christening, his first communion, and, after his father died, he had arranged Michael's adoption by his Uncle Jake. Like Moon, he was practically family.
It was only that ... the last time they spoke ... he thought he saw something in the lawyer's eyes. Something he was holding back.
But Fallon shook that thought away. He had to stop this. This grasping at shadows. There was no way in the world that Brendan Doyle had turned against him.
The message he left said he needed some time to him self. Later, in a week or so, maybe longer, he would call, tell Mr. Doyle where he is and maybe where he's going next. Who knows where. All he knew was that he was never going back to New York City. New York would kill him if he did.
“ Now it's New York again. ” '
“Doc ..”
“First it's New York. Then it's a 'them.' And now it's New York again.''
“ That city, Dr. Greenberg, killed everyone I ever cared about. Except Moon and my mother. And I'm not even sure about them.''
“And except this lawyer?”
“Yes . . . And except Brendan Doyle.”
Chapter 7
The doctor's full name was Sheldon L. Greenberg. His doctorate was in psychology. Fallon found him easy to talk to because he wasn't real. Actually, he was real. He just wasn't in Martha's Vineyard.
He was in a book that Michael found.
During his first lonely weeks on the island, he had hardly spoken ten words to any of the locals except Millie, the real estate lady, and the bartender at the Harborview Hotel. To forestall speculation and to explain his black moods, he concocted a story about a fiancée who had broken their engagement when her former boyfriend drifted back into town. He said he got angry, punched a wall like a jerk, ended up fracturing his wrist. Damned cast itches. Poked holes in it so he could scratch it with a wire coat hanger and now it's falling apart.
It seemed a serviceable, leave-th e -poor-guy-alone kind of story. He said he wasn't sure how long he'd stay. Long enough to get her out of his system. He felt no rush, he told them, to get back to work. No real need either. In ten years on Wall Street he'd done fairly well.
Millie Jacobs's eyes brightened at the mention of ready cash. She reached for her book of pricey listings. She also mentioned that she had a niece on Nantucket, bright girl, honors grad from Radcliffe who plays a good game of tennis and writes wonderful poetry. Fallon told her that the n iece and the listings would have to wait. He wasn't ready. But he did agree to rent a small house from her. His hotel room had begun to close in on him and it was only a matter of time before a chambermaid found that pistol.
But he still spent most of his evenings at the Har borview bar because Kevin, the bartender, had moods that were even darker than his own. He was a dour, defeated- looking man of about fifty who had taken this job to wait out a recession. But for him, that recession never ended. He had been a systems analyst with IBM until his dreams of a comfortable retirement went up in smoke.
Kevin also knew, firsthand, what faithless bitches women are. His wife, a dental hygienist, had served him with divorce papers on the very day his severance had run out and a week after the bank had repossessed their condo. Kevin hated bankers and divorce lawyers just as much as he hated women. And he hated fat-cat senior executives who tell you one month not to leave, your job is safe, and then dump you when they've found some kid who'll do your job for half your salary.
It struck Fallon that the next wave of serial killers might well come from the ranks of the white-collar unemployed. Kevin's view of the world was so bitter, his future so bleak, that Fallon found himself starting to count his own considerable blessings. Perhaps the healing process had started after all. That aside, Kevin's primary appeal was that he poured the only decent drink in Edgartown. Every other bar and restaurant measured a precise ounce and a half of scotch because
It was only that ... the last time they spoke ... he thought he saw something in the lawyer's eyes. Something he was holding back.
But Fallon shook that thought away. He had to stop this. This grasping at shadows. There was no way in the world that Brendan Doyle had turned against him.
The message he left said he needed some time to him self. Later, in a week or so, maybe longer, he would call, tell Mr. Doyle where he is and maybe where he's going next. Who knows where. All he knew was that he was never going back to New York City. New York would kill him if he did.
“ Now it's New York again. ” '
“Doc ..”
“First it's New York. Then it's a 'them.' And now it's New York again.''
“ That city, Dr. Greenberg, killed everyone I ever cared about. Except Moon and my mother. And I'm not even sure about them.''
“And except this lawyer?”
“Yes . . . And except Brendan Doyle.”
Chapter 7
The doctor's full name was Sheldon L. Greenberg. His doctorate was in psychology. Fallon found him easy to talk to because he wasn't real. Actually, he was real. He just wasn't in Martha's Vineyard.
He was in a book that Michael found.
During his first lonely weeks on the island, he had hardly spoken ten words to any of the locals except Millie, the real estate lady, and the bartender at the Harborview Hotel. To forestall speculation and to explain his black moods, he concocted a story about a fiancée who had broken their engagement when her former boyfriend drifted back into town. He said he got angry, punched a wall like a jerk, ended up fracturing his wrist. Damned cast itches. Poked holes in it so he could scratch it with a wire coat hanger and now it's falling apart.
It seemed a serviceable, leave-th e -poor-guy-alone kind of story. He said he wasn't sure how long he'd stay. Long enough to get her out of his system. He felt no rush, he told them, to get back to work. No real need either. In ten years on Wall Street he'd done fairly well.
Millie Jacobs's eyes brightened at the mention of ready cash. She reached for her book of pricey listings. She also mentioned that she had a niece on Nantucket, bright girl, honors grad from Radcliffe who plays a good game of tennis and writes wonderful poetry. Fallon told her that the n iece and the listings would have to wait. He wasn't ready. But he did agree to rent a small house from her. His hotel room had begun to close in on him and it was only a matter of time before a chambermaid found that pistol.
But he still spent most of his evenings at the Har borview bar because Kevin, the bartender, had moods that were even darker than his own. He was a dour, defeated- looking man of about fifty who had taken this job to wait out a recession. But for him, that recession never ended. He had been a systems analyst with IBM until his dreams of a comfortable retirement went up in smoke.
Kevin also knew, firsthand, what faithless bitches women are. His wife, a dental hygienist, had served him with divorce papers on the very day his severance had run out and a week after the bank had repossessed their condo. Kevin hated bankers and divorce lawyers just as much as he hated women. And he hated fat-cat senior executives who tell you one month not to leave, your job is safe, and then dump you when they've found some kid who'll do your job for half your salary.
It struck Fallon that the next wave of serial killers might well come from the ranks of the white-collar unemployed. Kevin's view of the world was so bitter, his future so bleak, that Fallon found himself starting to count his own considerable blessings. Perhaps the healing process had started after all. That aside, Kevin's primary appeal was that he poured the only decent drink in Edgartown. Every other bar and restaurant measured a precise ounce and a half of scotch because
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