A Knife Edge

by David Rollins

  I ordered a club sandwich in my room, and took a shower. The sandwich arrived just as I was toweling off. Perfect timing. I had no fresh clothes, so I put on the robe supplied, ate the sandwich, and tried not to think too much about the case at hand. I succeeded, but only because I couldn't shake the feeling that I still had work to do on the Tanaka/Boyle case. Under my skin was that feeling I'd had in the morning, the one I'd woken up with. I wanted to call Arlen. I wanted him to check on whether Al Cooke's faxed statement had turned up. I wanted him to look into the guy's bank account for me. Cooke was on deck the same time as Tanaka. He'd told me it was Boyle who'd murdered Tanaka. But what if it'd gone down another way and he was more involved in the murder than he was prepared to admit? Boyle was the only other person who could have verified his story, and now Boyle was dead. I picked up the phone, then put it down. New Year's Eve was New Year's Eve. My crap could wait twenty-four hours. And anyway, I knew what he'd say: “That's not your case anymore.”

  I turned on the television for company. The screen filled with some local doll presenting the news. The lead stories were still related to the hit on the Transamerica Pyramid building and the Four Winds apartments. Rescue efforts were about to end, the emergency crews standing by, engines idling. There was a piece shot on a set of steps in downtown San Francisco, the President noting with thanks the condolences sent by a host of nations and angered by some that hadn't, most notably Pakistan's new anti-West government whose thinly veiled message in their statement about the bombing basically said we deserved it.

  The President's general displeasure with Pakistan dovetailed with a report about Islamabad announcing the resumption of nuclear testing. Apparently, they had one ready to go. India had reacted by placing its military on high alert, and rushing reinforcements through midwinter blizzards to defend the disputed patch of high-altitude dirt and ice in Kashmir.

  Meanwhile, elsewhere in the world, various religious nutcases were trying to turn the clock back to around the year A.D. 600—a great time to have been a Muslim, apparently—and blowing up their fellow Muslims who dared to want to live in the present.

  Eventually, CNN got around to the real news that, once again, it was almost certain the Redskins would fail to make it into the divisional playoffs. They had to win the next three of three. I hit the off button in disgust.

  I twiddled my thumbs—still had an hour to kill. The book I had bought earlier caught my attention. I lay on the bed and leafed through it. The miracle cure for my flying issues could possibly be just a few chapters away. Have a Nice Flight. Pictured on the cover of the book was a supermodel seated on a plane pointing out the porthole at something below, her partner looking over her shoulder with interest. Both were beaming with happiness and relaxation. In reality, I bet the plane probably hadn't even taken off. It probably hadn't even left the hangar.

  I told myself to keep an open mind—if nothing else, the book had cost me nearly twenty bucks. The first chapter gave an overview of the kind of people affected by “aviaphobia,” the name of this particular anxiety disorder. It informed me that aviaphobics fell into three categories: worriers by nature; people who'd just been through an emotional trauma like divorce; people who'd had a bad experience in a plane. Generally speaking, I wouldn't have classed myself as a worrier, and, although I'd also been divorced, that particular event was more joyous than traumatic. I was firmly in the third category. I flipped through the chapters, getting a feel for how the cure was going to be effected. Instead what I found were plenty of the detailed experiences of my fellow phobics—how and why they became fearful in the first place, and then how they managed to overcome their fear. There were chapters on the physics of flying—how planes have to fly, have no choice in the matter, and so on; chapters on how pilots are trained and retrained to handle disaster, which I found contradictory. If flying was so goddamn safe, why the hell was there so much emphasis on what to do when—not if-—the thing ceased to stay aloft and came screaming to earth in a disintegrating ball of flaming aluminum?

  I put the book down, lay back, and stared at the ceiling. There was a fan up there, its three blades reminding me of an airplane propeller. Outside, a couple of cats growled at each other. My problem was that I'd been in a number of pretty hairy flying situations. I'd also lost plenty of good friends to plane crashes, accidents with rotary and fixed-wing aircraft being a primary cause of noncombat death in the military these days.

  I picked up the book again and read the same paragraph three times about a guy whose fear of flying sprang from his being knocked unconscious by the drinks cart as it rolled out of control down the aisle. There was a joke in there somewhere, but I was too damn tired to find it. I closed my lids for a moment, just to moisten my eyeballs. The next thing I was aware of was a thumping sound. I rolled off the bed and opened the door.

  “Hey, sleepy… taking my advice about the nap, huh?” said Clare.

  “Hi. Come in,” I said, rubbing my face. “Sorry about that.”

  Clare was dressed in jeans, sneakers, a tight, light blue T, and a light green cardigan with embroidered daisies scattered on it. It was a cool night and her nipples were giving a couple of those daisies a little extra definition. Her hair was loose—she'd done something different to it so that soft blond curls framed her face. A little black eyeliner accentuated her blue eyes, and lip gloss gave her lips a pink, wet look. She carried a woven hemp bag, the sort people often take to the beach.

  “What's in the bag?” I asked.

  “Supplies. There a fridge in the room?”

  I pointed.

  “Sorry I'm late, by the way,” she said as she transferred the contents of her bag to the small refrigerator.

  I checked my watch. She'd taken close to two hours. “That's OK. It's nice of you to come.”

  “Nice? Nice? I'll show you nice, buddy-boy.” She turned and took three running steps toward me. She took me by surprise, knocking me back so that I fell on the bed. I grabbed hold and took her with me. Her hair fell over my face, smelling of wildflowers. She kissed me and nearly took my tongue by the root. She lifted my hand off her ass and brought it to her breast and whispered, “You really should fuck me, Vin.” Then she sat up and took her cardigan and shirt off, revealing a delicate white lace bra, a fine white mesh fabric cradling her small breasts. “You like?”

  “Yes,” I said. I traced the shape of her nipples with my fingertips.

  Clare closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the sensation, then went down on all fours over me, running her lips and her tongue down my chest. “Close your eyes and keep them closed,” she ordered. “And no cheating.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She kissed me again.

  Then I felt her get off the bed. “Where're you going?” I asked.

  “Nowhere. Keep them closed.”

  “Yes, sir, Colonel, sir.”

  I felt her untie the sash of my robe and her tongue lick the length of my erection. The blast of pleasure that resulted was like an electric shock.

  “Now, no cheating,” she said again.

  As a game, this beat the hell out of Scrabble. I heard her light a match, smelled it in the air, heard the wick crackle, and then smelled the hot wax. I heard her loosen her belt and listened to the sound of fabric on skin as her jeans came off. My breathing was hard, as was the rest of me, my whole being concentrated in a rod of steel between my legs.

  I heard her open the fridge and fill a glass with ice. Next came the sound of running water.

  “Keep them closed, or you'll be in big trouble,” she warned.

  “No, it's you who's going to be in big trouble,” I replied. Every nerve ending in me was now raw and craving sex.

  “Yeah, I can see that,” she whispered in my ear. “Nearly ready.”

  I heard the glass tinkle. Then she took me in her mouth, which also contained ice, and a shiver rocketed down my thighs. A tingling sensation bounced up and down my spine. She cupped my balls with a hand that had been wrapped arou
nd a hot mug. The heat and cold caused me to gasp.

  I wasn't going to protest. Clare ran her fingernails along the skin of my legs as she knelt between them and then took me in her mouth, her now scaldingly hot mouth. I felt as though I was melting between her lips.

  “Jesus, stop, stop …” I whispered in order to prevent the explosion welling up inside me.

  Clare slid off the bed. She stood beside me, armed with a melting ice cube, a dribble of water rolling down toward her wrist. The flickering light from the candles glimmered across her flawless golden skin and a spark danced in her eyes and in the gloss of her lips. She reminded me of Tinkerbell, a very bad Tinkerbell.

  I think I must have swallowed, because she said, “You like?”

  “ Uh-huh,” I said. “Is that what you mean by ‘cute'?”

  She answered by removing her bra and running the ice around a nipple. “You want a turn?” she asked.

  Clare gave me her best Playboy bunny pout.

  “What, and spoil the show? Come here,” I said.

  She took half a step toward the bed, which brought her within range. I reached up and grabbed her wrist and pulled her onto me. We kissed long and slow, exchanging the ice cube a few times until the heat within us dissolved it. When our lips parted, she informed me, “Like I said, your turn. I promise I won't look.”

  Clare lay back on the bed, her eyes closed, her hands above her head as she stretched catlike. For the first time I noticed, lined up on the bedside table, that can of whipped cream she'd mentioned, as well as a bottle of honey, a block of dark chocolate, a mug of hot water, and a bowl of ice cubes.

  “I thought you were joking about the whipped cream.”

  “I never joke about food.”

  “Um …” I said, considering the lineup on the table.

  “Use your imagination, Vin.” Clare sighed as she rolled over on the bed, lifting her ass high, toward me. “Just start with the honey and move on to the chocolate,” she purred. “Happy New Year, big boy.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  It was still dark outside when the cell started ringing, dragging me from a sleep so dark and deep it was like I had to crawl up from the bottom of a coal mine. I stumbled around the room, barking my shins on various bits of furniture and swearing until I located my pants and pulled the goddamn thing out of a pocket. “Jesus H. Christ,” I muttered under my breath. The ringing stopped. The screen announced one missed call. Who the fuck would be ringing at five a.m. on New Year's Day, for fuck's sake? The question was enough to vaguely awaken my curiosity, which was still more asleep than the rest of me, and every bit as grumpy. “It had better be the goddamn Pope,” I said aloud.

  Half asleep, Clare asked, “Who is it?”

  “What? Don't know yet. Missed it.”

  The cell suddenly buzzed in my hand. I stabbed the green button. “What?” I snarled at the caller.

  A recorded voice informed me that I had a new message. I hit the button.

  Sounds of a party spilled out of the earpiece. “Special Agent Cooper? You there, dude?”

  It was a familiar voice, but I couldn't place it.

  “Happy New Year! Hey, I found out why that slut, Amy fucking McDonough, didn't turn up for work today.” Boris—Boris from Elmer's—with a head full of ecstasy and booze from the sound of it. “She's in Pensacola General, dude. She went to see her doctor and ended up there. Just heard the news from some bimbo friend of hers at this shindig here. Hey, sorry about what happened yesterday. That was, like, totally rude of me, you know? Anyway, like, Happy New Year. Have a nice life.”

  “Everything okay?” said Clare, rising onto an elbow, now fully awake.

  “Yeah. Might have a lead on Ruben Wright's girlfriend.”

  “That's good.”

  I wasn't sure what to do—go back to bed, or get an early start.

  “You coming back to bed?”

  “Thought I might take a shower.”

  “Sure. But first, let's get you all dirty.”

  Clare sure knew how to settle an argument.

  * * *

  The first of January was shaping into a fine day. At breakfast, Clare and I ate enough for four. The old lady in the orthopedic shoes approved, a healthy appetite being, so she said, akin to a healthy mind. If only she knew. Maybe she'd give it some further consideration when she changed our sheets and wondered why we appeared to have baked a cake in bed.

  Clare headed back to Fort Walton Beach with her bag of tricks, looking forward to picking up her son and hanging out with him for the day. I went the opposite way—into town and Pensacola General Hospital. I'd called beforehand to make sure Boris wasn't pitching me a curve ball. An Amy McDonough had indeed been admitted.

  I made my way to the front desk and badged the person sitting beneath the word “Reception.” She was a petite, small-boned woman wearing frameless glasses on the end of her nose and a thin blue cardigan around her shoulders. She reminded me of a frightened bird. The woman checked the computer screen after pecking at a few keys. Yes, Amy McDonough was a patient, but not for too much longer. She told me the computer expected that Ms. McDonough would be checking out in the morning, once the doctors had done their rounds. I asked what McDonough had been admitted for and was told I'd have to speak with a doctor. She also gave me a ward and directions to help find it.

  Even with the directions, locating the ward wasn't easy. The hospital was a rabbit warren of additions piled on carelessly over the years with little thought given to the whole. Once I got to the ward, though, Amy McDonough's red hair made her easy to spot. She shared the room with a woman who was lying on her side, a fluid the color of butterscotch flowing through a tube attached to her gut into a plastic bag hanging below her bed. She was snoring lightly. Amy was sitting up flicking through an old Vanity Fair. The Hollywood couple on the cover were embracing and smiling ferociously for the camera. It was the same couple who'd recently battled through the divorce courts, ripping into each other and each other's bank accounts.

  I held up my badge. “Ms. Amy McDonough? Special Agent Vin Cooper. I'm with the Air Force Office of Special Investigations. I'm looking into the death of Master Sergeant Ruben Wright. I believe he was a friend of yours.”

  McDonough bit her lip. Her eyes watered and then plump tears plopped onto her cheeks.

  “Can I help you, sir? It's a bit early for visiting hours.”

  I turned. A guy—who looked too young to get a driver's license—wearing a doctor's coat with a stethoscope over a shoulder was standing behind me, hands on his hips, head at an indignant angle. I showed him the badge, which, I hoped, would have the effect of automatically extending visiting hours. “I'm inquiring into the death of an associate of Ms. McDonough's,” I told him. “I have just a few questions for her.”

  The doctor motioned me to follow him around the corner, out of earshot. “I won't be releasing the patient today. I'm concerned about her mental state. She's in shock.”

  “Can you tell me what her medical problem is?” I asked. The look he gave me let me know I was about to get the old doctor-patient-privilege lecture. I headed him off at the pass. “Look, Doc, I'm just here to ask a few questions about the deceased. Your patient's not a suspect. I'll be sure to tread carefully.” The doctor appeared to wrestle with this spray of half-truths. The moment of indecision lingered, and then he said, “She's anemic—lost a lot of blood.”

  “You want to tell me why?” I was thinking maybe a gunshot wound, or maybe a—

  “She came here after having her pregnancy terminated at a clinic. Started bleeding and wouldn't stop.”

  An abortion. That wasn't on my mental list. Maybe it should have been. I kept the surprise out of my face.

  “You have ten minutes,” he said.

  I walked back into the ward, feeling a little like the clouds had thinned to reveal a hazy sun. Amy McDonough was now sitting up, legs over the side of the bed, blowing a puffy red nose into a wet wad of tissues. “I'm going to ask you a few questions,�
�� I said, using my most soothing tone, the doctor observing my bedside manner from around the door. I gave him a brief reassuring smile. He frowned and walked off down the corridor.

  I dropped the act and sat on the bed opposite the redhead. “Did Ruben know you were pregnant? And that Butler was the father?” I asked.

  McDonough sniffed, and avoided eye contact. “Yes. I didn't tell him, but he knew.”

  “Who told him?”

  “I don't know.”

  I did. Wignall's comment about Butler came to mind: He's the type who likes to get the business done quick so he can get down to the pub and brag to his friends about it.

  “Did you know Ruben had multiple sclerosis?”

  “What?”

  “You weren't aware of that?”

  She shook her head. Her chin quivered.

  “He was diagnosed with it a couple of months before he died,” I said.

  She shook her head again.

  “Did you know one of the symptoms of MS is impotence, Ms. McDonough?”

  “God, I didn't know…”

  “What was your relationship with Ruben Wright?”

  “We were f-friends.”

  “I thought you were more than friends—lovers, perhaps.”

  “W-were … Our relationship had changed.” She took a deep breath and shuddered.

  “Was he aware of that change?” I asked.

  McDonough nodded.

  “Do you think Ruben was suicidal?” I asked.

  “I don't know.”

  She didn't appear to know a lot.

  “How long have you been seeing Chris Butler?”