Head Wounds by Chris Knopf

Author:Chris Knopf [Knopf, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 9780307356598
Google: FBs81uvLshoC
Amazon: B003ZUYB8O
Goodreads: 13532648
Publisher: Vintage Canada
Published: 2008-05-01T04:00:00+00:00

FIFTEEN

THE MORNING AFTER my consultation with Markham Fairchild I woke to a slightly chilled, smooth-skinned naked body sliding under the covers of the daybed where I slept on the screened-in porch. Before I fully reached consciousness, or even opened my eyes, all sorts of pleasant things occurred.

“That was your wake-up call,” Amanda whispered, her lips brushing my left ear.

I held her and burrowed deeper into the covers. I’d taken off the storm windows, perhaps prematurely, since you could see your breath if you were brave enough to look.

“What happens if I reset the alarm?”

“We send in Helga with a bullhorn and riding crop. Not nearly so agreeable.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“In the kitchen there’s espresso to be made and eggs to scramble. Ham to fry and dogs to greet.”

“Dogs?”

“Okay, one dog. Multiple personalities.”

“You have no idea.”

While Amanda worked up breakfast, I took a shower in the outdoor stall. All frigid and steamy glory, no vertigo or weird little clicks. The morning light was pale, but deepening with the season.

When I got back to the porch, in clean blue jeans, work shirt and threadbare wool sweater, Amanda had a fire going in the woodstove and mounds of steaming delectables arrayed on the pine table. She wore one of my flannel work shirts, which must have been warm enough since that was all she had on.

“Before you thank me,” she said, using her fingers to explore the back of my head, “which I flatter myself to think you’d do, I need to ask you a favor.”

“I’m not sure I can take another quid pro quo.”

“More like tit for tat.”

“Fair enough.”

“I’m meeting with the DEC today. I’m feeling out of my depth,” she said, rocking me back and forth.

“Okay.”

“But I need the reasonable Sam. The engineer. I want the prizefighter to stay home.”

“With Eddie. The other schizoid in the house.”

“That’s right,” she said. “I need your brain.”

“The reliability of which is up for debate.”

“I don’t care. I’ll take it as it is.”

“Your money.”

——

The meeting was held in a tiny claustrophobic conference room on the ground floor of Southampton Town Hall. The two DEC guys who sat at the end of the table were wearing light-blue polyester shirts and sporting oily complexions and do-it-yourself haircuts. They both had stacks of paper pouring from manila folders in the style of Jackie Swaitkowski and an assortment of hand-held electronic devices, the purposes of which were as obscure to me as the monuments of Stonehenge.

Amanda had a file of her own, stuffed with site drawings, correspondence and official approvals to move forward with construction. I had a ballpoint pen, a pad of paper and the determination to get out of there without a lawsuit or related catastrophe.

When we walked in the door the DEC guys fumbled awkwardly to their feet and offered to shake hands.

The older one, Dan, had convinced himself that a goatee would make him look youthful. It was mostly gray, like his hair, though the part that would have been a moustache created a muddy brown outline around his mouth.

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