The Cutting by James Hayman Page B

gingerly climbed out. It had stopped raining. He could see stars in the eastern sky over the bay and the first hints of red on the horizon. He climbed the three flights up to the three-bedroom condo he shared with Casey and, as often as possible, with Kyra.
    Taking off his muddy shoes, he left them in the hall and went in. He opened the door to Casey’s room. He knelt by the side of her bed and watched her sleeping face. ‘Have I lied to you?’ he asked silently. ‘Have I encouraged you to believe there’s safety in a world that knows no safety?’ Of course he had, but it was a loving lie. Harsh truths would intrude soon enough. He could only hope they wouldn’t come in the brutal way they had for Katie Dubois. He brushed a strand of dark hair from over her eyes and gave her a kiss so soft he was sure it wouldn’t wake her.
    Her lids flickered open, and her blue eyes, so like Sandy’s, looked up at him. She was bathed in the faint predawn light of an autumn morning. ‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘You look really awful.’
    ‘It was kind of a rough night,’ he whispered. ‘I’m sorry I woke you.’
    ‘I was sort of awake anyway. Are you okay?’
    ‘You should see the other guy,’ he smiled.
    ‘You were in a fight?’ She sat halfway up to get a better look at him.
    ‘No, I’m only kidding. Go back to sleep. I’ll tell you about it in the morning.’
    She looked out her window at the thin red line slowly widening in the eastern sky. ‘It pretty much is morning.’
    ‘There’s time for more sleep.’ He kissed her again. She put her arms around his neck and pulled him down to give him a hug, ‘Don’t,’ he said, ‘you’ll get all muddy.’
    ‘That’s okay,’ she said, releasing him. ‘Kyra’s here. Jane went home.’
    He smiled. ‘Good night, sweetie. I’ll see you in the morning.’
    He went to his own bedroom.
    Kyra’s sleepy voice rose from the bed. ‘I’m glad you’re back. I was beginning to worry.’
    ‘Is everybody in this house an insomniac? A man can’t sneak into his own bedroom without causing a commotion?’
    She flipped on the brass bedside lamp. ‘You don’t look so good.’
    ‘I kind of fell over a cliff.’
    ‘In the line of duty? Or just for the fun of it?’
    He took off his torn jacket, let it fall to the floor, and sat in the birch bentwood rocker in the corner of the room. ‘We found the Dubois girl.’
    ‘I heard. It was on the eleven o’clock news.’
    ‘Any details?’
    ‘Not really. Just that she’d been murdered and maybe raped.’
    Kyra was lying on her side, looking at him, head propped up on one arm. She was covered only by a thin cotton sheet that revealed the curves of her long, slender body, and in spite of his weariness McCabe found himself wanting her. In fact, needing her.
    ‘You’d better take a shower,’ she said, sensing his desire. ‘I’m not making love to anybody who looks like he finished on the wrong side of a mud wrestling tournament.’
    She slipped out of the bed, naked, and walked to him. ‘Here, let me help you,’ she said.
    She pulled him to his feet and began unbuttoning his torn shirt. He let her undress him, holding out his arms like a child so she could unbutton his sleeves and pull off his shirt. She unzipped his trousers and, along with his underpants, they fell to the floor. He stepped out of them. She ran her fingers, teasingly, up and down, along the underside of his erection. He reached for her.
    She backed away. ‘No way,’ she said. ‘Not till you’re clean.’
    They got in the shower together. The hot water played over them and stung the scraped, reddened skin on his chest and arms. She gently washed his body and then his hair, commenting, as always, on how many more gray hairs there were than the last time. Then he washed her. After that they just stood for a while in the hot water and stroked each other.
    When they had dried, McCabe lay on his back on the bed and Kyra climbed on top of him. He entered