Pockets of Darkness Read Online Free PDF Page A

on the salad. Music continued softly—Mstislav Rostropovich playing Bach’s Cello-Suiten . It was the second suite, considered Sorrow and Intensity , a direct contrast to the first because of its pace and minor key. It was Bridget’s favorite, musically vulnerable and sincere. She wished her son could appreciate the cellist’s capacity to evoke the perfect sadness of the composition, but she knew Otter wasn’t truly paying attention to it. “He’s twenty-two, Otter.” If you’re that damn curious , she thought. Eleven years younger than me. But you can do the math yourself.
    Otter nodded, and then said softly: “About the same age as one of Dad’s last flings.”
    Dustin brought out the fourth course.
    “Coffee and spice-rubbed lamb,” he told Otter, as he arranged the dish. “I prepared it with pinot noir. The side is garlic mashed potatoes.”
    “Lamb,” Otter said dully. “And the good china no less. Happy birthday to me.” He ran his thumb around the edge of the plate; it was bone white trimmed with platinum. Then he traced the pattern in the Irish linen tablecloth. “Happy birthday, happy birthday—”
    “Otter, I—”
    “Sorry, Mom. I appreciate this, I really do. I just wanted you to meet Lacy, that’s all.” He cut into the lamb and started chewing. “Wow. This is really good. I—”
    All hell broke loose.
    The dining room window shattered, showering the table with glass. Three masked men in dark clothes somersaulted in, the one in the lead drawing a gun.
    “No one move!” the gunman barked. “Hands up. Push back from the table.”
    Dustin screamed and dropped the cheese tray meant to be the fifth course. He swayed and fainted in a heap.
    “Mom?” Otter glanced between Bridget and the men, her hands were up just like the gunman had ordered.
    “No one needs to get hurt,” Bridget said. She edged back from the table, her napkin falling to the floor. “What do you want?”
    “Everything of value,” the gunman said, clearly the leader of the trio. “Let’s start with the cash and jewelry on you. If you’re quick and cooperative, you live.”
    ***

Four
    They were uncommon burglars. Bridget’s formal dining room was on the third floor of her five-story brownstone, and so they had scaled the wall or jumped across from a neighboring building, either proposition requiring some athletic skill. Despite building codes, there was no external fire escape for them to climb; Bridget had that removed when she bought the place.
    “If you don’t cooperate,” the tallest said. “Well—” He let the sentence hang.
    Bridget realized their dark clothes had let them blend with the shadows, escaping notice by the block’s elderly lookiloos who were usually perched by their windows and who would have called the police. The clothes were tight, at the same time not restricting their movements and revealing them to be muscular. What little skin that showed had been blackened.
    Professionals.
    “Money and jewelry first,” the lead repeated, waggling the Glock for effect. He was the shortest of the three. “Be quick about it, eh? Then we’ll get to the good stuff you have stashed. The stuff too good to keep in your shop. We’re in a hurry. Places to go and all of that, you know. Chop. Chop.”
    He had a gentle southern accent; Bridget placed him from Georgia. The other two clearly looked to him for direction. He stayed to the right of the window, out of sight to anyone who might chance to look in, and gestured with his head to the others. They split up, the one in gray going to Bridget, the tallest to Otter. Each produced a black bag and opened it.
    “Shit,” Otter said, as he took off his watch. “Shit. Shit. Shit. Lacy gave me this.” The tall thief took it, held it up, and promptly tossed it on the floor and stomped on it.
    “Timex,” the thief said. “Not interested. How about the ring?”
    “Shit,” Otter repeated. “I just got this.” He worked the bulky class ring off and