She turned over, burying her head in the pillow. The warm breeze from the open window blew across the exquisitely graceful curves of her breathtaking body. The wind's gentle touch on her skin only reminded her of his fingers as they would trace the feminine arc of her soft white rear. He would tell her how beautiful she was and begin kissing her ass all over; sweetly at first, then hungrily, until every inch of her soft white flesh had been lustily adored by his warm, tender kisses and his strong, kind hands. He always made her feel beautiful. She would die for another chance to run her fingers through his hair as he kissed her in those secret, private places that made her a woman.
These thoughts of love remembered, moments which she knew would never come again, sent an ache throughout her soul so painful that she could not bear it anymore. She leapt violently from the bed, and walked to the open patio door. She stood as she had stood earlier, when he had been only feet away and she had been happy. Truly happy. Outside, the night beckoned her, offering its company. The night understood loneliness and need. The night asked no questions. She walked to the closet and found a sundress. She slipped it on without bothering to slip on her underthings. The night would not judge.
The sand was cool to her bare feet and the roar of the ocean kept her company. She almost stumbled over him in the darkness. She had been lost in her own sorrow and had not expected anyone else to be on the beach after all that had happened. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I didn't see you." He was sitting in the sand. A young Mexican boy of perhaps eighteen or nineteen. It was difficult to tell in the dark. As she spoke, the warm wind caught her dress and blew it around her waist before she could stop it. He turned away, but not soon enough. She knew he had seen. It was in his eyes, which she could see clearly now, the clouds momentarily allowing the moonlight to peek through. Those eyes were kind, and filled with longing for what he had just seen. But he was not dirty. He was decent. Stacy felt a sudden warmth for him, and to her shock, an overpowering attraction. It was sweet that he had turned away. "What's your name," she asked.
"Pedro. What is yours, Señorita?" He spoke with the correctness of someone who had learned formal English but had little opportunity to use it conversationally.
"Stacy."
"That is very pretty." Then, in a timid voice, perhaps embarrassed, not wanting her to think it was only because of what he had seen, he said, "You are beautiful, Stacy."
Clouds and smoke continued to drift between the moon and the beach. She could barely make out the shape of the resort far in the distance behind them. Only anguish and restlessness waited in her room. The darkness offered anonymity and forgiveness. She gave way to the night, slipping the straps off her shoulders and letting the dress slide slowly into a pile around her ankles. She knelt in front of Pedro, leaning forward to kiss his lips as he uncertainly placed his hands on her waist, barely able to believe what was happening. While her lips caressed his, and her tongue explored the warmth of his mouth, she gently took his hands in hers and filled them with her soft white breasts. He thought he was the luckiest boy who had ever lived. Stacy hid from her pain in his arms, surprised at her longing and desire, and her willingness to give tenderly as much as she took. She blocked out the rest of the world in the makeshift sanctuary of his youthful passion, and lost herself completely in the intoxicating seductiveness of the night.
Chapter Ten
For crime is a tattered garment whose threads we pull at our own peril, for we are risking destroying the very thing we are trying to save
If his eyesight had been better, or LeAnn hadn't moved slightly to reposition herself, which woke me, I would never have seen him. He was a hundred yards or so down the beach when he turned on the hand-held stellar lamp for a moment to get his bearings. Even from where I lay, I knew it was the big unctuous Mexican CR outside Stacy's room. The light went out and I slipped from the padded lounge without waking LeAnn. I hurried to throw on my clothes and grabbed the Howzer. One of the deck boards creaked and LeAnn opened her eyes. She sat up and I quickly told her where I was going and why. She nodded and implored me to be careful before I jumped over the railing onto the sand. I used the darkness and the other accommodations as cover to make my way down the beach. I could see the light moving back and forth inside Stacy's room but heard no voices. Had he knocked her out after entering? It didn't seem his style. He would be more likely to rape her, and he was the type to want her awake for that, so he could enjoy his perverted indulgence.
I could hear drawers being opened and shut. So he wasn't after Stacy. He was looking for something else. The telegram, perhaps? But we had that. I vowed to look at it first thing in the morning before remembering it was almost morning now. The sounds became louder and I knew he was becoming frustrated at his inability to find what he sought. It doesn't take much for the lazy types. I decided to wait and see how it played out. I looked back toward LeAnn and was surprised and momentarily panicky when I made out another figure next to her in the darkness. Then I caught a glimpse of blonde hair. There was something familiar about the way the figure moved and I realized with more than a little relief that it was Stacy. She wasn't here. Lucky for her, I thought.
I knelt hidden from his field of vision at the corner of the terrace as he came storming out. I knew he was angry because he hadn't found the telegram. I waited until he was almost, but not quite, out of my sight before I followed. I had only the darkness and a few palm trees for cover but he was sloppy and wasn't expecting anyone to be following him. He turned on his stellar lamp when he entered an area full of palm trees and lush foliage and was so noisy clomping through the verdure that I could stay relatively close. I knew he was meeting someone. There was no other reason to be here. It turned out to be the girl with the world-class hips who had been our waitress. The big moustachioed CR walked up and slapped her hard enough that it almost knocked her down.
"It is not there, perra!"
"Maybe they haven't given it to her yet." Her eyes were clouded from the sting of the slap but her voice was steady.
"You should have checked with me before giving them the telegram, you cheap cono! Now it will be much work for me."
"How was I to know? You said yourself you only just received…" She was interrupted by another slap, a backhanded one this time, just as hard as the first one. Both cheeks would be sore tomorrow.
He unfastened his belt. "On your knees. You owe me big time." I saw a flash in her eyes, and then resignation. She knelt slowly, trying to forestall what she knew must be done. I waited until he had his pants down and then stepped out from behind the palm fronds.
"Get up, Señorita."
I had the barrel of the Howzer resting easily against the back of his head. He stood frozen, caught quite literally with his pants down. "And you can put that tiny pene back in your pants," I told him.
She almost smiled as she rose. I put more pressure on the Howzer and he was very careful while pulling up his pants. "You can run along," I told her. She hesitated and I knew she was worried about retribution. "I'm a CR from the States. I assure you he will never bother you again." She smiled for real now.
"Thank you. I am sorry. I had no choice but to tell him."
"It's alright. Do you have a telecom? I went off without mine."
"No, señor. This polla took it." Her eyes flashed again. "But," she smiled, "I will get it back." She walked up close and reached into his pocket. She gave his manhood a crushing squeeze that would have taken him to his knees if not for fear that his brains would end up splattered among the foliage. As it was, a deep, guttural groan of agony was the best he could muster. I let her have her moment, certain that she'd earned it. She deserved someone better to enjoy those brown hips than a cabron like this one.
She handed me her phone and I made the call. I handed it back to her. "Thanks. You're free to go…"
"Maricela."
"Maricela. Pretty name."
"Thank you. I suppose you will never tire of your woman?"
She knew the answer.
She was only flirting in a complimentary way. I gave her a look of regret and she nodded. She kissed me on the cheek quickly and disappeared before the CEs arrived. It was two young Mexican men who looked green enough not to have been corrupted yet. Both were shocked at who the prisoner was. I showed them my ID and rattled off the charges. The younger one snickered when I got to the good stuff. They loaded him up and I went back to shower and clean up. I told the girls what had happened, asking no questions regarding Stacy's whereabouts. I could tell she had been crying. I showered and was on my way out the door, hoping to at least find out what had been discovered, if I could not convince them to allow me to question him myself. A call told me there was no need. CR Roberto Sanchez had hung himself in his holding cell. Of course he had. Mexico would always be Mexico.
Chapter Eleven
For the plant which has been scorched by fire yet returns anew to stretch its arms once again towards the sun, can teach us all we need to know of life and living
It was warm and sunny, and a light rain had begun to fall. Tropical rain, which in twenty-second century terms meant showers much less acidic than those which fell from the brown-gray skies covering the rest of the world. I could hear gentle droplets hitting the roof and watched their tiny splashes as they fell on the graceful palm fronds moving gently in the breeze up and down the beach. I was lucky enough to have two palm trees in our garden back in New Chicago. Edna had given them to me way back before LeAnn, when I had gotten her young granddaughter Emily out of a jam. You could count the number of tropical havens around the world with one hand now. Most of the thousand or so remaining palm trees grew in those places. Florida, Mexico, Brazil, and a few scattered Caribbean Islands were all that was left of what we once thought of as paradise.
I could hear the soft murmur of voices behind me as LeAnn comforted a sobbing Stacy. I was on the terrace, the sliding glass doors open only a crack. Stacy felt guilty and confused because her husband had been killed, and she didn't know why. In her loneliness she had found comfort with some guy on the beach and was wondering if she was a terrible human being. She was a sweet girl, a lovely girl, who didn't yet realize that anyone can be broken, and once it happens, there is no good or bad, only healing. Sometimes the process took forms that we could not imagine, and we did things so contrary to who we believed ourselves to be that it shook us up. I caught enough of the conversation between she and LeAnn to get the drift. Stacy was a wonderfully nice young woman, fabulous in every way, but above all, nice. Her belief that she was a good human being, much less a good girl, had been shaken to its core all because she had been all too human. She would be okay. In time.
The rain was warm and pleasant. It fell on green foliage and white sands with the blue and white surf washing ashore. This should have been the perfect vacation for us. We had never been happier. LeAnn's book nook and coffee shop, Summer Dream, which she had named after a centuries old Sergio Mendes song, had given her the freedom to express herself and embrace her life fully in a way which would not have been possible before Paris. Her happiness made me happy, and our life had become almost idyllic, or at least as idyllic as life could be in a world which for the most part was still devoid of genuine warmth and love. Churches were filled again on Sundays as they had not been before Paris because no one wanted to be seen as unbelieving; it might mark them as a non-human. Of course the majority of people left on Earth were not human. They were earlier versions of the bio-organic life that I was, which meant they had no soul. They could not really feel love, or return it, and they certainly could not believe. But they didn't know that. They thought they were human.
I wanted to stay here a while and walk on these white sands as the tide washed ashore and then receded. I wanted to hear the rustle of palms above me as I made love to LeAnn with the warm breeze blowing across our bodies. I was tired and angry. Tired of a world intruding upon our happiness, and angry because I knew everything about this was all wrong. There was something bigger here, with greater ramifications than just LeAnn and me, or Stacy. I'd only had this feeling once before, in a diner where people lay murdered and the life of a Cherry 6 had ended. I'd gotten soft the last couple of years. The easy life had lulled me to sleep. It was quiet now behind me. I turned to go inside and look at that telegram.
Chapter Twelve
For her love and tenderness is a well of strength man draws upon as he stands against the darkness threatening to envelop him
The sound from the tropical rain lessened as I came inside and shut the door behind me. The girls were on the bed. Stacy had gathered herself, and almost managed a smile when I joined them and put my arm around her. I asked her if she was okay. She nodded. In times like these it is never what you ask, but that you cared enough to ask. It was all that would matter later. It was all that ever mattered.
"You got a telegram after you left dinner and I think it may be related to what happened, Stacy. I'd like to read it, if that's okay."
"A telegram?" LeAnn hadn't had time to tell her about it.
"Yes. Maricela, the waitress, brought it. We were going to pass it on later, but things transpired so quickly we didn't get the chance."
"Who would send me a telegram?" Then it hit her. "You mean it was supposed to be me, and not John that was killed, don't you?" I could sense her anguish, but I wasn't going to lie to her.
"Or both of you. It was no random act. But we'll know when we read the telegram if it's connected or not." I couldn't be certain of that, of course, but it made sense, and it was always best to sound like you knew what you were doing.
"Sure, where is it?"
LeAnn grabbed her purse and produced it. I opened it and read what it said:
Miami - Locker 12, 39640
Rio de Janeiro - Locker 23, 28453
I'm sorry, Stace. I never meant for this to happen. Please forgive me.
Stacy was looking over my shoulder and LeAnn had leaned forward so that all three of us read it simultaneously. Stacy looked up at me, puzzled. "It's from Danny. It's his writing. But I don't understand any of it. I haven't seen or spoken to him in months. Not since…" She let it hang there.
"Where is he now?"
Before Stacy could answer, LeAnn's telecom filled the room with Sheena Easton's sexy, The Lover in Me. Stacy almost laughed. It was a good sign. It was Edna.
"How bad is it, Matt?"
I took a deep breath and gave her the entire rundown, right up to the Mexican CR's untimely and no doubt assisted transition to the afterlife. I told her about the telegram. There was a long pause at the other end after I finished.
"You are certain the telegram is from Danny?" There was something unusual in Edna's voice, something I couldn't put my finger on. If it had been someone else, I would have said it was fear. But Edna Bascomb was about the most formidable woman I knew.
"Yes, Stacy says it's his writing."
Another pause.
"What do you know, Edna?"
"I do not wish to discuss it over the phone. By the time you reach the airport, tickets will be waiting for you."
"I have a good idea what these numbers mean, Edna, and it would be best if I headed for Miami instead."
"Yes. You are coming here. I am in Miami, Doc and I both, not Chicago." Edna never used the New when talking about her town. "Danny is here as well." There was something in the way she said his name that had a finality to it, and I knew then what it was I'd heard in her voice.
"I'll need someone I can trust in Miami."
I could not say what I wished to in front of Stacy. One blow had been enough. Edna understood what I was asking for and what I was telling her. I was telling her this had the smell of Paris. I hoped I was wrong but my gut was screaming to me that I wasn't.
"I will see to it that Ray is transferred to Miami for a week or two. Whatever is needed. I'm sure his wife will enjoy it." I didn't ask how she could move someone around in law enforcement. It was, after all, Edna Bascomb. Ray was going to love me. Miami.
"That'l
l do," I replied.
"Put Stacy on, please."
I handed Stacy the phone and she retreated to the terrace, sliding the glass door shut behind her. If anyone would know what to say at such a time, it was Edna. Her faith gave her strength, and her age gave her wisdom. Stacy was in good hands now. I told LeAnn where we were headed and we began to pack. She commented that we would need to fix Stacy up with some clothes once we arrived in Florida. We had not been to Miami together and I could tell that though she regretted the terrible reason we were going, LeAnn was finding it difficult to hide her enthusiasm at the prospect of Florida. And I didn't want her too. Nor did I want her to feel guilty about it. Despite all that had happened in Paris, it had been one of the most wonderful times in our lives. Our memories of the City of Lights were romantic ones, fun ones, and ones we often shared even now, far removed from that place in time. Our love had been tested by fire and made stronger because we had survived.
The Tender Shore: A Matt Ransom Mystery Page 4
