Resurgence Read Online Free PDF

something, your split with Colin came as almost as big a shock as hearing about Rayce,” Amanda says.
    “I thought you, of all people, might have seen it coming.”
    “Why? I had no special insight . . . did I?”
    “Yeah, you did. When I told you I thought more was going on than met the eye regarding the Cliff Grant and Gibby Lester murders, you were given a close-up view of the asshole I was making of myself by linking weak coincidences and stretching vague similarities—and honoring some sort of imaginary covenant in a way that was screwing with damn near everything I did.”
    “Aren’t you forgetting I shared your views about Grant and Lester?”
    “No, but I am suggesting you give them no more importance.”
    A waiter comes to remove their wasted salads before she can respond one way or another. The interruption allows her to change the subject.
    “How long were we on the phone this morning?” she asks.
    “An hour, maybe more. I wasn’t keeping track.”
    “Thank you for calling. It helped a lot.”
    “I was going to call you today anyway—just not so early—so we could both say our ‘holy shits’ about Laurel and Colin. That was supposed to be the headline news,” he says.
    “In the positive column, it still is. I have to say, though, that when she didn’t show up for the concert Friday night and couldn’t be found, I thought she’d totally flipped out and maybe even run away.”
    “The concert . . . Jesus . . . I hadn’t thought about that yet. The final concert, as it turns out . . . and the live album . . . Jesus god, do you care to think what that will sell?” He grimaces. “Sorry, crass of me, but I can’t help projecting.”
    “I already thought about that and how the album will have to be marketed so as not to appear blatantly insensitive. And I’ve been thinking about the inevitable repercussions from canceling a major tour—the domino effect—and wondering how they’ll be able to hold a funeral or memorial service or whatever during Holy Week. Sunday’s Easter, you know.”
    He didn’t know. And he’s chagrined not to have considered these other practical matters, even though they don’t affect him. That is, after all, the way his mind used to work until he derailed himself with an overactive imagination and overdeveloped sense of responsibility.
    They order coffee and stick to neutral subjects until right out of nowhere she asks how hard it would be to book Royal Albert Hall on short notice, and follows that up with a series of seemingly unrelated questions that when strung together are only electrifying.
    This wisp of a girl with her unruly Pre-Raphaelite hair and serenely go-straight-to-the-heart-of-the-matter mind must not be allowed to escape. He’s about to say as much when his pager goes off. The call is the one he’s been waiting for, the only reason he wore a pager for the first time in weeks.
    “The London office. I’ll be right back.”
    He finds a secluded public phone, places the call and for the second time today is stunned speechless by news from the UK. He must have heard wrong. That cannot be true. First of all, a veteran user wouldn’t be apt to delay gratification by ingesting coke instead of snorting; second of all, Rayce Vaughn, for all his troubles, was never ever considered at risk for suicide.
    On his way back to the table, Nate experiences an undeniable rush with the realization that all bets are off regarding his recently renounced behavior.
    “Forget everything I just said about ignoring similarities and coincidences,” he says when he sits down, “and feel free to go on sharing my views.” Responding to Amanda’s puzzled expression, he explains that word leaked from the London medical examiner’s office confirms cocaine to be the probable cause of Rayce’s death.
    “Preliminary findings indicate a massive amount of unusually potent product taken in by mouth.”
    “By mouth ?”
    “He fucking swallowed it, Amanda, and the rumors have