They touched glasses. She missed the clinking sound of glass against glass. Were they going to be okay? Helene decided to go first.
“I have a confession,” Helene said.
“It’s about time,” Murdock said.
“Karla was writing about two women killers. I didn’t mention it because you and I were, well, you know. So then this morning—it seems like a long time ago—when she read to the class and her two killers pushed a guy over a railing, I had that sinking feeling, my world falling apart. But you and I weren’t communicating—surely you remember that little rift between us?—so I couldn’t share my suspicions with you. And then the class was over and Karla scooted out before I could grab her—she had a massage date with Ackerman. There was the political crowd and the senator’s press conference, and Ackerman’s daughter …. I’m not sure what good it would have done anyway, maybe fewer lives saved. I’m trying to sort it out now, so ….”
“So you’re saying it was my fault?”
“I didn’t say that,” Helene said. “What I said was, maybe if you and I had been communicating, then we could have talked it over … and if we had known, we could have been ready for Penny, who had another name in Karla’s writing, and … so, yeah, maybe it is your fault.”
“Whoa,” Murdock said. “Hold up a minute, Steinbeck. You’re blaming me for the fact that you missed a clue?”
“I’m only telling you what happened,” Helene said. “We were talking, but not saying anything. You were busy sizing up Deputy Fremont.”
“And you were busy with your favorite billionaire.”
“I’d be happy with a simple acknowledgment of complicity,” Helene said.
“Complicity about what?”
“The rending of our relationship.” Helene took a sip of wine. They were talking now, and that was good, and she felt the atmosphere soften. Murdock was looking at her the same way he had looked at her in Taos, that first time in her SUV, sizing her up. “I confessed,” she said. “Now it’s your turn.”
“My turn to what?”
“To confess,” Helene said.
“Confess to what?”
“You know very well what, big guy.”
“Okay,” Murdock said. “I’m sorry too.”
“Good start,” she said.
“Well,” Murdock said, “I’m glad that’s over.”
“You keep going,” she said. “I want more from you.”
“More of what?”
“More confession, more emotion, more feeling—I want you to dig deep, Murdock.”
“Okay,” he said. “I did not have sex with Connie Fremont.”
“Good thinking,” she said. “What else?”
“I’m sorry I bugged you about Ackerman’s job offer.”
“Yeah,” she said. “What was that all about?”
“Alpha male,” Murdock said. “I was jealous. Sorry for that. I was out-classed. I was—”
“We were together,” Helene said. “We shared everything. I still owe you for that loan in Taos. What were you thinking?”
“I was playing big hero in Taos,” he said. “I had you in my clutches.”
“I remember liking that,” she said, “being in your clutches.”
“How are your feet?”
“Better every day.”
There was silence while they sipped their wine—another dumb game show played on the TV. Helene turned it off. The dead screen watched her, like a giant eyeball. She covered it with a hospital towel, sat on the edge of her bed. Her hair was still damp from the shower.
“How are you doing with the Taos nightmares?”
“No nightmares since we got to Sedona,” she said.
“I used to like Taos,” he said.
“The summer was wonderful,” she said.
“You sure about your feet being okay?”
“Are you asking about my body?” she said.
“Yes.”
“Specific parts?”
“Yes.”
“Can you say the words?”
“How are your specific body parts?”
She laughed. He laughed. She had forgotten his crazy sense of humor.
“Tell me why you care,” she said.
“Aside from being greedy about a pleasure hitherto unbeknownst to man?”
Helene’s cheeks got hot. Where did Murdock find language like that?
“Yes,” she said, “aside from that.”
“I couldn’t protect you on the manhunt,” he said. “I felt guilty.”
“It was my idea,” she said. “We had to split up.”
“I hate to fail,” Murdock said.
“He would have killed you, and forced me to watch.”
“You could have been killed.”
“I told you I could handle him. We were out-numbered—to divide his forces, we had to split up. It worked out okay.”
“I still feel bad,” he said.
She had been sitting on the edge of her bed, across from Murdock.
Now she moved to the edge of Murdock’s bed and pressed her hip against his leg.
She held out her wine glass.
They touched, plastic to plastic. Helene pretended to hear the musical bong, glass against glass, candle-light flickering , a nice restaurant. She thought of Axel’s million dollars, what money would buy. His eyes glistened.
She put her hand on Murdock’s leg.
His eyes were wet, tears on both cheeks.
She had known him for three months. She had never seen him cry.
“What else?” she said.
“I wondered if we were finished,” Murdock said. “All these signals—the book, the workshop, the million dollar offer. I knew you needed them, but it drove a wedge between us.”
“The rape left me feeling ashamed,” Helene said. “I needed reassurance, confirmation that I was okay. I was trying to wipe away the shame.”
“Did it hurt?” Murdock said.
“Why didn’t you ask me before?”
“I was afraid of losing you,” he said.
“Move over,” Helene said.
The bed was narrow. Murdock eased over. Helene swung her legs up. She turned onto her side, facing Murdock. She smelled the antiseptic; it wafted up from the arm dressing.
“So,” she said, “what would you like to do now?”
“What are my options?”
“We could visit Axel,” she said.
“He’ll be surrounded by Iveta Macek.”
“I could wheel you down to the staff meeting room. Take another look at our mind-map.”
“I have it all up here.” Murdock tapped his forehead.
“Or,” she said, “we could stay here, lock the door, finish this wine …. You sleepy?”
“With you heating up the bed? No way.”
Helene kissed his cheek. Her weight touched his wounded shoulder. He grunted.
She kissed his mouth, ran her tongue along his lips. He grunted again. She moved her hand to his belly. He was wearing a hospital gown. She pulled the gown up, moved her hand down, felt his reaction, Murdock back from the dead.
She was still wearing the green scrubs.
She told him to hold his horses.
The robe fell to the floor.
The green scrub blouse was a pullover. She left the blouse on, felt a chill as she stepped out of her floppy trousers. Keeping her hand on Murdock, she walked around the bed. Her fingers traced a line from his knee, down the shin, to his feet. She felt rough scars from that grisly Sunday manhunt. He was ready; her heart beat faster. She almost made a smart remark about going off half-cocked, but then stopped. Their best sex had been wordless. She climbed onto the bed, the right side, away from his wounded arm. She swung her leg over, straddling him, whispering. Am I hurting your shoulder? No, it’s okay. Are you sure? Yes. Is this okay? Yes. Is this? Yes, it’s okay.
There were more tears now. She licked them away. He nodded, wordless signal. She raised up, feeling ready. Feeling Murdock’s lov
e.
* * * *
Photo by Jerry Jaz
Robert J. Ray is the author of nine novels: Cage of Mirrors, The Heart of the Game, Bloody Murdock, Murdock for Hire, Dial “M” for Murdock, Merry Christmas, Murdock, Murdock Cracks Ice, and Murdock Tackles Taos. Ray is also the author of a popular non-fiction series on writing, The Weekend Novelist. He shares techniques on writing at bobandjackswritingblog.com. A native of Texas, Ray holds a PhD from the University of Texas, Austin. Tuesdays and Fridays, he writes at Louisa’s Bakery and Café in Seattle.
For more information, go to www.robertjrayauthor.com.
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