All Things Considered

by A B Plum

  “Sure you don’t want to come up for hot chocolate? Might help you sleep.”

  “No!” His instant reply gave new meaning to “faster than a speeding bullet.” “Thanks. Another time.”

  “Sure. Absolutely. Not tomorrow night, though.” Would he take the bait?

  “Not only does my meeting start before dawn, it doesn’t end until the wee hours. Good night, Kathryn.”

  Ryn listened to the buzz from the disconnect for a second and then stood, stretching. Would Garrett—The REal McCoy—have missed the chance to grill her on why she couldn’t have coffee with him tomorrow night?

  Not from what she’d heard about the schlockmeister. Like Spider Man, The REal would be climbing up the outside of the building looking for dirt—maybe pictures—to publish in his rag. The REal McCoy would lie, bribe, cheat, steal, or crawl on his belly to get a scoop on Stone’s possible murderer. The scumbag didn’t have a mother; he was born under a rock.

  He might not kill for a story, but I’m not putting any money on that hunch.

  Jack Kent, on the other hand, spent forty-five minutes on the phone with a woman obviously drunk or deranged. Or both. He’d behaved like a nice, confused guy. Ryn saw—with perfect clarity, why he’d clutched on a couple of his responses.

  At a little past midnight in Los Altos, she didn’t think many people would have known what to say or do under the same circumstances. She returned to the sofa, fluffed the pillows, and pulled the covers under her chin. Normally, she hated talking on the phone. Talking with Jack had turned out fun. Something—not a full-blown thought, but important—rattled in her subconscious. Something he said? She said? She tried to focus. Her eyelids fluttered.

  Tomorrow … she’d remember tomorrow.

  Chapter 27

  A soft pat caressed Ryn’s left cheek and she opened her eyes. Beau held a struggling Maj toward her for a morning kiss. Ryn groaned. A few neurons fired and she swung her feet over the edge of the sofa, suggesting Maj probably preferred her breakfast. Unless Beau had fed her?

  He had not. Because he didn’t want to wake Ryn at six-thirty.

  “Thank you. Are you both starved?” If she left Beau with enough cereal to feed the Chinese army and promised to buy bagels, could she go for a jog?

  “I’m ravenous.” He rarely used the adjective, and Ryn thought this was a sign in her favor. Eating would demand his full attention. She sent him to brush his teeth and to give her a few minutes to figure out all the specifics she’d have to spell out so she could leave.

  Was a twenty-minute jog worth the risk of leaving him alone?

  He managed pretty well in his own apartment because he had a routine he followed and because Ryn had hired Lulu. He volunteered daily at Esperanza House, giving private drum lessons to half a dozen kids whose mothers attended Ryn’s computer classes. In a new environment, even with Maj at his side, if Ryn got delayed for six seconds on her jog, Beau might come unglued.

  God, she needed a jog. It was her one hope to pinpoint the anxiety about Jack Kent that kept niggling at the edge of her memory.

  By the time Ryn settled Beau at the table in front of three over-sized bowls filled with different kinds of dry cereal and was reviewing his instructions a third time, she’d about decided to forget jogging. She jogged to relieve stress. If she worried each step of the way, she might as well stay in the apartment and watch Beau devour a ton of Rice Krispies. While she watched, she could finish Comfrey’s questionnaire and figure out how to care for Beau while she slept at the clinic that night.

  The outside buzzer interrupted her inner debate. Elijah announced, “I’m about to drop six Egg McMuffins on the front step.”

  “Yipppeeee.” Beau jumped up to open the door, and his butt knocked over his bowlful of Cheerios. He stopped, face stricken, yellow head down.

  Milk trailed across the table, but Ryn snatched his napkin and started mopping up the mess. Elijah’s perfect timing sent a spurt of near euphoria tingling in her veins. “No problem,” she said evenly. “Open the door for the McMuffin Man.”

  Elijah agreed instantly to stay with Beau and encouraged her to jog for an hour if that was what she wanted. They’d talk afterwards—but not for long because he intended to crash. The red threads in the whites of Elijah’s eyes and the gray pallor underlying his black skin told her he was teetering on the edge of exhaustion.

  A better person would skip her jog and listen to his report.

  As if reading her mind, Elijah hustled her to the door, unaware she’d planned on asking him to stay with Beau that evening while Comfrey played in her brain.

  Outside, she stretched her calf muscles. Her fallback plan looked more and more like Plan A. She’d Googled several agencies and found two specializing in overnight care for adults. She didn’t like the idea of leaving Beau with a stranger, but Lulu was caring for three nieces whose mother had given birth the day before.

  Warmed up, Ryn sucked on her water bottle, trotted across the street, and headed for the hills. The sun stayed at her back; the neon-blue sky was free of fog and smog. She hung back from Foothill Expressway, a major traffic artery. Why jog if she stood at traffic lights and inhaled carbon monoxide? Right now, she needed every one of her little gray cells.

  Slap, slap, slap. Another jogger was running for the light. In no mood for chit-chat, she danced in place, elbows out to keep him from stepping up next to her. The green light flashed, and she spurted ahead, watching for drivers making U-turns. The other runner crossed right on her heels, close enough she heard him panting and snorting through his nose.

  Without sidewalks on the two-way, narrow streets, they’d have to run in a single line for the next half block. Which was why Ryn ran in the early morning. If she wanted a group sport, she’d play softball. She increased her pace. Running against traffic, she let her feet remember the uneven terrain and the distance between the beaten path and the drop off to the dry ditch. They crossed a skinny foot bridge into Escondido Park. Ryn half expected a troll to crawl up onto the bridge demanding to know who the hell was disturbing his sleep at oh-dark-thirty?

  “Ryn? Hold up. Wait.’ The gasping and wheezing sounded loud enough to be a troll, but she was positive the voice belonged to Jack Kent.

  She told her feet to keep moving and to pay no attention to her over-active imagination’s side trip on trolls.

  “Can you wait a damn minute?”

  She whirled around and Jack caught up with her. He gasped, “I’d hate … to … to jog with you—”

  “Did Elise come in to take care of your pre-meeting setup? Or did the meeting get cancelled?”

  “I think you know what happen—”

  “As a matter of fact, Mr. McCoy, I’d talked myself into believing you really were Jack Kent until jogging kick started my brain a nanosecond ago. How would Jack Kent get my unlisted phone number? Sleazoid reporter The REal McCoy, on the other hand …”

  His sweaty face flushed a darker crimson. Despite his purple vented jogging shorts, his matching sleeveless shirt, and his heavy-duty running shoes, it was obvious to Ryn he wasn’t much of a jogger. No wonder. Crawling on his belly must make it hard to walk upright among humans.

  “You want to kick my ass, don’t you?”

  The supermarket scene flashed, and she laughed. “What do you want?”

  “I’d like to help you.”

  “Get in line.”

  He stopped shuffling his feet and stood still. “I don’t blame you for not believing me.”

  “People compare you to a snake. Which is offensive—to snakes.” Ryn uncapped her water bottle and took a long slurp—surprised she didn’t choke on her own venom.

  An ugly purple suffused his face. But he met and held her gaze. “Don’t you want to know why?”

  “No.” She recapped her bottle and picked up her feet.

  He fell in step beside her, snorting again. Ryn sucked air into her lungs. Blue and yellow wildflowers studded the rocky hill soaring ninety-degrees ahead of them. S
he’d never make the climb chatting. She pushed off with her toes, willing her feet to carry her weight.

  When Ryn finally crested the top of the hill, she sucked in another deep breath, exhaling it slowly. A dull burn ran along the muscles in her strained calves. Sweat stung her eyes. She walked in little circles to keep the blood from pooling in her feet and thrust her arms in front of her, flexing her back muscles. McCoy was plodding upwards, head down, one step at a time. He’d made the mid-point.

  The view—the giant blimp hangars at Moffett Naval Air Station to the south and the skyline of San Francisco to the north—was worth the pain. Ryn sucked at her water bottle. Rush-hour traffic crawled along Highway 101 as far as she could see. Gridlock. The cars and McCoy … going nowhere fast, but all would eventually make their destination—a little worse for the wear, but survivors.

  McCoy topped the hill hunched over his knees, sweat gushing off his scarlet face, clutching his chest. Of course, he didn’t have a water bottle.

  Not my problem. Ryn rolled her eyes. She hadn’t asked him to jog with her.

  He staggered, threw his hand out to catch himself, swiped his face with his shoulder.

  Ryn removed the handkerchief wrapped around her forehead, poured some water on the cloth, and shoved it at his face. She snapped her fingers . “Don’t sit down. Keep your feet moving.” She opened a new bottle of water and emptied half the contents into her first bottle. She handed off the new one with the warning to drink slowly or end up with a bad cramp.

  Surprisingly, he followed her directions exactly. With half his water left, he recapped the bottle and held it up to Ryn. “I owe you. And I still want to help you.”

  She flexed her left toes, placing her hands up high on her thigh, and stretched her chest over her knees, feeling the pull in her hamstrings. “Ho-hum.”

  “You stretch your legs to stay limber, but your mind’s as rigid as—”

  “Don’t psychoanalyze me, McCoy. You don’t have a clue about my mind.”

  “So let me find out. Let’s make a deal.” He didn’t wait for her to tell him to go to hell. Like an auctioneer, talking faster than the speed of sound, he rushed on. “Someone’s going to write about you. Too bad if you don’t like it. If I found you, so can other reporters. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “That crap you wrote for The Enquirer and fed the local TV news proves you’re absolutely right.”

  He ignored the bitterness in her tone and plowed ahead. “Work with me. I can guarantee you’ll get better press than you ever imagined.”

  Overhead, two jets came in from the south, headed side by side for SFO. Ryn remembered her first flight into San Francisco. About ten, fifteen miles out, the pilot announced that planes landed on parallel runways at SFO. He reassured the passengers there was nothing to be afraid of if they gazed out their window into the window of another approaching jet. When Ryn looked out her first class window and saw a businessman closing his briefcase in the plane next to her, it was an act of faith that she didn’t scream.

  Feeling The REal’s eyes boring into her head, she met his stare. “Tell me what you have in mind …”

  Chapter 28

  Elijah had the good manners not to say I told you so when Ryn appeared in the kitchen with Garrett McCoy. He shook hands and acted as if he’d never heard of Garrett McCoy or The Inquiring Enquirer. Elijah looked so tired, Ryn doubted he’d recognize his own mother or notice the Vietnamese barber’s haircut wizardry. Did she need to pull him aside and explain in a quick whisper that she had no intention of cooperating with The REal?

  Certain Beau would want to know the secret, she hoped Elijah would understand without being told specifically that—for a change—she intended to be the exploiter instead of the exploited.

  Her first chance to make use of McCoy came as soon as she finished the intros. Beau lost interest, but on his way out of the kitchen, he reminded Ryn of her promise to take him for bagels. She finished her OJ, refilled the men’s glasses, and opened a drawer. She removed a butter knife.

  Like Queen Guinevere with Lancelot, she tapped the red-haired reporter on both shoulders with her scepter. “Here’s your first test of fealty.”

  The REal twisted around to look at Elijah, who returned the look and shrugged. Ryn continued, “This evening, I have someplace to go. Without Beau. I won’t come back until nine in the morning.” Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Elijah’s open mouth. “I’d consider it a big help if you spent the night with Beau.” She tapped McCoy’s curly crown with the tip of the knife. “To make it convenient for you, I suggest staying here since Beau’s pretty familiar with this place. He isn’t always comfortable in new places.”

  Ryn thought The REal wasn’t at all comfortable in the box she’d put him. He shifted his weight from foot to foot a couple of times but finally said, “Sure, I can stay here. I don’t have anything else planned. What time?”

  When she said about seven-thirty, his green eyes narrowed; but he nodded as if her request to stay with Beau was simply a small favor between pals. She followed him to the elevator, promising to stock the fridge with goodies for the evening and for breakfast. A little sweat dotted his forehead, but he gave no other sign of unease. The elevator arrived, and she returned to the apartment—taking no chances he’d come to his senses.

  Elijah lay, face-down, on the kitchen table. Eyes closed, he breathed heavily through his mouth. Ryn shook his shoulder and ordered him to go sleep in Beau’s room. She and Beau would find bagels, go to Comfrey’s, and eat lunch before returning. She explained the plan to Beau, keeping the language simple to clarify why Maj had to stay in the apartment.

  When Comfrey, his giraffe neck wrapped in a forest green scarf, opened the heavy, carved door into his inner sanctum and greeted Ryn, Beau marched past her, waddling like a Christmas goose.

  “I’m not staying out here,” he announced to Comfry, hugging the new picture book of cats Ryn had bought him after their stop at the bagel shop.

  “If I let you in—as a special privilege—can you sit quietly as a mouse without interrupting me and Ryn?” Comfrey spoke in a conspiratorial tone.

  “Of course. I’m not a kid, you know.” Beau used his soft belly to keep Comfrey pinned against the wall.

  “Beau,” Ryn warned.

  Comfrey shook his head. “It’s all right. Beau and I understand each other.”

  Beau tossed his yellow curls, stomped into Comfrey’s office, and flounced down on the sofa. The springs groaned. Comfrey winced but surprised Ryn by saying zip. She sat in the wing chair. It was beginning to feel familiar.

  Why didn’t Comfrey show more curiosity about Beau? Had Ryn talked about him to Comfrey? She tried to remember—her mind paralyzed by thoughts of the inquisition she expected from the good doctor.

  Bypassing small talk, Comfrey took his chair behind his bare, polished desk and asked for the completed questionnaire. His passive tone gave nothing away, but Ryn was positive he expected an excuse—the cat ate it, Doctor.

  Putting on her shut-out-Stone face, she handed over the form. Comfrey would make a great poker player. He gave away no more clues to this thoughts than Ryn intended to reveal. He held his pen over each answer and looked up at her only twice. He jotted something in the margin next to one question, but she couldn’t see which one.

  Every few seconds, Beau turned a page in his book. In the background, subliminal chimes droned. A few degrees of tension in Ryn’s neck and shoulders loosened. Comfrey seemed less intimidating, and she relaxed deeper into the chair.

  “No recurring dreams?” Comfrey’s heavy black brows came together in a frown. He raised his head. “I’m surprised.”

  Ryn’s hands felt as if she’d dipped them into ice water, but she met his gaze and flashed on how old the purple smudges aged him, feeling sorry for him because he looked creepy with one, long spoke of light behind him. She didn’t see any sign of sympathy in his onyx eyes, lasering through her skull.

  “I suppose,” he glance
d at the questionnaire again, “you might have forgotten any recurring dreams after your father died. Seven is young. But …”

  Ryn held her breath. Just as she’d expected. Comfrey used dreams—not dream. She resisted the impulse to clasp her hands. She had to be careful or a minor body twitch or facial tick would give her away. She felt Beau behind her so she certainly didn’t plan to confess she saw Stone’s blood-splattered body every time she closed her eyes in bed. If Beau heard her mention she’d once had a dog that died, he’d demand every detail.

  Comfrey leaned over his desk, but Ryn slumped down in her chair, yawned, and continued the charade of repose. As the silence screamed, he held the paper at arm’s length. “I see you’ve described your present lifestyle.”

  The man can change the subject faster than a radio talk show host. In Hollywood, she’d suspect his attention span was low or he was on drugs. But he was a shrink. Changing the subject without warning worked to his advantage.

  His moving lips brought her attention back to what he was saying. “It’s helpful to know what you do now, but I think knowing how you lived before …” He glanced at Beau and continued in same conversational tone, “… with Stone is more helpful.”

  “Sorry. I misunderstood,” she lied, her face stiff. Was Beau so engrossed in his book he didn’t even register Stone’s name?

  She tapped her bottom lip. Careful, careful. Comfrey was sneakier than she’d figured. “I traveled with the band a lot. Never missed a trip the first five years. Last year, I went on the road twice. Missed four concerts. I couldn’t find a sub for my classes at Esperanza House.

  Not to mention Amber’s flirting offered the perfect excuse to stay home.

  “Ironically, I slept better when we traveled.” A montage of hotels and cities ran together. “It’s hard to explain how exhausting—night and day get reversed. The constant packing and unpacking. Listening to everyone complain.”