meeting,” Carrie said. She jabbed a finger in my direction.
“You need to see these folks again for yourself. Then you can make your own judgments.”
“I suppose so,” I answered slowly, thinking it out. If I didn’t get involved. If I only observed—
“I knew you would,” Carrie purred, grinning now. She jumped out of her chair and ran around the table to put her arm around my shoulders. “Thank you, Kate,” she added and squeezed.
Then she went back to her chair, grabbing a piece of bread as she sat down. She bit into it and I realized that the bread was the first food she’d touched. Damn, there was no way I was going to tell her I wouldn’t go now.
Carrie swallowed and said, “Have any more questions, Ms. Jasper?”
“Do these guys all write for a living?” I asked back.
“Most of them aren’t paid enough for their writing to make an actual living,” Carrie answered. She looked down at her salad and picked up a fork tentatively. “So they have day jobs. Travis fixes video games. He’s very bright. I have tried to convince him to go back to school and study computer programming, but…” She swiveled her head and massaged her shoulder with one hand. “It’s no wonder he doesn’t want to go back to school. He’s working, writing, and spending most of his time on causes—”
“What kind of causes?”
“Animal rights. Freedom for Tibet. Fighting world hunger. Those are just the ones you would recognize. Travis can tell you about causes you’ve never even heard of.” She let out a big sigh and put her fork back down.
“Russell’s a technical writer,” she went on before I could ask her what the sigh was about. “Vicky programs computers. Nan sells real estate. Joyce manages Operation Soup Pot’s kitchen. And I argue appellate insurance cases.” She sighed again. At least I understood this sigh.
“But I shouldn’t complain about my work,” Carrie went on. “Hazelwood, Hazelwood and Lau has paid for my children’s education. I only wish I didn’t have to practice law at all.”
She picked up her fork again and took a bite of her salad.
“Mave doesn’t have to work outside of her writing,” she mumbled through the bite. “She’s long retired from teaching. Lots of time for her historical biography. Donna doesn’t work either. I’m not sure where her money comes from. Probably from her husband. Or perhaps from her family.”
She sent me a significant look across the table as she said “family.” I wished she hadn’t. I’d almost managed to forget Donna’s family.
“And Slade certainly didn’t need a job. He made a fortune on his thrillers. And I believe he had inherited wealth to begin with.”
“Tell me more about Slade’s writing,” I commanded. An idea was beginning to tickle the back of my brain. If Slade made so much money off his writing, maybe someone had killed him to steal his latest manuscript.
“As you know, he writes—or wrote—thrillers,” Carrie said. “Often international. Thrillers with deep character development. I’ve always found it hard to believe that he could write such fully-realized fictional characters while remaining completely insensitive to any non-fictional characters, otherwise known as human beings. Cool Fallout was his new manuscript, the one he gave to you.” She looked across at me. “Do you want to know what it’s about?”
I nodded. Why not?
She leaned back in her chair. “You’ll have to trust my memory on this,” she cautioned. “Basically, it concerns a group of sixties radicals and what became of them. During the late sixties, these radicals sold dope to support a sort of underground railroad for Vietnam draft evaders. Then a sheriff is killed and they’re forced to disband.” She circled a pointed finger in the air. “Flash forward to the nineties. Now the members of this group are all being contacted by someone who wants to use their particular services. A mysterious someone. That’s the
“You need to see these folks again for yourself. Then you can make your own judgments.”
“I suppose so,” I answered slowly, thinking it out. If I didn’t get involved. If I only observed—
“I knew you would,” Carrie purred, grinning now. She jumped out of her chair and ran around the table to put her arm around my shoulders. “Thank you, Kate,” she added and squeezed.
Then she went back to her chair, grabbing a piece of bread as she sat down. She bit into it and I realized that the bread was the first food she’d touched. Damn, there was no way I was going to tell her I wouldn’t go now.
Carrie swallowed and said, “Have any more questions, Ms. Jasper?”
“Do these guys all write for a living?” I asked back.
“Most of them aren’t paid enough for their writing to make an actual living,” Carrie answered. She looked down at her salad and picked up a fork tentatively. “So they have day jobs. Travis fixes video games. He’s very bright. I have tried to convince him to go back to school and study computer programming, but…” She swiveled her head and massaged her shoulder with one hand. “It’s no wonder he doesn’t want to go back to school. He’s working, writing, and spending most of his time on causes—”
“What kind of causes?”
“Animal rights. Freedom for Tibet. Fighting world hunger. Those are just the ones you would recognize. Travis can tell you about causes you’ve never even heard of.” She let out a big sigh and put her fork back down.
“Russell’s a technical writer,” she went on before I could ask her what the sigh was about. “Vicky programs computers. Nan sells real estate. Joyce manages Operation Soup Pot’s kitchen. And I argue appellate insurance cases.” She sighed again. At least I understood this sigh.
“But I shouldn’t complain about my work,” Carrie went on. “Hazelwood, Hazelwood and Lau has paid for my children’s education. I only wish I didn’t have to practice law at all.”
She picked up her fork again and took a bite of her salad.
“Mave doesn’t have to work outside of her writing,” she mumbled through the bite. “She’s long retired from teaching. Lots of time for her historical biography. Donna doesn’t work either. I’m not sure where her money comes from. Probably from her husband. Or perhaps from her family.”
She sent me a significant look across the table as she said “family.” I wished she hadn’t. I’d almost managed to forget Donna’s family.
“And Slade certainly didn’t need a job. He made a fortune on his thrillers. And I believe he had inherited wealth to begin with.”
“Tell me more about Slade’s writing,” I commanded. An idea was beginning to tickle the back of my brain. If Slade made so much money off his writing, maybe someone had killed him to steal his latest manuscript.
“As you know, he writes—or wrote—thrillers,” Carrie said. “Often international. Thrillers with deep character development. I’ve always found it hard to believe that he could write such fully-realized fictional characters while remaining completely insensitive to any non-fictional characters, otherwise known as human beings. Cool Fallout was his new manuscript, the one he gave to you.” She looked across at me. “Do you want to know what it’s about?”
I nodded. Why not?
She leaned back in her chair. “You’ll have to trust my memory on this,” she cautioned. “Basically, it concerns a group of sixties radicals and what became of them. During the late sixties, these radicals sold dope to support a sort of underground railroad for Vietnam draft evaders. Then a sheriff is killed and they’re forced to disband.” She circled a pointed finger in the air. “Flash forward to the nineties. Now the members of this group are all being contacted by someone who wants to use their particular services. A mysterious someone. That’s the
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