“Did she mention I went to high school with her?”

“I wasn’t aware of it. She was here on an entirely separate matter.”

“What did you tell her?”

His father stopped with the cup halfway to his lips. “I’m quite capable of having a conversation independent of your oversight.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to butt in. I don’t want her to take advantage of our prior acquaintance.”

“Your name didn’t come up. She sought me out of her own accord, though it’s no concern of yours. I suggest you get your own house in order and let me worry about mine.”

He let the subject drop, stung by the rebuke. The conversation bumbled on until he felt enough time had passed to make his excuses and return to the car. His father declined to walk him to the door.

He was barely aware of the drive home. He rolled down the nearest window and let the air whip through the car’s interior, cooling his face and buffeting his hair. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. Brent shot him a look in the rearview mirror. Walker didn’t feel he had to explain. He was hot. What business was that of Brent’s? The same thoughts assailed him persistently. Kinsey knew about the dog. He couldn’t figure out how she’d arrived at his father’s door. By what circuitous logic had she linked his father and the dog’s remains? Walker had seen her at the dig and within a week, she was six steps behind him and gaining.

By the time Brent dropped him off at the Pelican, the combination of caffeine and anxiety had triggered something close to a panic attack. Walker locked the door behind him and staggered to the bed. His heart was thudding at a rate that made him pant and sweat. It was like an overdose of speed, which he’d experienced twice in his lifelong association with drink and drugs. He sat on the edge of the bed, clutching his chest, afraid to stand up again for fear of passing out. He was dying. He would die. The terror would mount until it crushed him under its weight.

Seven days sober. He wondered if it was possible to make it even one more hour. There was a cocktail lounge two blocks away. He pictured the quick walk, the glittering rows of bottles behind the bar. The lighting would be muted and he doubted he’d see anyone he knew. One drink would calm him. One drink would tide him over to the next day. Mornings were easier anyway, though the day would stretch before him like eternity. All he had to do was get up, cross the room, walk the two blocks to the bar. His hands began to shake.

He picked up the phone and called Leonard.

Chapter 25 - Monday, April 18, 1988

25

Monday, April 18, 1988