Middle Of Nowhere

   Feeling homesick, he called Liz. She had reinvented herself following her illness. She lived cleanly, spiritually minded, more centered, more collected than ever. An anchor. Her brush with death had invigorated her pursuit of life. She made few demands upon him, other than as the father of their children, and did her best to support him in a job she did not particularly care for him to have. Her work at the bank brought in a good salary, and she occasionally nudged Boldt to consider corporate security work for one of the giant multinationals in the area. But she didn't push. He had nearly interviewed for Boeing once. Their conversation was good—she was thrilled to be home again with the kids. Boldt made absolutely no mention of his impending dinner with Daphne, despite a couple of perfect openings for him to do so. And when he hung up, he wondered why he hadn't told her.

   He pulled his necktie tight, choking himself. A forty-page fax was delivered to his room. Etheredge's attorneys had made the right decision—he was in possession of a portion of the Consolidated Mutual phone solicitation log for area code 206.

* * *

Daphne wore a cream-colored silk blouse with a Mao neck buttoned to hide her scar. A single strand of pearls swept gracefully across the ghost of a delicate lace bra, rising and falling behind her every word. She smelled earthy, a hint of sweet.

   One look at her and he experienced a systemic warmth, like after a stiff drink.

   She worked slowly on a glass of Pinot Noir; Boldt nursed a cranberry juice.

   She said, "Newmann and Consolidated give those inmates—convicted felons—access on their computer terminals to property tax assessments, full credit histories, number of dependents, number and value of registered motor vehicles. . . . What did they expect would happen?"

   Boldt had given her half the fax. Together, they combed the list for the phone numbers of any of the nine burglary victims. He wanted to tell her that she looked great. He kept his mouth shut and his eyes aimed at the fax.

   "And that survey! Did you get time to look that over? Estimated income. Value of residence. Personal property in the residence. Number of computers owned by the family. Number of CD players; number of VCRs. All these little demographic triggers that satiate an insurance company's appetite for data, but in the wrong hands. . . ." She lifted her head. He felt it as a warm wind. "Are you listening?"

   "Appetite for data," Boldt repeated. He had other appetites going. He tried to quiet them.

   "And the guys on the other side of the room are booking travel plans. You can't hit the homes while they're out of town—it'll lead us right back to you— but you could scout them, make your plans. Hit one or two, maybe, but far enough apart we don't connect the dots."

   "I've got one!" he announced a little too loudly, drawing the attention of the diners at the next table. "Brooks-Gilman is down as having been called by an inmate identified as number forty-two," he informed her.

   "Number forty-two," she repeated, running her finger down the column that indicated which inmate in the private commerce program had placed the phone solicitation. "Brumewell!" she exclaimed excitedly, matching a phone number. "Number forty-two did Brumewell too." She was radiant when excited like this, one of those people who generated an electricity, a palpable, physical, sensuous energy that sparked across the table and infected Boldt. He felt that energy run wildly through him—though he didn't like where it landed, where he felt it the most. He shifted in his chair, relieved at the approach of the waiter. They both put the faxed pages aside.

   They ate their salads slowly and in silence. He felt like skipping the main course. He wanted to get back to the faxed pages.

   Boldt caught Daphne's eye, read her mind. "It's all right that we enjoy ourselves," he suggested, trying to sound convincing. "No harm in that."

   "No harm whatsoever," she echoed, though clearly not convinced.

   Another minute passed before he spoke. "The thing about us—"

   "Yes?"

   "The silence isn't uncomfortable."

   "No."

   "It's fine. It feels good, even."

   The salads were withdrawn, replaced by pewter

domed entre´es. As the lids were whisked off in unison, rosemary and garlic stirred the air.

   "It's comfortable is all," he said, once they had been left alone.

   "That's not all, and you know it," she replied.

   "No, maybe not," he conceded.

   "We've been there, Lou. And we've had plenty of opportunities since then to revisit, and we don't, which is good, I think."

   "You think or you know?"

   "Her illness. . . . The cancer—it pulled you two even closer together."

   "Yes, it did," he agreed.

   "It's making the most out of a bad situation. You two did that. It's admirable."

   "Thank you," he said sincerely. "It doesn't mean I care for you any less."

   She reached out across the table and took his hand in hers. "I know that. And it goes both ways, you know."