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slowly pulled the blankets back to reveal Raymie's Bulls pajama top, his
underpants, and his socks. He sat on the bed and wept nearly smiling at
Irene's harping about Raymie's not wearing socks to bed.
He laid the clothes in a neat pile and noticed a picture of himself on the bed
table.
He stood smiling inside the terminal, his cap tucked under his arm, a 747
outside the window in the background. The picture was signed,  To Raymie with
love, Dad.
Under that he had written,  Rayford Steele, Captain, Pan-Continental Airlines,
O'Hare. He shook his head. What kind of a dad autographs a picture for his
own son?
Rayford's body felt like lead. It was all he could do to force himself to
stand. And then he was dizzy, realizing he hadn't eaten in hours. He slowly
made his way out of
Raymie's room without looking back, and he shut the door.
At the end of the hall he paused before the French doors that led to the
master suite.
What a beautiful, frilly place Irene had made it, decorated with needlepoint
and country knickknacks. Had he ever told her he appreciated it? Had he ever
appreciated it?
There was no alarm to turn off here. The smell of coffee had always roused
Irene.
Another picture of the two of them, him looking confidently at the camera, her
gazing at him. He did not deserve her. He deserved this, he knew, to be mocked
by his own self-centeredness and to be stripped of the most important person
in his life.
He approached the bed, knowing what he would find. The indented pillow, the
wrinkled covers. He could smell her, though he knew the bed would be cold. He
carefully peeled back the blankets and sheet to reveal her locket, which
carried a picture of him. Her flannel nightgown, the one he always kidded her
about and which she wore only when he was not home, evidenced her now departed
form.
His throat tight, his eyes full, he noticed her wedding ring near the pillow,
where she always supported her cheek with her hand. It was too much to bear,
and he broke down. He gathered the ring into his palm and sat on the edge of
the bed, his body racked with fatigue and grief. He put the ring in his jacket
pocket and noticed the package she had mailed. Tearing it open, he found two
of his favorite homemade cookies with hearts drawn on the top in chocolate.
What a sweet, sweet woman! he thought. I never deserved her, never loved her
enough! He set the cookies on the bedside table, their essence filling the
air. With wooden fingers he removed his clothes and let them fall to the
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floor. He climbed into the bed and lay facedown, gathering Irene's nightgown
in his arms so he could smell her and imagine her close to him. And Rayford
cried himself to sleep.
CHAPTER FIVE
BUCK Williams ducked into a stall in the Pan-Con Club men's room to double-
check his inventory. Tucked in a special pouch inside his jeans, he carried
thousands of dollars' worth of traveler's checks, redeemable in dollars,
marks, or yen. His one leather bag contained two changes of clothes, his
laptop, cellular phone, tape recorder, accessories, toiletries, and some
serious, insulated winter gear.
He had packed for a ten-day trip to Britain when he left New York three days
before the apocalyptic disappearances. His practice overseas was to do his own
laundry in the sink and let it dry a whole day while wearing one outfit and
having one more in reserve. That way he was never burdened with lots of
luggage.
Buck had gone out of his way to stop in Chicago first to mend fences with the
Global Weekly's bureau chief there, a fiftyish black woman named Lucinda
Washington. He had gotten crossways with her what else was new? when he
scooped her staff on, of all things, a sports story that was right under their
noses. An aging Bears legend had finally found enough partners to help him buy
a professional football team, and Buck had somehow sniffed it out, tracked him
down, gotten the story, and run with it.
 I admire you, Cameron, Lucinda Washington had said, characteristically
refusing to use his nickname.  I always have, as irritating as you can be. But
the very least you should have done was let me know.
 And let you assign somebody who should have been on top of this anyway?
 Sports isn't even your gig, Cameron. After doing the Newsmaker of the Year
and covering the defeat of Russia by Israel, or I should say by God himself,
how can you even get interested in penny-ante stuff like this? You Ivy League
types aren't supposed to like anything but lacrosse and rugby, are you?
 This was bigger than a sports story, Lucy, and 
 Hey!
 Sorry, Lucinda. And wasn't that just a bit of stereotyping? Lacrosse and
rugby?
They had shared a laugh.
 I'm not even saying you should have told me you were in town, she had said.
 All
I'm saying is, at least let me know before the piece runs in the Weekly. My
people and I were embarrassed enough to get beat like that, especially by the
legendary
Cameron Williams, but for it to be a, well 
 That's why you squealed on me?
Lucinda had laughed again.  That's why I told Plank it would take a
face-to-face to get you back in my good graces.
 And what made you think I'd care about that?
 Because you love me, she had said.  You can't help yourself. Buck had
smiled.
 But, Cameron, if I catch you in my town again, on my beat without my [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]