Free The Bookman's Wake by John Dunning

never been there. Why
     couldn’t I go if I wanted to?”
    She was looking right down my throat. She really is like
     Rita, I thought: she had that same hard nut in her heart
     that made it so difficult to lie to her.
    “What do you suppose would happen,” she
     said, “if we just turned around and headed south.
     Strangers in the night, never laid eyes on each other till
     an hour ago. Just go, roll the dice, see how long we could
     put up with each other.”
    “Would you do that?”
    “I might.” She thought about it, then shook
     her head. “But I can’t.”
    “Ah.”
    “I’ve been known to do crazier things.
     I’ve just got something else on my agenda right
     now.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Can’t talk about it. Besides, it’s
     too long a story. My whole life gets messed up in it and I
     don’t think you’ve got time for
     that.”
    “I’ve got nothing but time.”
    “None of us has that much time.”
    She was feeling better now, I could see it in her face.
     Food, one of the most intimate things after the one most
     intimate thing, had worked its spell again. “Oh, I
     needed that,” she said. “Yeah, I was
     hungry.”
    “I’m glad you decided to stick
     around.”
    “Sorry about that. I just have a bad reaction to
     that song.”
    “I think it’s a great song.”
    “I’m sure it is. But it gives me the
     willies.”
    “Why would it do that?”
    “Who’s to say? Some things you can’t
     explain.”
    Then, as if she hadn’t been listening to her own
     words, she said, “I’ve got a stalker in my
     life.”
    She shook her head. “Forget I said that. I’m
     tired…at the end of my rope. Sometimes I say
     things…”
    I stared at her, waiting.
    “Sometimes he calls me and plays that
     song.”
    “Do you know who he is?”
    “I know him by sight, I don’t know his name.
     Obviously he knows mine.” She shivered deeply.
     “I don’t talk about this. But you’ve been
     such a dear…I can’t have you thinking I’m
     crazy.”
    “Have you called the cops?”
    She shook her head. “Cops don’t seem to be
     able to do much with people like that.”
    “If he’s harassing you on the phone, they
     can catch him. The time it takes to trace a call these days
     is pretty short; damn near no time at all.”
    “So they’d catch him. They’d bring him
     in and charge him with something minor, some nothing charge
     that would only stir him up.”
    “How long has he been doing this?”
    She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and said,
     “Not long, a few weeks. But it seems like
     years.”
    “You can’t put up with that. You’ve
     got to protect yourself.”
    “Like…get a gun, you mean?”
    I let that thought speak for itself.
    She sighed. “I’ve never fired a gun in my
     life.”
    The strange thing was, I believed her.
    “Do you have any idea what he wants?”
    “I think I know what he wants. But just now I
     would like to please change the subject. Let’s get
     back to happy talk.” She cocked her head as if to
     say,
Enough, already
. “Those wet clothes must feel awful.”
    “I’ve been wet so long it feels like dry to
     me. What was that guy’s name?”
    “That’s more like it. His name was Richard
     Farina.”
    “Is his book worth anything?”
    “Mmmm, yeah,” she said in a singsong voice.
     “Hundred dollars maybe. I wouldn’t kick it out
     in the rain.”
    The waitress came and left the check.
    Eleanor looked at me hard. “So tell me who you
     really are and what you’re doing. I mean, you appear
     out of the night, kindness personified, you walk into my
     life when I’ve never been lonelier, you’re
     going where the wind blows but you don’t have a
     change of clothes. What are you running away
     from?”
    “Who said I’m running away?”
    “We’re all running away. Some of us just
     don’t get very far. Yours must be some tragic love
     affair for you to run with only the clothes on your back.
     What was her name?”
    “Rita,”