The Vanished Man by Jeffery Deaver Read Free Book Online

vine wasn’t a dragon or a flock of birds or a soldier. It was simply a city plant struggling to survive.
    “So. How you feeling, Mum?” Kara asked.
    The appellation grew out of one of the family’s many vacations—this one to England. Kara had given them all nicknames: “His Kingness” and the “Queenly Mum” for her parents. She herself had been the “Royal Kid.”
    “Just fine, darling. And how’s life treating you?”
    “Better than some, not as good as others. Hey, you like?” Kara held up her hand to show off her short, evenly filed fingernails, which were black as a grand piano’s finish.
    “Lovely, darling. I was getting a bit tired of thepink. You see it everywhere nowadays. Awfully conventional.”
    Kara stood and adjusted the down pillow under her mother’s head. Then sat again and sipped from the large Starbucks container; coffee was her sole drug but the addiction was intense, not to mention expensive, and this was her third cup of the morning.
    Her hair was cut in a boyish style, currently colored auburn-purple, having been pretty much every color of the spectrum at some point in her years in New York City. Pixieish, some people said of the cut, a description she hated; Kara herself described the do simply as “convenient.” She could be out her door minutes after stepping from the shower—a true benefit for someone who tended not to get to bed before 3:00 A.M. and who was definitely not a morning person.
    Today she wore black stretch pants and, though she was not much over five feet, flat shoes. Her dark purple top was sleeveless and revealed taut, cut muscles. Kara had attended a college where art and politics took precedence over the cult of the physique but after graduating from Sarah Lawrence she’d joined Gold’s Gym and was now a regular weight-pumper and treadmill runner. One would expect an eight-year resident of bohemian Greenwich Village, hovering somewhere in her late twenties, to dabble in body art or to sport at least a latent ring or stud but Kara’s very white skin was tattoo-free and unpierced.
    “Now, check this out, Mum. I’ve got a show tomorrow. One of Mr. Balzac’s little things. You know.”
    “I remember.”
    “But this time it’s different. This time he’s lettingme go on solo. I’m warm-up and main bill rolled into one.”
    “Really, honey?”
    “True as toast.”
    Outside the doorway Mr. Geldter shuffled past. “Hello, there.”
    Kara nodded at him. She recalled that when her mother had first come to Stuyvesant Manor, one of the city’s best aging facilities, the woman and the widower had caused quite a stir.
    “They think we’re shacking up,” she’d told her daughter in a whisper.
    “Are you?” Kara had asked, thinking it was about time her mother struck up a relationship with a man after five years of widowhood.
    “Of course not!” her mother had hissed, truly angry. “What a thing to suggest.” (The incident defined the woman perfectly: a hint of the bawdy was fine but there was a very clear line—established arbitrarily—past which you would become The Enemy, even if you were her flesh and blood.)
    Kara continued, rocking forward excitedly and telling her mother in an animated way about what she planned for tomorrow. As she spoke she studied her mother closely, the skin oddly smooth for a woman in her mid-seventies and as healthy pink as a crying baby’s, hair mostly gray but with plenty of defiant wiry black strands scattered throughout. The staff beautician had done it up in a stylish bun. “Anyway, Mum, some friends’ll be there and it’d be great if you could come too.”
    “I’ll try.”
    Kara, now sitting on the very edge of the armchair, realized suddenly that her fists were clenched, her body a knot of tension. Her breath was coming in shallow sibilant gasps.
    I’ll try. . . .
    Kara closed her eyes, filling with slivers of tears. Goddamnit!
    I’ll try. . . .
    No, no, no, that’s all wrong, she thought angrily.