into the forced settlement of the Tuareg, a previously nomadic tribe of the western Sahara.
Gallagher went up to Isabel and told her he had enjoyed the talk. She was eleven years older, darkly beautiful, funny and possessing a remarkably lusty laugh. She was legally separated from her husband, and was working on a year’s teaching contract at Cornell while seeking a more permanent position. Isabel’s favorite pastime was fly-fishing, a skill taught to her by her father. She and Gallagher talked anthropology and fishing for a long time. Gallagher had never fished in his life, but her excitement about it was contagious. She invited him to come with her to a nearby limestone stream to learn.
In a whirlwind three months Isabel Martin taught Gallagher the meditative benefits of the rod and the river as well as the physical profits of a healthy sexual appetite. She returned to her husband in June, somehow leaving him both wiser and more confused than ever.
The day after Isabel’s departure, a social worker contacted Gallagher to say that his mother had been hospitalized. She was failing fast. He went to New York to say his goodbyes.
Agnes’ skin was the yellow of a scuffed and bruised lemon when he walked into the room. Racked by deliriums, she barely understood that her son was present, mumbling only one coherent sentence for him to hold onto: ‘Pat, be a good boy and get your mum some tomato juice.’
During the night, she gradually blackened as her liver failed. She died at six in the morning, leaving Gallagher scorched inside. He walked the streets for hours, ending up at his father’s grave site in Queens. He stared down at grass wet with dew below Seamus’ stone. He tried to erect the glass walls, but they would not go up. Gallagher had collapsed on the ground in front of his father’s headstone and cried for hours.
Driving up the River Road, Gallagher could see Nightingale fighting the same sense of hopeless loss, of being cast adrift without oar or anchor. She slammed her fist into her thigh. ‘I left Olga helpless. I should have taken her with me.’
‘Don’t go second-guessing yourself,’ he warned her. ‘It does no good.’
Before she could reply, they crested a rise to see the familiar blue and red flaring lights of police cars, fire engines and ambulances. Beyond, the charred skeleton of a farmhouse smoldered in the rain. Smoke lifted off the beamwork that had survived the fire, lofted and melted with the mist to become a silica-colored veil that billowed and curled like gnarled fingers above the dairy barn and the fields beyond.
Nightingale was out and moving toward the burned house before Gallagher had halted the truck Deputy Phil Gavrilis, clad in a blue, ankle-length raincoat, stepped in her way. The rain poured off his hat brow. ‘It’s rough. You sure you want to go up there, Andie?’
‘Yes, Phil, I do,’ she said, struggling to keep her jaw from trembling. ‘When did it happen?’
‘Sometime between midnight and dawn, before the real rain started; otherwise I don’t think the place would have burned that hard,’ Gavrilis replied.
‘Where’s Chief Kerris?’ she asked.
‘Not here yet,’ the deputy said puzzled. ‘We’ve got calls out for him, but he’s not responding. Tony Fulton, the arson investigator, is already up there.’
Nightingale turned to go up the hill. Gavrilis walked away toward a knot of volunteer firemen. Seeing Gallagher get out of the same vehicle as Nightingale, the three state troopers and the dozen firefighters arrayed on the knoll must have figured he belonged on the scene, because no one moved to prevent him from following her toward the smoking house. Nightingale got to the charred ruins, took one look into what used to be Olga Dawson’s kitchen, spun around and put her hand to her mouth. She staggered toward the blackened trunk of a red oak and held on, taking huge gulps of air.
Gallagher moved up to look for himself.
Olga Dawson rested on her
Gallagher went up to Isabel and told her he had enjoyed the talk. She was eleven years older, darkly beautiful, funny and possessing a remarkably lusty laugh. She was legally separated from her husband, and was working on a year’s teaching contract at Cornell while seeking a more permanent position. Isabel’s favorite pastime was fly-fishing, a skill taught to her by her father. She and Gallagher talked anthropology and fishing for a long time. Gallagher had never fished in his life, but her excitement about it was contagious. She invited him to come with her to a nearby limestone stream to learn.
In a whirlwind three months Isabel Martin taught Gallagher the meditative benefits of the rod and the river as well as the physical profits of a healthy sexual appetite. She returned to her husband in June, somehow leaving him both wiser and more confused than ever.
The day after Isabel’s departure, a social worker contacted Gallagher to say that his mother had been hospitalized. She was failing fast. He went to New York to say his goodbyes.
Agnes’ skin was the yellow of a scuffed and bruised lemon when he walked into the room. Racked by deliriums, she barely understood that her son was present, mumbling only one coherent sentence for him to hold onto: ‘Pat, be a good boy and get your mum some tomato juice.’
During the night, she gradually blackened as her liver failed. She died at six in the morning, leaving Gallagher scorched inside. He walked the streets for hours, ending up at his father’s grave site in Queens. He stared down at grass wet with dew below Seamus’ stone. He tried to erect the glass walls, but they would not go up. Gallagher had collapsed on the ground in front of his father’s headstone and cried for hours.
Driving up the River Road, Gallagher could see Nightingale fighting the same sense of hopeless loss, of being cast adrift without oar or anchor. She slammed her fist into her thigh. ‘I left Olga helpless. I should have taken her with me.’
‘Don’t go second-guessing yourself,’ he warned her. ‘It does no good.’
Before she could reply, they crested a rise to see the familiar blue and red flaring lights of police cars, fire engines and ambulances. Beyond, the charred skeleton of a farmhouse smoldered in the rain. Smoke lifted off the beamwork that had survived the fire, lofted and melted with the mist to become a silica-colored veil that billowed and curled like gnarled fingers above the dairy barn and the fields beyond.
Nightingale was out and moving toward the burned house before Gallagher had halted the truck Deputy Phil Gavrilis, clad in a blue, ankle-length raincoat, stepped in her way. The rain poured off his hat brow. ‘It’s rough. You sure you want to go up there, Andie?’
‘Yes, Phil, I do,’ she said, struggling to keep her jaw from trembling. ‘When did it happen?’
‘Sometime between midnight and dawn, before the real rain started; otherwise I don’t think the place would have burned that hard,’ Gavrilis replied.
‘Where’s Chief Kerris?’ she asked.
‘Not here yet,’ the deputy said puzzled. ‘We’ve got calls out for him, but he’s not responding. Tony Fulton, the arson investigator, is already up there.’
Nightingale turned to go up the hill. Gavrilis walked away toward a knot of volunteer firemen. Seeing Gallagher get out of the same vehicle as Nightingale, the three state troopers and the dozen firefighters arrayed on the knoll must have figured he belonged on the scene, because no one moved to prevent him from following her toward the smoking house. Nightingale got to the charred ruins, took one look into what used to be Olga Dawson’s kitchen, spun around and put her hand to her mouth. She staggered toward the blackened trunk of a red oak and held on, taking huge gulps of air.
Gallagher moved up to look for himself.
Olga Dawson rested on her
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