Harrigan checked his watch again. Almost time.
He made small talk about his drive up through the California wine country and the little yellow flowers that seemed to be everywhere this trip, all the while watching Baker's expression. A small wrinkle of concentration now, but Baker shook it away. Another one a minute later. This time he kind of tilted his head to one side like he was listening. What do you hear, Baker? Just some intuition, right?
The deck door opened and Tina ... Vickie ... entered the high-ceilinged living room. Funny look on her face. Like something was wrong. Not bad wrong, just wrong, and she couldn't quite figure out what it was. They looked at each other. Their eyes met. Same look on Baker's face. Shit, Harrigan thought. The kid still had it. He hadn't figured on that. He'd hoped, at least, that Sonnenberg was right. That it would all be like a onetime dream.
Vickie touched her father's arm and walked past him to the window facing the road. She was still there when Harrigan heard the distant sound of a small truck grinding into a lower gear. Harrigan watched her face.
“Liz?” The word formed silently on her lips. Harrigan looked out the window. A pickup truck. Two hundred yards away. Could be anyone.
Baker laid down his brushes and wiped his hands once more while crossing to Vickie's side. He saw the truck. His mouth falling open, he turned and shot a look at Connor Harrigan. Harrigan wasn't sure whether he saw more of joy or anger on Baker's face.
“Merry Christmas,” Harrigan said, rising. “If you don't mind, I don't think I'll stay for dinner.” He buttoned his coat while walking to the door opposite the approaching vehicle.
“Liz!” Vickie screamed. She whipped open the door and took the porch steps in a single leap. Tanner jumped from the cab, her arms opening wide, a beam of astonished pleasure on her face at the ease with which Vickie ran, then she stumbled backward under the impact of a hundred leaping pounds. Tanner buried her face in Tina's hair, tears dampening it, trying to wipe her eyes dry on the collar of her ski parka so she could look up at Jared Baker, the dope, who just stood there on the porch trying to look serious with his mouth while his eyes were grinning like an idiot.
Vickie stretched to look past Tanner into the cab of the truck. She saw a large blue duffel, a western hat sitting on top of it.
“You're staying?” she asked excitedly. Now Vickie could see into the bay of the pickup. Another duffel. And a pair of skis in an Olin bag. “How long?” Vickie cried. “How long are you staying?”
”A weekend?” Tanner asked, looking up at Baker. She wiped once more at the tears, then stopped, not caring whether Baker saw them or not. ”A weekend,” she said more firmly. “Maybe longer.”
Baker, his face softening, hesitated for just a moment before stepping off the porch and slowly descending the stairs. He wanted to run to her, to hold her, to tell her how sorry he was that he'd hurt her, to try to make her understand. But he couldn't think of a thing to say that wouldn't sound stupid or that couldn't wait. His own eyes moistened. He didn't wipe them because he was afraid that when he looked again she'd be gone. Even seeing her, it was almost too much to believe that she was really there. That she cared about him like Harrigan said. That she cared enough to swallow back whatever pride a jerk named Baker had left her and drive all the way up here, not knowing whether he'd welcome her or turn her away.
“Your hair,” he said. He knew at once how stupid the first words he spoke sounded. Of all the things he might have said. Like, “I'm glad you're here, Tanner.” Or, ”I missed you very much.” Or, “I'll never know what you see in me, but God, I'm grateful for it, and oh, how I love you.”
Her free hand, the other hugging Vickie, went selfconsciously to her hair, which remained full and thick but cropped at her shoulders. And beneath her red parka she was wearing faded jeans. And western boots, the working kind. And she wore no makeup.
“Liz Burke,” she told him, sweeping her hand down the length of her body as if presenting it. “This is Liz Burke. Tanner Burke won't be coming.”
“Maybe longer.” Baker nodded, reaching toward her. “Maybe much longer.”
EPILOGUE
On the campus of San Jose State University, some forty miles south of San Francisco, a gaunt, silver-haired man struggled to pull a wheelchair through the exit of the building housing the faculty lounge. His movements were stiff, and he appeared to stagger with each sudden movement.
The man seated in the wheelchair looked up as the sky came into view. It still threatened rain after a morning squall that had left the streets and sidewalks slick. In one hand he held papers he'd already begun to grade. Better to wait, the professor decided. He stuffed them into a leather portfolio, straightened his lap robe, and tamped a green Tyrolian hat more snugly over his head.
His face, like the hat, had a robust Alpine look about it. His cheeks were a vigorous pink, and his intelligent eyes had the lines of a man who smiled easily. The man guiding his chair, in contrast, had eyes that only stared distantly. But they seemed to brighten a shade when the professor spoke his name and whispered encouragement to him. He pulled the wheelchair clear of the doors and turned it into position to descend the three stone steps to the sidewalk. He was tall but frail, and he moved with the uncertainty of a recovering paralytic learning anew the functions of his limbs. He braced himself against the weight of the chair as its rear wheels eased over the uppermost step. One foot began to skid on a wet surface. He moaned aloud.
“Hold on,” a female voice shouted from nearby.
There were two young women. Students. Their flats slapped against the pavement as they ran to assist Professor Lehrmann and his faltering aide. Each grabbed an armrest of the wheelchair. Together they held it balanced as the thin man lowered the chair over the remaining steps.
“Thank you.” The professor smiled. “You are both very sweet. Very sweet indeed.” His voice was deep and strong, his accent German.
“Our pleasure, Professor Lehrmann,” one answered.
The tiniest wince behind his smile reminded them that he was in pain. He was always in pain, the students had heard. Something about being beaten by Stalinist thugs when he was a graduate instructor at Leipzig. And yet there was always that good humor, always time to stop and chat. In no time at all, it seemed as though he'd been teaching there for years.
“Miss Lindsay Rollins, isn't it? And Miss Carol. . .”
“Carol Burns, sir.”
“Yes, certainly. Forgive me.”
Carol brushed the apology aside, pleased that he remembered even part of her name. ”I loved Tuesday's lecture, Professor Lehraiann. Early German Renaissance. You sure do make that stuff come alive.”
“Stuff indeed,” he snorted good-naturedly. “But of course it is alive. Since childhood you've been singing about good King Wenceslaus, and now you know the fellow was real. There were two, in fact, in the Luxembourg line. However, I'm afraid the second called for flesh and wine once too often, and the electors threw the drunken rascal out. I trust you'll stay tuned, Miss Burns. Johann Gutenberg is about to start tinkering with movable type, and Martin Luther is brooding about giving the pope a piece of his mind.”
The thin man fidgeted as the two freshmen laughed. They looked up into his eyes. He seemed uncomfortable. Eager to leave. A very strange duck, they thought, this silent man with the oddly misshapen head. And yet his twin sister, Professor Lehrmann's housekeeper, was very nice. Carol had met her when she returned a book. The housekeeper seemed to have the same motor control problem as her brother, hereditary probably, but her mind was quick, and she had a really funny New Yorky way of expressing herself.
“Well”—Carol tapped Lindsay's arm—“don't let us keep you, Professor.”
“Yes.” Lehrmann hefted his leather folder. “Off to my study for more fascinating excursions into the undergraduate psyche. The two of you must come visit me one day. I shall offer you a glass of hot spiced wine and promise not to bore you too terribly.”
Their faces split into grins. Hal
f the kids in their dorm would give anything for such an invitation. He was fun, the conversation was always wonderful, and then there were all those precious things. Pre-Columbian, mostly. All museum quality.
“We'd be delighted, sir. Anytime you say.”
“Four o'clock today then?” He touched the brim of his hat. “And come in good appetite. My housekeeper's rumaki is to die for.”
Professor Lehrmann watched as the two pleased and flattered young women fairly bounced toward the next corner and turned left out of sight.
“Quite charming, aren't they?” he said to his companion.
The tall man nodded indifferently.
“The Burns girl is a National Merit Scholar, you know,” Lehrmann continued. “Also fluent in two languages, well traveled, an adequate cellist, a competitive skier—although I've had enough of those for a while—and captain of the freshman girls' lacrosse team. An impressive list of accomplishments for one so young.”
He chortled to himself as if enjoying a private thought. “So many, in fact”—he looked up, grinning—“that I hardly know what to make of her. That's a pun, old friend.”
The silent man answered with a trace of a smile, then turned the wheelchair and pushed it forward. At the curb he had trouble again. The wheels came down hard upon the macadam, and the professor's leather portfolio slipped from his lap. He moaned an apology. Stiffly, he bent to pick up the folder from the wet street. An ice pick slipped from his sleeve as he stretched. It rolled against the curb, where a runoff of water twice pushed it beyond his awkward reach.
“Leave it, Stanley.” Professor Lehrmann reached a hand to his shoulder. “If the need should again arise, your sister always keeps an ice pick in her kitchen.”
Stanley Levy's eyes cleared for a flickering moment at the sound of his name. They would clear for longer periods, the professor knew, with the passage of time and with the growth of new neuron chains that would link Stanley's brain tissue with that of his host. Before long, he would catch up with his less damaged sister. Before long, there would be more Stanley. And there would be less of the dull and distant expression that was once the face of Duncan Peck.
“Let's go home, Stanley,” Professor Lehrmann said gently. “There is much to do.”
End
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Epigraph
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
Epilogue
Abel Baker Charley Page 46