Death Benefits: A Novel

by Thomas Perry

  The dinner had been full of things to think about. The evening had begun with a certain promise. He had been pleased when he had smelled a hint of perfume and seen that her makeup was different—the lips redder, a little blush on the cheeks, and eye shadow. He had interpreted those changes as having been intended for him, as indications that she liked him and wanted to show him. No, he remembered, he had made more of it than that. He had decided that she was declaring a change in their relationship. He had seen that she wore flat heels and sweaters for business, so how could the dress, high heels, and perfume not be messages?

  The conversation had been full of moments when he had thought he sensed something unusual happening. They had both talked about themselves more openly than he would have expected, because when one of them stopped, the other would ask another question that prompted the next set of revelations. It was as though each of them were a series of doors leading inward. Each question was a knock on the next door. The one inside would hesitate for a moment, then decide to make an exception and let the visitor in one more door—just one more.

  Her revelations about the past were as unmemorable as his: a family far away that was more remarkable to her than to anyone else, a childhood and adolescence that had been embarrassingly free of serious obstacles. There were big differences in their thoughts about the next twenty years of their lives, but he had noted them without alarm. She had grand strategies. He didn’t believe in the efficacy of grand strategies, but he was interested in them, and enjoyed hearing about hers.

  When he had left her at her apartment she had lingered at the security gate at the front entrance and thanked him simply and warmly. He had wondered if she was waiting for a kiss, or if it was the furthest idea from her mind and she would think he was sophomoric to do the sort of thing that high school kids did instead of what grown-up business colleagues did . . . whatever that was. By the time he had reached the conclusion that since he wanted to kiss her, the only sane and logical course was to try, the opportunity had expired. She was chirping an energetic “Good night” and closing the gate behind her. He had replied, “Night,” turned on his heel, and taken himself off.

  A couple of days later, he really had asked her to the concert, and she really had refused, just as he had told Stillman. When she had refused, he had looked back on their first date differently. The makeup and perfume and the little dress and shoes had been brought out because it was evening, not because she was interested in seducing him. Her conversation had not been intimate, just open: free of paranoia or guile. She had asked questions about his life because she was interested in life, not because she was interested in John Walker. He decided he had been foolish, but only mildly foolish. He had offered his company in a polite and friendly way, and she had just as politely declined. Maybe she had given him a hint in her conversation that he had missed. The twenty-year plan she had described had not included any time or space that John Walker could imagine he might occupy.

  But after the exam she had made a special effort to corner him and talk to him. He remembered it exactly. They had come out of the exam at six, and he had taken the elevator to the lobby alone and found her waiting at the door. “That was so easy,” she moaned. He had shrugged and said carefully, “I guess we shouldn’t complain.” But she had persisted, staying with him as he walked into the lower level of the parking garage, making no attempt to veer off to where her car was parked. “But I spent half the night studying when I could have been listening to the Third Horn Concerto. What a dope. Next time remind me.”

  He had pondered that conversation for two days, hearing over and over the words “next time.” She had not been telling him to leave her alone: she really had wanted to study. He decided that he might have just received a lesson about communicating with women. Maybe sometimes when they said something they weren’t delivering an encoded subtext. The words meant to them exactly what they meant to him. On the third day, while he was still formulating theories and comparing them to her behavior, she settled the issue. She walked up to him before class and said she had bought two tickets to the next concert in the series.

  After that he had studied her with an intensity that he had never applied to anything in his life. She was different. She seemed to read him accurately, know what he was thinking without spending time at it, and never be surprised at what she knew. They had been thrown together more and more by the odd circumstance that they were doing exactly the same things at the same times each day—even having the same thoughts, as they listened to the instructors in the training classes and committed to memory the various aspects of the business. But when they were alone together, they seldom needed to talk about the work. They saw each other as relief, a corrective to the insurance business. Before long, they were together nearly every night.

  Their only argument had been about sex. One night, after about a month, they had walked back to her apartment after a movie, and he had kissed her as usual and started to leave. She had looked at her watch and said, “It’s not that late, and tomorrow’s Saturday. Come in.” She had not looked to see whether he was coming, just unlocked the gate and closed it after him, then led him to her apartment, closed the door, and kissed him again without turning on the light. They had stayed there for a long time, in deep leisurely kisses as his hands moved, beginning to trace the shape of her body. Then, a sudden concern held him back. He had paused because he could not see her face, and he had begun to worry that maybe he was moving faster than she wanted to.

  He tried to formulate the difficult, uncomfortable question he knew he was supposed to ask. “Do you want to—”

  “Cut it out,” she said sharply.

  He had released her and stepped back.

  Her voice had been annoyed. “Not that.” He had tentatively reached for her, but she backed away too. “Too late. Now we have to go through it. I know how that got started. It’s those stupid student codes. I’m always amazed that it got to be hammered into all of our brains at every high school and college in the country, until everybody’s afraid.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d be offended if I asked before . . . ” He wasn’t sure how he wanted to phrase the rest of it, so he left it unsaid.

  She let out a breath in frustration. “I’m not offended, I’m resentful. You’ve been warned that if you don’t stop right at this point and make me give my clear and affirmative declaration, then you’re going to be a criminal. You must know I’m in a situation where I’m trying to fight a lot of shyness and nervousness anyway—I’m afraid you’re going to think I’m fat or ugly or something—and this makes it worse. It forces me to go through a conversation that’s much more embarrassing than letting you see me naked could possibly be.”

  “I’m sorry,” Walker said. “I thought you expected it, or I wouldn’t have said it.” He put his arm around her.

  She pulled away and said, “Expecting it isn’t the term. I was waiting in dread for it.”

  “I don’t like it either,” he said. “But I’m not sure that I disagree with the idea that people should have a chance to think and decide whether they want to do something important.”

  She shook her head. “That’s so insulting. This issue didn’t just get invented and sprung on us out of the blue, did it? We’ve been together practically every minute for a month. What did you think I was doing all this time? I was getting used to you, and making that decision. You decided on the day I asked you to go to the concert.”

  His brow furrowed. “You knew that?”

  “Of course I knew,” she said. “You really wanted to before, but you were being cautious and responsible. You knew this was not a smart thing for either of us to do, but at that point you decided it wouldn’t do any lasting harm to either of us. It just took me longer to be sure you were right. You’ve been patient and thoughtful and all that, and I appreciate it. That’s part of why everybody immediately sees that you’re the real thing.”

  He stepped closer. “Is that good or ba
d?”

  “It’s great,” she said. “Stop trying so hard. Your impulses are good: we’re allowed to want sex.”

  He had held her close and started to kiss her again, but once more she pulled back. “Not yet.”

  “I thought—”

  “That was advice for your future,” she said. “This time it’s too late. So here goes: I am a mentally competent person, over twenty-one years old. I am not under duress, have received no threat of violence or loss of income. Although John Walker and I are employed by one company, to wit McClaren Life and Casualty, neither of us serves in a supervisory capacity over the other, or expects to do so in the future—or even to be assigned to the same city. I have not consumed any alcoholic beverages or mind-altering substances. Having given it due consideration, I have decided to accede to John Walker’s stated wish—which I liked better implied rather than stated—that I have sexual intercourse with him. I give him permission to get on with it, and let me go back to being a little more passive, which is the way I will feel most comfortable tonight. In so doing, I do not give up any vested rights, including the right to revoke permission at my sole discretion and without notice.”

  She put her arms around his neck, raised her face to look into his eyes and asked, “Now do you feel better?” He had hesitated, and she had brought her lips up to his. “In a minute you will.”

  He had thought he’d forgotten the exact words, remembering only that they had been a sexual-conduct code rephrased in the legal jargon of a McClaren’s document. Now certain parts of it came back with a new meaning. She had warned him that it was not going to be permanent, said that they weren’t ever going to work in the same office. He had allowed all kinds of plans to develop for a future together that she had told him at the beginning was out of the question. She had been honest with him from the first night at the restaurant until the end. She had been honest with everyone. He was convinced that the last thing Ellen Snyder would do was commit fraud.

  Over the next year and a half, Ellen Snyder had been vividly present to him, a problem. Tonight, he realized that the problem had been imperceptibly changing since he had left San Francisco. He had begun with the feeling that the relationship had just begun, then been cut off abruptly. He had searched his memory for the mistake he had made, scrutinized himself for some inadequacy that she had overlooked at the beginning but had finally found repulsive. But it was not that way at all. It was a story that had a natural beginning and a natural end. The end had arrived on schedule over a year ago. The girl was gone, but that had not changed who she was.

  Stillman had said it was time for Walker to go home. Walker had already made his best arguments for Ellen Snyder’s innocence, and repeating them would not make them stronger. But the problem had changed again. He wasn’t worried that some accusation might stick to her. He was afraid she was in danger. As long as that remained a possibility, giving up was out of the question.

  He heard another knock on the door, and sighed. Stillman hadn’t suddenly changed after all. As Walker went to the door he began to compose a greeting: “Did you hear a heartbeat and decide to finish me?”

  He swung the door open while he said, “Did—”

  “Did not.” It was the girl with the red hair. Serena. Her green eyes held him from behind the glittering glasses with an unabashed, unapologetic gaze. It was an expression that some people would have called curiosity, but seemed to Walker to be its opposite—the quality of having taken in everything she was interested in instantly. She just had not bothered to look away yet.

  Walker leaned out of the doorway and pointed toward Stillman’s door. “He’s right down—”

  “Good for him.” She ducked past Walker into his room.

  He hesitated for a moment, then followed her inside and closed the door. “Did the cops come to Gochay’s? Are you hiding?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I just heard shots and didn’t find your bodies, so I knew you would be here.”

  “How?” he asked.

  “How what?”

  “How did you know that we would be here?”

  She smirked. “I asked my crystal ball what Stillman’s credit card was doing tonight, and up came this place.” She pointed to the scratches on his face. “Got anything to put on those?”

  He involuntarily reached up and touched his face. “Stillman picked up some things, but I haven’t had time for that yet.”

  She took off her oversized jacket and tossed it on the bed. “What were you waiting for, gangrene?” She grabbed his hand and examined the knuckles, then released it and went into the bathroom.

  He heard her going through the paper bag Stillman had left, then heard water running in the bathtub. She appeared at the door. “Get in the bathtub and scrub any breaks in the skin.”

  He stood there. It was exactly what he had planned to do before she had arrived, but he couldn’t think of a reason to tell her that. She came out past him and said, “Go on.”

  He went in and closed the door. He caught sight of himself in the mirror, and the angry red marks made him want to do something about them, so he took off his clothes, stepped into the bathtub, and gingerly settled into the steamy water. He unwrapped the soap and began to scrub his body with lather. He found the shampoo and worked on his hair, but the shampoo stung his open wounds. He leaned back, ducked his head under the water, and stayed there with his eyes closed, listening to the sound of pipes and water while the pain subsided.

  The sounds changed. He opened his eyes to see Serena standing over him beside the tub. He sat up quickly, covering his groin with his hands.

  “Don’t be stupid,” she scolded.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “I forgot. You only like girls, so I shouldn’t be uncomfortable, right?”

  “I’m also an RN.” She knelt beside the tub and began to part his hair gently with her fingers, looking at the cuts.

  “You’re a registered nurse?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” she asked combatively. “Okay. You can get out and dry off now. I’ll tend to the medical part.” She stood and waited.

  He sat in the tub. “I’d rather do this myself.”

  She rolled her eyes and turned around, then put her hands over her eyes. “Dry off and wrap the areas you’re so ashamed of in a towel so we can finish up.”

  He stood and said, “I am not ashamed.”

  “Oh,” she said, unconvinced. She walked out to the bedroom.

  He closed the door, dried himself, and tucked the towel around his waist, then came out.

  She said, “Sit.” He sat on the bed while she applied antiseptic to his wounds, one after the other, then placed bandages on the cuts and scrapes. When she had finished she said, “There. You’ll be fine.”

  “Thanks,” he said. He got up and walked to his suitcase to find some clothes. “Now that I’m cured, we can get to what was on your mind. Did you bring something for Stillman, or what?”

  She smiled mischievously and looked at him over the tops of her lenses. “I came to pick you up so we could go out cruising for chicks together, like we said.” She reached into her jeans and held up a small package of condoms. “I picked these up for you in the shop downstairs.”

  Walker gaped at her in amazement. “That . . . that was very thoughtful.”

  She shrugged. “But it’s already so late that the only chick I could find on the way over was me.”

  “Oh well,” said Walker. “Some nights are like that, I guess.”

  She shrugged again. “So we’ll have to make do with what we’ve got.” She grasped her sweater and pulled it up over her head, then tossed it aside. Her skin was almost as white as her bra, so she seemed to Walker more than naturally naked. She unbuckled her belt and unzipped her jeans, then paused, looking at him again. “Unless you don’t want to?”

  Walker’s arms seemed to move to her waist without his volition. As she snuggled against his chest, her face lifted and they were kissing. They moved to the bed without seeming to have gone the
re. A few minutes later, or maybe much later, she whispered in his ear, “I lied about being a nurse,” and he whispered, “You look much better without the uniform.” And some time after that, she said in a breathless gasp, “I’m not really a lesbian either.” He managed to say, “Evidently.”

  For the rest of the night when he heard her voice it was not meant to be broken into words. They communicated by touch. Later, there were periods of lazy quiescence, when they lay together with eyes closed and barely touching, sometimes only the edge of a hand held gently beside a thigh as though to maintain an electrical contact.

  But then, through the contact came a silent message, at first only a faint stirring, maybe only a pulse that very gradually quickened, answered by a slight rise in the temperature of the skin that could have been a blush. They turned to each other and the warmth became heat and motion again.

  Walker caught sight of the hotel’s clock radio on the stand beside the bed, and it made no sense. It seemed to say 4:30. He sat up to face it, then lay back down.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  “It seems to be four-thirty.”

  “Kiss me.”

  He turned and they kissed, holding each other tightly and lying so they could touch their foreheads together, their chests, bellies, thighs, feet. They stayed that way for a long time, and then she wriggled away and stood up.

  “Now look at me.”

  He raised himself on one elbow and looked. She slowly turned her back, looking over her shoulder at him, and kept going until she faced him again. “You’re beautiful,” he said.

  She nodded. “I want to be sure you remember.”

  He gave a puzzled smile. “I’m not likely to forget.”

  She made no move, no effort to cover herself or to avoid his gaze. “My name is Mary Catherine Casey. Do you like it?”

  “It’s a good name. Mine is still John Walker.”

  “Very pleased to meet you.” She looked into his eyes for a moment, searching until she found something that satisfied her. Then she sat down on the bed beside him and looked around, picking up pieces of clothing. “When you’re through with Stillman, you can get in touch.”