Seven Days Dead Read Online Free Page B

he never found himself interested in women who were, in his words, difficult. He said, “When the nitty gets down to the gritty, everybody has their thing. My thing is, I’m only attracted to promiscuous women. If they’re not sleeping around, they’re not sleeping with me.” He was explaining why he’d never remarried. At the time, she didn’t know what to make of his thing. The peccadillo seemed unique, she’d give him that, but it also kept him safe from marriage, for what man married a woman with that proclivity? If real, his preference dovetailed with his nature—was he not being cruel? Did he not just call every woman he ever slept with a whore, by virtue of his thing ? And didn’t that include her own mother? And wasn’t that just the cat’s meow?
    During her drive, she’d been doing this, chewing the cud of her past, regurgitating old debates and conversations as though she might masticate history until it became something quite different. She could scarcely believe it, but on occasion the water on the windshield was less of a problem than the tears in her eyes, but she could believe it when she assessed that she was not grieving for him, but for all the old gripes and the nasty memories and for what caused them, and she grieved for the life that might have been yet never had a snowball’s chance in a pizza oven. He was not a man she’d ever want to know yet knew him to be her father. That thought dredged up a well-worn anxiety—namely, how much of him existed in her?
    Blacks is not a large town, although the drive in from the outskirts takes a while. The homes spread out, then a lengthy stretch of woodland returns, followed by shopping areas and more bungalows. Finally, the road dips to a mere smidge above sea level and a big arrow rears up on the right, indicating Grand Manan. The ferry won’t be running at this hour. She carries in her purse a phone number passed along by her father’s maid. A while back, she made the call, which gave her an address. She remembers the town well enough that she finds the street without too much difficulty, missing her turn once on account of the rain, but she circles back and finds it on the next pass and drives slowly along, checking numbers. Seeing anything is virtually impossible in these conditions. She gets out once and is soaked in an instant. She runs to a door and checks the civic address, then counts houses after that to hopefully land at the right one. She gets out again and gets soaked again. Some numbers were skipped so she’s gone too far, but on her third attempt at walking up to a door she’s right on the money.
    She rings the bell and hears chimes.
    The man’s been waiting for her. He lets her in as far as his vestibule and shuts the door behind her. They don’t know each other. Suspicious, his wife hangs back in the hallway and two small kids gape up at the visitor from behind their father’s thighs. She supposes that on a night like this she might resemble a feral cat.
    A very wet feral cat.
    From her eyes she clears hair away that feels knotted and pasted on her skin.
    “Hi,” she says. Often the tallest in the room, she’s a head above him.
    “You’re wet,” he says.
    “It’s raining,” she replies.
    “I believe you,” he says.
    “Are you Mr. McCarran?” She tries to smile, first at him, then at his kids, but gives up when she receives no similar expression in return. She won’t bother trying her act on the man’s wife. The two women are about the same age. The man is much older.
    “Sticky,” he says.
    “Ah, excuse me?”
    “My name. It’s Sticky.”
    Perfect, she thinks. “Ah, okay. Sticky. Sticky McCarran? I’m the one who called. I need to get to Grand Manan.”
    “In this weather? You don’t mean tonight.” When she does not answer promptly, he thinks that she just might. “Don’t you know how bad it is out there?”
    “I’m led to believe that you own a good boat. I understand that you’re a pretty good