Dead Sleep (44 page)

John takes out his cell phone, calls the field office, and asks for the forensic unit. “Jenny, John Kaiser. Have you guys heard from New York on that handwriting yet? . . . What did they say? . . . I see. One hundred percent sure? . . . Right. Thanks.” He presses End, then lets his head fall forward and sighs.

“What is it?”

“The phone number on your photo was in Wingate's handwriting.”

My stomach goes hollow, and I slam the wheel with my open hand. “There it is. Somebody outside New Orleans chose me as victim number five, and it got Jane killed.”

He bites his lower lip and shakes his head. “If I had to pick someone, I'd pick Marcel de Becque.”

“What if he
ordered
me, John? The way you'd commission any painting? He's known who I am for years. He tells Wingate he wants me in the next painting, but since I'm traveling all the time, Wingate finds an easy way to supply what de Becque wants. He takes Jane instead.”

“There's one big hole in that theory.”

“That de Becque didn't have Jane's painting? That's easy. Wingate sold it out from under him. That's the source of their bad blood.”

“I was talking about coincidence. Every other victim lives in New Orleans. But for some unknown reason, de Becque chooses you—a world traveler based in San Francisco—as victim number five. To fill de Becque's order, Wingate decides to use your twin sister as a substitute. And that substitute just
happens
to live in the same city as all the other victims? That's a statistical impossibility.”

A low pounding has started at the base of my skull. I reach down to the floor and unzip my fanny pack, looking for my pill bottle.

“What's that?” John asks as I bring it up.

“Xanax.”

“Tranquilizers?

“It's no big deal.”

“Xanax is a chemical cousin of Valium.”

“I know that. Look, I need to calm down.”

He looks out his window at the lake, but I know he's not going to let it drop. “Do you take them regularly?”

I pop off the lid, shake two pills into my hand, and swallow them dry. “This has been a bad day, okay? I watched Wendy die. I watched you get shot. A guy tried to kidnap me, and I just found out I'm responsible for my sister's death. You can put me in rehab tomorrow.”

He looks back at me, his hazel eyes filled with concern. “You do what you have to do to get through this. I'm just worried about you. And me. We've got another fifteen minutes in the car. You're not going to fall asleep at the wheel, are you?”

I laugh. “Don't worry about that. Two of these would put you out, but they'll barely dent me.”

He studies me for a long moment, then faces the causeway again. “Sooner or later, we're going to break through the wall, Jordan. We're going to find those women. All of them.”

Sooner or later.
It had better be sooner. Later is like the horizon; it recedes as you approach.

 

JOHN LIVES IN a suburban ranch house on a street with twenty others exactly like it. Homogenous Americana, enforced by neighborhood covenant. The lawns are well-tended, the houses freshly painted, the vehicles in the driveways clean and new. I park in the driveway, then help him out of the passenger side. With only me present, he uses the cane. It's slow going, but he grits his teeth and keeps walking.

Under the carport, he punches a security code into a wall box and opens the back door, which leads into a laundry room, then a spotless white kitchen.

“You obviously never cook,” I remark.

“I cook sometimes.”

“You have a maid, then.”

“A woman comes in once a week. But I'm basically a neat guy.”

“I've never met a neat guy I'd want to spend the night with.”

He laughs, then winces. “The truth is, I've been sleeping on a cot at the office since Baxter called about your discovery in Hong Kong.”

“Ah.”

Beyond the kitchen counter is a dining area with a glass table, and a large arch leads onto a decently furnished den. Everything appears to be in its appointed place, with only a couple of magazines on a coffee table suggesting the presence of an occupant. The house feels like it's been cleaned up for sale, or is even a demo unit used to sell young marrieds on the neighborhood.

“Where's all your junk?” I ask, feeling a warm wave of Xanax wash against my headache.

“My junk?”

“You know. Books, videotapes? Old mail? The things you buy on impulse at Wal-Mart?”

He shrugs, then looks oddly wistful. “No wife, no kids, no junk.”

“That rule doesn't apply to other bachelors I've known.”

He starts to reply, but winces again instead.

“Your leg?”

“It's stiffening up fast. Let me just get on the couch there. I can go through the Argus photos there.”

“I think you'd better rest before you start on those.”

He limps to the sofa with his weight on the cane, but instead of helping him sit, I take his hand and pull him past the sofa toward the hall. “I don't want to sleep,” he complains, pulling back against my hand.

“We're not going to sleep.”

“Oh.”

His resistance stops, and I lead him toward a half-open door at the end of the hall, where a cherry foot-board shows through. Like the rest of the house, the bedroom is clean; the bed is neatly made. With John's casual dress habits, I thought this inner sanctum might be the secret wreck of the house. Maybe that's just projection.

He starts to sit on the bed, but I stop him and pull back the covers first. Once he gets horizontal, the painkillers will kick in, and it will be a while before he feels like getting up again.

“I need to sit down,” he says in a tight voice.

With me holding his upper arms, he eases back and sits on the edge of the bed, then lies back on the pillow with a groan.

“Bad?”

“Not good. I'm okay, though.”

“Let's see if I can make it better.”

I slip off my shoes, then climb onto the bed and carefully sit astride him. “Does that hurt?”

“No.”

“Liar.” Leaning forward, I brush his lips with mine and pull back, waiting for him to respond. His hands slide up my hips to my waist; then he kisses me back, gently, yet insistently enough to remind me of the passion I felt in the shower last night. A warm wave of desire rolls through me, which combined with the Xanax suppresses the shadowy images bubbling up from my subconscious.

“I want to forget,” I whisper. “Just for an hour.”

He nods and pulls my lips to his, kissing me deeply as his arms slip around my back. After a bit, he nibbles my neck, then my ear, and the warmth escalates into something urgent enough to make me squirm in discomfort. That's the way I am. I go a day or a week or a month without being aware of my body, and then suddenly it's
there,
making me uncomfortably aware of its needs. But my need runs much deeper than flesh. For the past year, I've lived with a growing emptiness that has threatened to swallow me whole.

“You have something?” I whisper.

“In the dresser.”

I slide off him and move to the dresser.

“Top drawer.”

When I get back to the bed, I stand looking down at him. He watches me with wide eyes, waiting to see what I'll do. The base of my skull is still throbbing, but not so badly now. I'd give a lot to have my shoulders rubbed, but he's in no shape to do that for me. Given what his doctor told us, he's not in shape to do anything I have in mind. But I suspect he feels differently.

“You okay?” he asks.

I smile at him and begin unbuttoning my blouse. The bra I put on this morning is sealed in an evidence bag in the belly of a plane on its way to Washington, and the agent who lent me a change of clothes didn't have an extra bra in her trunk. When the blouse slips off my shoulders, John's breath goes shallow.

I slide off my jeans and panties, then climb back to the spot I was in before. As he looks up at me, I see the pulse beating at the base of his throat. I touch his lips with my finger.

“Five minutes ago I felt as low as I ever have. I thought we were going to come in here and have violent sex that would exorcise our demons just long enough to let us sleep. But that's not what this is.”

He nods. “I know.”

“You make me happy, John.”

“I'm glad. You make me happy too.”

“God, we're a bad movie.”

He laughs. “The real thing always sounds like a bad movie.” He reaches up and touches my cheek. “I know you're torn to pieces inside, especially after seeing that picture. I don't—”

“Shh. This is how it is. Life happens in the middle of death. I feel lucky to have found you, and this is where we happen to be. You could have died today. So could I. And we'd never have known what this was like.”

“You're right.”

“Come on. We deserve it.”

He reaches up and rubs my abdomen, and the warmth of his hand makes me shiver. He nods down toward his leg. “I'm not exactly in top form.”

“You're still talking pretty well.”

“And?”

“One critical part is still in working order.”

He shakes his head and laughs. “You're not shy, are you?”

“I'm forty, John. I'm not a Girl Scout anymore. And you still owe me from the hotel.”

“I wondered why you hadn't taken off my clothes.”

I smile down at him. “First things first.”

“How do we do this?”

“I'll make it easy for you.”

Leaning forward, I take hold of the headboard and slide up his chest, then rise onto my knees. Without hesitation, he lays his hands on my hips and pulls me to him, kissing lightly. A thrill of heat races over my skin, and I settle against him.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

“Don't talk. Just keep doing that.”

He does, and after less than a minute, I know this is not going to take long. I learned long ago that the trick is not to concentrate on reaching a peak, but to be with someone with whom you feel totally at ease. Then you can close your eyes and let go of the world, and you'll be carried to the peak without ever taking a step. I've felt at ease with John from the first, and now is no different. He knows where I want to go and how to take me there, and I'm content to let him. I dig my fingers into his hair and pull him into me, and he groans with pleasure.

With a sudden tingle, a film of sweat covers my skin from my scalp to my toes. The tension builds steadily within me, and my thighs go taut and quiver with strain. As I hold myself still against his insistent kisses, his hands slide up my ribs and cover my breasts, and I feel him urging me toward completion, one flick no different from the last, the next a trigger that catapults me into another dimension, where every nerve ending sings with heat and every muscle trembles without command. For an instant all goes white; then the whiteness bends into waves that dissipate into soft color and the physical fallout of shivering and panting that let him know he has done well. He lifts his head and lightly kisses my belly, and I slide down his chest and hug him tightly.

“
Mmm.
I think I could actually sleep now.”

“Hmm.” The sound of consternation.

I reach back and tickle his stomach, then slide my hand farther down. “Feels like somebody needs some special attention before anyone goes to sleep.”

He tries to look nonchalant, but he's not fooling anybody.

I reach back and undo his belt and trousers, then try to fit the condom on him with one hand. “This is like you learning to unhook a bra when you were a teenager, right?”

He laughs. “You're doing pretty well.”

“There. Everything okay?”

He pulls my face down and kisses me again, gently despite his need. I playfully bite his bottom lip, waiting to see how desperate he is, but he just keeps kissing me. Before long I realize what he already seems to know: I want him inside me as badly as he wants to be there.

“You win,” I tell him, sliding backward.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I will be in a minute. Go slow.”

“I'm counting.” His eyes twinkle. “Not easy to be still now.”

He lays his hands on my thighs and slowly presses up into me, taking my breath away. Then he begins to move, sliding me forward and back with maddening regularity. The mere presence of him there is enough to scramble my thoughts. It's been almost a year since I made love with a man, and I feel as though I'm recovering from a sort of physical amnesia. To be so full and still need to be filled, to feel utterly vulnerable and yet pri mally complete, all of it comes back in the grip of his strong hands and the slow ebb and flow of him in my softest place.

I can tell he's happy, but I also sense that he's holding back. That at the core he sees me as fragile.

“I'm not a china vase, John.”

“I know that.”

“You're thinking about what I told Thalia.”

He slows his movement, then stops. “You can't pretend that's not part of you. That you're completely over it.”

“I'm not over it. But I am above it. Is it you that has a problem with it?”

“Absolutely not. I'm just worried about you. I want to take care of you.”

“Then do that.” I start to move against him, but he still looks uncertain. There's only one way to get past this awkwardness, and that's to rip him out of his preconceptions. It's a risk, but one I feel I have to take.