A Measure of Blood: A Richard Christie Novel
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want to do this—let the photographers in?” “No photographers yet. Would you make a careful statement for me—you know the ‘we are still determining what happened but the boy is safe’ kind of statement.” “Fine.” Bolden goes out as his men usher Jan and Arthur in. They are flushed and ragged and in their ways beautiful—full of joy. They rush to Matt and hug him hard. Jan’s eyes are closed and she holds the boy tight while he looks surprised and a little bit pleased. Christie sighs
good at them.” “You must have quick eyes.” “Yeah.” “He amazes me,” Oopale says. Quick eyes. Quick ears. “I remembered something else. When my mother yelled at the man in the parking lot, she used a name.” The car pulls over to the curb and both detectives turn around to face the backseat. “It was something like Dol. Or Dal.” “Dol or Dal. Anything more?” “No.” “What did she say exactly?” “Something like, ‘What are you doing here, Dal?’ and he said, ‘I live here
college?” he asks. “Well, more or less. I finished freshman year a while back. Then I ran off and got married.” He tinkers for a while at the computer he got working, pretending to test various applications. When he looks up, she smiles at him. “So that’s romantic, to run away to get married.” She looks amused. “It was for a while. Then it went stale. Then it was over. And now I’m trying to make up for lost time.” She shakes her head at her predicament. “I’m going to stick out in
good for him. They know that. He gets tense. They all stop working for a second. She says, “Frantic, I think. He hasn’t called. Late yesterday afternoon he ran home and got books for the kid. Then he went out and bought him new pajamas with cartoon figures. And he’s got—guess who? Worst luck. Judge Gorcelik.” Judge Gorcelik already thinks Christie’s a bit odd, his having tried so hard to place the four Philips kids with Jan Gabriel and Arthur Morris. What will she make of him today?
Matt nods, biting his lip. Not speaking again. Even Nadal’s hands feel the tremors of his terror. He has made big decisions and now he has to make them right. With deliberation, he opens one cabinet after another, finds a bowl, washes it out, finds a spoon. He’s hungry, too, his stomach is growling, but he is too shaky to eat. He holds the cereal box with two hands and pours a full bowl, then adds milk. His boy is lean, not sloppy, and that’s good. “You burn it off,” he observes. “That’s a