Till the Butchers Cut Him Down by Marcia Muller Page A

slunk out of town after our substance-induced fling
     because I wasn’t ready to settle down? Well, do you know why I really left?”
    I shook my head.
    “I left because I knew I was a runty, funny-looking guy with a mediocre personality who’d just happened to get very lucky.
     You were the prettiest, nicest, smartest woman I’d ever gone to bed with, and I knew you’d never let it happen again. And
     I also knew that if I stayed in town I wouldn’t’ve been able to leave you alone. That would’ve only made us both miserable.
     I just plain didn’t want to put either of us through that.”
    “Oh, Suits—”
    “No.” He held up his hand. “Spare me any kindness at this late date. I don’t need it, I don’t want it. What I do need and
     want—” He looked down at the floor again. A shudder passed through his slight frame as he tried to control runaway emotions.
    “What I do need and want,” he went on after a moment, “is for you to help me.” He looked up and met my gaze; his eyes were
     jumpy with restrained fear; odd pinpoints of light flared in their depths.
    I stepped forward and took his hand; it was icy. I looked more closely at his face to make sure he wasn’t conning me. His
     skin was ashen, pulled so tight it seemed brittle.
    I said gently, “We’ll talk more in the morning.”

Five
    It was after seven when I got back to the office; Mick had given up on me and gone home. I stood in the little room over the
     Victorian’s entryway, which someday would belong to my assistant, looking over the new equipment assembled there. The lights
     on the answering machine glowed; the display panel on the fax broadcast the word “standby.” After a moment I went over to
     the computer and ran my finger across its keyboard. Felt something akin to a mild electric shock, even though it was turned
     off. And realized it was emotional static.
    For years I’d resisted becoming computer literate, turning over accessing the databases I routinely needed to my former assistant,
     Rae Kelleher. I’d told her I wasn’t good with machines, that I couldn’t even type properly, but the real reason was my fear
     of becoming trapped in the office, far from the action and interaction I thrive on. Now—at least until I could winnow out
     a promising assistant from an unpromising crop of applicants—I would have to learn to use the computer in order to keep the
     cash flowing.
    But why not? I thought. I’d once said I wouldn’t have a microwave in the house; now I defrosted and cooked entire feasts in
     record time. While my earthquake cottage was under renovation I’d mastered electrical wiring and become a fair plumber’s helper.
     My stomach had once lurched at Hy’s suggestion of piloting the Citabria upside down; now I was impatient to solo and kept
     pestering him to teach me the fancy stuff. Compared to understanding the circular flight computer, learning the Apple would
     be a piece of cake.
    And all this had come about because of a crazy week last June when I’d undergone a series of severe emotional shocks as well
     as an ordeal that forced me to call upon resources I hadn’t suspected I possessed. After that there was no going back. I’d
     stepped off the high dive into a new future, and now I was treading water as fast as I could.
    I turned away from the Apple and went into my office, noting with approval that my new sofa and chair looked exactly as I’d
     pictured them when I saw them in the showroom. My rose from Hy had also arrived; it stood in its bud vase on the corner of
     my desk, and Mick had even thought to add fresh water.
    The roses—a single long-stemmed beauty delivered every Tuesday—were Hy’s way of keeping us close no matter how long the separation
     or how great the distance between us. Initially they’d been yellow; after we became lovers he changed their color to an exotic
     tangerine; but after that harrowing time last June when I’d almost lost him, he changed it once