Neville, Katherine - The Fire by Neville Katherine

Author:Neville, Katherine [Neville, Katherine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 0345500679
Amazon: B002QGSVQG
Publisher: Ballantine Books
Published: 2008-10-13T23:00:00+00:00

‘Doesn’t he ever feed you, this employer of yours? When was the last time you ate?’ Nim was asking me, irritably.

Despite the caustic tone he was regarding me with grave concern with those strange bicolored eyes – one blue, one brown – that seemed always to look at you and through you at once. His brow furrowed, his elbows propped on my kitchen table, he watched every swallow I took as I tucked into my second helping of the delicious soup he’d prepared from things he’d foraged in my barren kitchen. He’d whipped up this soup to revive me, after I’d apparently blacked out in his arms and he’d laid me out cold on the living room sofa.

‘I guess Rodo and I both overlooked that I haven’t had time to eat much lately,’ I admitted. ‘Things have been so confused these past few days. I think the last real meal I had was what I prepared myself, back in Colorado.’

‘Colorado!’ Nim exclaimed under his breath as he glanced once, quickly, toward the window. Then he lowered his voice further. ‘So that’s where you’ve been. I’ve been hunting you here for days. I’ve been by that restaurant of yours more than once.’

So he was the trench-coated mystery man who’d been lurking around Sutalde.

But suddenly, without warning, Nim had slapped his hand flat on my nearby kitchen counter with a loud smack. ‘Cockroach,’ he said, holding up his empty palm with one brow slightly raised as in warning. ‘I noticed one, but there may be others. When you’ve finished your soup, let’s go toss this outside.’

I understood: That empty palm suggested my place was ‘bugged’ in a different fashion, so we couldn’t talk here. My eyes were scratchy from my weeping jag, my head ached from lack of sleep. But hungry or exhausted or not, I understood as well as he did the urgency of our situation. We really needed to speak.

‘I’m pretty tired already,’ I told my uncle with a yawn that I didn’t need to fake. ‘Let’s go right now and get it done. Then I can get back and catch some sleep.’

Pulling my big coffee mug down from its hook over the stove, I ladled it full of the soup. I made a mental note to jot down later the magical meld of flavors Nim had managed to concoct from the dusty tins and paper packets he’d tossed together: a rich, creamy corn chowder laced with curry and lemon juice, sprinkled with toasted coconut, crabmeat, and chopped jalapeño peppers. Astonishing. Once again my uncle had demonstrated what he’d always prided himself on: creating a magical meal just by rummaging through the refuse of an ordinary kitchen cupboard. He’d do Rodo proud.

We slipped on our outdoors coats. I stuck the spoon in my cup and followed him down the darkened steps and into the wet black night. Both the canal towpath below us and the meandering footpath leading into Key Park were black and deserted, so we walked uphill to M Street where the streetlamps always shimmered golden pools of light throughout the night.

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