NYPD Red 6 - James Patterson Page 0,99
shy at first when meeting Mel last semester in an African history seminar—everyone on the Dartmouth campus knew who she was, so that was no secret—and he had no interest in trying to even talk to her until Mel started getting crap thrown at her one day in class. She had said something about the importance of microloans in Africa, and a few loudmouths started hammering her about being ignorant of the real world, being privileged, and not having an authentic life.
When the loudmouths took a moment to catch their respective breaths, Nick surprised himself by saying, “I grew up in a third-floor apartment in Southie. My Dad was a lineman for the electric company, my Mom worked cleaning other people’s homes and clipped coupons to go grocery shopping, and man, I’d trade that authentic life for privilege any day of the week.”
A bunch of the students laughed. Mel caught his eye with a smile and he asked her after class to get a coffee or something at Lou’s Bakery, and that’s how it started.
Him, a scholarship student, dating the daughter of President Matt Keating.
What a world.
What a life.
Sitting on a moss-colored boulder, Mel nudges him and says, “How’s your feet?”
“Feeling cold and fine.”
“Then let’s do the whole thing,” she says, standing up, tugging off her gray Dartmouth sweatshirt. “Feel like a swim?”
He smiles. “Mel … someone could see us!”
She smiles right back, wearing just a tan sports bra under the sweatshirt, as she starts lowering her shorts. “Here? In the middle of a national forest? Lighten up, sweetie. Nobody’s around for miles.”
After she strips, Mel yelps out as she jumps into the pool, keeping her head and glasses above water. The water is cold and sharp. Poor Nick takes his time, wading in, shifting his weight as he tries to keep his footing on the slippery rocks, and he yowls like a hurt puppy when the cold mountain water reaches just below his waist.
The pond is small, and Mel reaches the other side with three strong strokes, and she swims back, the cold water now bracing, making her heart race, everything tingling. She tilts her head back, looking up past the tall pines and seeing the bright, bare blue patch of sky. Nothing. Nobody watching her, following her, recording her.
Bliss.
Another yelp from Nick, and she turns her head to him. Nick had wanted to go Navy ROTC, but a bad set of lungs prevented him from doing so, and even though she knows Dad wishes he’d get a haircut, his Southie background and interest in the Navy scored Nick in the plus side of the boyfriend column with Dad.
Nick lowers himself farther into the water, until it reaches his strong shoulders. “Did you see the sign-up list for the overnight at the cabin?” he asks. “Sorry to say, Cam Carlucci is coming.”
“I know,” she says, treading water, leaning back, letting her hair soak, looking up at the sharp blue and empty sky.
“You know he’s going to want you to—”
Mel looks back at Nick. “Yeah. He and his buds want to go to the Seabrook nuclear plant this Labor Day weekend, occupy it, and shut it down.”
Poor Nick’s lips seem to be turning blue. “They sure want you there.”
In a mocking tone, Mel imitates Cam and says, “‘Oh, Mel, you can make such an impact if you get arrested. Think of the headlines. Think of your influence.’ To hell with him. They don’t want me there as me. They want a puppet they can prop up to get coverage.”
Nick laughs. “You going to tell him that tonight?”
“Nah,” she says. “He’s not worth it. I’ll tell him I have plans for Labor Day weekend instead.”
Her boyfriend looks puzzled. “You do?”
She swims to him and gives him a kiss, hands on his shoulders. “Dopey boy, yes, with you.”
His hands move through the water to her waist, and she’s enjoying the touch—just as she hears voices and looks up.
For the first time in a long time she’s frightened.
LAKE MARIE
New Hampshire
AFTER GETTING OUT of the shower for the second time today (the first after taking a spectacular tumble in a muddy patch of dirt) and drying off, I idly play the which-body-scar-goes-to-which-op when my iPhone rings. I wrap a towel around me, picking up the phone, knowing only about twenty people in the world have this number. Occasionally, though, a call comes in from “John” in Mumbai pretending to be a Microsoft employee in Redmond, Washington. I’ve been tempted to tell John who he’s