me know, then.”
“You’ll be the first,” she said, getting up to leave.
“Oh, and Maggie?” he said, just before she’d managed to get the door open. She wanted a cigarette so badly she was ready to chew off her lower lip.
“Randy?”
“You still sleeping with him?”
She ran through the possible responses to this question, which went from not answering at all to shooting him in the forehead with her service revolver. Something in between those two seemed to be in order. “Sometimes,” she said. “You still sleeping with Helen?”
Helen being his wife. He pulled off the difficult task of smiling without actually smiling, which was a rare talent. “Not so much nowadays. With the separation and all.”
“Heard about that. So sorry.”
Maggie pulled open the door and got out of the office before the discussion escalated any further. The elevator to the street couldn’t have come fast enough.
* * *
It was nearly 6 p.m. and Maggie had just about given up on getting anything else accomplished that day. Pleasant visions of a bubble bath and some Nina Simone danced in her head. She wondered if that would do the trick. Then she wondered if Corrigan would mind her stopping by a second time. Which was when the phone at her desk rang.
“I’m at Downtown Crossing. How soon can you be here?” It was Corrigan. The man attracted coincidences like dead bodies drew flies.
“I was just thinking of you. Where are you?”
“I’m near the Dunkin’ Donuts on Washington Street.”
“Sounds like a strange place for a date,” she said lightly.
“Maggie,” he said flatly, at which point she picked up on the stress in his voice. “Something’s gone wrong.”
“What is it?”
“Difficult to explain.” In the background, she could hear an ambulance siren.
“I’ll be right there,” she said before hanging up.
She called Stan on her cell while waiting for an elevator. Stan was the office’s resident computer genius, which wasn’t saying much given that the FBI’s budget didn’t really allow for actual geniuses on the payroll. His computer lab had a police band receiver.
“Stan, Maggie. Anything happen tonight in Downtown Crossing?”
“Hey, Maggs,” he answered. “Aren’t you like right outside my door? You could just knock.”
“I’m at the elevators, on my way out,” she explained. “Downtown Crossing. Somebody need an ambulance?”
“You know that doesn’t make any sense, right? If you’re heading there you must know something’s happened, so why—”
“Stan!”
“Okay, okay. Hang on.” She heard papers rustling. A year ago, Stan had hooked up the police radio to a VRU-enabled printer, just to see if it could be done. It recorded everything that came out on reams of continuous printouts that served no purpose other than to kill trees. “Yeah, some kind of accident,” he said, reading. “Injured woman. Looks like the ambulance just left.”
“That’s all you have?”
“Initial reports are always pretty sketchy.”
“All right, thanks,” she said and hung up.
Once on the street, she could see the ambulance from the Crossing speeding by and began to understand what it was she had heard in Corrigan’s voice. One did not typically see ambulances coming from places where Corrigan Bain had been. What she’d heard had been fear.
* * *
Thirty-Eight Years Past
There were seventeen of them in the farmhouse, and as Violet quickly learned, not one of them had a survival skill that complemented their current circumstances. And the weather continued to worsen as the calendar crept closer to January.
Charlie Bluff’s grandparents had owned the place, and according to him, he’d inherited it and the twenty acres it rested in the middle of. Charlie was characteristically vague with the details, but the impression he gave Vi was that this inheritance had taken place sometime in the past year. This explained how a bunch of hippies trying to keep alive the dream
“You’ll be the first,” she said, getting up to leave.
“Oh, and Maggie?” he said, just before she’d managed to get the door open. She wanted a cigarette so badly she was ready to chew off her lower lip.
“Randy?”
“You still sleeping with him?”
She ran through the possible responses to this question, which went from not answering at all to shooting him in the forehead with her service revolver. Something in between those two seemed to be in order. “Sometimes,” she said. “You still sleeping with Helen?”
Helen being his wife. He pulled off the difficult task of smiling without actually smiling, which was a rare talent. “Not so much nowadays. With the separation and all.”
“Heard about that. So sorry.”
Maggie pulled open the door and got out of the office before the discussion escalated any further. The elevator to the street couldn’t have come fast enough.
* * *
It was nearly 6 p.m. and Maggie had just about given up on getting anything else accomplished that day. Pleasant visions of a bubble bath and some Nina Simone danced in her head. She wondered if that would do the trick. Then she wondered if Corrigan would mind her stopping by a second time. Which was when the phone at her desk rang.
“I’m at Downtown Crossing. How soon can you be here?” It was Corrigan. The man attracted coincidences like dead bodies drew flies.
“I was just thinking of you. Where are you?”
“I’m near the Dunkin’ Donuts on Washington Street.”
“Sounds like a strange place for a date,” she said lightly.
“Maggie,” he said flatly, at which point she picked up on the stress in his voice. “Something’s gone wrong.”
“What is it?”
“Difficult to explain.” In the background, she could hear an ambulance siren.
“I’ll be right there,” she said before hanging up.
She called Stan on her cell while waiting for an elevator. Stan was the office’s resident computer genius, which wasn’t saying much given that the FBI’s budget didn’t really allow for actual geniuses on the payroll. His computer lab had a police band receiver.
“Stan, Maggie. Anything happen tonight in Downtown Crossing?”
“Hey, Maggs,” he answered. “Aren’t you like right outside my door? You could just knock.”
“I’m at the elevators, on my way out,” she explained. “Downtown Crossing. Somebody need an ambulance?”
“You know that doesn’t make any sense, right? If you’re heading there you must know something’s happened, so why—”
“Stan!”
“Okay, okay. Hang on.” She heard papers rustling. A year ago, Stan had hooked up the police radio to a VRU-enabled printer, just to see if it could be done. It recorded everything that came out on reams of continuous printouts that served no purpose other than to kill trees. “Yeah, some kind of accident,” he said, reading. “Injured woman. Looks like the ambulance just left.”
“That’s all you have?”
“Initial reports are always pretty sketchy.”
“All right, thanks,” she said and hung up.
Once on the street, she could see the ambulance from the Crossing speeding by and began to understand what it was she had heard in Corrigan’s voice. One did not typically see ambulances coming from places where Corrigan Bain had been. What she’d heard had been fear.
* * *
Thirty-Eight Years Past
There were seventeen of them in the farmhouse, and as Violet quickly learned, not one of them had a survival skill that complemented their current circumstances. And the weather continued to worsen as the calendar crept closer to January.
Charlie Bluff’s grandparents had owned the place, and according to him, he’d inherited it and the twenty acres it rested in the middle of. Charlie was characteristically vague with the details, but the impression he gave Vi was that this inheritance had taken place sometime in the past year. This explained how a bunch of hippies trying to keep alive the dream
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