Silent Screams - C. E. Lawrence [101]
The phone rang, jolting him out of his reverie. He picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Can I—uh—see you?” Nelson’s voice was ragged, shaky.
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s Karen. I need—”
It was as though he were straining his words out through a sieve, trying to hold back the emotion behind them. Lee knew that it was barely three months since his wife’s tragic death. He also knew all about grief. Just when you thought the worst was over, it could come back at you like the kick of a shotgun.
He looked outside at the gathering snow and sighed.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Lee pulled on his waterproof hiking boots and walked to the liquor store on Third Avenue. He picked out a bottle of Glenlivet single malt, then found a brave cabbie with snow tires. Traffic was light on Park Avenue, and the cabbie crossed Central Park through the 68th Street transverse right behind a snowplow, pulling up in front of Nelson’s building on 73rd Street.
John Paul Nelson lived in a penthouse apartment of the Ansonia Hotel, a splendid, ornate Rococo building on the southwest corner of 73rd and Broadway. Rising proudly over the confluence of Broadway and Amsterdam Avenue, the Ansonia stands at one of the great crossroads of the city. The Seventh Avenue line spits out its passengers at the subway stop in the traffic island that bifurcates Broadway as it splits in two before reuniting and continuing on its northwesterly journey, while Tenth Avenue, reborn as Amsterdam—its name a reminder of the city’s Dutch heritage—shoots straight uptown, slicing through the Upper West Side, neatly bisecting the neighborhood, equidistant from its two great parks, Riverside and Central Park.
Nelson opened the door when Lee knocked. He looked exhausted and lost. His auburn hair was uncombed. He was unshaven and wore an old blue flannel shirt over rumpled chinos. He waved Lee to a seat on a couch strewn with books and magazines.
“Sorry about this. Just, uh, make a place for yourself.”
He plucked a few books off the end of the sofa and put them on the floor. Nelson’s apartment, like his office, was a place of controlled chaos, comfortable clutter. When she was alive, Karen had managed the mess, keeping it under control, but since her death, things had deteriorated. There were books and periodicals all over the room—Lee wondered how it was possible for anyone to read as much as that. The books were on everything from archaeology to philosophy, physics to natural history.
Nelson stood in the middle of the room, running a hand through his untidy hair. After one look at him, Lee decided not to mention the incidents of two nights ago. Nelson would find out about the mad car chase soon enough.
“What can I get you?” Nelson asked.
It was only then Lee remembered the bottle of scotch in his hand.
“I didn’t remember if it’s your brand or not,” he said, handing it to Nelson.
“If it’s alcohol, it’s my brand,” he replied, and Lee regretted buying an expensive single malt.
But when his friend returned with two cut-crystal glasses and handed one to Lee, he was glad. The scotch had a piney, musty flavor, like open woodland and fireplaces in the fall.
“Really nice of you to spring for the good stuff,” Nelson said, settling down in a tattered blue armchair. His Irish setter, Rex, emerged from the kitchen, padded over to him, and sat at his feet, sniffing the air. Nelson reached down and scratched the dog behind the ears.
“Thanks for coming over,” he said, taking a swallow of scotch. “I guess I didn’t want to be alone. Funny, it kind of caught me off guard…” He stared at his glass for some time before speaking. “I just can’t help thinking that if I loved her better, she wouldn’t have died.”
“She was very sick, you know.”
Nelson looked down at Rex’s silky head. “I know. My logical mind tells me that, but I feel that if I had loved her better, she wouldn’t have been able to leave me.”
“It wasn’t like she had a choice—”
“I know! I’ve told myself that a thousand times over, but what I fear more than anything