Free Heat by Michael Cadnum Page B

imagined myself legging my way left and right, Cindy looking on, as I handled Dad myself. “You’ve been practicing!” Dad would say, surprised, mistaken.
    The front door was open, so even as I pressed the doorbell, the high-low bronze notes sounding somewhere within the walls, I was already on my way inside. I called for Dad, and for Cindy, force of habit sending me toward the kitchen for a glass of water.
    They were in the dining room, the two of them, Jack Stoughton and Cindy. My first impression was that I had interrupted an intimate moment between them. They were having an affair, and I was too astonished to feel the outrage that was already on its way in some part of my mind.
    But then I saw the crumpled Kleenex in Cindy’s hand, a white tissue so wadded and worn it was nearly reduced to lint. Jack wore one of his auburn-brown suits, but his hair was hastily combed, red strands starting away from his head. He looked directly at me and did not speak.
    â€œOh, Bonnie,” said Cindy, in the tone she would have used to get my attention as I was about to leave. I knew what she was about to say—that she had forgotten about me, about our tennis date.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” I asked.
    Cindy said nothing.
    My mouth was dry. I asked, “Where’s Dad?”
    Jack was taller than I remembered, and his eyebrows were white.
    â€œYour father,” he said, in a very gentle voice, “has been arrested.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    Arrested , I thought.
    As in The spread of the disease has been arrested . It was almost possible to twist the words I had heard into good news—except for the way Cindy was destroying the tissue in her hands.
    Jack pursed his lips, preliminary to speech. He was going to pick his words with care, charging by the minute.
    Then I realized that Dad must have backed the Queen into a sailboat in a neighboring berth, or perhaps he had fallen into one of those webby, legal hazards, an unpaid parking ticket showing up on the computer when a cop gives you a ticket for a broken taillight. But Cindy was braced in the chair, looking across the walnut reflection of the dining table as if it and the rest of the room were all about to vanish. Jack approached me, lifted a hand, and almost let it fall on my shoulder.
    â€œWe’ll get it all put right,” said Jack.
    I recognized the oddly British phrasing of the legal world, a verbal landscape that has chain-smoking divorce specialists inserting Esquire after their names.
    The expression on my face made him change his vocabulary, and even his voice sounded more regular-guy. “This kind of thing happens,” said Jack, standing close to me, but not touching.
    â€œWhat kind of thing?” I asked, a little surprised that I could make a sound.
    Jack turned to Cindy, as if to let her know that he would say nothing, or tell all, it was up to her.
    â€œIt’s a misunderstanding,” said Jack. He tilted his head to one side, I can’t talk right now .
    â€œThey won’t post bail until Monday,” said Cindy, in an oddly steady voice, despite the trembling fingers she ran through her hair. It was easy to imagine that she had been good at her job, shepherding a law practice.
    â€œHe’s in jail for the weekend,” I said, partly to let them know that they could talk to me, I knew my way around. And also as a reality check—I wanted them to say no, of course that’s not what we mean.
    â€œThe district attorney planned it this way,” said Cindy in her small, no nonsense voice. “They waited until Friday afternoon to execute the warrant, and he has to spend the weekend in custody. In Santa Rita,” she added. “There’s an injunction against admitting any more inmates to the jail in Oakland because of overpopulation.” She rubbed a hand up and down her forearm as she said this.
    I found myself at her side, my hand on her shoulder, the way Jack had almost comforted me.