Laughing Man by T.M. Wright Page A

experience there was a poem.
    She heard movement in the weeds nearby. Her eyes popped open. She thought of calling out, "Who's there?" But she kept silence. Who could be there? Who would disturb this perfect and poetic moment, these minutes stolen from eternity, this time that she had given to her soul so it could breathe? But still, she turned her head a little and looked in the direction where she had heard movement. She saw the tops of oak and tulip trees, a coagulated mass of pale green grasses, a praying mantis moving on the earth close to her face. She listened. After a minute, she closed her eyes again and let the sunlight play on her skin, and let her soul breathe.
    She was dressed well, in a long, flowing, earth-colored skirt and a green cotton long-sleeved blouse that had no pockets, and which billowed nicely around her breasts, and hugged her waist. Her hair was red, and she wore it long. Thomas had told her often that she was an attractive woman, and she knew that it was true, but she did not want to cultivate this attractiveness because that would be superficial.
    Sleep had never come with difficulty to her, and it did not come with difficulty now. The sun was warm, a leisurely breeze was stirring the tall, pale green grasses, and she was alone in the meadow, except for her soul, which could soar on the wings of this glorious day.
    So she slept.
    And dreamed.
    And, in her dream, she saw the face of an angel above her. It was a dark and perfect face, and its eyes were sky-blue, and enormous passion was in its mouth.
    And then she felt her own passion responding, felt it swelling up from within her, heard the moans that came from her own mouth, and felt, too quickly, too quickly, the inrush of seed and love and man.
    And she awoke breathing very hard, and saw that her earth-colored skirt was around her waist, and that her panties were torn, and her legs wide, and that the insides of her thighs were chaffed and wet. And she heard something moving swiftly off through the sunlit weeds.
    And when she turned her head to look, she saw flowing dark hair, and a naked back.
    And she screamed.

Chapter Thirteen
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    P atricia David had never visited Erthmun at his apartment in the West Village. She had never needed to—she'd always assumed that their relationship was strictly professional. She had suspected, in fact, that she didn't like him very much. She respected him as a cop, but he was often humorless, distant, off-putting, at times even rude. He was clearly a man who valued his privacy, and she had always been more than happy to give it to him.
    So she was a little perplexed as to why she was ringing his buzzer and waiting for some response from him through the building's intercom. She could have telephoned. She had no reason to believe—now that their professional relationship had been put on hold—that he needed to see her any more than she thought she needed to see him.
    She rang the buzzer for a third time. Shit, it was obvious that he wasn't home. She reached behind her, found the knob for the outside door.
    "Yes?" she heard through the intercom. She hesitated, let go of the knob, pressed the talk button. "Jack?" she said tentatively.
    "Yes."
    "It's me. Patricia."
    Silence.
    "Jack?"
    "I'm here. What is it?"
    She sighed. "I don't know. I was a little . . . concerned."
    "Concerned. Do you want to come up?"
    "Not if I'm disturbing you. Am I dis—"
    The inner door clicked; she grabbed the knob, opened the door, heard, "You know the apartment number?"
    She stretched her arm back for the talk button and called, "Yes. It's how I buzzed you in the first place."
    "Oh, of course," Erthmun said.
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    H e had wrapped himself in a green quilt to answer his door. She thought that he was shivering a little beneath it, and that he did not look rested or happy. He even seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes open.
    "You were asleep, Jack?" Patricia said from outside the door. "I'm sorry." She glanced at her