Page 76 of The Furies

“Whether I believe or not doesn’t matter,” said Pantuff. “What matters is that she may believe. I’d really like to be sure, though.”

He nibbled at a hangnail.

“Perhaps,” he said, “we should find out.”

CHAPTER VII

The Bear was open as usual, although there was a palpable air of uncertainty and anxiety about the place. Even the Fulci brothers were not themselves, even if there were some who might have regarded any change as an improvement. The brothers had arrived early to help Dave repair some broken tables, but since they were responsible for breaking them to begin with—in a heated argument over a game of checkers—it was the least they could have done.

Dave stopped me at the host’s station.

“I googled Nate Sawyer,” he said. “I have to tell you, your client list gets more and more colorful as the years go by. I swear, if Jack the Ripper’s widow came in here asking after you, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Where’s the Sawyer woman?”

“In your usual office booth by the bar. You want coffee?”

“Sure, why not?”

“I’ll send some over.” He peered in the direction of the bar. “You have to wonder what kind of mess she’s in to bring her here. Hard to think it’s worse than what she’s already seen.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“God, I hope not. I think the world already has an abundance of afflictions to be getting along with.”

I left him to his burdens and headed over to the booth. Sarah Abelli, or Sawyer, was sitting with her back to the wall, facing out. She probably did that a lot these days, assuming she even ventured beyond her front door very often. Her head was bowed as she typed a message on her cell phone. She glanced up from the screen as I drew nearer, and I stopped in my tracks. I felt the breath catch in my throat, and was torn between the urge to walk away or to reach out and touch her face.

Sarah Abelli bore an uncanny resemblance to Susan, my dead wife. It was in her eyes, the curve of her cheekbones, and the shape of her mouth, but also in the way she held herself, even seated: a kind of relaxed elegance. The hair was different—longer, darker—and the face was slightly fuller, but had she and Susan been seated side by side, and the latter introduced as the younger sister of the former, no one would have demurred.

“Mr. Parker?” she said.

I found my voice. “That’s right.”

She rose and extended a hand. “I’m Sarah Abelli.”

I hesitated only for a moment before shaking her hand. Her skin was very dry, with a rough, almost sandy texture. When I released my grip, I expected to see grains glitter in the palm.

“Thank you for taking the time to speak with me,” she said, as she sat. “Are you okay? You look shaken.”

“You remind me of someone I once knew,” I said. “It took me by surprise.”

“I hope it’s someone you liked.”

“Yes, it was.”

Perhaps she saw something in my face, or heard it in my voice, but she didn’t pursue the matter, and I was grateful for it.

“Well,” she said, “I suppose that’s better than the alternative.”

A server arrived with two mugs, a pot of coffee, and some sweeteners and milk, because Dave knew that I preferred regular milk to creamer.

The server poured the coffee and left us alone again.

“I should tell you before we start,” I said, “that I don’t think I’m in a position to take on any more clients. Given the current situation, it’s going to be difficult to fulfill the commitments I already have.”

She ignored the sugar and milk—ignored what I’d just said, too, judging by the way she smiled—and tasted her coffee.

“I don’t believe my problem will take up much of your time,” she said. “In less than twenty-four hours it’ll be over and done with.”

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