Mortal Faults by Michael Prescott Page A

was his constituent services coordinator, the intermediary who dealt with the various real and imagined crises in the lives of the voters in his district. She was stationed permanently in Orange County, the only staffer to run his office here when he was in D.C. They saw each other whenever he was in town. Fortunately it was an election year, and he was in town a lot.
    They went into her bedroom. “Do anything tonight?” he asked, not caring, just making conversation as he stripped off his clothes.
    “Watched TV.”
    “Huh.”
    “Nothing much on. Who was that woman?”
    He glanced at her. “Woman?”
    “Four o’clock appointment. Sinclair.”
    “Personal matter.”
    “You can’t talk about personal matters with me?”
    “Oh, I can. I just figured we’ve got better things to do. What do you care about her, anyway?”
    “She’s very attractive.”
    “Didn’t notice.”
    Rebecca made a face. “Right.”
    “What are you, jealous?”
    “Just ... curious.”
    “You know what they say about curiosity and the cat.”
    “No, what?”
    “It killed the cat.”
    “What did?”
    He was exasperated. “Curiosity.”
    She frowned. “I don’t get it. What is it, a riddle?”
    “It’s a saying. An old saying. I guess it’s from before your time.”
    “Must be.”
    Suddenly he was feeling old. He didn’t like it. It made him angry. Made him hot.
    “You’re a dumb bitch,” he said quietly, “you know that?”
    “Jack—”
    He shut her mouth with a searing kiss. He was tired of hearing her talk. He never wanted to hear her talk. He had enough conversation in his life.
    When he broke away, he had silenced her. He unbuttoned her nightgown and let it fall away. “On the bed,” he ordered.
    She sank onto the mattress, naked, supine, her ash blond hair fanning across the pillows.
    “Roll over,” he said. “On your belly.”
    “Do we have to ...?”
    “
Roll over
.”
    She obeyed, her bare back displayed for him like a side of beef. He whacked her hard on the ass, and she gave a little yelp of pain.
    “You like that, bitch?”
    “Yes, Jack.”
    Another smack. The cheeks of her buttocks reddened.
    “You like that?”
    “Yes.”
    A stinging wallop.
    “Like it?”
    “Yes.” Tears in her voice.
    He grabbed her by the knot of hair at her nape and yanked her head back. “Say it louder.”
    “Yes, Jack.”
    “Yes, what?”
    “Yes, I like it.
I like it
!” Her eyes glittered, wet.
    He reached under her, cupping a breast, squeezing hard.
    “You like that?”
    “Yes.”
    He made a fist, crushing the flesh in his hand. “Like it?”
    “Yes ...”
    “Louder.”
    But she couldn’t say it louder. She was crying.
    Well, if she wouldn’t talk, she would scream. He knew how to make her scream. Some of the bruises still hadn’t healed from last time. Now there would be more.
    And she would like it.
    ***
    An hour later, he pulled into the driveway of his home in Newport Beach. He went in via the side door, disarming and rearming the alarm system, then made his way through the ground level.
    The house was big, but not quite big enough to be ostentatious, decorated in a simple but elegant style that looked more costly than it was. The décor had been his wife’s assignment, one of the few times in their twenty-five year marriage when Nora had actually contributed something to the partnership besides her family’s money. For the most part she was only a prop for him to lean on, an attractive prop, plumper then she once was but still curvaceous enough to draw admiring glances. She was neither shrewd nor wise, she had little imagination and limited ambition, but she did possess the cardinal virtue of loyalty. She had been faithful to him, always. He couldn’t say the same about himself.
    “Jack.” Her voice drifted down from upstairs. “Is that you?”
    “It’s me.”
    He climbed the spiral staircase, shedding his jacket. He found Nora in bed, a book in her hand and a mildly annoyed expression on her