The Glass House by David Rotenberg Page A

always ate at his desk, wearing a large linen napkin around his neck to protect his Savile Row shirts and ties. He ate nothing but organic food that he prepared at home. He was careful, fanatical, about anything that entered his body.
    Except for his 9:00 p.m. cup of Seattle’s Best coffee, which he picked up on his way home.
    When she started at the NSA, on occasion she would get himhis coffee when he worked late. Hardy blend, tall, no milk, no sugar—organic, fair trade only.
    As the nurse finished her work and removed the tray, Yslan heard Harrison pass gas, then she heard him strain as he passed a stool—into a diaper, no doubt.
    She turned, not wanting to see his face. “Can’t you help him?” she demanded.
    â€œYslan, don’t—” It was Emerson, stopping her from making a fool of herself.
    â€œThat’s right. You tell your girlfriend to watch her manners in here,” the nurse said.
    As Yslan left that antiseptic-tainted room, the image of her boss—her mentor—Leonard Harrison catatonic, apricot baby food fed, diapered, poisoned, rose in her head like a cobra ready to strike. Then a new thought hit her—slugged her. He was on a different path—just a different path. Where had she heard that?
    She passed by Emerson. He was looking a little grey around the gills. Tough.

14
IN HARRISON’S HOUSE
    THE DRIVE TO HARRISON’S HOUSE was twice again as long as it had been to get to the hospital or long-term care facility or whatever it was. Neither spoke. Both still had the image of Leonard Harrison shitting in his diaper in their heads.
    Emerson finally pulled the car to the curb in front of a neat Georgetown row house, now festooned with yellow tape and watched over by two young cops. A forensics truck was parked across the road. Two middle-aged techs were taking in the sun and smoking.
    â€œThere’s no number.”
    â€œYellow tape, two cops, forensics truck—I’d guess this is the place.”
    â€œBut you don’t know? He was your boss.”
    â€œYeah, but I’ve never been here before.”
    She got out of the car before she had to elaborate, badged her way past the cops and entered Leonard Harrison’s home.
    A taped outline marked the spot where Harrison had fallen. The photos that the cops had given them as they entered showed him stretched out on his side in the front hall, a blood patch on the hardwood floor where he must have banged his head.
    â€œIf he fell here, how did they know to come for him?”
    â€œHe managed to call nine one one,” Emerson said.
    Yslan nodded and said, “Okay.”
    â€œOkay what?”
    â€œGet the nine one one tape. And tell the cops outside to stay there.”
    â€œAnd the techs?”
    â€œOutside till I call for them.”
    Emerson went to the door and told the cops. When he came back into the hallway he was surprised to see Yslan standing in the midst of the living room, dead still.
    â€œWhat exactly—”
    Yslan held up her hand, stopping Emerson’s question. She walked slowly down the hallway to the kitchen in the back. She was literally following her feet. The kitchen held few surprises—except for its excessive cleanliness. She didn’t know that pots could actually shine like that.
    The refrigerator proved predictable for a food nut. All organic, all organized, all labeled with dates.
    â€œWhat’s with the dates?” Emerson asked.
    â€œYou ever bought organic produce?”
    â€œNo. Can’t say I’ve ever indulged.”
    â€œWell, if you had you’d know that it goes bad quickly. Sometimes it feels like it’s bad before you get it home.”
    â€œSo they’re best-before dates?”
    â€œYeah,” Yslan muttered but she had already bent down and was pulling out the packaged vegetables, fruits and exotic grains, putting them on the counter. “Write down the dates, Emerson, then get them to the