“Taken for… ?”
“It's used to relieve spasticity in the muscles.”
“Who takes it?”
“Someone who's had a stroke or a spinal injury…”
“So it wasn't Wright's medication. He couldn't have jumped with—”
“It's also taken by people with MS—multiple sclerosis,” she said.
Multiple sclerosis? That could put a spin on a couple of calls Wright had made to certain numbers in Pensacola. “I'm not exactly sure what MS is,” I said.
“It's bad.”
“That much I know.”
Mrs. Salty cleared our plates as Selwyn poured the last of the wine into her glass. Those big brown eyes of hers weren't quite so big now, I noticed, but her speech was still sharp and without any hint of a slur. “It's a degenerative disease of the central nervous system, where the nerve pathways are gradually destroyed. The symptoms, which get progressively worse, are vertigo, muscle spasms and weakness, loss of coordination, numbness, loss of memory. Speech is affected, as is vision. There's no cure, but drugs like Tizanidine can ease the symptoms. MS attacks its victims in different ways, but it's often debilitating and can be fatal. There are better ways to die.”
“Like cutting yourself out of your parachute harness?” I wondered how Wrong Way would have taken the news that he was going to take a long, slow journey into a pine box, most of it either on crutches or in a wheelchair. I also wondered, if he did have MS, where he kept his drugs. None were found in the house after his death.
“If Sergeant Wright was suicidal because he had MS, and he'd decided to jump to his death, as I said when you first arrived, why wouldn't he just pass on pulling his rip cord? Why go to all the trouble of cutting through the harness?”
Yeah, it was still a good point. In fact, it was the crux of the investigation. I thought back to the Ruben Wright I knew: Mr. Invincible. He was strong, self-assured, athletic, and very hard to kill. MS seemed unlikely, every bit as unlikely as suicide. If he had it, he'd be trying his damnedest to beat it into submission. If I had to put money on how he died, I'd still be betting on murder. But for the first time there were, I had to admit, faint fluffy clouds of doubt on the horizon.
Tables were being reset for the morning's breakfast trade. We were the last patrons to leave and already, at the periphery of the restaurant, lights had been turned off. A waiter swept the floor nearby, noisily shifting chairs around. I could take a hint. “Looks like we've outstayed our welcome,” I said.
Outside, the night air was cool and still. The distant traffic sounded like waves, or maybe it was the waves arriving on the beach nearby sounding like traffic. There weren't many vehicles in the parking lot out front. One was my SUV. I wasn't sure which one was Clare's.
“Do you mind giving me a lift home?” she asked. “I think I've probably had too much to drink.”
I detected the first signs of slurring. “Where's home?”
“Other side of Fort Walton Beach.”
I deactivated the SUV's alarm and opened the door for her. She climbed up and I noticed the colonel's calves. I liked what I saw: slim, tan, and toned. “You spend much time at the beach?” I asked, keeping it light.
“Yeah, the sea is one big playroom. Manny builds things out of sand; I like to run on it.”
I couldn't help but admire her. I knew plenty of couples bringing up kids. It appeared to be a tough enough job when the parenting was a double act. Going it alone was close to heroic in my book.
“So, what's next?” she asked as I accelerated into the traffic.
“There are a few people I need to see in Pensacola.”
“No, I mean tonight. Between you and me?”
“I'm going to drive you home.”
“And then?”
“You're a lieutenant colonel and I'm a major, ma'am. The Air Force has rules.”
“I don't see any uniforms.”
“Are you going to order me?”
“There's an idea.”
I smiled at her and she returned it.
“Single moms can have sex, Vin. We're allowed, you know. In fact, it has been so long this particular single mom is climbing the walls.”
“How long is so long?”
“Too long. Anyway, the house is empty, the bed is warm, your maybe-on-maybe-off girlfriend is on the other side of the planet, and what goes on tour stays on tour, right?”
“Are you always this pushy?”
“Does pushy scare you?”
I glanced across at her. She was leaning against the door, warm air from the dash vent blowing through her hair. One eyebrow was arched so that she looked playful, seductive, and hungry all at the same time. Her hand slid into her lap. I couldn't help noticing that her legs were apart, outlined by the sheer fabric of her skirt.
“You're making it hard for me to drive,” I said, my throat suddenly dry.
“Good,” she said. “Hold that thought. Better still, let me hold it.”
I smiled. “Why me?”
“Do you want your ego stroked, too?”
“If you think it'll help.”
She laughed. “OK, I've thought about this—about you. To start with, I like you. Also, to be honest, you're just passing through. It can be uncomplicated—no rumors, no bullshit, no games. You won't want a piece of me, or my life, so I can concentrate on my son. And, if you haven't noticed, there's an overpreponderance of macho types here. I've been watching you. I like a man who has a brain as well as a penis.”
“Yeah, well, pity they gave me only enough blood to operate one at a time.”
That earned another laugh. “Take the next left, after this set of lights.”
I took the turn and Clare directed me through a maze of side streets. The house we eventually pulled up outside was a seventies prefab. The front yard was painted silver by the moon; a silver tricycle nosed into a bush, a silver station wagon parked in the driveway.
“Are you going to come in for coffee?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Coffee keeps me awake.”
“Then I'll make sure it's brewed strong.” Clare reached across and took a handful of my shirt. She pulled me toward her and we kissed. Her mouth tasted of wine. Mine tasted of Moosehead. Fair trade.
* * *
Clare's bedroom smelled of fresh flowers. Her head was on my shoulder. I listened to her breathing as she slept, and felt her breath ruffle the hairs on my chest. We'd skipped the coffee. Her body was lean and long, hard in some places, soft where it counted. She obviously spent plenty of time running on that sand. Perhaps it was to work off the excess energy she would otherwise have expended between the sheets. She'd told me that it had been “a while.” Going into the second orgasm, I'd begun to think of that as maybe a warning. Heading into the finishing straight of the third, I was damn sure of it.
Groggy with sleep and sex, I stared at the ceiling, where events of the past couple of weeks were playing like the broken cuts of a movie trailer: I saw the probes blasting from the end of a Taser; I watched Anna close my apartment door as she left; I saw the disk pushed under the door; I imagined I saw Sergeant Wright the moment before he hit the ground, curled into a ball; I saw the fine blond hairs between Clare's legs and recalled her salty sweet taste; I saw a pile of cigarette butts mashed into the steel deck of the Natiísima; I saw a monster shark, bloodred water streaming from its gills as it snapped off Tanaka's head and shoulder from the rest of his body; I saw Amy McDonough and her firecracker hair; I saw a panda armed with a carving knife attack a woman on a park bench; I saw a silver station wagon parked in the driveway; I saw Tanaka's hand grasping for Boyle's wallet as it slipped twirling into the shark's wake.
* * *
My eyes opened. My body clock was linked to Air Force time and it told me to wake the hell up. I checked my watch: 0530. I must have spent the night unconsciously processing the pieces I had on the Tanaka case because the fitful sleep had brought me to some kind of conclusion about what had happened to him. I still didn't know why
he was killed, but I'd woken up with a hunch about the “who.” I hoped the feeling wouldn't evaporate as the day wore on.
It was still dark and Clare was asleep, but there was enough light to turn her hair into molten silver. It flowed across the top of an exposed breast that rose and fell with her breathing. I was aware of my erection an instant later, at precisely the moment Clare stirred and her hand brushed it. “Good morning,” she said sleepily, stretching, purring, full-stopping her stretch in the middle of it with a playful squeal when she realized what was beneath the sheets, waiting impatiently.
“Morning,” I replied.
She faced me, her eyes closed. “I see you have a little something for me down there,” she said. I felt her hands wrap around my shaft.
“Little?” I said.
* * *
We showered separately but had breakfast together. The sun didn't rise till nearly a quarter to seven. I wanted to be out long before it did. Part of the reason was the full day I had ahead. The other part had something to do with the curiosity of Clare's neighbors. I didn't want to give them something to talk about. When I'd mentioned this, Clare said, “Jesus—I'm not a nun. Don't worry about it. The woman on my left is an old widow. Doesn't go out much—give her something to talk about in her chat room. The people on the right are even older—the lady's deaf and her husband can't see past the weeds in his lawn.”
We finally had that coffee. “I know you planned it,” I said after the first grateful sip.
“Planned what?” she asked.
“This. Having me stay over.”
“What makes you say that?” she asked, in uniform, leaning back against the kitchen counter, her fingers interlaced around a mug.
“You told me last night you'd had too much to drink to risk driving. Your vehicle's in the driveway. You left it here so that you could get a lift.”
She put down her mug and took the two steps across the kitchen and gently cupped my testicles. I felt the heat of her hands, warmed by the hot mug, seep through the fabric of my pants. “So, what you gonna do about it?” she whispered. “You wanna pull me in for questioning, Special Agent? I promise I'll come quietly. On second thought, maybe I'll scream a little—you seem to have that effect on me.”
Old faithful stood to attention. Again.
She whispered in my ear as she undid my fly and slipped her hand inside. “And I seem to have a certain effect on you.”
* * *
In order to keep up with Lieutenant Colonel Clare Selwyn in the sack, I figured I'd have to run at least fifteen miles a day. We kissed and I said I'd call her later, exhaustion permitting.
It was light, but the sun still hadn't cleared the pines on a distant low hill. I decided not to drive back to Hurlburt Field, but to keep on going to Pensacola. I had the addresses and phone numbers in my notebook, and a bunch of questions in my head.
TWENTY-THREE
Pensacola lay on the far side of the Pensacola Bay Bridge. A brisk early-morning wind was pulling at the gray water, dragging up little white triangles all over the bay and blowing them into spindrift.
According to the digital display on the dash, it was only 8:45. I was too late to catch Ms. McDonough at home. Elmer's Sports Store was a ten-minute drive away, so I headed there. It wasn't hard to find, a shop in a mall off Pensacola Boulevard that looked like it had seen better days. Or maybe these days were the best it was ever likely to see. Or maybe it was just being punished by progress—there was a newer, bigger version a couple of miles back up the road. The place looked blackened and eroded by road grit and exhaust fumes that had been blowing off the adjacent multilane since the day the mall's foundations were laid. Faded “SALE” signs hung askew in almost every window. Paper cups, burger wrappers, straws, and plastic bags from the fast-food joints that had refused to read the writing on the walls of this shopping Alamo had gathered in the corners of the buildings and perimeter cyclone fencing like discarded ammunition boxes on a battlefield where the fight had moved on. The parking lot, which was so vast as to seem more an exercise in wishful thinking, was dotted here and there with vehicles in not much better condition than the buildings, most of which were closed, shuttered, and barred. The aforementioned writing on the walls was everywhere—black, angry, aggressive, and mindless. I wondered how many tennis rackets Elmer's was selling these days.
I walked inside and found a joint selling coffee to early-bird shoppers and retail staff. I bought a cup—strong and black, no sugar—and a cheese-and-bacon sandwich. The food was surprisingly good. I ate the sandwich and ordered another. A few of the shops were getting ready to open. Most of the salespeople were no more than kids, and were either lardy or anorexic, depending on their chosen eating disorder.
I sat on a bench outside Elmer's, drank the coffee, ate the second sandwich, and waited for Amy McDonough to make an appearance. More shoppers were starting to arrive. They were a listless bunch. All the fight had gone out of them. Several stood outside the shops, waiting, staring, waiting.
I noticed movement inside Elmer's. I went to the window and had a look inside. A guy in a blue tracksuit-style uniform was at the counter, on the phone, one of his arms waving about like he was bronco busting. He was yelling. Good soundproofing stopped me from hearing what he was yelling about.
Five past nine. No sign of Ms. McDonough, but there was a chance she'd arrived early and I'd missed her. The shutter rolled up on Elmer's. I went inside and had a walk around, making like a shopper nosing for a bargain. Elmer's was basically a large rectangular room with an office at the back. I knew this because there was a door behind the free-weights section with the word “Office” on it. Posters showing various athletes achieving greatness and others depicting women who looked like they were in the middle of an orgasm while they worked out hung on the walls. The showroom smelled of new rubber, cardboard, and old dust. Elmer had a large selection of running shoes. He also specialized in jogging machines and home gym equipment like the machines Ruben had bought.
The guy in the blue tracksuit stayed behind the counter and leaned on it, studying an old Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. He didn't look up. Maybe he didn't want to look up in case he found himself standing behind the counter in a run-down sports shop. He was in his early twenties, baby-faced and big. Not in an athletic way, but in an extra-cheese-and-giant-fries way. He had white, greasy skin, pimples, and a fine black mustache that looked like it might come off in the wash—if he ever had one. The way he flipped over the magazine's pages, every few seconds and violently, suggested there was nothing in the issue he hadn't seen a thousand times already, and that something had pissed him off. Maybe it was the phone call; maybe it was the fact that there was nothing in the magazine he hadn't seen a thousand times already. His name tag said I should call him Boris.
“Yeah,” he said when I approached, looking up from the mag with a look of flat boredom.
“I'd like to speak with Amy if she's in.”
“Related to something you want to buy or return?”
He said this like he was reading it off a card.
“No.”
“Then it's private business. Private business may not be conducted during business hours. Company policy.”
Spoken like a true dipshit. “Then she's here?”
“Perhaps you didn't hear me, sir.”
It was obvious Chuckles didn't know this great nation of ours was built on the idea of service with a smile. I headed for the office.
“Hey!” he called out to my back as I opened the door. Behind it was a small room with a desk, a computer, a filing cabinet, and an old Pamela Anderson calendar on the wall. It was March 2002—ancient history—and Pammy was playing with a python. There was no Amy McDonough.
“Turn around real slow, mister.”
I turned. Boris was armed with a baseball bat. A wooden one. It was old by the look of it—didn't want to abuse the stock, most likely. Elmer himself had probably put it behind the counter thirty years ago in case of folks comin
g in and asking questions about things other than sports. “Baseball season's over, sonny,” I said.
Boris had fifty pounds on me, maybe more. He was working through the odds. I could see it in his face, in the curl of his lips, the narrowed eyes, the flared nostrils, the pupils dilated by the adrenaline surging through his system. I could tell he'd come to the conclusion that the odds were in his favor. He swung the bat to get a feel for it.
“Y'all want to tell me who you are and what you want?”
“Not unless you say the magic word.”
This confused him. He had a weapon; I didn't. Why wasn't I scared, or at least conciliatory? The reasons had a lot to do with experience. In fact, I wish I had a dollar for every weapon I'd taken out of the hands of drunken airmen and soldiers. Mostly those weapons were either broken bottles or bar stools rather than baseball bats, but the principle was the same.
“Please,” I told him. “The magic word is please.”
He swung the bat again—a ranging swing—and took a step forward.
I didn't move. “Look, I just wanted to talk to Amy. She's not here? Fine. I'm happy to walk out.”
He seemed happier with this apparent appeasement. He misread it. “You came in all abusive. I have the right to protect myself and my customers.”
“More company policy?” I asked.
Boris answered by suddenly rushing in, swinging. I ducked under the bat and kept low. His momentum kept him going past me. We both turned and he came back for another go with a few more wild swings. He missed—I knew from his eyes and the shift in his body weight where the swings were coming from, like he was sending me e-mails on his next move. When he'd finished this flurry, I put a leg-extension machine between us. Boris's face was red with splotches of white. He was breathing heavily with effort.
I was getting tired of the game as well as concerned that he might just get lucky anyway and connect with my head. I said, “If you swing that thing at me one more time, I'll take it off you and teach you some manners.”
A Knife Edge Page 18
