Read Like a Knife for Free Online Page B

been hocking all year to keep her going-and it's like it never happened."
    "No one runs away, has a kid, and doesn't tell for six years. It's crazy, why would she do that?"
    Martin hesitated. Something almost like sadness flashed in his eyes before he looked back at his plate. "I don't know, Nicky. I don't know why she did half the crazy things she did."
    Nick stared over his head, the craziest thing of all still unspoken between them, even after all this time. But if Martin knew about Nick and Shelley, he wasn't admitting it now. "She really hated Rennie," was all he said.
    Nick watched a noisy group of women and children settle into a table. "Where's the kid been all this time?"
    "With some aunt of hers no one knew about Way the hell out on the Island. Amagansett, Narragansett, something like that. That's where the kid was born, and that's where she dumped him."
    "So what happened? Three months ago Shelley suddenly has a change of heart?"
    "Three months ago the aunt died, and Shelley needed someplace else to stash the kid."
    "Where?"
    "I don't know. If I did, Rennie wouldn't need you, would he?" He shoved his plate away. "I'm not hungry. Let's get out of here." He peeled some bills from a roll and threw them on the table. "Come on, I'll call a cab."
    Nick grabbed his arm. "Who beat her up, Marty? Did you and Rennie take turns working her over?"
    Martin stiffened. "You're a sick bastard, you know that?"
    "Yeah? Whose idea was it to run her down?"
    "Don't do this, Nicky."
    Nick slid out of the booth and stood. He leaned close so no one else would hear. "Rennie and I had a deal. I promised I wouldn't hurt him if he let me walk, and he did. I left, I kept my end of the bargain for six years. I'm not coming back, Marty. Not for him, not for his kid, not for anything."-
    He left Marty and took a bus home, carrying die paper bag he'd packed at St. Anthony's. On the way, he bought a newspaper. He hadn't read the paper in years, but he needed a new job, so he'd start with the classifieds.
    It was a psetty spring day, and several stores had tables outside. A dark-haired girl holding a toddler was combing through clothes racks. The child squirmed in her arms, waving his hands as Nick approached. He grabbed at Nick's shirt, and the girl said, "No, no, Sam," and at Nick, "I'm sorry."
    The baby babbled happily as Nick passed. He felt the boy's eyes follow him down the street. He didn't want to think about the baby. Or about fathers and sons. It wasn't his problem, he didn't have to get involved. But his mind kept floating back, doing the math, telling himself it was possible. Possible. Possible. The word echoed with every step.
    Nick let himself into the basement apartment and put the bag on the counter near the sink. He threw the newspaper on the table. Ignoring the blaze of headlines about Shelley on the front page, he looked through the classifieds, tearing out whatever looked promising. Janitors, day laborers, anything that required no skill and few references. As long as he was nowhere near children.
    That night he fell asleep in his clothes, the newspaper on the floor where he'd dropped it. The phone woke him. Bleary-eyed, he sat up, blinking away sleep. The phone rang again, and he shuffled over to answer it.
    "We hear you're looking for a job," a voice on the other end said. "There's one waiting outside." The line went dead.
    Nick rubbed his face, trying to wake up. The only window was in the door, but a curtain hid it. Cautiously, he lifted a corner and peered out into the impenetrable night. Nothing.
    Easing open the door, he inched his way toward the street, gaze skimming in all directions. Halfway up, the drive curved. From here, Nick could see a Buick parked in front. Without warning the car's back door swung open, and out fell a large, bulky roll, like a carpet
    Instantly, the Buick peeled away, tires squealing.
    Dread circling his gut, Nick ran the rest of the way and skidded to his knees in front of the bundle. Hands and