I couldn’t face going back there. I didn’t want to walk in the door and be met by myself—my choices everywhere—the stuff I owned, my things, my life hanging on the walls and crowding the cupboards.
I drove to Cassowary. It was the middle of the night. Cromwell barked from the upper hallway, where he slept in front of my grandfather’s bedroom, but he wagged his tail when he recognized who it was, giving me a sloppy greeting. The light in my grandfather’s room flickered briefly on and then shut off when he realized it was me coming home.
The next day, groggy and giving in to the panacea of sedation, I could hear a commotion outside my bedroom door, the vague sound of raised voices, not so muffled that I didn’t recognize Pop in all his fury. The door opened and banged shut and then opened a crack, Pop’s big rubber overshoe acting as doorstop.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Ingrid was trying to prevent him from entering the room.
I lifted my head off the pillow, propped myself up on my elbows, and saw Pop’s intruding shoulder form a wedge against the open crack of door.
“I’m here to get my son.”
“Well, I’m going to speak to his grandfather about that—”
“The hell you will!” Pop shouted, pushing hard against the door.
“Pop!” I said as he charged toward the bed. “What are you doing?”
He took me by the arm. “Come on, Collie, you’re coming with me.”
“Now, Collie, your grandfather will want to talk to you before you go anywhere,” Ingrid said, appealing to me. “We’re worried about you.”
“This hasn’t a thing to do with his grandfather. Collie’s my son. Peregrine Lowell has nothing to say about what happens to him.”
Neither, apparently, did I. It didn’t seem to occur to anyone that I wasn’t a kid anymore.
“But Pop . . .” I was struggling to clear my head, trying to shake off the residual effects of too much Valium.
“Collie’s exhausted. Let him rest here for a day or so. . . . Be reasonable, Charlie, for heaven’s sake,” Ingrid was sputtering as the futility of her protest became evident to her.
But Pop wasn’t listening; his aggressive indifference had a gangster’s edge—he might as well have mashed a grapefruit in her face. He threw off my blankets, pitched them onto the floor, and pulled me up so I was standing, pathetic in my pajamas and bare feet. He reached for my cane and threw his raincoat over my shoulders.
“What the devil?” The Falcon stepped out of his bedroom, dressed for an early flight to Vancouver, turned to the left, and walked right into us.
“Out of my way, Perry,” Pop said, tightening his grip on my elbow.
“What’s going on here?” the Falcon demanded.
“Call the police!” someone was shouting.
“Don’t call the police,” I said. “Why would you call the police?”
“Collie, you’re not going anywhere,” the Falcon said as he reached out and hooked his fingers in a tight grip around my forearm.
“Get your lousy hands off him,” Pop said, pulling me toward him.
The Falcon yanked back. My cane clattered to the floor. I felt like the main course at a feast of jackals.
“You drunken maniac. What do you think you’re doing?” The Falcon raised his voice as he and Pop tugged away at me.
“Settle down, you guys, this is crazy. Just give me a moment to think,” I said, but no one was listening to me.
“He’s my son. Let him go!!” Pop was shouting, and then with one great heave-ho he pulled me free, so I was standing behind him as the yanking force propelled him into the Falcon, who was forced to take several steps backward. He was chest to chest with Pop, who struggled to keep his balance by hanging on to the Falcon’s outstretched arm—the collective gasp of anguish from the staff could be heard throughout the universe.
“Run, Collie, run!” Pop was hollering, pushing free of the Falcon. “Head for the stairs, I’m right behind you.”
“Jesus,” I said, stunned as I watched the Falcon stagger backward, disbelief in his eyes, hands to his face, fury like blood spurting between the cracks in his fingers.
“Well, see what I’ve got,” Pop said, chortling, as we emerged into the sunlight from the front door. He was holding up the Falcon’s antique money clip, containing several inches of cash.
“You picked his pocket!” I couldn’t believe it.
“I did not. It’s just a bit of magic. A little sleight of hand. I should have done it years ago. When your