There Fell a Shadow Read Free Page A

said.
    â€œYeah. Yeah, it’s good stuff. Got a sort of … meloncholy to it. Yeah. Real good.”
    â€œThanks. I liked your pieces from Iran.”
    He studied me a while, nodding thoughtfully. But in another moment, his gaze shifted direction. He had other business. “Now you,” he said to Lansing. “I cain’t say I’ve heard of you before.”
    He put his arm on the back of her chair. He leaned toward her. She sent a rapid glance at me. I wouldn’t play. I reached for the ashtray, crushed out a cigarette, hard. Her gaze was drawn back to Colt. Her cheeks colored a little. He was a good-looking guy. His eyes went deep and there was something vital and electric about them. They kept moving—not nervous, but watchful. I had seen them, after he first sat down, as they calmly memorized the lay of the room. They had seemed to catch the movements at the tables, at the bar. And whenever the door opened, whenever someone came in or out, they turned casually to study them, to file them away.
    But right now they were fixed on Lansing. They traveled over her where she sat and seemed to pull every detail of her into their depths.
    â€œWhat is it you do?” he asked.
    â€œSpot news, for the most part,” Lansing said hoarsely. She hid behind her drink.
    â€œShe won the AP for the Yorktown Building Collapse,” Holloway said.
    â€œAP,” said Colt with deep appreciation.
    Lansing appealed to heaven. Colt laughed. She smiled.
    Wexler helped out: “Colt just got back from Afghanistan.”
    â€œOh?” said Lansing.
    â€œBehind rebel lines,” said Holloway. He nodded at Colt. Colt shrugged.
    â€œOh, come on now, don’t be modest,” Lansing said. Her voice was warm. “What’s it like over there these days?”
    Colt shrugged again. “It looked mighty like a war to me.”
    â€œAnd Colt should know,” said Holloway, with a jolly laugh in his martini. “He’s covered most of them.”
    The lines of Colt’s rugged face turned down in a frown. “It’s a livin’,” he said softly.
    â€œOh now, come clean, dear boy,” said Wexler. I saw a somewhat nasty gleam in those wet eyes. “You know what Voltaire said: ‘Once a philosopher, twice a pervert.’ You wouldn’t keep going to war if you didn’t like it.”
    I sensed Colt tighten. He withdrew his arm from the back of Lansing’s chair. “Voltaire said that about goin’ to whorehouses.”
    There was silence for a minute. I saw Lansing take the opportunity to glance up at Colt’s profile.
    Then Holloway laughed. His thick lips curled in an impish V. “All I know,” he said, “is that Sentu was war enough for me.”
    â€œHear, hear,” said Wexler.
    He lifted his snifter. Colt smiled, shook his head. His hands closed on his beer. He lifted it, too. Holloway followed with his martini. The three looked at each other. Their glasses came together, touched in the air. Lansing, McKay, and I watched quietly.
    â€œTo Sentu,” said Holloway.
    â€œSentu,” said Wexler.
    Colt echoed: “Sentu.”
    And, as each brought his drink to his lips, Holloway added: “The making of us all.”
    They drank. I looked at Lansing. She tilted her head to one side. I glanced at McKay. He gestured uncomfortably with his hands. I glanced, finally, at the three men drinking their obscure toast.
    That’s when I saw the haunted man again.
    He had reappeared suddenly. From somewhere in the back. I remembered there was a flight of stairs back there that led down to the rest rooms and a broom closet. Now he was moving swiftly toward the front door. His head was ducked down behind the collar of his heavy overcoat. His shoulders were hunched as if to further shield him from view. He wove through the tables with smooth, quick strides, looking neither to the right nor the left.
    In a moment he’d reached