Right to Die

the people taking back what was theirs. I cut him off by walking over to the foreman, who had started toward us.
    The foreman said hopefully, “He giving you any trouble?”
    “Sorry. Model prisoner.”
    “Shit.”
    “Thanks for letting me take him for a while.”
    “Take him forever, you want to.”
    Yary walked by us, eyes straight ahead. As he rejoined the crew, he said something and laughed. One guy paid no attention, but the other laughed too. With Yary, not at him.
    The foreman said to me, “Fucking judges, make me feel like shit,” and spat over the railing.

= 21 =

    “Merry Christmas, John.”
    Nancy had put on a fuzzy mauve robe before she’d gone into her kitchen. Now she was at the side of the bed, holding a carrying tray in front of her, steam rising from coffee cake and ceramic mugs.
    “What’s in the mugs?”
    “Your leftover cider concoction. Waste not, want not.” I’d mulled the cider, with cinnamon sticks and orange sections, the night before as Nancy made popcorn and strung the product on threads like a rosary, whole cranberries playing the Our Fathers. After lacing the cider with bourbon, we’d looped the strings of popcorn and cranberries over lights and ornaments on the short, full spruce tree we’d spent a cold hour selecting at a Lions’ Club lot in Brighton . Shopping for the tree reminded me that I had to act on Bo’s advice regarding a Gore-Tex running suit. Late December was feeling more and more like the tundra time of February.
    I hadn’t seen Bo for a week or so. but I’d been training religiously without him. Following my talk with Gunther Yary, the case for Maisy Andrus had slowed down, as some cases will. After checking to make sure all the people she’d offended were staying home for the holidays, I’d contracted out to another investigator who needed someone to spell his people on an extended surveillance. I did stay in touch with Inés Roja by telephone, me confirming there were no further notes, she advising that the professor and Tucker Hebert sounded happy and relaxed on Sint Maarten the two times she’d heard from them. Andrus wanted to meet with me when they got back, Inés and I agreeing on a breakfast conference for January 18.
    Around bites, Nancy said, “You realize this is the best Christmas I can remember?”
    She snuggled close enough for me to inhale the herbal shampoo still clinging to the roots of her hair. After decorating the tree, we’d agreed to exchange gifts in the morning and slipped into bed, making slow, drowsy love as the lights twinkled five colors in computer-chip sequence. “Where are my presents?”
    Nancy took another gulp of cider. “Under the tree, junior.”
    “I want my presents.”
    “And here I thought you were finally showing the patience maturity is supposed to bring.”
    “I want my presents now.”
    “Okay, okay. Smallest to largest?”
    “The only way.”
    We traded gifts, one at a time. Silly ones, thoughtful ones, middling-expensive ones. A Garfield the Cat calendar for her, a T-shirt with the legend body by nautilus, brain by mattel for me; a video of Adam’s Rib for her, a video of The Maltese Falcon for me; a leather briefcase with shoulder strap for her, a teak desk set for me. And so on.
    Finally, Nancy said, “Time for the big ones?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    The boxes were remarkably similar in size, about right for a man’s suit.
    Nancy opened her present, a geometric sweater in five colors from an exotic store on Newbury Street . She held it up, arms stretching arms, chin pressing down on crew neck. “It’s beautiful, John.”
    “Genuine yak fur from the Himalayas .”
    “Your turn.”
    My box came open. It contained a man’s suit, all right. Ebony Gore-Tex, drawstrings on the jacket and Velcro cuffs on wrists and ankles.
    I looked up at her.
    Nancy said, “One of the guys in the office runs. He helped me pick it out. If the size is wrong—”
    “It’s perfect, Nance. Does this mean you’ve decided I’m not so stupid about wanting to run the marathon?”
    “No. It means I don’t want you getting what my friend calls ‘penile frostbite.’ Do you know what that is?”
    We showed each other there was nothing to worry about.

    The week between Christmas and New Year’s was miserable weatherwise: temperature in the high thirties with frequent if not constant rain. The Gore-Tex kept me both dry and ventilated, but there was still no sign of Bo. which worried me a little.
    Fortunately,