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Back Dark Currents
Chapters (46)
  1. Contents
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyrights
  4. Acknowledgements
  5. Chapter One
  6. Chapter Two
  7. Chapter Three
  8. Chapter Four
  9. Chapter Five
  10. Chapter Six
  11. Chapter Seven
  12. Chapter Eight
  13. Chapter Nine
  14. Chapter Ten
  15. Chapter Eleven
  16. Chapter Twelve
  17. Chapter Thirteen
  18. Chapter Fourteen
  19. Chapter Fifteen
  20. Chapter Sixteen
  21. Chapter Seventeen
  22. Chapter Eighteen
  23. Chapter Nineteen
  24. Chapter Twenty
  25. Chapter Twenty-one
  26. Chapter Twenty-two
  27. Chapter Twenty-three
  28. Chapter Twenty-four
  29. Chapter Twenty-five
  30. Chapter Twenty-six
  31. Chapter Twenty-seven
  32. Chapter Twenty-eight
  33. Chapter Twenty-nine
  34. Chapter Thirty
  35. Chapter Thirty-one
  36. Chapter Thirty-two
  37. Chapter Thirty-three
  38. Chapter Thirty-four
  39. Chapter Thirty-five
  40. Chapter Thirty-six
  41. Chapter Thirty-seven
  42. Chapter Thirty-eight
  43. Chapter Thirty-nine
  44. Chapter Forty
  45. Chapter Forty-one
  46. Chapter Forty-two

Mr. Leary lived in a charming little cottage in East Pemkowet, and in case you’re wondering, yes, Pemkowet and East Pemkowet are technically two separate towns. Because Pemkowet proper is divided by the river, their boundaries overlap in a crazy-quilt fashion. Every other decade, someone proposes combining them into one entity, and every time it happens, one side or the other votes it down.

Anyway.

The shade garden in Mr. Leary’s front yard was looking good, which was a hopeful sign. I made my way up the walk past the arching fronds of ferns so tall they looked almost prehistoric, and immense broad-leaved hosta plants in every hue of green imaginable, some of them sending up narrow shoots of pale blue flowers.

“Daisy Johanssen!” Mr. Leary greeted me with delight when I rang the doorbell. He had a drink in hand, but he was steady on his feet and he sounded lucid. “How is my favorite little eschatological time bomb?”

For the record, no, I don’t know exactly what that means. It happens a lot with Mr. Leary. But I always appreciated the fact that he never, ever talked down to his students. A lot of teachers did, especially if you happened to have a single mom who waited tables and took in sewing for a living or an abusive handyman dad. Not Mr. Leary. Jen and I had always liked that about him. We might not have been his best students, but we studied hard for his classes. I was proud of those B-pluses.

“I’m good, thanks,” I said.

“No,” he corrected me. “You’re doing well, thank you very much.”

I hid a smile. “I’m doing well, thank you very much. And you?”

“I’m doing splendidly, thank you kindly.” Mr. Leary hoisted his drink in response. He was tall and lean, in his late sixties, with a long, mobile face and a leonine head of white hair, kind of like a more benign-looking Donald Sutherland. “Come to pick my brain, have you?”

I nodded. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” Stepping back, he gestured. “Come in, come in. Can I offer you a gin rickey?”

“No, thanks.”

“Ah.” Mr. Leary gave me a broad conspiratorial wink. “Of course, you’re on the job.” He shook his glass, half-melted ice cubes tinkling. “I hope you don’t mind if I refresh my own. Can I offer you something else? Club soda?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “But please go ahead.”