Text Box: * * * * * * * * He wasn’t conscious of feeling anything, not shock or excitement or anything in particular. Didn’t realize until he fumbled around for his cell phone and had to try to punch the buttons that his hands were shaking. It took him a couple of attempts, but he got the one he wanted. Listened to it ring somewhere in the Texas hill country while he stared at the TV screen with hot, narrowed eyes. When an answering machine picked up, he disconnected, then dialed the number again. This time a man’s voice answered. Swearing. “Okay, this better be an announcement of the Second Coming, or else I just won the Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes. Which is it?” “Tony. It’s me, Holt.” “Dude. D’you know what time it is?” “Yeah. Listen, is Brooke there?” “Of course she’s here. She’s asleep, what did you expect? At least, she was—” There was a sharp intake of breath. “Wait. It’s Brenna, right? God, don’t tell me. You found her? Is she—she’s not—hey, Brooke—baby, wake up. It’s Holt. He’s found--” “Maybe,” Holt interrupted. “I don’t know. I need Brooke—” “I’m here.” Brooke’s voice was breathy with sleep, and shaky. “Okay.” Holt took a breath. Told himself to be calm. “I need you to turn on your television. ESPN. Okay?” “Okay.” Her voice was hushed but alert. She’d been married to a deputy sheriff once upon a time, so Holt figured maybe getting phone calls in the middle of the night wasn’t all that unusual for her. “I don’t know which one,” he told her. “Just keep clicking until you find the poker tournament.” After a long pause, she muttered, “Okay, got it.” “Watch for her—the woman player. Okay—there she is. Tell me if—” He didn’t get the rest of it out. There was a sharp intake of breath, and then a whispered, “Oh God.” He felt himself go still, and yet inside he was vibrating like a plucked guitar string. “Is it her? Is it Brenna?” He heard a sniff, and when she spoke in a muffled voice he knew Brooke was crying. “Oh, God, I don’t know. She was just a little girl when she— It could be…but it’s been so long. I’m not sure. I can’t see her eyes! If I could just see her eyes…” And then, angrily, “Why doesn’t she take off the damn glasses!” Holt held the phone and listened to soft scufflings and some masculine murmurs of comfort while he waited, eyes closed, heart hammering. After a moment Tony’s voice came again, gruff with emotion. “Hey, man, I’m sorry—she can’t tell for sure. It’s been what—eighteen years? She says it might be her. But you’re gonna go check her out, right?” “Yeah,” Holt said, “I’m gonna go check her out.” He picked up the remote and clicked off the set. An hour later he was in his car on I-15, heading east toward the rising sun and the bright lights of Las Vegas. Copyright 2009 Kathleen Creighton-Fuchs

Excerpt from “Kincaid’s Dangerous Game”

By

Kathleen Creighton
 

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