Release Me (Stark Trilogy, #1)(55)

He turns and sees that the voice comes from the SUV next to his, a silver Chevy Equinox, its window down and dome light on, the soft yellow glow illuminating a round face that appears almost childish except for the wrinkles framing his mouth and the gray hairs collaring an otherwise bald head. “I’m sorry to bother you at this late hour.” He holds out a hand that is small and damp when Neal hesitantly shakes it. “But I have a business proposition for you.”



At the McMenamins brewpub, along the Willamette River, they sit by the rain-dotted window. A bridge reaches over the water and the lights staggered across it diamond the ripples beneath. Neal turns down the craft beer on special tonight, a nut brown, and orders tea instead.

The man—Augustus—folds his hands on the table, one on top of the other, as if they were napkins. “Are you Muslim?”

He is not. He is nothing. “I am exhausted.”

The waiter brings an ale for Augustus and a tray for Neal on which rests a small ceramic pot and an assortment of tea bags arranged like a fan. The waiter has a forked goatee and wears a hemp bracelet. He pulls a pen and pad from his apron and says, “And will we be ordering anything to eat this evening?”

Neal says no at the same time that Augustus says maybe. “Maybe,” Augustus says again, and the waiter says he’ll be back to check on them in a minute.

Neal selects a black tea and drops it in the cup and pours steaming water over it.

“Long day,” Augustus says.

“Yes.” He lets the tea steep another moment and then raises the cup for a drink.

“And a long night ahead?”

Neal says nothing, the teacup hanging before his lips, the steam warming his chin and making the image of the man before him warp. Augustus smiles, his teeth as small and white as corn kernels, and says, “Your poor daughter.”

The tea is hot in his hand. “What do you know of my daughter? Has she done something?” The steam trembles with his words.

“No.” Augustus laughs, a sharp little bark. “She hasn’t done a thing.” He sips from his beer and uses his napkin to dab the foam mustache from his upper lip. “Excuse me for prying. But she was bitten? Was that how she became infected?”

“No,” Neal responds automatically, though he isn’t sure why he is talking about this very private matter with a stranger. “She was exposed in another way.” He doesn’t elaborate. The disease had been sexually transmitted. Fifteen years old and sexually active and not using protection. The thought still makes him close his eyes with shame. He wishes she had been bitten instead—then maybe he wouldn’t blame her for what happened, her recklessness the cause of their life’s ruin.

“I’m sorry.”

The tea is bitter. He sets it down with a rattle and tears two sugar packs into it. “You’ll forgive me. I don’t follow politics. What is it that you do again?”

“Like I said, I’m chief of staff to the governor.”

“Yes, but what do you do?”

“I suppose I do what I have always done. I am a consultant. The presumption of my job is that management or boards or whoever—a politician, say—might not be…capable in all situations.” The lamplight makes his glasses glow. “I am the external competency.”

“I see.” He takes another drink of his tea, better now, and then stands to pull on his jacket and says sorry, he really ought to be going. He needs to get home to his family. If Augustus insists, the secretary can make an appointment during regular business hours and—

Augustus talks over the top of him. “Since your center is, as I see it, severely underfunded—even more so lately, with the budget cuts. And since I can be of service in this matter—if I feel so inclined. And since your daughter suffers from the very ailment we are both interested in curing, I don’t think you have any choice but to sit down and listen.” He drinks again from his beer, an ale as dark as the night. “Sit down, please.”

Neal does, slowly dropping back into his chair, his jacket still on.

The waiter appears again. “Have we made up our minds, gentlemen?”

“No, we have not,” Augustus says. “Not yet.” And the waiter wanders away again.

Neal listens to what Augustus has to say. Halfway through he realizes his tea has gone cold. And a few minutes after that he quiets his cell phone when it rings, not bothering to glance at the caller ID, knowing it is his wife wondering where he is. Except for occasionally nodding his head and smiling sadly, he hardly moves until Augustus stops talking, and then the two of them sit in silence for a long time, Neal avoiding eye contact, staring into his teacup as if there might be some message encoded in its leaves.

Augustus sips loudly from his glass. “Gosh, this beer is good.”

Neal does not like this man very much, but he can’t help but like what he has to say. He looks out the window. Dripping beards of moss hang from the trees. The river twists off into the distance. He sees their reflections hanging in the glass and studies the profile of the man studying him. It’s easier to look at him this way, avoiding his fixed gaze.

“Sometimes,” Neal says, “I think it would be easier if she had died.”

“Easier on her? Or easier on you?”

“Yes.”