Rachel Alexander 09 - Without a Word

figured, that she’d break off a piece of her hot dog and give it to him. And it was nice just to sit there. But I had a job to do and I was still hoping that somehow Madison would be able to help.
    More than that, there were things she needed to do to help herself. Even if she outgrew the tics, she’d never be part of the world again without talking. I turned to watch her chewing her hot dog, her open soda on the bench between us, in that gulf she usually left between herself and anyone else, except for last night. I picked the soda up and put it on my other side, sliding closer to her.
    “I have a proposition for you,” I said. Even without feedback one way or another, I wasn’t worried about the vocabulary I used since I’d seen that Madison was reading adult books. “If you’ve got anything to say,” I said, talking in a whisper even though no one else was close by, waiting while she turned to look at me, to pay attention to the odd thing I had started to say to her, “you know, to help me with the case or just something you want to say, you can do that. I won’t expect it means you’ll be talking all the time, or even ever again. And I won’t tell a soul. That’s a promise.” Madison screwed up her face, but her left eye wasn’t twitching and her cheeks were remarkably smooth and without movement.
    “You can decide case by case, mood by mood, this is worth saying, this isn’t, this is worth answering, this isn’t. You follow? So you can talk to me today, for example, but not tomorrow, not ever again if that’s what you want. Talking today would not oblige you to talk again tomorrow. It would be entirely up to you and totally between us.”
    I broke what was left of my hot dog in half, gave one piece to Dashiell and put the rest in my mouth.
    “Don’t say anything now,” I said, my mouth still full of food, “just think about it.”
    She was looking at me as if I were out of my mind.
    “I mean, I wouldn’t want you to make a rash decision or anything. These things take consideration and time.”
    I was looking toward Fifth Avenue now, a playground between us and the street. We’d walked farther away from home, and it was getting late. I took a last swig of my soda and stood up.
    “Ready?” I asked, expecting nothing. That was what I’d promised her, wasn’t it, that I’d expect nothing?
    I picked up the shopping bag, and Madison took the leash. We dropped our garbage in the nearest can and headed for the exit. Standing at the curb with my arm up for a cab, my cell phone rang. I figured it was probably Leon, getting nervous about where we were, though we still had over an hour before we were expected. But it wasn’t Leon.
    The caller ID showed an unfamiliar area code 718 phone number, meaning the call was coming from outside Manhattan. I wondered what someone was trying to sell this time and how the hell they got my cell phone number. I must have barked “Hello” because for a moment, no one said anything. I was ready to hang up when he finally spoke.
    “Rachel?” Whispering. Not a telemarketer. A potential client? Because he sounded scared. No, worse than scared, desperate.
    “This is she.” Then waiting for him to tell me who he was, to see where this was going.
    “I need to speak to you,” he said, his voice so low I could barely hear him over the sound of the traffic.
    “Who is this?” I asked.
    Madison looked in my direction.
    “Where are you?” he asked. Not answering my question, leaving it to me to figure out who was calling, who needed to talk to me so badly that he couldn’t take the time to tell me who he was. “Your e-mail didn’t say where you live.”
    A cab pulled toward the curb, saw Dashiell and pulled away.
    “Jim?”
    “Yes.”
    “New York City,” I said, Madison still watching me. “Can you get to Coney Island?”
    “I can.”
    “There’s a coffee shop on Mermaid Avenue and West Twenty-eighth Street, Dean’s. I get off work at six-thirty. I can be there a quarter to seven.”
    With Madison right next to me, still paying attention, I couldn’t ask the one question I wanted to.
    “I’ll be there,” I said. “How will I know you?”
    “Good,” he said. “Thanks.” And the line went dead.

CHAPTER 18

    It took ten more minutes to get a cab, then another twenty to get down to the Village. Madison stared out the window on the left side of the cab, Dashiell leaning his chin on her shoulder. I looked out the right, thinking of the e-mail