3 a.m. (Henry Bins 1) (15 page)

I reach my arm behind my back and feel at
the top of my hips, where I do indeed have a big raspberry.

As for your mom, I didn’t find out a whole
lot more. I spent most of the day making calls, and no one is
talking. I tried the morgue, but they said the body was moved to
the Federal freezer in McLean. When I tried calling them, they gave
me the runaround. But, I’ll keep at it. I have a B-I-G meeting
bright and early, so I couldn’t stay over and play with you. (Sad
face.) Should be interesting. I’ll tell you all about it
tomorrow.

Kisses.

Grid.

P.S. Lassie got into the leftovers while I
was dealing with you and he ate a bunch of Thai. Just want to warn
you in case he’s super gassy (Happy face.)

P.P.S.S. HAPPY SIX MONTH ANNIVERSARY!

My smile fades with her words and the
lightning in my shoulder returns. I look around for Lassie,
thinking he will be asleep on the arm of the brown sofa, but he’s
not. I push myself up with a grunt, holding my left arm to my
sternum, and walk into the bedroom. Lassie is sleeping in the
center of the king bed.

The clock on the dresser reads 3:03 a.m.

“
Hey!”

Lassie bats his eyes and wrinkles his
nose.

“
Glad to see you were
worried about me.”

Meow
.

“
I don’t
know,
maybe
sleep on the floor next to me.”

Meow.

“
Yes, I know you aren’t a
dog.”

Meow
.

“
How would it not be fair
to the bed?”

Meow
.

“
Dude, forget
it.”

I turn around and head for the kitchen. The
Advil aren’t sitting well on my empty stomach and I stand in the
open fridge chugging a smoothie and devouring a sandwich in four
bites.

Lassie looks up at me.

I shake my head at him.

“
Dude, you don’t get any
breakfast.”

Meow
.

“
Because you ate a
shitload of Thai food that Ingrid brought for me.”

Meow
.

“
You’re telling me that if
I smell your breath right now, I wouldn’t smell curry?”

I lean down and he runs away.

“
That’s what I
thought.”

I ponder making an ice pack, but I don’t
have time.

I sit down to the computer.

It is 3:06 a.m.

I hit the Skype button to call my dad, then
remember Murdock shattered his laptop. I find my cellphone where
Ingrid has it charging in the kitchen and dial my father.

He answers on the third ring.

“
Sonny boy.”

“
Hey, Pops.”

“
Listen, sorry about last
night.”

“
Don’t worry about it. Is
Murdock still in the doghouse?”

“
Naw, he feels bad. Don’t
you boy?”

I can hear the dripping kisses through the
phone.

Lassie hears them as well and jumps up on my
lap. He claws at the phone. I shake my head at him.

After a couple more kisses, my dad asks,
“So, how was your yesterday?”

“
Mom is dead.”

“
What?”

I spend the next three minutes speed
talking. Once I finish, there is only silence. “Dad?”

“
I’m here.”

“
Did you know?”

“
No.”

“
But that would explain
everything: her weird schedule, the extended trips, her walking out
on us. Do you think it’s true? Do you think mom could have been a
terrorist?”

He is silent. I imagine him scanning nine
years of marriage, looking for red flags.

A silence follows.

Three seconds becomes eight.

Eight becomes eleven.

Lassie glances up at me.

My nostrils flare.

“
Lassie!” I push him off.
“Dude, take that outside.”

It smells like three-week old curry.

“
What did Lassie do?” my
dad asks.

I transition into the end of my yesterday.
My falling, Ingrid taking care of me, Lassie eating the leftovers
and his insides turning rotten.

“
She’s a good one, that
Ingrid. You keep hold of her.”

 
I wonder if my
father’s words have anything to do with my mother. Did he plan to
hold onto her, but couldn’t. And what about me? What if I found out
Ingrid had secrets. Deep dark secrets. Would I be able to look past
them?

“
I plan to,” I say, then
quickly add, “You never answered my question, do you think mom
could have been a terrorist?”

“
No, your mom could not
have been a terrorist.”

The conviction in his voice surprises
me.

“
And what makes you so
sure of that. How would you know?”

“
Because your mother
worked for the CIA.” He pauses. “She was a spy.”

GRAY MATTER

www.nickthriller.com

Chapter 1

The phone rang. It rang again. It rang a
third time. The answering machine kicked in halfway into the fourth
ring.

Click.

“
Hello, caller. I’m going
to be gone for the next couple weeks. I’ve set out to find the guy
who coined the phrase ‘It is better to have loved and lost than
never to have loved at all’ and blow his brains all over the
sidewalk. You can leave a message if you want, but odds are I’m
either in jail or dead. Happy holidays. Live long and prosper.
Jesus loves you. The pen is mightier than the sword. Vote yes on
3B. Always compare to the placebo. Seat belts save lives.
Freedom
.”

Beep.

A voice gave an exasperated sigh, then
started. “Nice message, Thomas. Very eloquent. I would tell you
that you’re an idiot but you already know that. I know you’re home.
In fact, I know you’re lying on the couch with your blue comforter.
There’s probably a jar of peanut butter, the jelly, a loaf of
two-week-old bread, and about ten juice boxes sitting on the coffee
table.”

I lolled my head to the left and peeked at
the glass coffee table. Skippy Extra Creamy. Welch’s raspberry
preserves. Sara Lee Golden Honey Wheat. And six boxes of Tree Top
apple juice.

I guess Lacy knew me pretty well.

“
Do me a favor and get off
your pathetic ass and pick up the phone.” She was silent for a
second then started back in. “Fine. If you want to self-destruct,
isolate yourself from the world, then that’s your problem. Have
fun.”

I will. Thank you.

“
Just remember there are
those of us who still love you. Even when you’re acting like a huge
baby.”

Ouch.

“
Well, I just wanted to
call and wish you a happy Thanksgiving. Sorry I couldn’t be there
for you. I hope you find your way to some pumpkin pie.”

A Pumpkin Spice latte from Starbucks would
suffice. I hoped they delivered.

“
I know I’ve said it a
hundred times already, Thomas, but she doesn’t deserve you. You’re
too good for her. It’s been almost six weeks. It’s time to get on
with your life.”

Wrong. I didn’t
deserve
her.
She
was too good
for me
.
It’d only been
41 days
. And it was time
to
wallow.

“
Bye. I love
you.”

I hit my head backwards on the pillow three
times, then threw off the comforter. I snagged the remote from
under the couch and blindly turned on the television. The parade
filled the screen and I mentally gagged. This had the potential to
be the most depressing day in the history of time.

On screen, a giant Snoopy floated by.
Followed by a giant Charlie Brown. I waited for Woodstock, but he
never came. An overly joyous woman commented on the procession,
each affected syllable steaming the cold New York air as it left
her mouth.

I pulled on my bear paw slippers and padded
to the window.

If it was cold in New York
then it was
freezing
in Maine. The sky was a dark gray and the earth looked
frozen, the dew brittle, tundra-like, the land preparing itself for
the long onslaught of winter. The first big snowstorm of the year
was expected to start in the late afternoon, early evening. Then
everything would be white for the next five months. At least until
late April. Old Man Winter wasn’t very friendly in the Northeast.
In fact, he was one mean old sumbitch.

I made my way to the
sliding glass door and peered out on the bay. By bay, I refer to
the Penobscot. The last body of water before the Pond,
silent
e
’s, and
bad teeth.

Anyhow, it was early, around eight, but even
so there were a couple brave souls in their sailboats getting one
last ride in before the snow began to fall. The water was three
shades darker than the sky and lapped idly against the rocky shore.
Just off center was the Surry Woods Lighthouse. The old, tattered
lighthouse’s light was still visible, a reflective coin on the drab
horizon.

Sort of made you want to catch the red-eye
to the Bahamas.

On that note, I went into
the kitchen, cranked the heat to Bahamian, and opened the freezer.
There were five boxes of waffles; Regular, Buttermilk, Cinnamon
Toast, Blueberry, and Strawberry. I know, I have a problem.
Hi, my name is Thomas and I’m addicted to
waffles. Hey, leggo my Eggo
.

As my waffles toasted, I started a cup of
water heating in the microwave. I opened the front door and
scampered the ten steps to the paper. It was already half
drizzling, half snowing, and I had a feeling the storm was six
hours ahead of schedule.

I sat down to the waffles and a cup of
steaming apple cider and read the paper. You can tell a lot about a
person by the way they read the paper. I was a comics, sports,
weather, front page, Dow Jones, Jumble, kind of guy. Alex had been
a front-to-back kind of gal. Maybe that’s why it hadn’t worked
out.

I retired back to the couch and turned on
football. Detroit and Minnesota. One of them was winning. I was
looking forward to John Madden’s Turkey Leg awards, but it turns
out he wasn’t doing the game this year. Shucks.

I picked up a different
remote and hit the stereo. Some stupid Shania Twain song was
playing (You know the one,
The One I Want
for Life
) and I couldn’t move. I couldn’t
even think. I almost—I stress
almost
—started crying. And I’m
fairly certain if there had been a gun in the house I would have
shot myself through the heart. I turned the stereo off.

So there I was about an hour into my
thirty-third Thanksgiving and it had already proved to be the worst
yet. Well, the first one after my parents’ death was awful, but
this one was giving it a run for its money.

I packed a bag, turned the
heat off, hit all the lights, and recorded a new phone message.
When I pulled the front door open, I was hit by a wall of cold. It
was officially snowing now and everything that wasn’t made of
concrete was white. I took two steps, then froze. I pressed my ear
to the door
.
The
phone rang three more times before the answering machine picked
up.

“
If this is Lacy, I’ll
call you in a couple days. If this isn’t Lacy, stick the phone in
your mouth and swallow it
.”
 

“
Hi Thomas. It’s me.
Listen—”

It was Alex.

I panicked. I couldn’t
find my keys. Then I couldn’t find the
right
key. By the time I got the
door open, Alex was long gone.

I made my way to the
answering machine and peered down at the blinking red light. Time
for a real gut check. I took a deep breath, picked up the machine,
and threw it against the wall. I’d clean it up when I got back. If
I
ever
got
back.

Two hours later, I was at 37,000 feet.

Headed for Seattle.

Chapter 2

The cross-country journey from Bangor
International to Chicago O’Hare and on to SeaTac took about seven
and change. But, I gained three hours during the flight, so when I
landed the local time was just after three in the afternoon.

The weather was typical Seattle November:
overcast, gloomy, with a light drizzle. No blizzard in these parts.
Old Man Winter in the Northwest had Alzheimer’s. He got lost a lot.
Mostly in Canada.

I hailed a taxi for the eighteen-mile trip
north to Magnolia. A bit of Magnolia lore here: in 1856 Captain
George Davidson of the US Coast Survey named the southern bluff
overlooking the Puget Sound for the magnolia trees growing along
it. Had he been a better botanist, he would have clearly recognized
the red-barked trees as madrona. The madrona is a shiny, dark
green-leafed evergreen species that thrives on west-facing bluffs.
The trees, which can reach heights of ninety feet, usually have a
twisted, windblown shape. Anyhow, the surrounding community
preferred the name Magnolia to Madrona and decided to keep Magnolia
to identify the affluent, well-ordered, waterfront properties.