He and Lila ate and drank well that evening, talked, told stories, laughed. Then they went back to his place, where the evening only got better. About three in the morning he awoke drowsily with the sense that something was happening. He found Lila getting dressed. She said she’d been trying not to disturb him.
“Why are you leaving?” he asked, propping himself up on an elbow.
She gave a little shrug, as though it was something she couldn’t or didn’t wish to talk about. “I’d rather,” she said.
“Is something wrong?”
She shook her head.
“Well, come on… come back to bed.”
“I’d rather go, really.”
He looked at her. She continued dressing, businesslike and brisk, avoiding eye contact with him.
“For God’s sake, Lila, it’s three in the morning!”
“I’ve got my car.”
He swung his feet to the floor but remained sitting on the edge of the bed. He felt annoyed but didn’t want to let her see it. That wasn’t the best way to handle this situation, he decided.
“Talk to me. What’s on your mind?”
No reply.
“Lila?”
She seemed to think a moment, then looked at him very directly as though she was about to deliver some kind of ultimatum. Only it wasn’t an ultimatum, just a blunt statement of fact.
“Charlie, I’m here for the same reason you are—for an evening out and a good time in bed. I don’t ask any more, and I don’t want you to ask any more from me. I don’t want you to ask if I’ve ever been married or if I have any kids, or whether my parents are alive and where they live. You don’t ask anyway, but I never expected you would. So everything’s fine, let’s keep things the way they are, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to go home.”
“But I do mind.”
He was standing now, hands by his sides, suddenly aware of how easy it would be to settle this small difference between them. At the same time he knew how meaningless that would be. It wasn’t that he was against the use of force on moral grounds; it was just that force, in some circumstances, simply couldn’t deliver. Rape wasn’t his idea of good sex. A partner had to be as willing and enthusiastic as he was himself.
So let her go, if that was what she wanted.
He raised his hands and held them palms out, pressing on some invisible space between them. “Okay, you do what you want. What am I going to do—keep you prisoner?”
He gave a little laugh to underline the fact that everything was cool and she had nothing to fear. She looked back at him and something softened around her eyes. “No,” she said, “I know you wouldn’t do that, or I wouldn’t be here.”
As she spoke, she pulled on her high heels and undulated across the floor to him.
“I had a great time. Call me soon.”
She kissed him lightly on the mouth, then turned and headed for the door. When she reached it she paused and flashed him a big smile over her shoulder.
“See you.”
Then she was gone.
Charlie pulled on a robe and wandered through to his bar in the main room. He thought about putting on some music, but couldn’t decide what. So he took out a cold beer, sank into a chair, and swung his legs over the arm.
There was only one thought in his mind, one image overshadowing all else. Lila was forgotten and so were all the others. It was the face of Kathy Ryan. Did she ever think of him? he wondered for the millionth time. What had become of her? She didn’t have an easy start in life, no more than he did. But he’d been lucky. He hoped Kathy had been lucky.
And he wondered if, one day, he’d ever figure out a way of finding out.
Chapter 21
CHARLIE HAD NEVER spoken directly with Control about sex before. One of the things that gave him confidence in the man, however, was that he never dodged a question or failed to give a clear answer.
“For Christ’s sakes, Charlie! What do you think your right hand’s for?”
“Sir?”
Control lowered his head and pushed it forward, his eyes burning into Charlie’s head.
“Your dick won’t drop off if you don’t have sex for a few days.”
“This could be weeks, sir. You said so yourself.”
Control sighed irritably, Charlie thought, and sat back. They were sitting outside a coffee and doughnut pull-in off the 101 going north. They had met there in separate cars.
“I’ll tell you what,” Control said, after drumming his fingers on the table for a while, “we’ll give you a phone number, have them send some girls over now and then, and we’ll pick up the tab—within reason.”
“Thank you, sir, that sounds good. But I’d prefer to make personal contacts in the community.”
“You know the rules, Charlie. Anything that could threaten the security or success of the operation—”
Control’s gaze hardened.
“—you don’t want to know what would happen to you if you did that. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Rule one, Charlie. What is it?”
“Don’t fuck up, sir.”
“And rule two?”
“Don’t fuck up, sir.”
“And three?”
“Don’t fuck up, sir.”
“And all the other rules?”
“Don’t fuck up, sir.”
“Right.”
Control let the last few words hang in the air—no doubt, Charlie thought, for his improvement. But he’d got the point. Everything came second to getting the job done.
The cars swished by with a metronomic regularity.
“I won’t fuck up, sir.”
He figured that surveillance was a convalescence job. Control had said as much. “It’ll get you back into the swing of things, Charlie. A warm-up, nothing too demanding.”
They’d rented him an old fisherman’s cottage, decorated and done up comfortably, with a studio attached. Whatever he needed was delivered from Old Harbour, which was the name the residents had given to the most recently developed and prosperous side of their community.
Charlie liked the New England coast. He had never spent time on the East Coast before, but he’d been told that life there wouldn’t differ in any important way from California, except that both the climate and the people would be cooler. His cover was an artist on vacation painting a series of landscapes. It was an obvious choice and had the advantage of making him master of his own time, so he could stick around as long as he had to without arousing suspicions.
It was early spring and nature was coming back to life. In the mornings he painted outdoors, early, while the light was best. In the afternoons he might run, swim, and do some more work in his studio. Sometimes he took his four-wheel-drive into Old Harbour to get dinner, or just to see a few faces. The drive took him past the house he was supposed to be watching. He could also see it through powerful binoculars from his cottage. So far it had remained closed up and uninhabited. It was built of white clapboard and overlooked the ocean. It had green shutters and a carefully tended garden ringed by a picket fence. Several times in the first week he saw a gardener at work, but by keeping him under discreet observation he discovered that he lived a couple of miles away and never entered the house. So far as Charlie could see, no one ever entered the house. It looked like the kind of place that some wealthy family might keep for use on weekends or for a month in the summer. Other times they might rent it out. But certainly nobody was using it now.
Charlie had been told that somebody would be coming to live in the house. He wasn’t told who, or what they would be doing there, not even how many of them there would be. Only that any new presence was to be reported immediately to the number Charlie had been given.
On the matter of sex, a compromise had been worked out with Control. Charlie was to invite any of his girlfriends from California to come and stay with him whenever he wanted. Alternatively, if he preferred not to have them in the house, there was another little c
ottage about half a mile from his own that they could use. Savannah and Jane came out for a few days. He installed them in the separate cottage because, frankly, he enjoyed his privacy. The arrangement worked well. When they left, he had Carol (he had ascertained there was no e) come out to replace them.
It was a Wednesday morning about eleven. Charlie had set up his easel as usual on a stretch of coastline from where he could see the house in the distance, checking occasionally with his binoculars for signs of movement, though making it look as though he was just scanning the horizon generally for anything of interest. He found he enjoyed the sound of the sea and the gulls wheeling and diving overhead. The whole atmosphere was restful and somehow cleansing. But he didn’t lose his sixth sense for danger, and he knew at once when someone was approaching him from behind, moving silently through the sand, hoping he wouldn’t notice they were there.
He turned casually, but ready for action. The woman he saw was about his own age. She had dark hair, thick and fairly short but falling naturally around her face.
It was a strong face, not quite classically beautiful—too individual, too special for that, but beautiful all the same. Her eyes were dark, almost as dark as her hair, with a look that suggested understanding and intelligence as well as an ability to surprise. Her nose was fine and her mouth full, with lips slightly parted, as though taken unawares at the same time as about to speak.
He knew that look. He knew that face—better, perhaps, than any face he’d ever known. But it took him a long moment to speak the name of the woman who stood before him.
“Kathy?” he said at last, his voice suddenly dry and faintly hoarse.
Chapter 22
HER FACE TOOK on a strange fixed look—surprise, he supposed. Her eyes searched his, looking for some clue as to why this stranger knew her name. But recognition would dawn soon. She would—she must—remember him.
“Kathy,” he repeated, “it’s me, Charlie. Charlie Monk.”
She continued to stare at him in the same odd way.
“Charlie Monk?” she echoed.
“My God, Kathy… I can’t believe this…I’ve thought about you so much for so long, wondered where you were, what became of you…”
He got to his feet, clumsily for him, knocking over the little canvas stool he’d been sitting on. She stepped back instinctively, though there was nothing threatening in his movement. He still had his brush in one hand, but then realized that the other was reaching out to touch her. He withdrew it.
“Kathy, it’s all right. It’s me, Charlie. Don’t you remember me?”
He realized he had taken another step toward her, and she had backed away again. He felt a sudden alarm. He couldn’t be mistaken, could he? No, this was Kathy; there could be no question of it. But why was she so afraid of him?
“Look,” he said, “it’s been a long time. I understand, you’re surprised, you’re a little bit in shock. So am I. My God, if I’d had to list the ten things I least expected to happen this morning, this would have been top of the list!”
This brought a faint, nervous smile to her face. Her eyelids flickered briefly. Charlie felt reassured. He’d been afraid for a moment she was going to turn and run. He put his brush down carefully on his palette.
“You do recognize me, don’t you? Kathy? You remember me?”
“Yes, Charlie, of course I do. I recognized you right away.” She paused slightly. Then added, almost guiltily, “It’s good to see you.”
It was all the encouragement he needed. He moved forward to take her in his arms, to wipe all the lost years away with one great, joyous hug of reunion. But he saw her stifle a gasp of alarm as she instinctively took another step back.
“Kathy, it’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you.”
She must have seen the pain that her fear caused him, because she visibly relaxed a little. She didn’t come any closer, but at least she stopped looking as though she was about to take flight.
“I know you’re not,” she said. “It’s just, as you say, quite a shock. I’m sorry.”
Charlie stayed where he was, respecting the distance she seemed to need to keep between them.
“That’s okay,” he said, “let’s take our time. After all, our time’s our own.” He corrected himself. “Well, I’m saying that, but I don’t know about you. I don’t know anything about you….”
He glanced at her hand. She wore a wedding ring. The sight of it caused him a sudden, unanticipated stab of pain. Aware of his glance, she covered her left hand almost guiltily with her right, then just as quickly uncovered it, as though conscious of the absurdity of the gesture.
“You’re married,” he said, and hoped the disappointment in his voice wasn’t too obvious.
“I was,” she said. “My husband died.”
Something about the way she said it shocked him more than he could have anticipated. “I’m sorry. What happened?”
She gave a little shrug. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Of course.”
He’d been about to ask her if she had any children, but decided to leave it. Give her time, he told himself. Give both of them time.
“So what are you doing here?” he said. “Do you live around here?”
“No. Just visiting. And you?”
“The same.” He gestured toward his easel. “I’ve taken up painting.”
“Looks like you’re pretty good,” she said, looking at his canvas. “I’d like to see some more of your work.”
“I’ll be glad to show you. Are you going to be around for a while?”
She hesitated. “It’s hard to say.”
He wondered what that hesitation meant. The sense began to grow on him that she was struggling with more than just the fact of meeting him again so unexpectedly. There was something else, some other problem troubling her.
“Can you tell me where you’re staying? Can I call you?”
Again she gave a slight shrug, as though not wanting to answer directly. “I usually walk along the beach in the morning. If you’re here, we’ll find each other.”
“I’ll be here.”
She looked at him. He sensed that she wanted to turn the conversation away from herself. “So, you’re an artist,” she said. “Do you make a living at it? Do you exhibit? Do you have a dealer?”
“Yes. I mean, I have a dealer. I don’t exactly make a living, I have another…”
He stopped himself, realizing he was about to say more than he should. He had a cover story, and as long as he was here on this job he had to stick to it.
“Well, I guess I do, in a way—make a living.”
She tipped her head to one side and looked at him quizzically.
“In a way? Are you just being modest? Or were you about to say you have another job?”
“I was in the army for a while. After they took me away that last time, they put me in a kind of military training place.” He paused, watching her, waiting for some reaction. “You remember that last time, after they caught us in the rail yard?”
She nodded almost imperceptibly. “Yes, I remember.”
“Kathy, it’s so good to see you again.”
She looked at her watch. “I have to get back,” she said. “I have things to do.”
“Can I walk back with you?”
She looked unsure.
“Just up to the road,” he said. “The place I’m renting’s over that way.” He pointed vaguely.
“Of course,” she said, “to the road. Then I go that way.” she pointed in the opposite direction.
It took only a few moments to fold his easel and pack away his paints, then they started walking. They talked easily, but it was strangely difficult. In a few moments they had reached the road, where they turned to face each other.
“Well,” he said, “I’ll be here tomorrow.”
She smiled. There was a touch of sadness in the smile, he thought; but also relief, as though in some way the worst was over, the shock of meeting now beh
ind them, the future brightening.
“Take care, Charlie.”
He wondered for a moment if they were going to shake hands. But it was too formal. And a kiss, even on the cheek, would be too intimate. Neither of them was ready yet. In the end they simply held eye contact a moment more, then went their separate ways.
Was it some instinct that made him look back after fifty yards or so? Or just the wish to see her again, the need to be sure that he hadn’t hallucinated the whole unlikely episode?
But no, she was there, as clearly as she had been when she stood before him moments earlier, walking away now, her figure growing smaller and more distant with each step.
He watched as she changed direction slightly, not looking back, unaware of his gaze.
And walked briskly into the white clapboard house that he’d been sent to watch.
Chapter 23
CHARLIE FACED A dilemma. He had to call in, but what should he say? Simply failing to report her arrival was impossible: There were too many other ways they could find out. Of course, he could just say that “a woman” had arrived without admitting he knew her.
The fact that Control wanted the house watched meant that something was going on, with the implication that anyone involved could be in trouble. In the worst of all possible scenarios, Charlie could imagine being ordered to kidnap or even kill whoever was in that house. Of course he wouldn’t do anything to Kathy, but there were limits to the extent he could protect her.
In the end he said merely that a woman had arrived and gave a vague description, but nothing more. He certainly didn’t say he’d spoken to her. There were no awkward questions from the anonymous voice on the phone to whom he made his reports, no suggestion that Control might want to talk to him about this. He hung up with a sense of relief, and looked forward to the following morning.
That night he dreamed of Kathy. It was a fractured, disconcerting dream. They were on the run again, two kids who knew nothing except that they wanted to escape from their lives, and they wanted to escape together. He knew he was dreaming. The emotions were powerful and genuine, but set against a surreal landscape that told him he was inside his own head, not out in the real world. At the same time Kathy’s presence was more than that of someone in a dream. He felt the softness of her skin as he brushed her arm, the sweetness of her breath as they clung together in the shadow of the vast unspoken horror they were running from, the contoured warmth of her body against his.
The Discrete Charm of Charlie Monk Page 10
