While Galileo Preys. Joshua Corin

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СКАЧАТЬ later, Catch was still unconscious. He’d lost a lot of blood at the scene. Meanwhile, the third story of the aquarium collapsed into the second story. Thousands of sea animals were dead. The local paper actually listed the different species. Some of the national outlets had arrived. Connections were already being made between this attack and the one in Atlanta. The bastard had assassinated twenty people now and left a trail as cold as the Long Island Sound.

      And he was just getting started.

      4

       “H aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaappyVaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaalentine’s Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!”

      Sophie hopped into her parents’ king-size bed. It was 6:03 a.m.

      Esme groaned. Forced open her eyelids. Her daughter stared back, her blue eyes (identical to Rafe’s, who was still asleep) full of energy.

      “I made breakfast!” Sophie declared and ran out, presumably to the kitchen.

      Esme groaned again. 6:03 a.m. Love was never ever easy.

      But that didn’t mean she had to suffer alone.

      Esme slapped her husband on the ass. Twice. Hard. Finally, he stirred. Glanced over at her as if she’d stolen his baby blanket.

      “Our daughter made breakfast,” said Esme.

      Rafe’s blue-eyed gaze (far from identical at this moment to his daughter in that they conveyed No Energy Whatsoever) shifted from Esme to the clock on her nightstand, then back to Esme.

      “Do I know you people?” he muttered.

      She poked him playfully in his paunch.

      “I love you, too,” she replied. “Now let’s get to the kitchen before Sophie burns it down, okay?”

      Esme’s concerns proved unwarranted. Sophie had made cereal. And by made, she had poured her favorite brand (Count Chocula) into two bowls and soaked the bowls in milk. She had even provided napkins, forks, and spoons. She would have provided knives too, but she was forbidden to open the knife drawer.

      As Esme and Rafe shuffled into the kitchen, their daughter was already at the table, placing folded sheets of red construction paper on their wicker seats. She wore her red-and-white Cupid pajamas, with its little hearts and arrows and diapered cherubs. Red clothes always made her chestnut hair appear auburn, as if she had on a hat of autumn leaves.

      “Do you want orange juice or grapefruit juice?” Sophie asked.

      “Huhwhahuh,” Rafe replied.

      “Grapefruit juice,” said Esme. “I’ll get it.”

      Soon they were all three enjoying their breakfast. Esme and Rafe’s cereal had gotten soggy, but soggy chocolate was still chocolate. The construction paper Sophie had left on their seats were Valentine’s Day cards, lovingly Crayola’d. She drew Rafe with his glasses on and with his beard trimmed. Neither applied to Rafe at the moment. Crayola Esme had small ears. Sophie knew how sensitive her mother was about her ears.

      “Come here,” said Esme, and hugged her daughter close.

      Rafe finished his cereal first. His breakfast was normally comprised of a stale doughnut and a cup of instant coffee, both procured from the social sciences department faculty lounge, so this was a huge improvement. True, he continued to act half-asleep—mumbling answers, exaggerating every yawn—but in actuality Rafe was having a wonderful time. He absently ruffled through his thinning black hair and wondered how he could make this moment last the rest of his life…or at least until the end of the semester.

      Ah, the work of the day beckoned. Rafe lumbered into the shower while Esme remained in the kitchen and helped Sophie finish filling out the Valentine’s Day cards for her classmates.

      “But, Mom…I don’t want to give one to Thad Crotty…he’s gross.”

      “What makes him gross?”

      “He smells like the garbage disposal.”

      “We shouldn’t judge people, Sophie. Everyone is unique and different. Like a snowflake.”

      They sealed tiny candy message-hearts into each of the miniature red envelopes—one for each of her classmates and one for Mrs. Leacy. Sophie deliberated extensively which message-hearts went to which classmates. By the time Rafe had rejoined them in the kitchen, dried off and spectacled and in full professor-mode, Esme and Sophie were only half done.

      “Better hurry up, kiddo,” said Rafe.

      He was Sophie’s morning chauffeur. They usually left the house at 7:15. Esme hustled their daughter into her bedroom and helped her select The Perfect Outfit for Valentine’s Day.

      Meanwhile, Rafe contributed to Team Sophie by finishing up the cards. Before departing for her bedroom, Sophie gave him strict instructions. As he attempted to follow them, he also attempted to recollect his elementary school valentines. He couldn’t even recall the names of his instructors. He would be forty years old this July. This fact, unfortunately, he never seemed to forget.

      Esme joined him back at the table.

      “Sophie’s brushing her hair,” she said. “She wants privacy.”

      “Well, sure.”

      They kissed. Briefly—but briefly then lasted a minute. Two minutes. Hands touched cheeks. Mussed hair. Three minutes.

      “Happy Valentine’s Day,” whispered Rafe.

      “Happy Valentine’s Day,” whispered Esme.

      Sophie marched into the kitchen. “I’m ready!”

      At 10:00 a.m., Esme texted their babysitter, Chelsea, reminding the slightly scatterbrained but quite responsible teenager to come by the house no later than six o’clock. Rafe and Esme had strict dinner reservations at 6:30 p.m. at Il Forno.

      As soon as Esme returned her cell phone to the counter, it buzzed. Was that Chelsea already, sneaking a text message back to her from some high school classroom? Esme checked the screen.

      Tom Piper.

      Her phone buzzed again.

      Like most Americans, she had read about the attacks in Amarillo. The 24-hour news channels were still filled, three days later, with footage and interviews and expert opinions, not the mention rampant speculation. Was this attack related to the one in Atlanta? Was there a serial killer on the loose? It made for compulsive TV.

      Except for Esme. After her initial obsession about the Atlanta shootings, after Tom Piper had deconstructed her obsession into simple displacement, her interest in the story quickly faded. One might even say she became just as obsessively uninterested. Instead, Esme concentrated her days on her Sudoku puzzles, her books (she’d moved on from the Elvis Costello biography to a schmaltzy novel her reading club had selected), and her ever-surprising daughter. She’d even started paying attention to the presidential elections. It was unavoidable, really. Amy Lieb was roping all of Oyster Bay into her campaign for Bob Kellerman and now that it looked like he’d be the nominee, her efforts (in her mind) had ascended to Great Importance. СКАЧАТЬ