Second Love

by Gould, Judith

  'Ya know what yer problem is, Glo?'

  She took a cigarette from the nightstand and lit it. 'I'm sure you'll tell me,' she said, exhaling a plume of smoke.

  'Betcha ass I will! Ya think you're the sun, an' all the rest of us are expendable little planets circlin' around ya! Jumpin' when ya say 'jump.' Fuckin' when ya say 'fuck'!'

  She looked amused. 'Is that what you think?'

  'That's what I know! Well, for yer information, I'm not one o' those planets!' he snapped. 'An I ain't gonna ice nobody! Not for you. Not for anybody!'

  Gloria was oddly calm. 'Darling, I'm not naive. I don't expect you to do it for me. In fact, you'd be a fool to.'

  'Ya got that right!' he huffed, stomping around the room.

  'But the reason you'll do it,' she continued placidly, 'is for yourself. For two billion dollars and counting.'

  She drew deeply on her cigarette and added: 'Think of it as the biggest lottery jackpot on earth—because that's what it is! And you already have the winning ticket: me.'

  Christos shoved his fingers through his hair and began pacing agitatedly back and forth, his impressive credentials swinging.

  'An' how do I know you ain't gonna screw me over?' he snarled cruelly. 'For all I know, you're out to frame me. So you can waltz off with the dough while I take the fall!'

  He stopped pacing and glared over at her.

  'What guarantee do I have that I ain't just the patsy? Huh?'

  'Because I love you,' she said simply.

  'Love! Shit.' He rolled his eyes and paced some more.

  'Darling,' she said, 'sometimes people have to trust one another. This happens to be one of those times. Neither of us can pull this off alone. We need each other to do it.'

  'Yeah.' He clenched his hand and pounded it against his temple. 'But you don't have to do the actual killin'!'

  He slid her an accusing look.

  'No,' she admitted, 'but it was my idea. I am the one who involved you. And, I'll still be a coconspirator. I can go to the gas chamber as easily as you.'

  Despite himself, Christos had to smile. Somehow it was difficult to imagine Gloria Winslow being strapped into Old Sparky. If she were, she'd most likely shoot the electric current right back at her would-be executioners; fry them instead of her.

  'I don't know, Glo.' He sighed deeply. 'It's a big risk.'

  'It's a big prize,' she reminded him quietly. 'Two billion and counting. For a jackpot that size, I'd say the risk is negligible.'

  'Still, it means we gotta get away with murder,' he said thoughtfully.

  She raised her chin. 'That is our intention, yes.'

  'Two billion,' he mused in awe. 'Two billion fuckin' dollars!' He squinted at her sharply. 'Split how? Fifty-fifty?'

  'Sure.' Gloria stubbed her cigarette out in the crystal ashtray and shrugged. 'Why not? You'll have earned it.'

  He paced silently some more, then went and sat down heavily on the bed. 'It'll take careful plannin',' he said.

  'Very,' she agreed, scooting close and kissing the nape of his neck.

  'An', we need to keep it simple.'

  'You'll get no argument from me there.'

  'The most obvious thing'd be to stage an accident,' he thought aloud. 'Trouble is, the police ain't dumb.'

  Her fingers went itsy-bitsy spider up his thigh. 'So what do you suggest, lover boy?'

  'Dunno. But your husband's a politician.'

  'Yesssss . . . '

  'So why not try for an old-fashioned assassination? You know, someplace public? Where there'll be a crowd? That way, instead o' suspectin' a member o' the immediate family, the cops'll be searchin' for a nut case.'

  'You see?' Gloria purred. 'I knew I could leave the details up to you!'

  Then, lavishing her considerable talents upon his splendid penis, she added: 'Now what do you say we seal our partnership with another fuck?'

  Long after Christos and Gloria had gone, Amber remained in the house. So Christos has a new partner, she thought grimly.

  Not that the news came as a big surprise. She had half-suspected as much, and had prepared herself for the worst. But what left her totally stunned was how astronomically the ante had been upped.

  Two billion dollars!

  The amount was so humongous, so outside the realm of her imagination, that Amber couldn't fully comprehend it—neither in numbers, nor in purchasing power. What she did understand, and very clearly, was that it required Christos to commit murder—premeditated, cold-blooded, first-degree murder.

  He'll never get away with it, Amber thought bitterly. With shaking fingers she lit a cigarette. How can he be so blind? she wondered. Can't he see the bitch is setting him up?

  Amber was at a complete loss. She had no idea how to proceed, or whom to turn to. If only she could talk to Christos and reason with him. If necessary, try to shake some sense into him.

  Unfortunately, it was imperative that he never suspect her of knowing a thing.

  I've got to stop him, Amber thought. I've got to!

  If only she could think of a way . . .

  41

  The pilot brought Hale One down to twenty-five hundred feet and swung the jet into a wide, banking turn.

  'I asked him to circle the island so you can get a three-hundred- sixty-degree view,' Dorothy-Anne told Hunt.

  He gazed out the porthole at the lozenge-shaped island below. At first all he could see were forested slopes of volcanic origin rimmed by the white sand beaches and aquamarine sea of the Greater Antilles. Then he began to discern all the activity. Eden Isle was one huge hive of a construction site, and it was jumping.

  Big yellow earth-moving machines on steel tracks were leveling some slopes and creating new ones; others were ripping out dense jungle growth or scooping out trenches and canals and pools. Cranes hoisted burdens of steel struts and pallets. Just inland from a turquoise cove, workmen were swarming over a giant wooden skeleton of a building.

  Everywhere he looked, it seemed construction was under way. Only the easternmost tip of the island, where a village of Quonset huts looked like half-buried tin cans, was temporarily immune.

  He whistled softly and glanced at her. 'What are you budding? The Eighth Wonder of the World?'

  Dorothy-Anne smiled. 'Sometimes, that's exactly what it feels like.'

  'I'm impressed,' Hunt said, meaning it.

  'Don't be. You wouldn't be, if you could hear what you can see.'

  'You mean . . . one big sucking sound?'

  She laughed. 'You got it.'

  'I'm not surprised. This project's enormous! Small wonder you decided on that get-up.'

  During the flight, Dorothy-Anne had changed into a pair of loose, lightweight khaki slacks, tan guayabera, and steel-toed construction boots, the orangey lace-up kind.

  She pointed north, to a land mass of mysterious, fog-wreathed mountain ranges. 'That over there,' she said, 'is the southern coast of Puerto Rico. It may look like a hop and a skip, but between here and Phosphorescent Bay are twenty-two miles of open water. It can get pretty choppy at times—ah, that's the landing strip coming up.'

  Directly below them, a single runway cut a white swath from the sea inland. Parked by the terminal at the landlocked end were a small executive jet, two twin-engine prop jobs, and a Sikorsky chopper designed for hauling heavy loads. From the air, they all looked like toys.

  'We'll have to swing out to sea and come in from over the water,' Dorothy-Anne explained. 'Oh, before I forget. A pilot is standing by with one of the Cessnas. As soon as we land, he'll fly you over to Guanica to pick up the boat.'

  'A Cessna?' Hunt pretended to be hurt. 'After this flying palace, all I rate's a lowly puddle jumper?'

  Dorothy-Anne laughed. 'What can I tell you? Life is tough.'

  They buckled their seat belts as the pilot made the final approach. There was a faint whir and a shudder as the landing gear came down and locked into place. Then the jet descended rapidly until it seemed to skim the very tops of the waves.


  'Here we go,' Dorothy-Anne said.

  Water flashed past in a blur, turning from deep aquamarine to light turquoise, and the wheels made contact with the runway.

  'Perfect three-point landing,' Hunt noted, with approval.

  The engines whined shrilly as the pilot threw them in reverse, and the big plane began to slow. Like a bird to the skies born, the jet was graceless and gawky on the ground, shuddering as it taxied clumsily toward the end of the runway and its destination, the white, cast-iron terminal that looked like a garden gazebo on steroids.

  'Who are they?' Hunt asked, motioning out the porthole at a group of men lined up in a row like soldiers. All were wearing yellow hard hats.

  Dorothy-Anne sighed. 'My welcoming committee.'

  A set of metal boarding stairs was driven to the plane, and Oberto, the chief steward, lifted the main cabin door aside, letting in a burst of hot sunlight and air laden with humidity.

  Dorothy-Anne and Hunt released their seat belts and got up. 'You go on ahead,' Dorothy-Anne told him. 'I've got to deal with the welcoming committee. Your pilot's waiting by the Cessnas. We'll meet on the boat, say, late this afternoon?'

  Hunt smiled. 'Late this afternoon sounds just fine,' he said softy. Impulsively he gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek.

  She drew in a sharp breath. The touch of his lips came as a shock, and she lifted a hand to her cheek, her face reflecting a mixture of confusion, astonishment, wonder, and surprise. It was the first time a man—any man—had kissed her since Freddie's death, and she felt a sharp stab of guilt.

  Will I feel remorse every time a man kisses me? she wondered. Has Freddie's death left me that emotionally crippled?

  She could only hope it was a phase she was going through; part of the mourning process.

  Hunt doesn't merit a frigid woman. He deserves better . . . .

  She waited a moment to clear her head of personal baggage, then went down the boarding stairs to greet the assembled contingent. Introductions were unnecessary; she was acquainted with all eight of the men.

  Four were architects, three were engineers, and the eighth was Kurt Ackerman, director of Special Projects, who'd flown down in the little executive jet.

  Starting at the left and working her way to the right, Dorothy-Anne shook hands all around. She was on familiar terms with everyone, and greeted each man warmly:

  'Helmut.' The reserved German engineer. 'How is the new baby?'

  'Very well, Mrs. Cantwell. I call my wife every evening.'

  'Jim.' The Princeton genius with an alternative lifestyle. 'Did you contact our Human Resources Department about domestic partner benefits?'

  'Yes, Robbie and I can't thank you enough, Mrs. Cantwell.'

  'Ettore.' The outgoing Italian architect. 'Your mother's recipe for spaghetti Bolognese is making me gain weight!'

  'She wrote that your chicken pot pie recipe is bellissimo!'

  Dorothy-Anne had kind words for everyone.

  Kurt Ackerman was the eighth and last man in the row. As usual, the pony-tailed wunderkind of amusement rides looked hip and with-it.

  He had on blue-lensed rimless sunglasses and a short-sleeved, aqua airtex shirt he wore open, shirttail out, over a white T-shirt. The front of the T-shirt was printed with a constructivist, Soviet-era poster of a foreshortened steam locomotive in red and black, and had stylized Cyrillic lettering.

  'I decided I'd better pop down to see you,' he said, explaining his presence.

  'Why?' Dorothy-Anne looked at him sharply. She was alerted as much by his reticence as by the somberness of his expression. 'Don't tell me more problems have cropped up?'

  'No, no,' he said quickly. 'I just need to discuss a personal matter. In private.'

  'You know I'm always available. We can talk in the car.'

  Kurt handed her an extra hard hat he was holding. She took it, but glanced at him questioningly.

  'New regulations,' he explained. 'The insurance company insists. Unless hard hats are worn outdoors at all times, even in nonconstruction zones, the premiums will go up.'

  Nodding, she put it on and followed him into a green Range Rover. The other men followed in two mud-spattered black Jeep Wranglers. As they drove off the tarmac, she could hear the single engine of a Cessna cough, sputter, and start up. Then they left the terminal behind, taking an unpaved tunnellike road through high, overarching trees.

  Kurt flicked a sideways glance at her as he negotiated the bumps and ruts. 'I always wanted to know how you did that,' he said.

  Dorothy-Anne was puzzled. 'How I did what?'

  'You know, that trick of remembering everybody's names? Details of their personal lives? I guess you must keep notes and refer to them beforehand, huh?'

  'Notes?' Dorothy-Anne frowned and shook her head. 'No. I just remember things, that's all.'

  'It's amazing,' he said.

  'Not really. When people are my employees, they don't work for me, they work with me. I genuinely care about them.'

  He swung around a puddle and she glanced into the side mirror. Behind them, the two Wranglers bounced up and down, out of sync with the Rover and each other.

  'You wanted to talk in private,' she said.

  Kurt nodded.

  'This is private.'

  He kept his eyes on the road. 'Do you remember how long it's been since you lured me away from Disney World?'

  Dorothy-Anne smiled. 'Of course. How could I forget? It's nearly three years now.'

  'That's right.' He nodded slowly. 'Sometimes it seems like yesterday. And at others . . . ' His voice trailed off.

  'It seems like forever,' she completed. 'I know the feeling.'

  They came to a fork in the road, and Kurt hung a left. The two Jeeps behind them made a right turn and disappeared from the mirror.

  'I don't believe I ever told you this,' Dorothy-Anne said. 'When my husband originally came up with the concept for Eden Isle, he said it would take one of three technical wizards to make it click.'

  Kurt kept his face bland.

  Her voice was soft. 'Your name was at the top of his wish list. Did you know that?'

  He shook his head. 'No, I didn't. I'm very flattered.'

  'When you accepted our offer, so were we.'

  He was silent for a moment. 'Do you know what clinched the deal for me?'

  'Yes. At the time, you said it was because you would have complete creative control.'

  'Your memory really is something else,' he said admiringly. 'But there was another reason, too.'

  'And what was that?'

  'The opportunity to be in on a project of this magnitude from the ground up. You know . . . creating an entire grand scheme from scratch? The challenge was irresistible.'

  'In other words, you liked the idea of playing God on a small scale?'

  He looked thoughtful. 'I wouldn't go so far as to say that. I suppose what fired my imagination the most was creating something that has never been done before. Think about it. How many people get the chance to make Fantasy Island a reality?'

  She nodded to herself. 'My husband chose well,' she said. 'He was right to put you at the top of his list.'

  Kurt allowed himself a modest smile. 'I like to think I chose well also.'

  'I'm glad.' Dorothy-Anne's voice was warm. Then it became brusque and businesslike. 'But all that aside, a trip down memory lane isn't what you wished to speak about in private.'

  He glanced at her. 'Well, it is and it isn't.'

  She gave him a strange look. 'Now you're talking in riddles.'

  'What it is,' he said, 'is here we are, three years later. And I'll be damned if history isn't repeating itself.'

  'I'm afraid you've lost me.'

  'Well, when your husband first contacted me? I was at the tail end of planning a new park addition at Disney World.'

  'That I know,' she said.

  'Now it seems I'm at the same crossroads again.'

  Dorothy-Anne was watching him closely. 'You'll have to be a little more spe
cific.'

  'Look at it this way,' he said quietly. 'The plans for Eden Isle are finished. What was conceived on paper and computers and with scale models is becoming the real thing.'

  Her expression did not change.

  'Oh, there'll be the usual problems that pop up during any construction project,' he said. 'That's par for the course. But basically, we've conquered it. Themes, engineering, refinements—you name it, we've done it. We even planned added attractions for years to come. The creative part's finished. Eden Isle is becoming a reality.'

  But not fast enough, Dorothy-Anne thought. Not fast enough by halves.

  They drove in silence as the dirt road narrowed and became a series of switchbacks that took them higher and higher up the south face of the ridge that formed the spine of the island.

  Dorothy-Anne stared down over the drop-off. The slopes were green and lush, punctuated at regular intervals with towering steel pylons where cable cars would ferry visitors to the top of the ridge, across the ancient, water-filled crater, and back down the other side.

  Halfway to the top, Kurt pulled over and turned off the engine. 'Let's stretch our legs,' he said.

  They got out of the Rover and walked to the edge of the road, looking out over the southern half of the island. A breeze stirred the air, the sky was stacked with layers of big fat cumulus clouds, and the sea looked like a sequined sheet stretching to the blue horizon. Closer in, long white rollers curled up onto snow white beaches.

  Kurt thrust the tips of his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. He was nervous. She could tell from the way he had trouble standing still, constantly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. 'Do you believe in déjà vu?'

  Dorothy-Anne kept her eyes on the panorama. 'That all depends.'

  'Try this on for size,' he said. 'Night before last, I worked real late. By the time I got home to Mount Kisco, the wife and kids were already tucked in, so I hit the sack, too. Sometime later, the phone woke me up. When I answered it, I was sure it was part of a dream.' He shook his head. 'It was weird, man. Far-out weird.'

  Dorothy-Anne felt a premonition, as though furry microscopic legs were dancing along her spine. Her voice was a near whisper. 'What did the caller want?'