The Nobody People Bob Proehl (pocket ebook reader .txt) 📖

to a three-hour adrenaline rush. Nothing seemed to work; all the stories became additions to the incoherent pile the book had become.

The night before Thanksgiving, Avi gets a call from Patrick Davenport. It’s beyond unexpected; Avi doesn’t even have Patrick’s number in his phone.

“You remember the town I told you about in Wyoming?” Patrick says without bothering to say hello. “The family that died?”

“Guthridge,” Avi says. “Mother and three kids.”

“Four kids,” Patrick says. “One of the killers was arrested last night. I have a contact in the local police department that can get you in to see him, but it’s got to be tomorrow.”

Avi says no. He’s invited to Thanksgiving dinner at Kay’s new place in New York at Emmeline’s request and over Kay’s protest. Kay made sure he knew it wasn’t the beginning of anything. It was a concession to their daughter, not a gesture. Unsure whether that made it more important or less, Avi accepted. Even if it isn’t a beginning, missing it would be an end.

Patrick continues to feed him details of the case, and there’s no getting around it. This is what the book needs.

When they get off the phone, he calls Kimani. Her voice drips with annoyance.

“Haven’t you got family or something?” she says.

“Patrick called me,” Avi says. “I need you to pick me up tomorrow and take me to Powder Basin, Wyoming. Then back to New York so I can have dinner with—”

“Avi, I’ve got to go,” Kimani says. “Tomorrow is—Thanksgiving is not a good day for me.”

She hangs up. Equal parts angry and chastised, Avi goes online and books an overpriced ticket to Wyoming.

Avi struggles against the flow of humans at Denver International Airport. The rush of Thanksgiving morning goes in every possible direction at once, and Avi is buffeted, caroming off bodies, clutching his cane and messenger bag. He runs calculations in his head. The flight to Cheyenne gets him in around noon. From there, it’s four hours to Gillette. Patrick’s contact at the police station comes off shift at six, and by tomorrow Scott Lipscombe will be moved to Campbell County Detention Center, cut off from anyone but his lawyer. The window’s closing.

At the gate, he calls Emmeline.

“Hey, Dad,” she says. “I had my hand up a turkey’s butt.”

“Well, that’s big news,” he says. “How did the turkey feel?”

“Cold and slimy,” says Emmeline. She crunches on a piece of celery. “Where are you? It’s loud.”

“I’m at an airport,” he says. There’s a pause on the line.

“Which one?”

“Denver,” he says. Another pause.

“You’re not coming,” Emmeline says. There’s a rustle, a sound like wind. He hears Kay asking Emmeline to check on the turkey, and then she’s on the line.

“You’re not coming?” says Kay.

“There’s something I need to follow up,” he says.

“It couldn’t be tomorrow?”

“It couldn’t,” Avi says. “You have to know—”

“Just don’t,” Kay says. “She’s going to be destroyed. She’s been talking about this for weeks.”

“I’ll be done by six. Shit, that’s Mountain Time or something. I’m done at eight o’clock. I can call Kimani and see if she can—”

“We eat at four,” she says. “We always eat at four.” He’s broken by the factuality of this, how it calls on all the Thanksgivings of their marriage and deploys them against him. The early dinner had been a tradition from his family, something he imposed on theirs. By eight o’clock, it should be he and Kay alone on the couch, Emmeline sacked away upstairs in a food coma, the two of them moved on to whatever bottles of wine were collecting dust in the pantry. Even if Kimani could get him back to New York the minute he was done, it would be too late for Thanksgiving, a long-standing afternoon event in whatever remained of the Hirsch family.

“Is it worth it?” Kay asks.

They’re calling his flight.

“I think this might be the piece that ties the book together,” he says.

“Not just this,” says Kay. “The whole thing. Everything you’ve been chasing. I could be okay with it if I thought you were getting what you need.”

“I’ll have Kimani bring me right there the minute I’m done,” he says. “It’ll be before eight even. Save me some pie or something.”

“I’ll see you, Avi,” she says. Avi gets in line for boarding, the blind idiot rush of the story convincing him he’s solved everything.

—

Avi drives by the police station in Gillette three times before he finds it. It’s past five, the window closing. Avi imagines his contact’s replacement looking ruefully at his watch, hauling himself out of his chair over the jeers of family members watching the Broncos on television. He can see him refastening his belt, saying something about time and a half. He can feel his approach.

The receptionist doesn’t answer the first two times Avi rings the service bell. Three more minutes click away. When she shows, she glares at him, making him aware that he’s an inconvenience. He can see the television on in the break room, a skeleton crew grouped around its glow.

“I’m here to see Officer Brennan,” Avi says.

The receptionist shrugs and heads back toward the break room. “Andy,” she says. “This one’s yours.”

Officer Brennan is a hulk, a build that announces linebacker, with two rows of perfectly aligned fluoridated teeth. When he shakes Avi’s hand, he closes his eyes and his grip goes limp. For a fraction of a second, Avi thinks the man is going to faint. Then he opens his eyes and looks at Avi warily.

“You’re not one of us,” he says quietly.

“No,” Avi says. “I’m a friend.” Brennan looks unsure, but he leads Avi down the hall, back to the holding cells.

“He turned himself in,” he explains. “Right away. Basically, he shot the kid, then he called us. He was waiting in the living room when we got there.”

“Where was the wife?”

“I don’t want to tell tales out of school,” says Brennan, “but word is Nora’s got a pill habit. Not like she’s the only one. Lot of folks down in the Basin are having