Please, let it stay that way, she thought. One night of peace. That’s all I’m asking for.
But of course it was not. She would need more than one night. It would take time, Joe Taft had said. How much time, she wasn’t sure. But it would be much more than one night.
When it was done, though? When whatever amount of time Joe needed had passed and the cats she’d devoted the past several years of her life to were gone? What then?
Back to the legal world. She’d been thrilled to get away from it. The idea of returning to Lexington or Louisville and working in an office every day, drawing up wills and endowments and business mergers and handling corporate disputes, felt so wrong. She could go somewhere else entirely, of course, pass the bar in a new state and find a new city and get involved with a new kind of practice.
That didn’t seem any more appealing, though. Her life had become these cats. She didn’t want to lose that. Part of aging was adapting, was acceptance that all the planning in the world didn’t stand a chance against the fickle winds of fate, but hadn’t she adapted enough lately? Did she have to turn her back on the preserve that held her heart?
Dustin said, “What are you thinking about, Audrey?”
He was wearing his Whitman College sweatshirt and looked impossibly young. She was not inclined to tell him the truth. That all the best-laid plans of youth could be shattered in a slip-and-fall, a single misplaced step in the night, and the life you thought was promised to you would begin to vanish until the very memory of your plans seemed ludicrous.
“I’m thinking,” she said, “that I could use a glass of wine.”
“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.”
“Are you even old enough to drink?”
He smiled. “I’m twenty-four, Audrey.”
Of course. He was a graduate student, working toward his doctorate in biology, just as David once had. Audrey was only nine years older than he was. How was that possible?
“Well, then, we’ll have a drink,” she said.
She went into the kitchen, trying not to concentrate on the fact that Kimble’s car had not returned up the road, that he was indeed making his night patrol on foot in the woods.
Surveillance looked a hell of a lot more exciting in the movies. This was no stunning revelation, but the understanding of just how tedious it was came as a painful surprise to Roy.
He’d been parked in the abandoned gas station parking lot for hours now, his back and legs stiffening as he stared out at a dark country road where few cars passed at all. At first he’d been worried about missing Shipley’s truck because of traffic. Now he was worried about missing Shipley’s truck because of falling asleep.
He made a pass down the road just to see how things looked at the home, found no sign of activity, and returned to his position. Within ten minutes, he wanted to make another pass. It was hard to just sit in the dark and stare at nothing.
He ran the Honda’s engine for a while, keeping the lights off, to let the heater fill the car with warm air again, then used the radio to get a little rock ’n’ roll going to help him wake up. He wished he’d thought to bring a thermos of coffee. Rookie mistake.
The heater pushed the chill from the car, but the warm air made him drowsier. He leaned back in the seat, yawned, and fought the heavy eyelids.
He hoped Kimble was making progress.
38
THEY WALKED IN SILENCE, and Kimble kept his hand on his gun, well aware of the black cat. The woods were quiet, but did that mean anything? He’d seen enough of these cats now to know that when so inclined, they could move with all the advance warning of a gust of wind.
When they reached the edge of the trestle, fog draped around them and the moonlight painted the steep stone cliffs a sparkling white. He stood beside Jacqueline, cold now that he’d given her his jacket, and watched her face as she swiveled her head slowly, taking it all in.
“Do you see anything?”
She didn’t answer, just took a few hesitant steps forward, then ducked and slipped through the torn-up stretch of chain link that had once—many years and many vandals before—kept people from reaching the trestle.
“I’d like to go out onto the bridge.”
He didn’t particularly like that idea, not after the tale Darmus had recounted earlier today—those last nails were driven by dead men—but he didn’t argue. Just followed her, one hand on his gun.
They walked out ten paces, the old boards creaking beneath their feet.
“All right,” he said, and his voice seemed too loud. “Stop here. Let’s have a look.”
He turned and stared off to the south, following the river’s path. This is madness, he thought. You’ll lose your badge for it and you should; no one who would do a thing like this has any right to a badge, has any right—