Part 8 (1/2)

”I expected you'd be up and dressed by now.”

”I was in the early stages of death by somnolence, but you disturbed me.”

”There's always tomorrow.”

”Exactly,” she said, finis.h.i.+ng off her first doughnut, selecting a second. Maybe she wouldn't starve to death, she decided. Maybe she'd eat herself into obesity and explode. Death by doughnut.

”Have plans for the day?”

”Nothing past these doughnuts.” She made the coffee, poured two cups, and gave one to Pete.

He took a piece of lined paper from his s.h.i.+rt pocket. ”I made a list of things we should do.”

”If any of this involves taking my clothes off, you can forget it.”

”Undressing is optional.”

She looked at the list. ”You want me to proofread your rewrites?”

”I can't spell, and I don't have time to use the spell check on the computer. Then I want you to systematically call all your Capitol Hill friends and catch up on gossip. Try to steer the conversation around to pigs and Stu Maislin.”

”What are you going to do while I'm gossiping?”

”I'm going back to Pennsylvania. I want to take a look at the pig farm. Then I'm meeting a friend for lunch.”

He downed his coffee and stood. ”Horowitz Security is supposed to show up sometime this morning. They'll be working on both apartments.” He tossed a key onto the table. ”This is for my front door.”

He thought about kissing her but decided against it. She didn't look as if she wanted to be kissed, and she had her mouth full of jelly doughnut. ”See you later.”

She had a third doughnut in her hand. ”Mmmphf.”

Chapter 6.

It was twelve-thirty when Pete pushed his way into the McDonald's on K Street. Kurt Newfarmer was already there. He was sitting in a front booth with what looked to be a firebreak around him. He wasn't the sort of man people naturally gravitated toward.

Pete got a coffee and joined him, counting up the cartons and crumpled wrappers on the table. ”Two Big Macs, one fish filet, three large fries, McNuggets, and a chocolate shake. Not hungry?”

”Watching my waistline.”

They were the same age, late thirties, but Kurt's brown hair had already started to recede, and what was left had been cut in a Marine Corps buzz. Kurt Newfarmer was six feet with a corded neck and tightly muscled body that looked deceptively lean and loose. He was wearing a grimy ball cap, grimy jeans, running shoes, and a hooded sweats.h.i.+rt of indeterminate color. Stained thermal underwear showed at the neck of the sweats.h.i.+rt. He had a three-day-old beard, his eyes were lined and narrow, and years ago his nose had been reshaped by a gun b.u.t.t. He reminded Pete of a down-and-out homeless hundred-and-eighty-pound ferret.

Pete had first met Kurt when he was in Argentina, and Kurt had been the signal man for a ranger unit. Kurt was a communications genius. Two years ago he'd quit the army and started doing freelance wiretap. It was rumored he was also semi-officially on the payroll for one of the three-word agencies.

”I've got a problem,” Pete said.

”Don't we all.”

Pete pointed to his eye. The swelling had gone down, but he had a cla.s.sic s.h.i.+ner. ”Three days ago this problem broke into my house.”

”I like the part along the bridge of your nose that's turning green,” Kurt said.

Pete knew Kurt had him pegged as a bad apple. Pete figured that was pretty funny since next to Kurt he thought he looked like Mr. Nice Guy. ”I might need some help.”

Kurt gave the bulge under his left armpit a pat. ”Just tell Uncle Kurt, and he'll take care of it.”

”Must be awkward to get at your gun with that sweats.h.i.+rt on.”

”h.e.l.l, I hardly ever use it. It's been days since I've shot at anyone.” Kurt took a cigarette from the pack on the table and lit up. He dragged smoke into his lungs until there was a half inch of glowing ash at the end of his Camel. Smoke curled from his nose and rolled out the side of his mouth. He squinted at Pete through the haze. ”So what's going on? b.u.mmed-out husband?”

Pete felt dizzy with nicotine deprivation. He automatically leaned forward to catch the secondary smoke, caught himself in midlean, and reluctantly shoved himself away.

Kurt caught the movement. ”Trying to stop smoking again?”

”Could you look like you're enjoying it a little less?”

The grin broadened. ”It's great, man.”

”You available for hire?”

”What do you want done?”

”For starters, I want to listen to a couple of people.”

”You've come to the right place.”

Louisa sat at her kitchen table and stared out her back window. There was a small gray bird sitting on her bird feeder. It wasn't eating, it wasn't preening, it wasn't chirping. It was just hunkered down, its feet automatically clamped onto the wood dowel.

Louisa supposed it was wondering what to do next. She was in a similar state. She was the firstborn in her family and like most first children, she'd been the achiever. She'd been the honor roll student, the responsible daughter, the first to graduate from college.

Despite all this, her sense of purpose had never been well defined. For all her intelligence and discipline, she'd been a drifter. She'd made the major decisions of her life by default. She'd worked hard to excel at whatever task was before her, but she'd never charted a course for herself. She'd never felt impa.s.sioned about a career choice, so she'd simply traveled the path of least resistance.

It hadn't been so bad, she thought. But it hadn't been great, either. At best, it had paid the rent and kept her too busy to dwell on the fact that her life lacked zest. Looking at it in retrospect, she decided her life had been...adequate.

All that had changed since she'd met Pete Streeter. Pete Streeter was to her life what the big bang had been to the creation of the universe. She imagined herself as traveling in a new orbit, amid cataclysmic forces. Plague, pestilence, volcanic destruction were now hers for the asking.

She continued to watch the bird, feeling a special kins.h.i.+p, wondering at his next move. He could be contemplating a flight to Florida, or debating a love affair. He could be wrestling with a dinner choice, reviewing bird feeders of the past, recalling gourmet sunflower seeds and suet b.a.l.l.s. Maybe his head was filled with dreams of foreign lands, just as hers had been the night before.

”Go for it,” she said to the bird. ”Take a chance! What have you got to lose?”

The bird c.o.c.ked his head and smoothed fluffed feathers. Then he took off from the porch and smacked into the kitchen window.

Louisa jumped out of her chair and ran out the back door. The bird was lying on the frozen ground with his head at an odd angle and his bird feet uncommonly limp. Louisa felt time stand still for several seconds while she stared at the bird. She could see his heart beating under his breastbone. His eyes were open but unfocused. Several more seconds pa.s.sed and the bird started flopping around, staggering a few steps and falling over. He stopped staggering, sat very still, and rested a bit. Finally he flew away.

”d.a.m.n stupid bird,” Louisa said.