prevented a response.
"It's against the grain. I'm a lousy liar."
She had tried not to imagine his life at home, the ordinary
pursuit of family business, other concerns, other worries. That took place on
another planet. Except that she knew that he and Ann shared a bed, touched. It
was an image getting exceedingly difficult to block out of her mind.
"You're not the only one living alone," he said.
"Does she notice?" Fi asked. There she was,
empathizing again. The portrait he had painted was of a woman obsessed with
achievement, someone who had grudgingly taken time out for the sake of her
children, then thrown herself back into the fray with an awesome resolve.
"She's too involved with her job. And I don't give her
reason not to be. Hell, she thinks I go to work early, a real eager beaver. And
I'm home every night, almost." The thought triggered his anxiety and he
looked at the radial clock.
"My God. It's nearly three." Rolling over her, he
got out of bed and started to dress. Reaching out, she touched his thigh, as if
it were necessary to leave a last mark on his body.
"I don't believe you," she said calmly. "I
believe you want to, but you won't. It's too comfortable this way."
He stopped dressing and looked down at her, bending to
brush his hand over her forehead.
"See, you're scared. Then you'd be stuck with
me."
Love, however complex, seemed a charted course compared to
reading the future. At thirty-two, she was still young enough for kids. There
were moments when that seemed almost idyllic. Moments, too, when it seemed like
penal servitude. Tell him to get lost, she begged herself.
Always, when he prepared to leave--perhaps the act of
dressing was erotic for her--she felt the pull of sexual longing. It was when
she needed him most. Needed! When had it become need, she cried silently,
knowing that for him anxiety had already taken hold and the extra time spent
would only make it worse.
There was nothing to do but close her eyes, shut him out
until he bent over her for that last sweet kiss. It was an act she let happen,
although it hurt rather than consoled her. The thing, this monster inside, had
reduced her to a simpering slave.
"Wednesday?"
"Like always," she sighed.
She listened for the click of his key rolling the chamber
of the double lock, caging her once again. Again, she thought of the girl, the
jumper, the broken body, the half smile. The image stuck to her like paste.
Trained as she was for odd hours and catnaps, she was
always too energized for sleep after Clint had gone. Getting out of bed, she
gobbled up the remainders of both portions of pâté and washed it down with red
wine, directly from the bottle. To fight the first surge of loss, she called Benton in his office. He seemed always to be there at these odd hours.
A relationship, personal and professional, had grown up
between them ever since the Remington case. It leaped over whatever barriers of
race, age and gender that existed between them. Reluctantly, even with some
embarrassment, he accepted her confidences, offering only the wisdom of his
years. Essentially a moral man, he was by experience, if not by instinct, conservative
and cautious. A darker skin--two grandparents were quadroons--had taught him
that survival was still the first priority. Because of that, he had chosen a
role in the bureaucracy where he had risen more by skill than ambition. His
dead wife had been his only love, but he seemed to know a great deal about
women. Many of them gave away their secrets on his autopsy table.
His voice on the telephone, deep and resonant with its
cajun cadence, soothed and comforted her.
"The young woman," she said, after the amenities.
"The jumper. Caucasian."
"A skeletal grab-bag."
"Death instantaneous?"
He hesitated. "She dropped from 300 feet. I could give
you the technical data."
"Was she dead before the fall?"
"You suspect that, Fiona?"
She ignored the question.
"Did you take a vaginal swab?" she asked.
"It wasn't
"It's against the grain. I'm a lousy liar."
She had tried not to imagine his life at home, the ordinary
pursuit of family business, other concerns, other worries. That took place on
another planet. Except that she knew that he and Ann shared a bed, touched. It
was an image getting exceedingly difficult to block out of her mind.
"You're not the only one living alone," he said.
"Does she notice?" Fi asked. There she was,
empathizing again. The portrait he had painted was of a woman obsessed with
achievement, someone who had grudgingly taken time out for the sake of her
children, then thrown herself back into the fray with an awesome resolve.
"She's too involved with her job. And I don't give her
reason not to be. Hell, she thinks I go to work early, a real eager beaver. And
I'm home every night, almost." The thought triggered his anxiety and he
looked at the radial clock.
"My God. It's nearly three." Rolling over her, he
got out of bed and started to dress. Reaching out, she touched his thigh, as if
it were necessary to leave a last mark on his body.
"I don't believe you," she said calmly. "I
believe you want to, but you won't. It's too comfortable this way."
He stopped dressing and looked down at her, bending to
brush his hand over her forehead.
"See, you're scared. Then you'd be stuck with
me."
Love, however complex, seemed a charted course compared to
reading the future. At thirty-two, she was still young enough for kids. There
were moments when that seemed almost idyllic. Moments, too, when it seemed like
penal servitude. Tell him to get lost, she begged herself.
Always, when he prepared to leave--perhaps the act of
dressing was erotic for her--she felt the pull of sexual longing. It was when
she needed him most. Needed! When had it become need, she cried silently,
knowing that for him anxiety had already taken hold and the extra time spent
would only make it worse.
There was nothing to do but close her eyes, shut him out
until he bent over her for that last sweet kiss. It was an act she let happen,
although it hurt rather than consoled her. The thing, this monster inside, had
reduced her to a simpering slave.
"Wednesday?"
"Like always," she sighed.
She listened for the click of his key rolling the chamber
of the double lock, caging her once again. Again, she thought of the girl, the
jumper, the broken body, the half smile. The image stuck to her like paste.
Trained as she was for odd hours and catnaps, she was
always too energized for sleep after Clint had gone. Getting out of bed, she
gobbled up the remainders of both portions of pâté and washed it down with red
wine, directly from the bottle. To fight the first surge of loss, she called Benton in his office. He seemed always to be there at these odd hours.
A relationship, personal and professional, had grown up
between them ever since the Remington case. It leaped over whatever barriers of
race, age and gender that existed between them. Reluctantly, even with some
embarrassment, he accepted her confidences, offering only the wisdom of his
years. Essentially a moral man, he was by experience, if not by instinct, conservative
and cautious. A darker skin--two grandparents were quadroons--had taught him
that survival was still the first priority. Because of that, he had chosen a
role in the bureaucracy where he had risen more by skill than ambition. His
dead wife had been his only love, but he seemed to know a great deal about
women. Many of them gave away their secrets on his autopsy table.
His voice on the telephone, deep and resonant with its
cajun cadence, soothed and comforted her.
"The young woman," she said, after the amenities.
"The jumper. Caucasian."
"A skeletal grab-bag."
"Death instantaneous?"
He hesitated. "She dropped from 300 feet. I could give
you the technical data."
"Was she dead before the fall?"
"You suspect that, Fiona?"
She ignored the question.
"Did you take a vaginal swab?" she asked.
"It wasn't
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