Abuse of Power

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  “No children,” he said, looking away.

  “But you were married once, right?”

  “Briefly,” he said.

  Atwater had become so guarded, Rachel’s interest was piqued. “What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “My wife was a pathological liar,” he said, straightening up in his recliner. That was all he was willing to reveal. The rest was too embarrassing. The three years of his marriage had been a nightmare. His wife had been arrested repeatedly for shoplifting. She had papered the town with bad checks. Even five years later, he was still struggling to get out from under the mountain of debt she had created. He had expended thousands of dollars on therapy for her, but nothing had been accomplished. When he discovered that his wife had been having an affair with another attorney for more than a year, the marriage had finally crumbled. He had been so weary at that point, he had given her everything, knowing his emotions were too ragged to withstand a protracted divorce. She had taken the furniture, the appliances, the house he had built several years before he had met her.

  “I’m sorry,” Rachel said, seeing she had upset him. “I shouldn’t have brought up bad memories. Because my husband died, I’m always curious about people who get a divorce.”

  “Divorce can be similar to death,” he said quietly. “It’s only that way, though, because we make it that way. We feel compelled to link ourselves with other humans, thinking this is the only way we can fulfill our emotional needs and fit into society. Then when the relationship dies, it becomes like an amputation. Even if the limb is diseased, it still hurts like hell when they chop it off.”

  “Did you love her?”

  “Yes, I did,” he answered. “You can love someone and still not be able to live with them. Since my divorce, I’ve loved a number of women.”

  “But not enough to marry them?”

  “No,” he said, shifting his position on the recliner. “I don’t mind living alone. It’s something you grow accustomed to, not having to deal with another person’s problems, the constant demands on your time, their annoying little habits.”

  They fell silent again, gazing out over the yard. Her thoughts turned to the shooting incident at the Majestic Theater, the report still unfinished on the dining room table. If she lied about what she had seen and signed her name on the report, she would be committing perjury. She felt compelled to go along, do what the other officers asked. She couldn’t put Tracy through another move, a new school. If she could convince herself she was doing it for her child, compromising her ethics might go down easier.

  “Can I ask you something?” Atwater said. “It’s something I’ve been curious about since we talked in the cafeteria. You told me this Larry Dean, the police sergeant, was responsible for getting you to speak again, but you didn’t tell me how he managed to get through to you. After a year of not speaking, he must have said something remarkable.”

  Rachel coughed nervously. “I don’t usually talk about that time in my life, remember?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I was insensitive. Sometimes my curiosity gets away from me.”

  “No,” she said. “I asked you about your marriage, so your question is fair. To tell you the truth, I’d probably be better off getting some of this stuff off my chest. Since you already know most of it, you might as well know the rest.” She paused and stretched her arms over her head. “Larry Dean was an incredible man. Like a lot of children who are sexually abused, I blamed myself for what happened. I despised Nathan Richardson for what he had done to me, but at the same time, I convinced myself that I was just as guilty as he was. I’m not certain if it was something he told me in the hotel room that I suppressed, or if it was simply that things became twisted around in my mind.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Atwater said. “Why would you feel guilty?”

  “I wanted the doll,” Rachel said, the words slipping out without thought. “I can’t believe I said that,” she said, a startled look on her face. “I didn’t want his awful doll. I was terrified. What he did to me was perverted and disgusting.”

  “What about Larry Dean?” Atwater reminded her.

  “I can’t remember all the things he said to me,” Rachel said, still shaken by her spontaneous statement about the doll. “In essence, he told me that I felt guilty because I had let Richardson trick me into walking over to his car. He said I had convinced myself that I should have fought harder to get away from him, that I should have realized Richardson’s story about finding the house where his daughter was visiting was a lie. My mother also told me about the other child he had kidnapped, describing how he had raped her. I guess I developed a case of survivor’s guilt. Mother had a habit of reminding me how lucky I was that Richardson had only fondled me, instead of raping me like he did the other girl he abducted.”

  “Let’s talk about the doll,” Atwater said, fascinated. “The doll was symbolic, I believe. It represented wealth, indulgence, something your mother couldn’t give you at the time. Maybe you didn’t want the doll when Richardson offered it to you, but you longed for it later, after he was dead. Because you associated the doll with Richardson and you knew he was evil, the doll and your desire to possess it became evil as well.”

  Rachel stiffened. Atwater was moving too close to the fire, poking around in her subconscious. She had been trapped inside the house for almost a year following the kidnapping. The doll had become incorporated into her fantasy life. She realized now that she hadn’t wanted to possess the doll in the pink satin dress. She had become the doll. She had stopped speaking because dolls didn’t speak. They didn’t have to speak. And dolls did not die. They could break, but they did not bleed when you stabbed them, nor could they cry. Rachel had not shed one tear following the kidnapping. “I’d better go now,” she said suddenly.

  “We can talk about something else, Rachel,” Atwater said. “It’s still early. Why don’t you stay? I’ll open another bottle of wine.”

  “I can’t,” Rachel said, standing. “It’s been a lovely evening, but I should go home. Like I said, it’s been a busy week.”

  Pushing himself to his feet, Atwater caught her hand and pulled her into his arms. He didn’t kiss her. He simply held her. “It feels right with you here,” he whispered. “I don’t say that to many women. I’d like it if you stayed, Rachel.”

  Rachel trembled in his arms. How long had it been since she had been held? The way he smelled. The hardness of his body. Without thinking, she let her hands roam to his chest. Ever since she had seen him, she had wanted to touch him, feel his skin beneath her fingers. She couldn’t continue living in the past. Joe was dead. The memories were fading. Even her daughter knew she needed a man in her life. Was Mike Atwater the right one? She doubted it, but for some reason, she no longer cared. “Make love to me,” she whispered, looking up into his eyes.

  “Let’s go inside the house,” he said, a surprised but eager look on his face.

  “No,” she said, tilting her head toward the daybed. “Over there.”

  The attorney took her hand, leading her the few feet to the daybed. Positioning himself next to her, he leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. It wasn’t a probing kiss, not even what Rachel considered a passionate kiss. It was sweet, nice. The wine had relaxed her. A mild breeze washed over her face. He stroked her arms, her face, trailed his fingers across her collarbone. There was no sense of urgency, no rush toward intercourse. After twenty minutes, they were both still fully clothed. “Are you sure this is what you want?” he asked. “If not, we can stop now.”

  “No,” Rachel panted. “I want to be with you.” Reaching over, she unbuttoned his shirt, then pressed her lips against his chest. Since her husband’s death, she had stifled her emotions the same way she had done as a child, transforming herself into an inanimate object. She wanted to feel her body again, experience sex again. Atwater was nice, but she knew she could never love him. She didn’t have to love him. All she had to do was desire him, and
she did.

  He gently pushed her onto her back. His hands drifted under the hem of her knit dress, caressing her knees, her thighs, the gentle curve of her hips. His fingers found the edge of her pantyhose, and he slowly pulled them down to her ankles, then carefully slipped them off her feet. Rachel giggled when he sucked her toes. A bolt of electricity made its way to her groin, though, as if her toes were directly linked to her sex organs. She shivered in delight. She had never slept with a man other than her husband. Joe had been a tender lover, but their lovemaking had always been rushed. Sexually, her husband had been naive. In all the years they had been married, he had never given thought to what it took to please a woman. As long as Rachel didn’t complain, Joe assumed she was satisfied. She had learned to take pleasure from the intimacy of the act, the touching, the merging of their bodies.

  Atwater’s hand drifted up her thighs to the place between her legs. Rachel tensed. After a few moments, her anxiety passed and she found herself swimming in pleasure. Her mouth fell open. Her body bowed upward to meet his fingers. She sat up and laced her fingers through his hair, then slipped his shirt off his shoulders. “Your skin,” she said, her palms roaming over his hairless chest. “I’ve never felt anything like it.”

  She reached for his zipper, but he pushed her hand away and ducked his head under the hem of her dress. Rachel fell backward onto the daybed. She yanked the dress over her head, wanting to feel the night air on her nipples. What she was doing was reckless, crazy, exciting beyond words. Her children were home alone.

  The report was waiting to be completed. Decisions had to be made.

  The moment seized her. The soft strokes of his tongue were both pleasure and torture. She tried to stop herself, hold back. She was on a runaway train, out of control, speeding through the universe. Experiencing such intense pleasure was frightening. “Oh, God,” she cried, her body exploding in a powerful orgasm. “Stop, please stop.”

  Their skin was slick with perspiration, glistening in the flickering candlelight. He stood and dropped his pants. His body was more beautiful than she had imagined, a burnished statue of perfection. His stomach was ridged with taut muscles, his legs powerful but not muscular, the high-performance tools of a runner. His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow. Crawling back onto the bed with her, he pulled her on top of him and stared deep into her eyes. “You’re beautiful,” he said. “You’re the most natural and spontaneous woman I have ever known.”

  Feeling him slip inside her, Rachel suddenly panicked. “I can get pregnant,” she told him. “I don’t use birth control.”

  “I’m sterile,” he told her.

  “AIDS,” she panted. “You have to use something.”

  Atwater slipped out from under her and headed to the house. Rachel stared at the ceiling of the gazebo, thinking she had ruined it for him. A few moments later, he returned and she immediately pulled him down on the bed beside her. Wrapping her fingers around his penis, she slowly stroked it. Once he became aroused again, she bent over and sealed her lips around it.

  He turned her over onto her stomach, taking her from behind. Reaching around her waist, he stroked to her breasts, then moved down her abdomen to the place where they were connected. Rachel climaxed again, the pleasure so overwhelming, she began to sob.

  “Am I hurting you?” he asked.

  “No, no,” she cried, grabbing his hand and pressing it hard against her genitals.

  He didn’t cry out. He simply stopped with a strange little grunt. Rachel slapped onto the bed in exhaustion, her body as limp as a dishrag. He collapsed on top of her, lifting her hair and kissing the nape of her neck.

  “Am I crushing you?” he whispered.

  “No,” she said. “Don’t move. I like the way it feels having you on top of me. That way, I know I’m not alone.”

  They remained that way, still and silent. Rachel felt safe, protected, satiated. Would he continue to see her? Would people find out that she had slept with him? Did he think she was cheap, easy?

  Did she really care?

  Pleasure was still coursing through her body. Her skin tingled with warmth. She opened her eyes and stared out over the yard. The candles had burned out. The only light was coming from the spotlights trained on the various trees and shrubbery. He had called the yard his oasis. She must accept the evening in the same way. Only an oasis, an isolated moment of pleasure.

  Rachel dropped her head back to the daybed. He stirred, then moved to a position behind her, aligning his body with hers. She found his hand and placed it between her breasts. Wrapped in his arms, her eyes closed and she slept, dreamless and peaceful. They did not awake until the sun streaked in through the sides of the gazebo.

  c h a p t e r

  FIFTEEN

  Rachel was standing in the entry way of Mike Atwater’s home about to leave. “FU call you,” the attorney said, “either later today or—”

  She reached over and put her finger against his lips. “It was wonderful,” she said. “Let’s leave it at that.”

  Surprise registered on his face. He had expected a demand for commitment, particularly from a woman like Rachel. Most of the women he bedded were sophisticated, independent women who accepted the attorney for what he was—an attractive escort, a competent lover, a brilliant conversationalist, everything but a potential husband. “Does that mean you don’t want to see me again?”

  “No,” she said. “Of course I’d like to see you again. Last night was very special to me. Whether you believe it or not, I don’t jump into bed with men. I just don’t want you to feel obligated.”

  “This is ridiculous,” he said, grimacing. “Why would I feel obligated?”

  “Because I slept with you,” Rachel said. “I didn’t do it to please you, Mike. I did it to please myself.”

  Atwater laughed, but it was more like a nervous reflex. “Are you trying to say you used me?”

  “I guess so,” Rachel said, shrugging. She wondered if this was the way men felt after they seduced a woman. Hadn’t she been the aggressor? He might have set the stage, but she had been the one to make it a reality. She felt like calling Sergeant Miller and informing him that she could take charge of things, that she wasn’t the passive person everyone seemed to think she was. She had indulged herself in a way she had never dreamed possible. Instead of feeling guilty, she felt powerful, competent. The feeling was similar to locking herself in the bathroom with a box of chocolates, eating them all, and never gaining a pound. With so little pleasure in her life, why should she deny herself something that had no apparent consequences? He had used protection. She would not get a disease, nor would she get pregnant.

  “I’m not sure how I should feel right now,” Atwater answered, a thoughtful expression on his face. “If it had been someone else last night, would you have slept with him as well?”

  “No,” she said, reaching over and tousling his hair.

  A smile played at the comer of his mouth. “Then I guess I have some pride left, right?”

  “Right,” Rachel said, chuckling with delight.

  He put on his prosecutor’s face. “What are you looking for from me?”

  “Nothing,” she said. Giving him a quick peck on the cheek, she opened the door and stepped out into the brisk morning air. She took a few steps down the walkway and then stopped, turning around to face him again. “I figured out what Larry Dean said to me.”

  “What?”

  “He told me that since Richardson had kidnapped me, nothing bad would ever happen to me again. He said the chances were one in a million that I would ever be a victim of another crime.”

  “Interesting,” Atwater said, watching as Rachel got in her Pathfinder and drove off.

  Rachel made it home by six o’clock. Tracy and Joe were still asleep when she slipped into the house. She felt so invigorated that she put on her shorts and running shoes and went out jogging. Her rubber soles smacked against the pavement. The morning air was refreshing. She didn’t feel tarnished in any wa
y. She felt strong, focused, ready to tackle whatever came her way.

  When she reached the end of her street, she jogged into a large abandoned orange grove. Even though the trees still produced a small crop of fruit, most of them fell to the ground and rotted. The neighborhood kids used them like snowballs, gathering up the squishy oranges and hurling them at each other for fun. Lucy said the property had recently been purchased by a developer, and another tract of houses would soon spring up.

  Rachel imagined herself loping along inside Mike Atwater’s body. Her legs were too short, her arm movements not well synchronized with her legs. When she had run track in high school, she had been the slowest girl on the team. She had watched Atwater compete on television during that time and had marveled at the economy of his movements, the length of his stride, his incredible speed.

  Would he run with her?

  She set aside thoughts of the attorney, concentrating on her present dilemma: What to say in her report about Grant using the Hillmont boy as a shield. She decided she would do what Grant and Nick Miller wanted, withhold the truth of what she had witnessed in front of the Majestic Theater. Turning in Grant would not bring the Hillmont boy back to life.

  Running always cleared her mind, enabled her to see things more logically. If she went after Grant, she would be going against the entire department. Even if the sergeant didn’t get her fired as he had threatened, she would be treated as a traitor by her fellow officers. Spending the night with Atwater had made her see that her life still held meaning, opportunity. She felt as if she had finally stepped over the line, from the dead to the living.

  “You’re up?” Rachel said, seeing her daughter in the kitchen when she returned to the house.

  “When did you get home last night?” Tracy asked, picking at a pimple on her chin. “I waited up until midnight.”