by Kathy Reichs
“How could someone do something like that? I mean, I didn’t know them, but, how could someone kill a whole family? Kill babies?”
“We all pass through,” said El, placing an arm around the girl’s shoulders. “Death is merely a transition in the process of growth.”
“A transition to what?” asked Ryan.
There was no answer. At that moment a white van pulled to the curb in front of the People’s Bank on the far side of Bay Street. El squeezed Kathryn’s shoulders and nodded toward it. Then she gathered Carlie, rose, and extended her hand. Kathryn took it and got to her feet.
“I wish you the best of luck,” said El, and the two women set off toward the van.
I watched them a moment, then downed the last of my Coke. As I looked for a trash can something under the bench caught my eye. The cover to Carlie’s cup.
I dug a card from my purse, scribbled a number, and snatched up the lid. Ryan looked amused as I bolted from the bench.
She was just climbing into the van.
“Kathryn,” I called from the middle of the street.
She looked up, and I waved the cover in the air. Behind her the clock on the bank said five-fifteen.
She spoke into the van then walked toward me. When she reached out I gave her the lid with my card tucked inside.
Her eyes met mine.
“Call me if you’d like to talk.”
She turned without a word, walked back to the van, and got in. I could see Dom’s blond head silhouetted behind the wheel as they disappeared up Bay Street.
* * *
Ryan and I showed the snapshot at another pharmacy and several fast-food restaurants, then drove to Sheriff Baker’s office. Ivy Lee told us his domestic situation had turned into a standoff. An unemployed sanitation worker was barricaded in his house with his wife and three-year-old daughter, threatening to shoot everyone. Baker would not be joining us that evening.
“Now what?” I asked Ryan. We were standing in the Duke Street parking lot.
“I don’t think Heidi was making the night scene, so we’re not going to accomplish anything running around to bars and clubs.”
“No.”
“Let’s call it a day. I’ll drive you back to the Love Boat.”
“It’s the Melanie Tess.”
“Tess. Is that something you eat with corn bread and greens?”
“Ham hocks and yams.”
“Do you want the ride?”
“Sure.”
We rode in silence most of the way. I’d found Ryan annoying all day and couldn’t wait to be free of him. We were on the bridge when he broke the silence.
“I doubt she’d go to beauty parlors or tanning salons.”
“That’s amazing. I can see why you made detective.”
“Maybe we should focus on Brian. Maybe he worked for a time.”
“You’ve already run him. There’s no tax record, right?”
“Nothing.”
“He could have been paid in cash.”
“That narrows the possibilities.”
We turned in at Ollie’s.
“So where do we go from here?” I asked.
“I never got that hush puppy.”
“I meant the investigation. You’re on your own for dinner. I’m going to go home, take a shower, and make myself a scrumptious plate of instant macaroni. In that order.”
“Jesus, Brennan, that stuff has more preservatives than Lenin’s cadaver.”
“I’ve read the label.”
“You might as well swallow industrial waste. You’ll mess up your”—he mimicked Kathryn—“genetic potential.”
Some half-forgotten thought started to seep into my mind, formless, like the morning’s mist. I tried to reel it in, but the harder I concentrated the faster it dissolved.
“—Owens better keep his skivvies up. I’m going to be on his ass like flies on a Tootsie Roll.”
“What sort of gospel do you suppose he preaches?”
“Sounds like some combination of ecological Armageddon and self-improvement through Wheaties.”
When he pulled up at the pier the sky was beginning to clear over the marsh. Streaks of yellow lit the horizon.
“Kathryn knows something,” I said.
“Don’t we all.”
“You can be a real pain in the ass, Ryan.”
“Thank you for noticing. What makes you think she’s holding out?”
“She said babies.”
“So?”
“Babies.”
I saw thought working in his eyes. Then,
“Son of a bitch.”
“We never told her Heidi was carrying twins.”
* * *
Forty minutes later I heard a knock at the port-side entrance. I was wearing the Hornets T-shirt Katy had left, no panties, and a towel fashioned into a pretty slick turban. I peered through the blinds.
Ryan stood on the dock holding two six-packs and a pizza the size of a manhole cover. He’d abandoned his jacket and tie, and rolled his shirtsleeves to just below the elbows.
Shit.
I released the slats and pulled back. I could turn off the light and refuse to answer. I could ignore him. I could tell him to go away.
I peeked out again and found myself looking directly into Ryan’s eyes.
“I know you’re in there, Brennan. I’m a detective, remember?”
He dangled a six-pack in front of me. “Diet Coke.”
Damn.
I didn’t dislike Ryan. In fact, I enjoyed his company more than that of most people. More than I cared to admit. I liked his commitment to what he did, and the compassion he showed to victims and their families. I liked his intelligence and wit. And I liked the story of Ryan, the college kid gone wild, beaten up by a biker cokehead, then converted to the other side. Tough kid turned tough cop. It had a kind of poetic symmetry.
And I definitely liked the way he looked, but my better judgment told me not to get involved.
Oh hell. It beat noodles and synthetic cheese.
I dropped to my stateroom, grabbed a pair of cutoffs, and ran a brush through my hair.
I raised the blinds and slid back the screen to allow him in. He handed down the drinks and pizza, then turned and climbed aboard backward.
“I have my own Coke,” I said, closing the screen.
“One can never have too much Coke.”
I pointed to the galley and he set the pizza on the table, detached a beer for himself and a Diet Coke for me, then placed the other cans in the refrigerator. I got out plates, napkins, and a large knife while he opened the pizza box.
“You think that’s more nourishing than pasta?”
“It’s a veggie supreme.”
“What’s that?” I pointed to a brown chunk.
“Side order of bacon. I wanted all the food groups.”
“Let’s take it into the salon,” I suggested.
We spread the food on the coffee table and settled on the couch. The smell of marsh and wet wood floated in and mingled with the aroma of tomato sauce and basil. We ate and talked about the murders, and weighed the likelihood that the victims in St-Jovite had a connection to Dom Owens.
Eventually, we drifted to more personal topics. I described the Beaufort of my childhood, and shared memories of my summers at the beach. I talked about Katy, and about my estrangement from Pete. Ryan told stories of his early years in Nova Scotia, and disclosed his feelings about a recent breakup.
The conversation was easy and natural, and I revealed more about myself than I would ever have imagined. In the silences we listened to the water and the rustling of the spartina grass in the marsh. I forgot about violence and death and did something I hadn’t done in a very long time. I relaxed.
“I can’t believe I’m talking so much,” I said, as I began to gather plates and napkins.
Ryan reached for the empty cans. “Let me help.”
Our arms brushed and I felt heat race across my skin. Wordlessly, we gathered t
he dinner mess and brought it to the kitchen.
When we returned to the couch Ryan stood over me a moment, then sat close, placed both hands on my shoulders, and turned my body away from him. As I was about to object he began massaging the muscles at the base of my neck, across my shoulders, and down my arms to just above the elbows. His hands slid down my back, then worked their way upward, each thumb moving in small circles along the edge of a shoulder blade. When he reached my hairline his fingers made the same rotating motions in the hollows below my skull.
My eyes closed.
“Mmmmm.”
“You’re very tense.”
This was too good to ruin with talk.
Ryan’s hands dropped to the small of my back, and his thumbs kneaded the muscles paralleling my spine, pressing higher inch by inch. My breathing slowed and I felt myself melt.
Then I remembered Harry. And my lack of underwear.
I turned to face him, to pull the plug, and our eyes met. Ryan hesitated a moment, then cupped my face in both his hands, and pressed his lips to mine. He ran his fingers along my jawline and backward through my hair, then his arms circled my shoulders and he pulled me close. I started to push away, then stopped, my hands flat on his chest. He felt lean and taut, his muscles molded to his bones.
I felt the heat of his body and smelled his skin, and my nipples hardened under my thin cotton shirt. Collapsing against his chest, I closed my eyes and kissed back.
He held me hard against him and we kissed a long time. When my arms went around his neck he slid his hand under my shirt and danced his fingers across my skin. His stroke felt cobweb light, and shivers raced up my back and across the top of my skull. I arched against his chest and kissed him harder, opening and closing my mouth to the rhythm of his breathing.
He dropped his hand and ran his fingers around my waist and up my stomach, circling my breasts with the same feathery touch. My nipples throbbed and fire surged through my body. He thrust his tongue into my mouth and my lips closed around it. His hand cupped my left breast, then gently bounced it up and down. Then he squeezed the nipple between his thumb and finger, compressing and releasing in time to the sucking of our mouths.
I ran my fingers along his spine and his hand traveled downward to the curve of my waist. He caressed my belly, circled my navel, then hooked his fingers inside the waistband of my shorts. Current shot through my lower torso.
Eventually, our lips separated and Ryan kissed my face and ran his tongue inside my ear. Then he eased me back against the cushions, and lay beside me, the off-the-chart blue eyes boring into mine. Shifting onto his side, he took me by the hips, and pulled me to him. I could feel his hardness, and we kissed again.
After a while he disengaged, crooked his knee, and pressed his thigh between my legs. I felt an explosion in my loins and found it hard to breathe. Again Ryan put one hand below the T-shirt and slid it upward to my breast. He made circular movements with his palm, then ran his thumb across my nipple. I arched my back and moaned as the sensation obliterated the world around me. I lost all sense of time.
Moments or hours later his hand dropped, and I felt a tugging on my zipper. I buried my nose in his neck and knew one thing with certainty. Regardless of Harry, I wouldn’t say no.
Then the phone shrilled.
Ryan’s hands went to my ears and he kissed me hard on the mouth. I responded, clutching the hair at the back of his head, cursing Southern Bell. We ignored it through four rings.
When the answering machine clicked on the voice was soft and hard to hear, as though its owner were speaking from the end of a long tunnel. We both lunged, but it was too late.
Kathryn had hung up.
THERE WAS NO SALVAGING THE SITUATION AFTER Kathryn’s call. While Ryan was up for giving it a go, rational thought had returned and I was not in a good mood. Not only had I missed the opportunity to talk with Kathryn but I knew I’d have to live with Detective Dick’s new sense of sexual prowess. While the orgasm was overdue and would certainly have been welcome, I suspected the cost was already too high.
I hustled Ryan out and fell into bed, ignoring teeth and my nightly routine. My last image before drifting off came to me from the seventh grade: Sister Luke lecturing on the wages of sin. I supposed my romp with Ryan would goose these wages well above minimum.
I woke to sunshine and the cry of gulls, and an immediate flashback to my roll on the couch. I cringed and covered my face with both hands, feeling like a teen who’d given it up in a Pontiac.
Brennan, what were you thinking?
That was not the issue. The problem lay in what I’d been thinking with. Edna St. Vincent Millay had written a poem about that. What was it called? “I Being Born a Woman and Distressed.”
Sam called at eight to say the Murtry case was going nowhere. No one had seen anything unusual. No strange boats had been spotted approaching or leaving the island in the past few weeks. He wanted to know if I’d heard from Hardaway.
I told him I hadn’t. He said he was going to Raleigh for a few days and wanted to be sure I was taken care of.
Oh, yeah.
He explained how to close up the boat and where to leave the key, and we said good-bye.
I was scraping pizza into the garbage when I heard a knock at the port entrance. I had a feeling who was there and ignored it. The banging continued, relentless as a National Public Radio fund drive, and after a while I couldn’t take it. I raised the blinds to see Ryan standing exactly where he’d been the night before.
“Good morning.” He held out a bag of doughnuts.
“Expanding into food delivery?” I lowered the screen. One innuendo and I knew I’d rip his throat out.
He climbed in, grinned, and offered high-calorie, low-food-value treats. “They go well with coffee.”
I went to the galley, poured two cups, and added milk to mine.
“It’s a beautiful day out there.” He reached for the milk carton.
“Mm.”
I helped myself to a chocolate-glazed and leaned against the sink. I had no intention of resettling on the couch.
“I’ve already spoken to Baker,” said Ryan.
I waited.
“He’ll meet with us at three.”
“I’ll be on the road at three.” I reached for another doughnut.
“I think we should make another social call,” said Ryan.
“Yes.”
“Maybe we can get Kathryn alone.”
“That seems to be your specialty.”
“Are you going to keep this up all day?”
“I’ll probably sing when I’m on the road.”
“I didn’t come out here intending to seduce you.”
That piqued me even more.
“You mean I’m not in my sister’s league?”
“What?”
We drank in silence, then I refilled my mug and pointedly replaced the pot. Ryan watched, then crossed to Mr. Coffee and poured himself a second cup.
“Do you think Kathryn actually has something to tell us?” he asked.
“She probably phoned to invite me for tuna casserole.”
“Now who’s being a pain in the ass?”
“Thanks for noticing.” I rinsed my mug and placed it upside down on the counter.
“Look, if you’re embarrassed about last night . . .”
“Should I be?”
“Of course not.”
“What a relief.”
“Brennan, I’m not going to go berserk in the autopsy room or grope you on a stakeout. Our personal relationship will in no way affect our professional behavior.”
“Small chance. Today I’m wearing underwear.”
“See.” He grinned.
I went aft to gather my things.
* * *
Half an hour later we were parked in front of the farmhouse. Dom Owens sat on the porch talking with a group of people. Through the screen it was impossible to tell anything about the others but gender. All four were male.
I scanned the figures at the swing set. I didn’t see Kathryn, though I thought one of the infants looked like Carlie. I watched a woman in a floral skirt push the baby back and forth in smooth metronomic arcs.
Ryan and I walked to the door and I knocked. The men stopped talking and turned in our direction.
“May I help you?” said a high-pitched voice.
Owens held up a hand. “It’s fine, Jason.”
He rose, crossed the porch, and pushed open the screen door.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I ever got your names.”
“I’m Detective Ryan. This is Dr. Brennan.”
Owens smiled and stepped out onto the stoop. I nodded and took my turn at shaking hands. The men on the porch grew very still.
“What can I do for you today?”
“We’re still trying to determine where Heidi Schneider and Brian Gilbert spent last summer. You were going to raise the question during family hour?” Ryan’s voice held no warmth.
Owens smiled again. “Experiential session. Yes, we did discuss it. Unfortunately, no one knew anything about either of them. I’m so sorry. I had hoped we could be of help.”
“We’d like to speak to your people, if we may.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t encourage that.”
“And why is that?”
“Our members live here because they seek peace and refuge. Many want nothing to do with the filth and violence of modern society. You, Detective Ryan, represent the world they have rejected. I cannot violate their sanctuary by asking them to speak to you.”
“Some of your members work in town.”
Owens tipped his head and looked to heaven for patience. Then he gave Ryan another smile.
“One of the skills we nurture is encapsulation. Not everyone is equally gifted, but some of our members learn to function in the secular yet remain sealed off, untouched by the moral and physical pollution.” Again the patient smile. “While we reject the profanity of our culture, Mr. Ryan, we are not fools. We know that man does not live by spirit alone. We also need bread.”
