Night Hunter

by Carol Davis Luce

  She felt a fluttering in her stomach. “I learned to dress myself a long time ago,” she said with a thin smile.

  “Pity.”

  Regina went to the room, took a quick shower, freshened her makeup, ran a brush through her hair and then put on the only other thing she had brought, a Calvin Klein bare-back halter dress in a soft white linen. As she reached up behind to tie the dress at her neck, her gaze settled on the bed.

  What was she doing in a hotel room with a man she’d only known a couple of weeks? Oh, she knew why she had come here, she’d come to help John investigate — which they had done with disappointing results. Amelia had an alibi, so their work here was done.

  She stepped into a pair of medium-heeled sandals, grabbed the black-and-white plaid shawl, tossed it over one shoulder, and went out the door.

  She found John standing at the bar in the Sword Room Lounge. He smiled, watching her as she crossed the room to him.

  “You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What would you like?”

  “Martini,” she told the waiting bartender.

  She looked around the dim interior of the lounge at the rich, dark wood paneling, the upholstered club chairs, and the candles on small round tables reflecting a multitude of glowing red in gold-veined mirrors. It was meant to convey a cozy, romantic atmosphere.

  They finished their drinks and ordered another. The maitre d’ stepped up to them, announced that their table was ready, lifted Regina’s martini and John’s Tanqueray, and led them to a corner table in the dining room.

  After sitting down, Regina said. “What now?”

  “Now we eat.” His attention was diverted to the menu in front of him.

  They decided on the rack of lamb. The waiter came, took their order, and left.

  “You had more than one shock today, didn’t you?”

  Regina stared blankly at him, not understanding.

  “Amelia. ‘City Gallery.’”

  “Oh. That.”

  “Would it really bother you?”

  “Yes. Not for me, but for Donna. No one can take Donna’s place.”

  “You can.”

  She shook her head. “No, not even me.”

  “But especially not Amelia.”

  “Right.” She felt anger flash through her. “How could Nolan do that to his own wife?”

  “What’s in it for him?”

  “Control. He doesn’t know how much power I have, or whether I have any at all. But he doesn’t want to take any chances. If he can get someone to follow orders like Donna did, then he has a job. If not ...”

  “I get the picture.”

  The salads were put in front of them, red wine poured.

  “Nolan thinks it’s so easy. He blusters around, giving orders that no one pays attention to and the show goes on. It goes smoothly in spite of him. Even Donna knows that, but she’d never admit it. And now he wants to cut her out—just like that.”

  “She’s really a good friend of yours, isn’t she?”

  “The best. We go back a long way.”

  “Is Nolan giving you a time?”

  “He’d like to. But no, Max is on my side on this one.”

  “Will the psychic return for tomorrow’s show?”

  She shook her head, “Tomorrow we have a dream analyst.”

  “Do you believe in that stuff?”

  She looked him straight in the eyes and said emphatically, “Yes.”

  “I knew you’d be wishy-washy about it.”

  She laughed.

  He stared at her, one corner of his mouth turned up. “God, I love the way you laugh.”

  She laughed again. This time she heard the nervousness in it.

  Their entree was served. They fell silent, eating and sipping wine.

  Regina again asked herself why she was here in this beautiful resort inn, in this cozy restaurant with a man who had stood her up the night before. It dawned on her that living in the same building, having to pass his door to come and go, could be very awkward if things didn’t work out between them. She would have no choice but to move.

  She cleared her throat. “John, I’ve been thinking. There’s really no reason for us to stay the night now. In fact, we could probably do more good in the city.”

  John looked up at her “The room is paid for,” he said quietly. “But if you want to go, we’ll go.”

  She felt a profound sense of disappointment that baffled her. Had she hoped he would try to convince her to stay? Yes, that was it and she couldn’t deny it. Why the game playing, she asked herself? You want to stay. You want to make love with this man. He’s here with you, now, not with the other one. There’s an incredibly romantic room down the hall, waiting, with open arms ... like a lover.

  “We’ll go,” he said with finality.

  “I insist on paying for half—” she began before he cut in.

  “It was my idea to come here. It’s on me.”

  She nodded, looking away uneasily.

  He poured wine into her empty glass. “Let’s enjoy this fine food and drink, shall we?”

  “No more wine for me. I’m driving.”

  “Drink up, I’ll drive.”

  She looked up at him, eyebrow raised.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I’m trying to picture you behind the wheel of a car. It’s difficult.”

  “I’m a good driver. You’ll be safe.”

  To prove that she trusted him, she drank her wine down quickly and held out her glass for more. John obliged by refilling it.

  “Tell me about you,” she asked. She sipped the wine more slowly.

  “There’s not much to tell.”

  “You were married and had a child.” It was a statement, not a question. “I saw the on your wall in your apartment. The boy looks like you.”

  John told her about meeting Darlene in England, marrying her, and moving to America. He then talked of their son Andrew. As he spoke Regina focused on his mouth. He had a way of speaking slowly, and softly, his lips moving only slightly, revealing white, slightly crooked lower teeth. Upon recounting a pleasant slice of his life, one corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. Completely captivated by his voice and the easy way in which he related his years as a husband and father, she was stunned when he finished with: “A week before I was to join them in London, they both drowned in a ferry accident.”

  Regina stared at him, saying nothing. She was awestruck by his serious countenance, unusual for this man who made light of most everything. She felt a strong tugging deep inside. She sensed that there was something more than grief behind those sad eyes. Guilt. There’s guilt there. He feels it, too. A sense of guilt enmeshed with the sorrow. He thinks that if he had done things differently, his wife and son would be alive today.

  Guilt.

  Regina knew the feeling well. Of course, there was nothing she could have done that would have changed the course of Leo’s dementia. Blaming herself for that would be absurd. Her guilt stemmed from the relief of his death.

  They had finished eating. Neither wanted anything more. The waiter brought the check and John paid with cash.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Regina led the way into the lobby. She looked at the clock above the registration desk. 10:20. If they checked out now they would be back in San Francisco before midnight.

  “If you want, I can get our things from the room and meet you here,” John said.

  “That’s all right. I’ll go with you. I want to change out of this dress.”

  Their walk to the room was devoid of conversation. John opened the door to room 142 and stood aside for Regina to enter.

  After taking only a few steps inside, she paused, drawing in a deep breath. The room was dim, yet it glowed richly from the blazing wood in the fireplace. While they had been dining, the bed had been turned down, and on one pillow lay a long-stemmed red rose. Fresh rose petals were scattered over the satin dusty-
rose comforter. On the nightstand to the right of the bed, next to the radio that was playing love songs, was a bottle of champagne chilling in a silvery ice bucket.

  “The newlywed treatment,” John said quietly behind her.

  She swallowed, nodding.

  “What a shame to waste it.”

  “We could open the champagne, I suppose.”

  “It’s the least we could do.”

  As John uncorked the bottle, Regina moved to the fireplace and stood gazing at the burning logs. She heard the cork pop. John came up behind her and reached around to hand her a glass of champagne. She took the glass. He was close enough for her to feel his warm breath in her hair and the crisp fabric of his shirt against her bare back. She flushed and shivered simultaneously. Hot and cold. Cold and hot.

  She continued to stare at the fire. She smelled the scent of sweet flowers nearby, and realized why when she felt the velvety petals of the red rose he was holding caress her bare shoulders, then the side of her face. She closed her eyes. She was unaware of how tense she was until he whispered in her ear, “Relax . . . relax.”

  Exhaling, forcing her muscles to unwind, she leaned back against him. From the two martinis and the red wine at dinner, she was tingling, floating. She felt his lips press lightly to her neck, over a throbbing pulse below her ear. His fingers stroked her throat, lowering to trace the skin at the edge of her halter dress, along the side of her breast. His wrist lightly brushed across one breast and, beneath the thin material of the bodice, her nipple become erect and highly sensitive.

  The glass was carefully taken from her. His other arm came around her at the waist, his splayed hand pressed against her abdomen, fingertips lightly kneading. She felt his erection against her lower back and she wanted to reach back and touch him, but her arms seemed paralyzed, useless appendages at her side. His hands moved in lazy circles at the most sensual areas of her body. Wild currents of pleasure crackled through her. Electrical charges, like ragged streaks of lightning, sparked a savage intensity of feelings.

  He gently tugged on the cord tied at the back of her neck. The cord loosened and the bodice slid down to her waist, exposing her breasts. John cupped them.

  She moaned, turning in his arms, hungry for his lips on hers. Their lips met, moist and warm and with an urgency that made her frantic with desire. She had no control, nothing existed except what was going on in a core of her that had become universal ... all-powerful ... all-consuming.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind she experienced a pang of shame for her desperate abandonment. What must he think of her? Then the shame was gone.

  As he undressed her, she became aware of how little she had on. The dress, shoes, and sheer panties. Had she subconsciously dressed for lovemaking? Then he was naked, lifting her and carrying her to the bed, where he lowered her slowly. Atop the cool satin spread of rose petals, he entered her, thrusting all the way into her until she gasped from a mixture of pleasure and pain, pain that was so brief she wondered if she had imagined it. And then, filling her up, not moving, he kissed her with a fevered passion, saying her name.

  She began to rotate her hips, reflexively, as waves of ecstasy spread outward from that pulsating core. She had forgotten how good it could be. Had it ever been this good? Yes. No. No. never. It was building, beyond slowing down, beyond stopping. And then she cried out with an abrupt, gripping orgasm. She rode the waves for what seemed an eternity as John glided into her, seeking his own release. Minutes later, when he shuddered in climax, Regina, again cresting the wave, cried out.

  John kissed her earlobe, her temple, her swollen lips. Without speaking they lay in each other’s arms, sweaty, spent.

  In John’s living room, with the cool blue rays of a full moon illuminating the interior, Corinne sat stiffly in the straight-back pine chair. She had unbuttoned her coat, letting it fall open, but the hood remained up, coming far forward on her head. From where she sat she could read the digital clock on the VCR. 1:16. Four hours ago she had entered his apartment and sat down to wait.

  Coming here had been a hard decision. John had called her twice since Donna’s attack, and both times she had refused to speak or listen. But she couldn’t hide from him forever. It was only a matter of time before he would seek her out. Try to come to her. She wanted him nowhere near her place. He would be shocked, disgusted by the filth and squalor. He wouldn’t understand about her father. So she had come to him.

  These past few weeks, seeing him through his window, watching him on the street, had brought him despairingly close to her again. After all these years her love for him had not dissipated. It had, she realized, only been smoldering, like sparks on a bed of wood shavings, waiting for a breeze to rekindle its fiery life.

  She allowed herself to think of him. It was impossible not to anymore. Their time together before her attack had been so brief, a few precious months, yet Corinne could recall, with crystal clarity, everything about him.

  The way he looked, smelled, spoke, and laughed. The way his hands felt on her skin, his lips against hers in a kiss. And now to see him again, practically unchanged, perhaps even more handsome and alluring ...

  She felt sick with love and desire for him.

  She rose slowly, her cramped muscles screaming in agony, her gaze sweeping the room. She was desperate for a cigarette, a butt would do, but it was clear by the absence of ashtrays that John had given up smoking.

  Corinne walked around the room, her hands buried deep in the pockets of her coat. She had to use the bathroom.

  Minutes later, with the moonlight reflecting off the white tiles, she stood at the sink and took in everything. John’s toiletries stood on the back of the commode, and more stood on a shelf above. She touched nothing, though God help her, her fingers ached to hold something of his. On the back of the door hung a blue wraparound towel. Reaching out, her fingers brushed against it and she felt a slight dampness before she jerked her hand away, as if burned, and thrust it back into the pocket of her coat.

  She pivoted, stepped to the doorway of the bedroom, and stared into his room. John’s bed. It was so big. Big compared to hers, that is. She went to the bed, taking hesitant steps, then leaned over and ran a hand across the ribbed clay tone comforter. Her hand traveled upward until she tentatively touched his pillow. She lifted it, squeezed the downy fullness to her chest. Then she rested her cheek to it and closed her eyes. A picture of John materialized in her head. John then and now. And she felt a painful ache deep inside her.

  The pillow went back on the bed and Corinne gingerly followed. She lay stiff, her legs drawn tightly to her as she tucked the pillow close. It smelled of him. A smell she hadn’t forgotten. She would just lie here a minute to ease her cramped muscles.

  Sometime in the night John and Regina awoke to make love again. No words were spoken.

  Corinne sensed the light. Coming awake abruptly, she sat up, confused. It took her a moment to realize that she had fallen asleep on John’s bed. The faint light of dawn had awakened her. The clock read 4:50.

  She had to leave.

  Back in the living room, as she buttoned up her coat, with the early light bringing the room into focus, she spotted the note on the large mahogany coffee table.

  Aunt Anna, Gone to Napa. Back on Sat. Feed Ollie, please,

  Thanks, J

  On the note was a small canister of turtle food.

  Out of town? She had worked up the nerve to come to him and he had been out of town.

  Out of town alone?

  Rushing to the window, she looked up and down the street. The station wagon was nowhere in sight.

  No. Please, no.

  She came back to the note and read it again.

  Napa. The romantic wine country. A night under the stars in the valley of the moon.

  Reaching into the bowl, she took hold of the turtle and lifted him out. His head and feet disappeared into the greenish-black shell. She placed him on the palm of her hand, staring intently at the creature. John ha
d gone away with her. Her ... Regina. She closed her hand around the turtle, the tendons along her wrist stood out, stark against the purple veins. Her hand trembled. John and Regina were together this night. In one another’s arms.

  Corinne put her hand back into the bowl and gently released Ollie.

  CHAPTER 27

  He stared at her face, thinking she was as radiant asleep as she was awake. Her lips were parted slightly. A wisp of dark hair fell across her cheek to lie curled at the corner of her mouth. John gently lifted it away. She stirred, but didn’t wake.

  Carefully, he slipped out of bed, gathered his clothes. While he dressed, he watched her sleep. She was on her side, one hand on the pillow where he had been.

  It was 7:05, too early to wake her. Too early for him, actually, but he had awakened abruptly, his mind troubled by something unfinished. Posers. The clues that the anonymous informant had given Regina hadn’t gotten them any nearer to a solution.

  The newspaper clipping had enabled them to discover that prior to her death Carmenita Flores had spoken to a person with a deep, raspy voice. True, there was a good chance that that person was the same one who had made warning calls to the finalists, but it brought them no closer to disclosing the identity of the killer.

  Amelia’s original alibi had been shattered, only to be replaced with a more solid one.

  Was someone sending them on a wild goose chase?

  All that aside, John had a poser of his own: If Amelia’s only crime was to sleep with another woman’s husband, was it then merely a coincidence that butcher tape found at Tammy’s house and also in the Corde’s freezer came from the same meat company, a company that did not sell to the general public?

  He found it hard to believe that neither he nor Regina had thought of that the night before, but then for him, other things—such as the impression of her nipples beneath the thin material of her dress, her rich laugh, the depth of her thickly lashed hazel eyes —had clouded his reasoning.

  In the bathroom he splashed water on his face and ran a comb haphazardly through his hair.