"What was he angry about?"
"A lot of things. He carries a lot of anger. From other women, relationships. I was his second failed marriage. The job. Sometimes it came out like a blowtorch."
"Did he ever hurt you?"
"No. I didn't stay long enough for him to try. Of course, all men deny the woman's intuition, but I think if I stayed it would have come to that. It was the natural course of things. I still try to stay away from him."
"And he still has something for you."
"You're crazy if you think that."
"There's something there."
"The only thing he has for me is a desire to see me unhappy. He wants to get back at me for being the cause of his bad marriage, his bad life, everything."
"How's a guy like that keep his job?"
"Like I said, he's got a mask. He's good at hiding it. You saw him at the meeting. He was contained. You also have to understand something about the FBI. They don't go looking to bust their agents. As long as he did the work, it didn't matter what I felt or said."
"You complained about him?"
"Not directly. That would've been cutting my own throat. I've got an enviable position in the BSS but make no mistake, the bureau's a man's world. And you don't go to the boss to complain about things you think your ex-husband might do. I'd probably end up on the bank squad in Salt Lake City if I tried that."
"So what can you do?"
"Not much. Indirectly, I've dropped enough hints on Backus for him to know what's going on. As you can tell by what you heard today, he's not going to do anything about it. I have to assume that Gordon's dropping hints in his other ear. If I were Bob, I'd just sit back like he's doing and wait for one of us to fuck up. The first one to do it gets shipped out."
"And what would constitute a fuck-up?"
"I don't know. With the bureau you never know. But he's got to be more careful with me than him. Prevailing factors, you know. He's got to have his shit together if he's going to try to move a woman out of the unit. So, that's my edge."
I nodded. We had come to a natural end to that branch of the conversation. But I didn't want her to go back to her room. I wanted to be with her.
"You're a pretty good interviewer, Jack. Pretty sly."
"What?"
"We've spent the whole time talking about me and the bureau. What about you?"
"What about me? Never married, never divorced. I don't even have plants at home. I sit behind a computer all day. It's not in the same league as you and Thorson."
She smiled and then giggled a bit girlishly.
"Yes, we are a pair. Were. Do you feel any better after the meeting today, about what they found in Denver?"
"You mean what they didn't find? I don't know. I guess it's better that it looks like he didn't have to go through that. There is still nothing to feel better about, though."
"Did you call your sister-in-law?"
"No, not yet. I'll do it in the morning. Seems like something that should be discussed in daylight."
"I've never spent a lot of time with the families of the victims," she said. "The bureau always gets called in later."
"I have. . . I'm the master of interviewing the fresh widow, the now childless mother, father of the dead bride. You name it, I've interviewed it."
We were quiet a long moment. The waiter came by with his coffeepot but we both passed. I asked for the check. I knew it wasn't going to happen with her tonight. I had lost the nerve to pursue it because I didn't want to risk her rejection. My pattern had always been the same. When I didn't care whether a woman rejected me, I always took the chance. When I did care and knew rejection would cut me, I always held back.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked.
"Nothing," I lied. "My brother I guess."
"Why don't you tell that story?"
"What story?"
"The other day. You were about to tell me something good about him. The nicest thing he ever did for you. What made him a saint."
I looked across the table at her. I knew the story instantly but thought about it before speaking. I could've easily lied and told her the nicest thing he did was just love me but I trusted her. We trust the things we find beautiful, the things we want. And maybe I wanted to confess to somebody after so many years.
"The nicest thing he ever did was not blame me."
"For what?"
"Our sister died when we were kids. It was my fault. He knew. He was the only one who really knew. And her. But he never blamed me and he never told anyone. In fact, he took on half the guilt. That was the nicest thing."
She leaned forward across the table with a pained look on her face. I think she would have made a good, sympathetic psychologist if she had followed that path.
"What happened, Jack?"
"She fell through the ice at the lake. The same place where Sean's body was found. She was bigger than me, older. We'd gone out there with our parents. We had a camper and my folks were making lunch or something. Me and Sean were outside and Sarah was watching us. I ran out on the frozen lake. Sarah ran out after me to stop me from going too far out, to where the ice was thin. Only she was older and bigger and heavier and she fell through. I started screaming. Sean started screaming. My father and some other people there tried but they couldn't get to her in time . . ."
I drank from my coffee cup but it was empty. I looked at her and continued.
"Anyway, everybody was asking what happened, you know, and I couldn't . . . I couldn't talk. And he-Sean-said we had both been out on the ice and then when Sarah came out it cracked and she fell through. It was a lie and I don't know if my parents ever believed it. I don't think they did. But he did it for me. It was like he was willing to share the guilt with me, make it easier by half."
I stared into my empty cup. Rachel said nothing.
"You might've made it big as a shrink. That's a story I've never told anyone."
"Well, I think telling it might've just been something you felt you owed your brother. Maybe a way of thanking him."
The waiter placed a check on our table and thanked us. I opened my wallet and put a credit card down on top of it. I can think of a better way to thank him, I thought.
After we stepped off the elevator I became nearly paralyzed with fear. I couldn't bring myself to act on my desire. We moved to her door first. She pulled the card key from her pocket and looked up at me. I hesitated, said nothing.
"Well," she said after a long moment. "I guess we start early tomorrow. Do you eat breakfast?"
"Just coffee, usually."
"Okay, well, I'll call you and maybe if there's time we can grab a cup."
I nodded, too overrun with the embarrassment of my failure and cowardice to say anything.
"Good night, Jack."
" 'Night," I managed to say before walking off down the hall.
I sat on the edge of the bed watching CNN for a half hour, hoping to see the report she had mentioned or anything to take my mind off the disastrous end of the night. Why is it, I wondered, that it is the ones who mean so much that are the hardest to reach out to? Some deep instinct told me that the moment in the hall had been the time, the right moment. And I had ignored it. I had run from it. And now I feared that my failure would haunt me forever. Because that instinct might never come back.
I don't think I heard the first knock. Because the one that raised me from my dark reverie was very loud and surely not the first effort. It had the urgency of a third or fourth knock. Jarred by the intrusion, I quickly turned off the TV and went to the door, opening it without looking through the peephole. It was her.
"Rachel."
"Hi."
"Hi."
"I, uh, thought I'd give you a chance to redeem yourself. That is, if you wanted to."
I looked at her and a dozen responses went through my mind, all engineered to neatly put the ball back in her court and make her make the move. But the instinct came back and I knew what she wanted and what I needed to do.
I stepped toward her and put an arm behind her back and kissed her. Then I pulled her into the room and closed the door.
"Thank you," I whispered.
Almost nothing was said after that. She hit the light switch, then led me to the bed. She put her arms around my neck and pulled me down into a long, deep kiss. We fumbled with each other's clothes and then decided wordlessly to just take off our own. It was faster.
"Do you have something?" she whispered. "You know, to use?"
Crestfallen by the consequences of my inaction earlier, I shook my head no and was about to offer to go to the drugstore, a trip that I knew would destroy the moment.
"I think I might," she said.
She pulled her purse onto the bed and I heard the zipper of an interior pocket opening. She then pressed the plastic condom package into my palm.
"Always keep one for emergencies," she said with a smile in her voice.
We made love after that. Slowly, smiling in the shadows of the room. I think of it now as a wonderful moment, perhaps the most erotic and passionate hour of my life. In reality, though, when I strip the gauze from the memory, I know it was a nervous hour with both of us seemingly too eager and willing to please the other and perhaps thereby robbing ourselves of some of the true enjoyment of the moment. My sense of Rachel was that she was craving the intimacy of the act, not as much the sensual pleasure as the closeness with another human being. It was that way for me as well, but I also found a deep carnal desire for her body. She had wide and dark areolas on small breasts, a lovely rounded stomach with soft hair below it. As we found each other's rhythm her face flushed and became warm. She was beautiful and I told her so. But this seemed only to embarrass her and she pulled me down into an embrace so that I could not see her face. My face in her hair, I smelled the scent of apples.
Afterward, she rolled onto her stomach and I lightly rubbed her back.
"I want to be with you after this," I said.
She didn't answer but that was okay. I knew that what we had just shared was genuine. She slowly pulled herself up into a sitting position.
"What is it?"
"I can't stay. I want to but I can't. I should be in my own room in the morning in case Bob calls. He'll want to talk before the meeting with the locals and he said he'd call."
Disappointed, I wordlessly watched her dress. She moved about in the darkness skillfully, knowing her way. When she was finished, she bent down and lightly kissed me on the lips.
"Go to sleep."
"I will. You, too."
But after she was gone I couldn't sleep. I felt too good. I felt reaffirmed and filled with an unexplainable joy. Every day you fight death with life and what is more vital in life than the physical act of love? My brother and all that had happened seemed far away.
I rolled to the side of the bed and picked up the phone. Full of myself, I wanted to tell her these thoughts. But after eight rings she didn't pick up and the operator answered.
"Are you sure that was Rachel Walling's room?"
"Yes, sir. Three twenty-one. Would you like to leave a message?"
"No, thanks."
I sat up and turned on the light. I turned on the television with the remote and flipped back and forth for a few minutes, not really watching. I tried her number again and still no answer.
Getting dressed, I told myself I wanted a Coke. I took change off the bureau and my key and went down the hall to the alcove where the vending machines were. On my way back I stopped by 321 and listened at the door. I heard nothing. I lightly knocked and waited, knocked again. She didn't answer.
At my door I fumbled to use the key and turn the knob while holding the can of Coke. Finally, I put the can down on the rug and was opening the door when I heard footsteps and turned to see a man coming down the hallway toward me. The hall lights were dimmed because of the hour and the bright lights from the elevator alcove cast the approaching man in silhouette. He was a large man and in his hand I saw he carried something. A bag maybe. He was ten feet away.
"Hiya, sport."
Thorson. His voice, though recognizable, spooked me and I think he saw it in my face. I heard him chuckle as he passed by me.
"Pleasant dreams."
I said nothing. I picked up the can and moved into my room slowly, continuing to watch Thorson move down the hall. He passed by 321 without hesitation and stopped at a room further down the hallway. As he was opening it with a key he looked back down the hall at me. Our eyes locked for a moment, then I slipped wordlessly into my room.
28
Gladden wished he had asked Darlene where the remote control was before he had killed her. It annoyed him to have to get up to switch channels. Every one of the Los Angeles television channels had picked up on the Times story. He'd had to sit right in front of the box, though, and manually change the channel to try to catch all the reports. He had seen what Detective Thomas looked like. He had been interviewed by all of the channels.
He lay on the couch, now too excited to sleep. He wanted to change the channel to CNN but didn't want to get up again. He was on some cable channel on the nether reaches of the list. A woman with a French accent was preparing crêpes filled with yogurt. Gladden didn't know whether it was a dessert or a breakfast but it was making him hungry and he considered opening another can of ravioli. He decided against it. He knew he had to conserve his supplies. Still four days to go.
"Where's the fucking remote, Darlene?" he called out.
He got up and switched the channel, then turned out the lights and returned to the couch. With the monologue of the CNN anchors as a calming background, he thought about the work ahead, his plans. They knew about him now and he had to be more careful than ever.
He fell into a doze, his eyes drooping and the TV noise lulling him finally to sleep. But just as he was about to drop off, his ears picked up on a report from Phoenix about the murder of a police detective. Gladden opened his eyes.
29
In the morning Rachel called me before I was out of bed. I squinted at the clock and saw it was seven-thirty. I didn't ask why she hadn't answered either the phone or her door the night before. I'd already spent a good part of the night brooding about it and decided she had probably been taking a shower during the times I phoned or knocked.
"You up?"
"I am now."
"Good. Call your sister-in-law."
"Right. I will."
"You want to get coffee? How long till you're ready?"
"I have to make the call and get a shower. An hour?"
"You're on your own then, Jack."
"Okay, a half hour. You've already been up?"
"No."
"Well, don't you have to take a shower?"
"I don't take an hour to get ready, even on a day off."
"Okay, okay. A half hour."
As I got up I found the torn condom package on the floor. I picked it up and committed the brand to memory since it obviously was the one she preferred, then threw it in the bathroom trash can.
I was almost hoping Riley wouldn't be home because I didn't know exactly how to ask her to let people dig up her husband's body or how she would react. But I knew that at five till nine on a Sunday morning there wasn't much chance that she would be anywhere else. As far as I knew, her only appearances in church in recent years were at Sean's funeral and her wedding before that.
She answered on the second ring with a voice that seemed more cheerful than I'd heard in the last month. At first I wasn't even sure it was her.
"Riles?"
"Jack, where are you? I was worried."
"I'm in Phoenix. Why are you worried?"
"Well, you know, I didn't know what was going on."
"I'm sorry I didn't call. Everything's okay. I'm with the FBI. I can't say a lot but they are looking into Sean's death. His and some others."
I looked out the window and saw the lines of a mountain on the horizon. The tourist pamphlet that came with the room said it was call
ed Camelback Mountain and the name fit. I didn't know if I was saying too much. But it wasn't like Riley was going to go sell the story to the National Enquirer.
"Uh, something's come up on the case. They think there might've been some evidence missed on Sean . . . Uh, they want to . . . Riley, they need to take him out of the ground to look at him again."
There was no response. I waited a long time.
The Poet (1995) Page 28
