Rapture

There were two Slaton boys, both of them several years younger than Jeff. He couldn't remember their names either. At the time, they had been kid brothers, occasional pests, nothing more. It was odd to think of them now as grown up, living their individual lives, somewhere.

And one daughter, Jeffs classmate and good friend: Georgianne Slaton. They had never been boyfriendgirlfriend to each other, but they had spent a great deal of time together. There had been a bond, a closeness between them that had lasted for four or five years. It was something good in his life to remember.

Jeff couldn't count the number of double dates he and Georgianne had been out on together. He with one of his three successive high-school romances, Georgianne always with Mike Rollins, her steady. Wherever Georgianne was now, it surely wouldn't be with Mike. He may have been a good high-school date, but she must have done better since then. Mike was jolly and energetic, but it was mostly surface flash. He'd probably found a place in marketing somewhere, but he couldn't have held on to Georgianne.

She had gone to college in Boston, as Jeff recalled. He didn't know where Mike had gone. A couple of months after graduation, Jeff had gone out to UCLA. He'd soon lost touch with Mike and Georgianne. High-school friendships, however intense at the time, often prove to be the most perishable.

Jeff put the empty beer cans in the kitchen. His old bedroom, he found, was almost completely stripped of personal items. It was like a guest room now, or a motel room, but at least the bed was made up. Jeffs body was tired, but he was awake for a long time, thinking, before he found his way to sleep.

OceanofPDF.com

CHAPTER THREE

Jeff woke up about ten minutes before the alarm was due to go off feeling rested and eager to get on with the day. He showered, toweled himself dry, and opened his suitcase to get some clean clothes.

It came as something of a surprise to find the pistol tucked in among his shirts. Now why the hell did I bring that, Jeff wondered. It was a cheap .22, and he had owned it for five years or more-ever since his company had landed its first significant defense contract. At the time, buying it had seemed the thing to do, for reasons he could no longer recall. Yet he had continued to carry it with him most of the time, and he had obviously packed it for this trip without even thinking about it.

He picked up the gun and looked at it as if it belonged to someone else and had come into his possession by mistake. Oddly enough, he thought, there was more of a rationale for the weapon now than at any previous time. His company had just begun an extremely sensitive military project. But did a California gun license have any legal status in Connecticut? Could he get in trouble simply for having the pistol? He put it back in the suitcase. It would stay there, and he'd be back in L.A. in a few days.

He drank the bitter remains of some orange juice, made instant coffee, and smoked his first cigarette of the day. Next, he called Uncle Roy and said he'd be over later in the morning, explaining that he'd already had breakfast. Then he found Dick Hudson's number in the telephone book. The lawyer came on the line at once and said he'd be glad to see Jeff anytime.

"Thanks. I'll stop by in about an hour."

"Fine, fine. You know where we are?"

"Church Street?"

"Right you are."

Jeff went into his bedroom to finish unpacking. His suit was rumpled from being left in the suitcase overnight, but he knew Aunt Kitty would be glad to give it a quick press for him. After putting it by the front door, he busied himself by disposing of the rest of the perishables in the kitchen. They filled less than half a trash bag.

Dick Hudson's office was definitely the establishment of an unpretentious small-town lawyer. The chairs were leather, but worn and scuffed. The carpet felt like it wasn't there, and the rest of the furniture might have come from a forties movie. But it all looked somehow reassuring, and it wasn't uncomfortable.

Hudson was a large, middle-aged man with fleshy hands and a full head of graying hair brushed tightly back over his skull. Property deals, wills, and probate were the mainstay of his practice, with two or three divorce cases a year thrown in for good measure. He spent a minute or so commiserating with Jeff about his father and a few more on idle pleasantries. Then he got to the point.

"I suppose you want to know about the will. That's understandable, perfectly understandable," he soothed. "You probably want to get back to California as soon as possible."

"Right," Jeff said. "But I'm mostly interested in knowing how involved I'll have to be in the process."