she said after a very long time.
    â€œBernice, I’m all right.”
    â€œYou think you are.”
    â€œNothing much happened—he just barely touched me.”
    Bernice was sifting way more flour than she needed, soft billows of unbleached white drifting across the marble pastry slab.
    I made a shrug, which was wasted; she wasn’t looking. My