The Switch

by Sandra Brown

  "I was assigned that particular seat at that particular table," she retorted. "I didn't select it because it placed me in your direct line of sight."

  "But you took full advantage of it."

  She gave a noncommittal shrug. "I always sit with my legs crossed."

  "In high heels?"

  "Usually."

  "In a short black skirt?"

  "It's not that short."

  "Short enough to carry my imagination up to its favorite vacation spot."

  She pretended to take umbrage. "I'm a lady, Colonel Hart." "Every inch of you."

  "Your look doesn't make me feel much like a lady." "Oh, so it's my look now."

  "Turnabout is only fair."

  "Okay. How am I looking at you? How does my look make you feel?"

  "Like it's a hot evening in the summertime and I'm an ice-cream cone."

  Several seconds laden with sexual undercurrents ticked by before he leaned forward to set his glass on the coffee table. "Melina?"

  "Are we going to sleep together?"

  A dart of excitement found its target and caused her to catch her breath. "I have a reputation to uphold."

  "So do I."

  She laughed softly. "But your reputation is that of a lady-killer."

  "And yours is of fending us off."

  Hesitating only a heartbeat, she answered, "No." Then slowly she stood up and stepped around the table to stand directly in front of him. "Ask anybody about Melina Lloyd, and they'll tell you that she's impulsive. She does whatever seems right at the time."

  He remained seated on the floor, but his eyes had followed her up, taking their time to track the terrain of her figure. Huskily he asked, "What seems right?"

  Dale Gordon's apartment was only slightly warmer than the temperature outside, but tonight when he let himself in, the single room seemed especially musty and close.

  The single-car detached garage had been converted into living quarters a decade before Pearl Harbor, and few improvements had been made since that original renovation. Its one nod toward modernity was an air-conditioning window unit that belched humid cool air in summer and humid warm air in winter. Unfortunately, it fit into the dwelling's single window, which was not only a gross violation of the fire code, but created a ventilation problem. Consequently, the air that Dale Gordon now sucked into his thin body with a high, whistling sound, was stale, dense, and insufficient.

  He peeled off his T-shirt and tossed it onto the narrow, unmade bed. He swiped his hands over his bony, almost concave chest, skimming off the sweat that had beaded on his pale skin and prominent ribs. His nipples were erect with a sudden chill. They were very red and sparsely ringed with long, straight blond hairs.

  With almost frantic haste, he moved around the cluttered room, lighting candles. His hands shook as he held kitchen matches to wicks that had been relit so many times they were thick with char. Habitually he burned his candles down until there was no more wax to burn.

  The heat and smoke from so many candles increased the room's stuffiness, but Dale Gordon didn't notice that as he kicked off his rubber thongs and peeled off his khakis and underwear.

  Naked, he dropped to his knees before a crude altar. His kneecaps sounded like cracking walnuts as they struck the bare concrete floor. Dale Gordon was unaware of the sound and unmindful of the pain that accompanied it. His pain was emotional, spiritual, but it was real. To him it felt as though all the demons of hell were inside him trying to claw their way out through his vital organs.

  He had waited in his car until the Lexus pulled out of The Mansion's driveway. Gillian Lloyd was alone in the car. She was going home. After hours of fornicating with the tall, dark man who looked Indian except for his brilliant blue eyes.

  Dale Gordon didn't care about him. He didn't even need to know his name. It didn't matter who he was. What mattered was what Gillian had done with him. Dale had no sexual experience of his own to serve as a point of reference. Nevertheless, he knew what men and women did together when they were alone. He'd seen pictures. He'd seen movies.

  Each time he envisioned Gillian's lustful foreplay and imagined her shapely limbs twined around the man's body as he rutted with her like an animal, he was seized by another bout of uncontrollable weeping.

  He wept noisily and wetly as he prayed at his altar. Sobs wracked his skinny torso so violently, they almost rattled the bones within his skin. He prayed earnestly and with contrition because it wasn't Gillian's failure alone. It was also his. He had failed. Miserably.

  But prayers of confession weren't enough. In order to atone for his dismal failure, he must be punished.

  Lifting up the fringed cloth draping the chest that served as his altar, he opened one of three drawers. Inside was a leather whip with several wide strips. He clasped the sweat-stained handle in his right hand, said a quick prayer, then, reaching over his shoulder, lashed his back with it. He repeatedly lashed himself until blood was running down the sharp ridge of his spine and dripping onto the floor.

  He fainted.

  Finally he stirred to discover himself on the blood-spattered floor, knees curled up to his chest, shivering. Stiffly, he pulled himself to his feet and staggered into the bathroom, which was separated from the rest of the room only by a threadbare curtain. He took a cool shower. Then, letting his skin air-dry, he carried a towel to the altar and tried to wipe up the blood on the floor.

  It was a mess. He had made a bad, bad mess. But the red streaks smeared by the towel also reminded him of Jesus' blood, which had flowed from him as he hung on the cross. Comparing himself to that most revered prophet and martyr was vainglorious, he knew, but he derived comfort from it.

  The lashing, however, was only the first stage of his punishment. He must confess to Brother Gabriel. As humiliating as it would be, he must tell Brother Gabriel that he, Dale Gordon, had betrayed his trust and failed at his mission.

  With tears streaming from his eyes, he moved to his telephone. He clutched the receiver in his pale hand, dreading what he must do. It was late. Maybe he should wait until morning.

  No, the time of day was irrelevant. Brother Gabriel's work never ceased. He was tireless. The phone lines at the Temple were answered twenty-four/seven. Besides, Brother Gabriel had mandated that he be informed of good news immediately. The same went for bad news.

  Dale Gordon knew the telephone number by heart. He had called it just that morning. That call had been cause for rejoicing. He had called to report that the mission entrusted to him had been accomplished. Oh, he'd been so proud!

  Now... now this.

  His heart pounded painfully against his rib cage as he listened to the hollow hissing sound in the receiver, signaling him that the call was going through. After five rings, a telephone in the mountaintop compound far away from Dale Gordon's squalid apartment was answered.

  "Peace and love. How can I help you?"

  CHAPTER 5

  It promised to be a damp, oppressive day. The temperature was seasonably cool, but the humidity was high. Dale Gordon was sweating copiously again. The salty perspiration caused the abrasions on his back to sting, but he was unmindful of the discomfort.

  Undeterred, he marched along the sidewalk like the soldier he was. A good and obedient soldier focused on his mission, not on the obstacles that might prevent him from accomplishing it. In the surrounding predawn silence, his ragged breathing was the only sound. He didn't hear it.

  There was nothing to light his way. The moon was a mere sliver lying on its back just above the western horizon. Sunrise was still an hour away. But even in the gloom, Dale Gordon didn't miss a step. Although he'd never been here before, he knew the way.

  He attributed his surefootedness to divine guidance. Brother Gabriel had assured him that his path would be made straight and sure, and, as with all things, Brother Gabriel had been right. He could work miracles. He could make miracles happen even in his absence by the sheer power of his mind. He had even caused the neighborhood dogs to remain mute
. Not a single one had barked a warning.

  Dale Gordon hadn't written down her address because he had committed it to memory. His eyes remained fixed directly ahead of him until he came even with the front of her house, where he slowly executed a military turn to face it.

  It was a single-story house. The style was traditional. It had a brick exterior. The wood trim was white, the front door dark. Blue, possibly green, maybe even black. It was hard to tell in the darkness. The yard was well tended.

  She really should leave on a porch light as a safety precaution, Dale Gordon thought as he made his way up the front walkway. He didn't fear detection from her or her neighbors. He had been assured invincibility, and he had faith.

  Three wide, shallow steps led up to the front door. Pots of flourishing chrysanthemums flanked it. Cupping his hands around his eyes, he peered through the fan-shaped window that formed the top third of the door.

  He could see only one bluish white glow coming from the back of the house. The rest was dark. He tested the latch on the front door. It was locked. Stepping off the porch, he methodically checked the windows on the front of the house, trying three before he found one unlocked.

  "If there's a home security system and an alarm goes off, you must be prepared to act quickly. Before neighbors or police arrive."

  Brother Gabriel thought of everything.

  Dale Gordon wiped his sweaty palms on his khakis and took several quick breaths, puffing them in and out of his inflated cheeks like an Olympic weight lifter about to heft the barbell.

  But the precaution was unnecessary, because when he hastily raised the window, no alarm was activated. Then for half a minute, he stood very still and listened for movement inside the house. Hearing nothing, he levered himself up and climbed through the window.

  His eyes were already accustomed to darkness, so he could see his surroundings fairly well. He was in her living room. It smelled good. Like flowers and spice. He sniffed his way to an end table, where he found a pretty crystal bowl filled with dried flower petals and cinnamon sticks. He bent down and inhaled deeply of the pleasing fragrance. He'd never lived in a place that had such frills as this. He would have liked to tarry, but he'd been instructed to complete his mission before daylight, so he straightened up and glanced around.

  He wished he could turn on a light in order to see the other items in the room. He longed to linger among the personal possessions that she touched on a routine basis. Scattered about on the various tables were books and magazines and picture frames, but it was too dark to see who was in the photographs. He was tempted to take one as a keepsake, so he would have something that had belonged to her. But he resisted the temptation. That would be stealing, and he wasn't a thief.

  He moved carefully to avoid bumping into furniture. The floor was hardwood, but he trod lightly so none of the boards creaked. He traced the single light he'd seen through the front door to the kitchen. It was the light in the vent above the range. He thought of turning it off but decided it didn't matter that it was on.

  He was about to leave the kitchen when he spotted a drinking glass on the counter. It had about two tablespoons of liquid in it. He reached for it, then hesitated. Brother Gabriel had told him not to touch anything that wasn't necessary.

  But Brother Gabriel would never know, would he?

  Dale Gordon picked up the glass and drank the liquid, which turned out to be plain water. Nevertheless, it made him slightly dizzy. It was intoxicating to know that he was drinking after her, that his lips and tongue were touching a surface that hers had recently touched. The experience was almost religious in its significance. His heart raced as it did when he listened to tapes of Brother Gabriel's sermons.

  But it was also a carnal experience for him. He ran his tongue around the rim of the glass, inside and out. The rate of his breathing escalated until he was practically panting. Inside his underwear he felt stirrings he knew were sexual and therefore wrong.

  Stop! What was he doing? He mustn't let himself get distracted. Mustn't let himself be ensnared by the wicked whore Gillian Lloyd. He set down the glass and turned his back on it, symbolically turning his back on temptation. Quickly and silently he retraced his steps to the front room of the house, where he paused to calm down and reorient himself.

  Extending from the main room in the opposite direction from the dining room and kitchen was a darkened hallway. Three doors opened off it. One must be the bedroom in which she slept. Imagining himself to be just another shadow, Dale Gordon crept down the passageway.

  The first room he came to was furnished with a desk and computer terminal, file cabinets, fax machine. On the wall was a corkboard covered with handwritten notes and business cards. Her home office.

  The second door opened into a small, neat bedroom. The bed had a pretty pale bedspread and an old-fashioned quilt folded over the foot of it. An easy chair. A round table with a cloth matching the bedspread draped over it. Obviously a guest room. He stepped back into the hallway.

  Blessed with a keen sense of smell, Dale Gordon knew before stepping through the door at the end of the hall that he would find her there. He could smell her shampoo. The scent of her skin, warm from sleep, was like a taste inside his mouth.

  The room was dark, but his eyes were so accustomed to the darkness by now that he could see her plainly. Either that or the divine guidance that had accompanied him this far was serving him well now and providing enhanced night vision.

  His heart thudded, but not from fear or anxiety. From excitement. From the thrill of being this close to her. One of the chosen. One of the select. At least she had been until...

  But he wouldn't dwell on that or he would get angry. If he thought about the tall man mauling and pawing her, defiling her, desecrating her body, he might become ill again. If he imagined her clutching him and moaning in pleasure and responding to such defilement, he might actually retch.

  She was sleeping on her stomach, her head turned to one side on the pillow. One cheek, one eye, one delicate ear were exposed to him. Her breathing was almost silent, but he could smell the flavor of it. Her dark hair was fanned out over the pillow, untangled and silky smooth.

  On the floor beside the bed were two articles of clothing. He bent down and picked them up. Pajamas. The short jacket was sleeveless and buttoned up the front. He fondled the soft cotton that had covered her breasts. He lifted it to his face and inhaled deeply. It made him giddy to think about her bare skin rubbing against the fabric, about her breasts reshaping it. The soft cloth would have defined her nipples, nipples from which the baby would suck.

  Only now there wouldn't be a baby.

  Sadly, he lay the pajama top on the foot of the bed. But he continued to hold the shorts, gently squeezing them between his hands. Even though he knew they couldn't have retained her body heat in the cool room, he imagined the fabric still to be warm. Warm and moist from her woman-place. He turned the shorts inside out, spread them over his crotch, and began rubbing himself.

  Even through the layers of clothing, he could feel his arousal. It was a rare sensation for Dale Gordon. Ever since that episode in gym class in junior high school when the other boys had stripped him of his underwear and ridiculed the smallness of his penis, he had denied the nasty thing that lodged between his legs. He resented having to touch it even to urinate. Or to hold it while he scrubbed and scrubbed until it was clean.

  He was mortified on those mornings when he woke up to the realization that it had betrayed him in his sleep, that his sheets were stained ... just as they had been that morning Mother discovered the bad thing he'd been doing in his bed each night. She had made him beat himself for it until he bled and was purged of impure thoughts and deeds.

  Brother Gabriel agreed with Mother.

  Gratifying the flesh was wrong. He must keep himself pure because the carnal nature was anathema to spiritual men. That's what Brother Gabriel had told him, and Dale Gordon understood that truism now as never before. Because if he wasn't careful,
this pleasure he was experiencing was going to overwhelm him, cloud his judgment, and jeopardize his mission.

  But it felt good to rub Gillian Lloyd's pajama bottoms against himself. It felt so good, in fact, that he couldn't stop himself from doing it. Nor could he hold back a low groan of animal bliss and saintly shame.

  That's what awakened her.

  Her eyes came open first, but she didn't move immediately. It was as though she were trying to remember where she was and determining what had awakened her. Then, as though sensing him there, she hastily rolled onto her back.

  She screamed.

  It wasn't much of a scream. Small. Half formed. As though her throat had been clutched before the scream could completely escape and a good part of it was still trapped inside her throat.

  "Hi, Gillian."

  She gasped, "What are you doing here?"

  She recognized him! She knew him now. She knew his face. And he gloried in the certainty that it was the last face she would ever see.

  CHAPTER 6

  "Ms. Melina Lloyd?"

  Roused from a deep sleep, she had thrown back the covers, grabbed a robe, and stumbled from the bedroom, making her way to the front door on autopilot, intent on answering the doorbell if for no other reason than to stop the incessant ringing.

  Groggy and muddle-headed, it took several seconds for her to register that this wasn't the extension of a dream, that she was indeed awake, standing upright, and facing a pair of uniformed Dallas policemen. In her bleary peripheral vision, she saw their squad car parked in the driveway.

  "Ms. Lloyd?"

  She pushed a hank of hair off her face. "Yes. I'm sorry, I was ... What do you want?"

  "I'm Corporal Lewis, this is Corporal Caltrane."

  "Is something wrong?"

  "May we come in?"

  In that instant she was jarred fully awake. Because policemen didn't come to someone's door this early in the morning to sell tickets to their charity ball. If the house were on fire, or a whacked-out sniper had the neighborhood under siege, or any number of other emergencies, the light bar on their car would be flashing and they would be frantically shouting instructions.