Black Friday (or Black Market) - James Patterson [82]
The Western economic system seemed to be crashing to a disastrous halt. Not one of them had a reasonable clue why.
And still there was only maddening silence from Green Band.
Chapter 60
CARROLL AND CATTLIN DILLON sat on an old floral couch in his Manhattan apartment. A Beethoven concerto played on the tape deck.
Once again, they were waiting for Green Band. There was nothing to do but wait.
“I think I have to turn in,” Caitlin finally said in a half-asleep whisper. She hunched forward and kissed Carroll’s forehead. “Get a few hours, anyway.”
Carroll raised his wristwatch to his face. “What a party pooper. No sense of adventure. It’s only two-thirty.”
“People from Ohio go to bed at nine-thirty, ten o’clock. The Lima Holiday Inn restaurant is filled at five-thirty. Closed down by eight.”
“Yeah, but you’re a sophisticated New Yorker now. We party until two or three on weekdays here.”
Caitlin kissed Carroll again and the idle talk stopped. He was amazed at how comfortable he was with her. Watching someone you cared about almost being killed seemed to accelerate the courting process.
“Is anything the matter? You look sad? Tell me…” Her eyes were digging for more, more to understand who Carroll really was.
“I’m not quite ready for bed yet. I’m overtired I guess. I’ll be in soon. You go ahead.”
Caitlin leaned in closer and kissed Carroll again. She smelled so wholesome and nice. She had the softest lips he could imagine.
“Do you want me to stay with you?” She whispered one more time.
Carroll shook his head.
Caitlin left the living room, sleepily huddled in the cocoon of a blanket.
Carroll stood up from the couch. He started to pace back and forth past the darkly reflective parlor windows. His body was feeling all wrong: wired, incandescent.
He looked inside an old antique blanket chest he’d bought years back in central Pennsylvania. His mind was wandering into odd places, weird time zones …
He wondered if Caitlin liked kids much…
Jesus, he was so incredibly wired. So uptight tonight.
Finally, he did it though. The worst thing under the circumstances—the absolute worst.
On the anniversary.
Nora’s death three years before.
December 14.
First, Carroll gathered together old photographs. He found most of the photos in a cluttered, bottom shelf inside a glass-enclosed book cabinet.
Next, he pulled a wicker chair up close beside one of the tall windows facing onto the lights of Riverside Drive and the river.
Carroll stared down at the West Side Highway, the peacefully quiet Boat Basin.
He was letting the present go all fuzzy and blurred.
He stood up again.
He dealt three tapes off the stacks on either side of the stereo. One was 52nd Street, Billy Joel self-consciously holding a trumpet on the cover. The second was mainstream country and western, I Believe In Love by somebody called Don Williams. The third was Barbra Streisand and Barry Gibbs’ Guilty.
Carroll switched on the stereo and the speakers immediately hummed. He felt the power surge through the soles of his bare feet. He turned the volume way down.
He’d never been a big Barbra Streisand fan, but there were two songs he wanted to hear on this album: “Woman in Love,” and “Promises.” Out in the world, a moving van rumbled along Riverside Drive.
He kept an old framed picture of Nora, hidden away face down in the bottom of the bookcase.
He slid it out now. He propped the photo on the arm of the couch.
For a long, pensive moment, he stared at Nora sitting there in a hospital-issue wheelchair. Anniversary of her death. Pain still sharp and fresh as yesterday.
He could remember exactly when the snapshot had been taken. After they’d operated. After the surgeons had failed to remove her malignant tumor.
In the wheelchair photo, Nora was wearing a simple yellow-flowered sundress, a knitted blue cardigan sweater. She had on a pair of crazy high-topped sneakers which became her trademark as an invalid.
Nora was smiling