Man in the Middle by Ken Morris

Author:Ken Morris
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781890862251
Publisher: Bancroft Press
Published: 2003-03-14T13:00:00+00:00

Peter arrived home at six-thirty, still unsettled over what had happened in Stenman’s office.

Dawson, Dawson, Dawson.

The name stuck in his head like gum on a shoe.

What an asshole.

His anxiety made sense. If they happened to find out that the agent— the man with a compulsive desire to tear them down—was in town, poking around, they’d naturally get someone to follow him. Tailing Dawson resulted in that picture of their meeting at the sports-bar. Thankfully, whoever trailed Dawson that night never made it to Sammy’s Restaurant. If they had pictures of that meeting, Peter could never explain why he’d run down a railroad track to meet the pain in the ass.

As he entered the kitchen, the message machine strobed. He hit play: “Peter, it’s Ellen Goodman. Please call. You’re a sweetheart.”

“What the hell?” He erased the message. Things were getting worse rather than better.

He hadn’t been sweet. He hadn’t been anything. They hadn’t even talked since the day of their breakup. And the nicest thing Ellen had said that day was that he was a born loser and would regret what he was doing.

After ordering in a pizza, he hesitated, then dialed Ellen’s number. Might as well get to the bottom of this now, he decided.

“Hello.” Her voice sang.

“Peter. Returning your call.”

“I love the cat.”

“What cat?”

“The calico. He looks like a young Henry.”

Peter glanced at Henry, the furry, fifteen-year-old ball of shedding, gray fur now ensconced in a corner of the living room sofa. “You have a cat?” he asked.

“Of course, Peter. And I’m sorry for having said what I said. We got along most of the time, didn’t we?”

“No, Ellen, we hardly ever got along.”

“Stop being funny. I hear you’re doing really well at your new job. Gosh, Peter, I was a fool to let you get away. I’m glad you—”

In the background, Peter heard a faint purring and interrupted Ellen. “What did you mean when you said I was sweet?”

“Giving me the cat. I named him Peter, after you.”

“I didn’t give you a cat.”

“Of course you did. Are you’re trying to be mean?”

“No. Someone else gave you that animal. Try Craig Hinton.”

He’d hit a raw nerve, knew Ellen was combusting—he’d heard her huffing before—and promptly hung up.

“Sorry, Ellen,” he said to himself, “but I’m not going to get re-involved. No way.”

The phone rang. Peter lifted the receiver, then put it back down. He lifted a second time and left the handset uncradled on the coffee table. He took a cushion from the sofa and softened the beeping sounds meant to alert him that his phone was off the hook. When the line went dead, he reassembled his sofa, leaving his phone inoperable.

Two hours later, Peter and Henry dragged themselves to bed. The anvil that was Peter’s head hit the pillow, hard. In half a minute—as if on anesthesia—he went under.

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