CHAPTER 31
Afterward, Maris could barely remember her
#return trip to New York. She had ##683
operated in a dreamlike state, except without the subconscious surety that it was unreal and that she would wake up soon. Parker's inexplicable behavior and her father's death had been a double-barreled assault. To protect itself, her mind had put conscious thought and reasoning powers on autopilot and allowed her to function only by rote.
Discreetly Mike Strother had alerted the flight attendant to her bereavement, so she had been treated deferentially, basically left alone. She passed the flight staring vacantly out the window, unaware and uncaring of what was going on around her.
Noah was at LaGuardia to meet her. She wasn't happy to see him, but he relieved her of the arrival hassle at a major airport.
Her baggage was reclaimed with dispatch. He had a car and driver waiting.
As the limo wended its way through heavy traffic into Manhattan, he somberly filled in the details that he hadn't told her over the telephone. Daniel's body was still in Massachusetts, where the autopsy would be conducted. There could have been a contributing health factor that caused him to fall, Noah
explained. Pulmonary embolism. Cardiac arrest. An aneurysm that hadn't shown up during his last physical.
"Most probably," he told her, "Noah simply lost his balance on the dark staircase."
Daniel's cane had been found in his
bedroom. It was believed that he was ascending the stairs. Without his cane for additional support, he had tripped.
"He'd also had more than a few drinks,"
Noah added reluctantly. "You know, Maris, we had feared something like this would happen."
He informed her that following the autopsy the body would be transferred to New York. He'd made preliminary funeral arrangements but was awaiting her approval before finalizing them. Knowing she would be particular about the casket, he had held off making a selection until her return.
She commented on how expeditiously he had handled everything.
"I wanted to spare you as much unpleasantness as possible."
###He was solicitous, soft-spoken, ####685
obsequious.
She couldn't bear to be near him.
She deplored even having to breathe the same air as he and instructed the chauffeur to take her to her father's house. Accepting a friend's offer to help in any way she could, Maris sent her to her apartment with a list of clothing and articles she wanted brought to her. If she could help it, she would never return to the residence she had shared with Noah.
She moved back into her old bedroom in Daniel's house. For the next three days, when she and Maxine weren't receiving people who came to pay their respects and offer condolences, they comforted one another. The housekeeper was disconsolate. She blamed herself for letting Daniel go to the country house without her, as though her presence could have prevented the accident. Maris tried to assuage her feelings of partial responsibility, all the while empathizing with them. She suffered similarly.
Her father had died while she'd been making love to Parker.
Each time her thoughts drifted in that direction, which was frequently, she halted them abruptly.
She refused to wear a mantle of guilt for that.
Daniel had urged her to return to Georgia.
She had been there with his blessing. The last thing he had said to her was that she deserved her happiness and that he loved her. His death had nothing to do with her sharing Parker's bed.
Nevertheless, the connection between the two had been made, and she would never think of one without recalling the other.
She learned that a death in the family was a time-consuming event, especially if the deceased was a person of Daniel Matherly's standing. He was the last patriarch of the publishing dynasty; he was one of New York's own. His obituary made the front page of the _New _York _Times.
Local media covered his funeral.
Maris endured the day-long affair with a steely determination not to crack under pressure. Dressed head to toe in black, she was photographed entering the cathedral, exiting the cathedral, standing at the grave site with her head bowed in prayer, receiving the mayor's condolences.
The silent expressions of grief were the ones she appreciated most--a small squeeze of
#her hand, eye contact that conveyed #########687
sympathy and understanding. Most people said too much.
Well-meaning folk told her to take comfort in the fact that Daniel had lived a long and productive life. That he hadn't suffered before he died. That we should all be so lucky to go that quickly. That at least he hadn't withered and died slowly. That a sudden death is a blessing.
Statements to that effect sorely tested her composure.
However, no one surprised or offended her more than Nadia Schuller. Noah was speaking to a group of publishing colleagues when Nadia sidled up to Maris immediately following the grave-site observance and gripped her hand.
"I'm sorry, Maris. Terribly, terribly sorry."
Maris was struck not only by Nadia's
audacity in attending the service, but also by her convincing portrayal of shocked bereavement. Maris pulled back her hand, thanked Nadia coldly, and tried to turn away. But Nadia wouldn't be shaken off. "We need to talk. Soon."
"If you want a quote for your column, call our publicity department."
"Please, Maris," Nadia said, leaning closer. "This is important. Call me."
She pressed a business card into Maris's hand, then turned and walked quickly away. She had the decency not to lock eyes with Noah before she left.
He was the worst part of Maris's endurance test.
She tried not to visibly flinch each time he came near her. Yet he seemed determined to be near her. At the reception following the funeral, he was never far from her side, often placing his arm around her shoulders, pressing her hand, demonstrating to their friends and associates a loving affection that was grossly false. The act would have been hilarious if it weren't so obscene.
Dusk had fallen before the house cleared of guests. Maxine refused to retire to her room as Maris suggested and instead began supervising the caterers' cleanup. That's when Maris approached Noah. "I want to talk to you."
"Certainly, darling."
His ingratiating manner set her teeth on edge. He was thoroughly repugnant. It seemed that the two years she had shared a home, a bed with
#him had happened to another woman in ######689
another time. She couldn't fathom doing so now.
Her only saving grace, her only reasonable excuse, was that he was an excellent role player. He was an adroit liar. She and Daniel had fallen for an act he had
perfected.
"You can drop the pretense, Noah. No one's around except Maxine, and she already knows that I've left you."
She led him into her father's study. The room smelled of him and of his pipe tobacco. It smelled of his brandy and the books he had loved.
The room evoked such poignant memories for her, it was claustrophobic and comforting at the same time.
She sat down in the large tufted leather chair behind Daniel's desk. It was the closest she could come to being hugged by him. She had spent the past four nights curled up in this chair, weeping over her loss between brief and restless naps in which she dreamed of Parker moving ever farther away from her as she screamed his name. No matter how
desperately she tried to touch him, he was always beyond her reach. She would wake herself up sobbing over the dual loss.
Noah pinched up the creases of his dark suit trousers and lowered himself into an easy chair. "I had hoped your second visit south had mellowed you, Maris. You're as prickly as you were before you left."
"Dad's death didn't change anything between us.
Nor did it change your character. You're a liar and an adulterer." She paused a beat before adding,
"And possibly those are the least of your sins."
His eyes sharpened. "What does that mean?"
She opened the lap drawer of Daniel's desk and took out a business card. "I came across this in Dad's day planner while I was looking up addresses for acknowledgment cards.
It's an innocuous card with a scarcity of information on it. Only a name and telephone number.
Curious, I called. Imagine my
surprise."
He stared at her, saying nothing, then indolently raised his shoulders in silent inquiry.
"I spoke personally to the man Dad had retained to investigate you," she told him.
"Mr. Sutherland conveyed his sympathy over
#Dad's passing. Then I asked him how ##691
his business card had found its way into Dad's day planner. He was very discreet, extremely professional, and finally apologetic.
"Ethically, he couldn't discuss another client's business, even a late client's.
However, he said, if I had access to Dad's files, he was sure I'd find his report among them. If I wished to continue the investigation that wasn't yet complete, he would welcome me as a client and offered to apply the advance Dad had paid him to my account."
She spread her arms across the top of the desk.
"I've searched for the mentioned report, Noah.
It's not here. Not in any of Dad's files here, or at the office, not in the personal safe upstairs in his bedroom closet, or in his safe-deposit box at the bank.
"Coincidentally, you spent time in here the morning before you left for the country. While Dad was upstairs packing some last-minute items, you told Maxine that you had calls to make and came in here, ostensibly to use the telephone. You closed the door behind you. She thought it odd at the time, since you typically use your cell phone, but she thought no more about it. Not until I asked her if you'd been snooping around in Dad's personal things that day."
He shook his head and laughed softly.
"Maris, I have no idea what you're talking about. I might have come in here that morning.
Frankly, I don't remember if I did
or not. But since when is this room off limits to me? From the time we began dating, I've been in this room hundreds of times. When I make private calls I usually close the door.
Everybody does. If this is about Nadia--was
"It isn't," she said tersely. "I don't give a damn about Nadia or anyone else you sleep with."
He gave her a look that said he seriously doubted that. She wanted to strike him, to pound the conceit out of his expression. "I also spoke to the authorities in Massachusetts."
"My, my, you've been a busy girl."
"I questioned their ruling that Dad's death was accidental." She hadn't struck him physically, as she would have liked to. All the same, her statement rid him of a measure of arrogance. His smile grew a little stiff, as though
#it had congealed. His spine straightened. ####693
"Honoring my request, they've agreed to reinvestigate. This time they'll be looking for evidence."
That brought him to his feet. "Evidence of what?"
"We have an appointment with Chief of Police Randall tomorrow to discuss their findings," she informed him coldly. "I suggest you be there."
The burg's police department had a staff of six--one chief, four patrolmen, and a clerk who also served as dispatcher and official town gossip.
The department handled minor emergencies such as broken-down snowplows and lost pets, parking tickets when tourists passing through stayed too long in an antique shop, and an occasional DUI.
By big-city standards, the gossip wasn't all that scandalous. It might revolve around who had recently gone to New York City for a
face-lift, who was selling their country house to a movie star who futilely wished to remain anonymous, and who had checked their
daughter-gone-wild into drug rehab after a tempestuous family intervention. Residents could safely leave their homes and cars unlocked because thefts were rare.
The last homicide in the county had occurred during Lyndon Johnson's administration. It had been an open-and-shut case. The culprit had confessed to the killing when police arrived at the scene.
The department's lack of experience as crime solvers worked in Maris's disfavor. But it worked to her advantage in that a murder investigation stimulated more enthusiasm than tacking up notices of a lost kitty or setting up bleachers for the Fourth of July concert and fireworks display.
The officers had approached the investigation of Daniel's death with a zealous desire to sniff out the ruthless killer of an esteemed citizen, even if he was a weekender.
She and Noah drove up in separate cars.
The exterior of the ivy-covered building looked more like a yarn-and-woolens boutique than a police station. Maris arrived a few minutes ahead of Noah. As soon as he got there, they were ushered into the chief's office. Both declined an offer of
#coffee and sweet rolls from the local ####695
bakery.
Chief Randall, a ruddy-faced man with a bad, blond comb-over, sensing her desire to cut to the chase, kept the pleasantries to a minimum and settled behind his desk. He seemed more disappointed than relieved to report the outcome of his department's investigation.
"I'm afraid I haven't got all that much more to tell you that wasn't in the initial report, Mrs. Matherly-Reed. My people went over the house with a fine-toothed comb. Didn't find a thing that suggested foul play."
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Noah complacently fold his hands in his lap.
"The officers think, and I concur, that your father simply fell down the stairs. There were some bloodstains on the floor where he was found, but they're explained by the gash on his scalp. It split open when his head struck the floor."
She swallowed, then asked, "What about the autopsy report?"
He opened the case file and slipped on a pair of reading glasses that were too narrow for his wide face. The stems were stretched and caused the glasses to perch crookedly on his nose. "The contents of his stomach verify that he ate only minutes before he died, which is what Mr. Reed had assumed." He peered at Noah over the eyeglasses.
Noah gave a solemn nod. "When I went into the kitchen to call 911, there were dirty dishes in the sink. I had cleaned up after dinner, so I surmised that Daniel had gone downstairs for something to eat. On his way back up, he fell."
"Is it possible that the scene was staged, Chief Randall?"
"Staged?"
"Perhaps the dishes were placed in the sink to make everyone think Dad had used them."
"Oh, he used them," Chief Randall assured her. "His fingerprints were on them.
Nobody else's."
"The dishes could have been used upstairs. He often ate off a bed tray. How do we know he was downstairs?"
"Crumbs."
"Excuse me?"
"Bread crumbs on his robe, his slippers,
#and on the floor near the sink. My best ##697
guess is that he stood and looked out the kitchen window while he ate his sandwich."
Patting his comb-over as though to make sure it was still in place, he referred to the file again. "His blood alcohol level was above the legal driving limit but not by much."
"Any trace of a controlled substance?"
"Only the medications he was taking. We checked out the prescriptions with his physician in New York. Dating from when they were last refilled, the correct amount of dosages remained. There was no sign that a struggle had taken place anywhere in the house."
"You found his cane in his bedroom?"
"Leaning against the nightstand, and yes, we checked it for prints," he said before she could ask. "His were the only ones on it. No evidence of a break-in by an intruder. Not a mark on your father's body except for the cut on his head, which the ME said was consistent with the fall. He also places the time of death within minutes of when Mr.
Reed's 911 call was received. That's all documented."
He removed his glasses and rested his clasped hands on top of the binder containing the report. He cleared his throat and looked at her
sympathetically. "When a tragic accident like this occurs and someone dies, their loved ones look for reasons. A scapegoat. Something or someone to blame. I know it's hard for you to accept, but it appears that your father ran into some difficulty as he was making his way upstairs. He lost his balance and suffered a fatal fall. I'm sorry, Mrs. Matherly-Reed."
Maris was neither heartened nor disappointed. The findings were exactly what she had expected them to be. She gathered her handbag and stood. Reaching across the desk, she shook hands with the police chief. "I appreciate your time and effort."
"That's what I'm here for. I've put your house on our regular drive-by route.
We'll keep a check on it for you."
"That's very thoughtful of you. Thank you."
Once outside, Maris made a beeline for her car. Noah caught up with her before she could get in.
He gripped her upper arm, pulled her around, and pushed his face close to hers. "Satisfied?"
"Completely." Looking at him evenly, she
#said, "I'm convinced beyond a shadow of ######699
doubt that you were thèdifficulty` Dad encountered on his way up the staircase."
His narrow lips stretched into a smile that raised the hair on the back of her neck.
"There's absolutely nothing to substantiate these nasty suspicions of yours."
"Let go of my arm, Noah, or I'm going to start screaming bloody murder. That nice chief of police would dearly love to rush to my rescue."
Seeing the wisdom of letting go, he did.
"Chief Randall might be interested to know that my father had retained Mr. William Sutherland to investigate you."
"Which is circumstantial. So where does that get you?"
"Nowhere. You made certain there was no evidence of wrongdoing. But you underestimate my ability to recognize a good plot."
"This isn't a novel."
"Unfortunately. But if it were, I would suspect you of being the villain. Part of my job is to isolate a character's motivation, right? His goal must be clear or the story has no legs on which to stand. Well, Noah, your goal is glaringly apparent. Why did you shuttle Dad off to the country house while I was conveniently out of town, especially since we were separated?
Why, when you enjoy being waited on, did you insist that Maxine remain in the city?
"You lied about Nadia. You lied about taking up writing again. What else have you lied about?
WorldView? Surely. On that I would bet everything I hold dear. When Morris Blume inadvertently mentioned that secret meeting to me, you finessed your way through an explanation. You had covered your rear by informing Dad of it, on the outside chance that one of us would get wind of it. But I wasn't convinced of your innocence then, and I'm even more certain of your guilt now.
"I think Dad was on to you. Why else would he retain Mr. Sutherland? I think he knew you were dirty-dealing. Maybe he even had proof. When he confronted you with it, you killed him.
"I hope you haven't committed murder in the hope of securing a deal with WorldView. Because if you have, you're going to be sorely disappointed.
Understand this, Noah. Matherly Press will remain autonomous, just as it always has been."
###"Be very careful, Maris." His #######701
voice was low, but it vibrated with menace. He reached up and took a strand of her hair, winding it tightly around his index finger. To anyone passing by who happened to glance at them, it would look like an affectionate gesture. But he pulled the strand of hair taut enough to hurt.
"It's _you who needs to understand _this," he said.
"Nobody is going to prevent me from having everything I want."
She had been right to fear him the night before she left for Georgia. The latent violence she had sensed in him then hadn't been imagined. She had glimpsed an evil component of Noah that was no longer content to lie dormant.
But, oddly, she was no longer afraid of him.
He had lost the power to intimidate or frighten her. She laughed softly. "What are you going to do, Noah? Push me down a staircase, too?"
"Daniel alone was responsible for his death.
He lost his temper, reacted recklessly, temporarily forgot his physical limitations, and suffered the consequences. If you want to place blame, place it on him. But," he continued silkily, "I'll admit that his death was very convenient."
She recoiled and, because he still had hold of her hair, the sudden movement caused a painful yank on her scalp. It was sharp enough to bring tears to her eyes. But she hardly noticed. Because the yank on her memory had been even sharper.
__Actually, her death was very _convenient.
She'd read that line a dozen or more times. It was a key piece of dialogue, so she had dwelled on it. She had played with ideas on how the statement could be improved or enhanced, but after trying several changes she had concluded that it didn't need improving or enhancing. It was perfect as it was. Its cold candor was deliberate. It made the statement all the more shocking. Parker had used that simple sentence to provide a revealing sneak peek into the dark soul of the character. Realization slammed into her.
"You're Todd."
Noah's chin went back. "What? Who?"
Thoughts were snapping and popping in her mind like a sail in a high wind, but one thought isolated itself and became jarringly clear: This could not be a coincidence.
###With more ferocity than she believed herself ##703
capable of, she said, "For the last time, Noah, let go of me."
"Of course, darling." He uncoiled her hair from around his finger. "You're free to go. Now that we understand one another."
She slid into the driver's seat and started the motor. Before pulling the door closed, she said,
"You have no idea how well I understand you."
* * *
"Envy" Child. 22
Key West, Florida, 1988
It was one of those days when the words simply would not come.
Roark pressed his skull between his hands, squeezing it like a melon, trying to force the words out through his pores. To no avail. He came up dry. So far today, he had contributed exactly two and one-half sentences to his manuscript.
Nineteen words total. For the past three hours, his cursor had been stuck in the same spot, winking at him.
"Mocking little bastard," he whispered to it now.
Deliberately he typed, __The grass is green. The sky is _blue. "See, you son of a bitch? I can write a sentence when I want to."
It made little difference that yesterday, his day off from the club, had been a productive one. He had put in sixteen hard hours of writing, going without food or drink and taking bathroom breaks only when absolutely forced. He had over twenty pages to show for his labors. But the euphoria had lasted only until he awakened this morning to discover that evil spirits had sneaked in during the night while he slept and robbed him of yesterday's talent. What other explanation could there be for its overnight disappearance?
His frustration was such that he considered shutting down for the day, taking in a movie, or going to the beach, or getting in some fishing. But that kind of retreat was easily habit-forming. It was too convenient to surrender to a momentary block. It might become a permanent block, and that was the dreadful possibility that kept him shackled to his chair, staring into a blank screen while being taunted by a blinking cursor that didn't go any-goddamn-where.
"Roark!"
###The door slammed three floors below ##705
and Todd's running footsteps echoed in the stairwell. Lately, he had been working through the restaurant's lunch hours to earn extra money.
Roark welcomed the time Todd was out, when he was left alone in the apartment to write without the distraction that even having another warm body nearby could create.
He turned around in time to see Todd barge through their door. "What's up? Is the building on fire? I wish."
"I sold it."
"Your car?" That was the first thing that popped into Roark's head. Todd was constantly bitching about his car.
"My book! I sold my book!" His cheeks were flushed, his eyes were feverishly bright, his smile was toothpaste-commercial caliber.
Roark just looked at him, dumbfounded.
"Did you hear what I said?" Todd's voice scaled upward to an abnormally shrill pitch. "I sold my manuscript."
Unsteadily Roark came to his feet. "I
... this-that's great. I didn't even know you
... When did you submit it?"
Todd somehow managed to look abashed while maintaining his wide grin. "I didn't tell you.
I sent it on a whim about two months ago. I didn't want to make a big deal of it because I was afraid--Jesus, I was _positive--I'd get another rejection letter. Then today, just now, less than an hour ago, I got this call at work."
"The publisher had your work number?"
"Well, yeah. In my cover letter, I listed every conceivable way they could contact me. Just in case, you know? Anyway, the manager of the club, that fag we hate, prances over and tells me someone wants me on the phone in his office. He says that personal calls aren't allowed and to please limit the conversation to three minutes. Like we were busy," he snorted.
"I hadn't parked a car in half an hour.
I figured it was you or one of the babes calling."
To Todd, their neighbors had collectively become "the babes." "Overflowing toilet or something, you know? But instead, _instead, this guy identifies himself as an editor, says he's read my manuscript, says it blew him
away. Those words. Ìt blew me away.`
#Says he wants to publish it. I #####707
nearly shit right there, man.
"Then, for a heartbeat or two, I thought you or somebody, maybe the fag we hate, was jacking with me, you know, playing a trick. But no, this editor goes on and on about my story, calls the characters by name. Says he's willing to offer in the neighborhood of high five figures, but I'm sure that was only his starting point. As much as he raved over the book, there's got to be wiggle room to up the ante."
Suddenly he puffed out his cheeks, then emptied them like a bellows. "Listen to me, will ya?" he chortled. "Holy shit! It hasn't even sunk in yet. I'm standing here talking about negotiating an advance, but I haven't even grasped it yet. I've sold a book!"
Roark, forcing himself to move, forcing elation into his expression, crossed the room and gave Todd a mighty hug, thumping him on the back, lifting him off the floor, congratulating him in the spirit of a good fraternity brother and colleague.
"Congratulations, man. You've worked hard for this.
You deserve it."
"Thanks, Roark."
Todd pushed him back, looked him square in the eye, and stuck out his hand. They shook hands, but the solemnity was short-lived. Within seconds Todd was whooping like an air-raid siren and bouncing around the apartment with the jerky, disjointed hyperactivity of a rhesus on speed.
"I don't know what to do first," he said, laughing.
"Call Hadley," Roark suggested.
"Hadley can go fuck himself. He didn't show any confidence in me. Why should I share my good news with him? I know," he said, vigorously rubbing his hands together. "A celebration. Blowout party. You and me. On me."
Roark, feeling less like celebrating than he ever had in his life, was already shaking his head. "You don't have to--was
"I know I don't have to. I want to.
Tonight. I'll make all the arrangements."
"I've got to work."
"Screw work."
"Easy for you to say. You've sold a book.
For high five figures with wiggle room."
The statements jerked a knot in the rhesus's tail. Todd stopped bouncing and turned toward
#Roark. He treated him to several #######709
moments of hard scrutiny. "Oh. Now I get it. You're pissed because I sold before you did."
"No, I'm not."
"Well, that's good," Todd said sarcastically.
"Because if you were pissed, you might be acting like a jackass instead of my best friend on the happiest day of my life."
True. He was acting like a jackass. Rank jealousy had turned him into a prick, and he was running headlong toward ruining the happiest day of his best friend's life.
Not that it would be any different if the situation were reversed. Todd would behave just as badly, probably worse. He would sulk and mouth about life's injustices. He would be resentful and caustic, and then he'd turn cruel.
But since when was Todd Grayson his standard for good behavior? He liked to think he was a finer person and better friend than Todd. He liked to think he had a stronger character and more integrity.
He plastered on a fake grin. "What the hell, I'll call in sick. Let that fag we hate fire me. What time's the party start?"
Todd said to give him time to make a few arrangements, and Roark said fine because he needed to close out his work for the day anyway. As soon as Todd flew out to run his errands, Roark surrendered to his dejection. It set in with a vengeance.
He stared into his computer screen, wondering why he had been cursed with a burning desire to do something creative but shortchanged the ability and opportunity to do it. Why would God play a dirty trick like that? Entice you with a dream, provide you with enough talent to make it appear reachable, then keep the dream just this side of being realized?
Like a mantra, he repeated to himself how happy he was over Todd's success. And he was.
He _was. But he also resented it. He
resented the sneakiness with which Todd had submitted his manuscript. They hadn't made a pact to inform each other whenever they submitted work, but it had certainly been their habit. Todd hadn't actually violated a sacred agreement, but that's what it felt like.
Uncharitably, Roark wanted to attribute
#Todd's success to luck, fluky ######711
timing, a slow book market, even to an editor with lousy taste, all the while acknowledging that such thoughts were unfair. Todd had worked hard. He was a talented writer. He was dedicated to the craft. He deserved to be published.
But Roark earnestly felt that he deserved it more.
Todd returned within an hour bringing a bottle of champagne for each of them and insisting that they drink them before moving to phase two of the celebration.
Phase two included Mary Catherine. One Sunday afternoon shortly after her miscarriage, Roark had taken her out for ice cream. Seeing the promenade of young couples with babies had caused her to get weepy. She confided that Todd had fathered the embryo she lost.
"Son of a bitch m/'ve had a sixth sense about it. He's avoided me ever since."
Months went by. The two were civil to one another but cool. Eventually they reestablished themselves as friends but only friends. To Roark's knowledge they hadn't slept together again. He assumed by tacit agreement.
Today, the rift and the cause for it were distant memories. Wearing three postage-stamp-sized patches of electric-blue fabric that passed for a bikini, Mary Catherine arrived ready to party. She got there just in time to help them polish off the champagne.
"Foul!" she cried petulantly. "I only got two swallows."
"There's more where that came from, sweetheart."
Todd rubbed her ass and smacked his lips, first with appreciation, then regret. He turned her around and gave her a gentle push toward Roark.
"She's all yours tonight, pal. Don't say I never gave you anything."
"Consolation prize?" The good-natured question had only a trace of an edge.
"Can you imagine a better one?"
Mary Catherine looped her arms around Roark's neck, mashed her breasts against his chest, and massaged his crotch with hers. "Fine by me.
I've had a lech for you for a long time." She poked her tongue into his mouth.
Courtesy of the champagne, he had a lively buzz going. She tasted good. She felt damn
#good. He liked her. He had sustained ###713
a blow to his ego, and Todd was trying to make it up to him. He'd be an asshole to decline his friend's gesture of condolence.
He applied himself to kissing her.
"Hey," Todd said after a few moments.
"Am I gonna have to turn the water hose on you two?"
Laughing, they clomped downstairs and piled into Todd's much-maligned car. He drove them to a marina where he had chartered a boat from an old salt named Hatch Walker. They'd leased boats from him before. His rates were the cheapest in Key West, and he got only mildly
abusive if you stretched your contract time and came in late.
Walker wasn't long on charm anytime, but today he was particularly querulous. He was wary of turning one of his boats over to three people who had obviously been drinking. Roark was just drunk enough on champagne--and wildly aroused because on the drive to the marina, Mary Catherine had given him a private lap dance in the passenger seat--not to care about the old man's opinion of them or the amount of their alcohol intake.
As soon as the rental agreement was signed, Todd jumped aboard and climbed the steps to the pilot's chair. Roark staggered aboard, then turned to lend a hand to Mary Catherine, who managed to stumble against him as she stepped onto the deck. "Oopsy-daisy," she giggled as she squirmed against him. She gave old Hatch a gay little wave as he untied the ropes from the cleats and tossed them onto the deck.
"Crazy kids," he muttered.
"I don't think he likes us," Mary Catherine whined.
"What I think is, you have on too many clothes."
Roark reached around to untie her top. She shrieked and slapped at his hands, but the protests were all for show. Roark came away with her bikini top and waved it like a banner above his head as Todd slowly guided the boat out of the marina. As soon as the craft cleared the channel, he gave it full throttle and it shot into the Atlantic.
Todd had proclaimed this would be a celebration none of them would ever forget and obviously he meant it. Roark was surprised by his friend's extravagance. The coolers he had brought
#onboard were stocked with brand-name ##########715
liquors. The food came from a deli that had the self-confidence to call itself Delectables.
"This is a mean shrimp salad." Roark licked spiced mayonnaise from the corner of his lips.
"Let me do that." Mary Catherine straddled his lap and sponged away the mayo with her tongue.
She had taken her role as consolation prize to heart, devoting herself entirely to entertaining him and granting his every wish. That or converting him into a hedonist. Either way, he wasn't fighting it.
The shared secret of the miscarriage had forged a special bond between them. When they were alone he called her Sheila. She'd given up on the mermaid idea as impractical because "the tail would probably be itchy." But she was considering a chambermaid routine and had asked him to come up with a catchy name for her.
Although they flirted frequently and
outrageously, the friendship had remained platonic. She'd made subtle overtures, but Roark had pretended not to notice them because he hadn't wanted to mess up a good friendship.
But as she sucked at his lips, he asked himself what would be so terrible about altering their friendship to include sex. Be friends with Sheila, but don't have sex with Mary Catherine. Who wrote the rule that you couldn't be both friend and lover?
Why not make happy with the iron hard-on he was sporting, compliments of her incredible proportions and her agile tongue and her hands, which were keeping themselves busy inside his swim trunks?
Maybe Todd had paid for her services today.
So what? She was a good kid, trying to make a decent living using the assets she'd been given.
It was also possible that she was coming on to him only to make Todd jealous. He wouldn't let that bother him, either. In fact, he wasn't going to let anything bother him tonight.
Fuck writing. Fuck getting published.
Fuck words that wouldn't come.
Fuck Mary Catherine. That topped his
things-to-do list. Definitely. He was sick to death of being such a damn Boy Scout. Nose to the grindstone all the time. For what? For freaking _nothing, that's what.
He was going to eat this rich food until he puked on it. He was going to get slobbery drunk. He was going to let Mary Catherine
#perform on him every debauched act in her ####717
extensive repertoire. He was going to have a good time tonight if it killed him.
Roark woke up with Mary Catherine draped across him. After a bout of rowdy copulation in the small berth, they had both passed out. Thirsty and needing badly to pee, he wiggled out from under her.
She moaned a garbled objection and reached out to hold him back, but it was a halfhearted effort.
He successfully extricated himself and retrieved his trunks from the floor. It required some challenging concentration and a few fumbling attempts, but he finally managed to get his feet into the legs.
He was still pulling on the trunks as he stumbled up the steps to the deck. Todd had a bottle of Bacardi cradled in his arm and was staring at the constellations. Hearing Roark, he turned and smiled. "You survived?"
He stretched out the elastic waistband of his trunks and peered into them. "All parts present and accounted for, sir."
Todd chuckled. "Judging from the racket, there were times I thought I might have to come down there and rescue you."
"There were times when _I thought you might have to."
He relieved himself over the side of the craft.
Todd asked, "Did she do that thing with her thumb?"
Roark tucked himself back into his trunks, turned, smiled, but said nothing.
"Oh. I forgot. Sir Roark never shares the juicy details. A real gallant."
Roark was about to bow at the waist but figured that in his present condition that might be a tricky move, so he settled for a clumsy salute.
Todd motioned toward one of the ice chests.
"Help yourself to a fresh bottle."
"Thanks, but I'm still too wasted to stand."
"And jealous."
Roark used one arm to brace himself against the exterior wall of the cabin. "Huh?"
"You're jealous."
Roark shrugged. "Maybe." He gave a weak grin. "Okay, a little."
"More than a little, Roark. More than a little."
Todd raised the rum bottle to his eye like a telescope and peered down the length of it at Roark. "Admit it, you thought you'd be the first
#to sell." ##########################719
Roark's stomach was queasy. The horizon was seesawing. He was also uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken. "Todd, I couldn't be happier."
"Oh, yeah, you could. If you'd sold your book today, you'd be a hell of a lot happier.
So would Hadley. I think he probably jacks off over your manuscripts. Your work makes him positively giddy, doesn't it? What was that he said about it being an honor and privilege to review your work?" He took a swig of rum.
"Something like that."
"You read his letter to me?"
"Clever of you to get that post office box, but careless of you to leave his letter in the pocket of your jeans. I was short the cash to pay for a pizza delivery and saw your jeans lying in the floor where you'd stepped out of them. Raided the pockets looking for money, and ... pulled out a plum."
"You shouldn't have read my mail."
"You shouldn't have lied to me about Hadley's enthusiasm for your work and his lack of it for mine."
"What do you care what Hadley thinks of your work?"
"I don't. Last laugh is on him and you.
I've sold. You haven't."
"So fine. Let's just drop it."
"No. I don't believe I will."
Todd stood up slowly. He was steadier on his feet than he should have been, leaving Roark to question if he had drunk as much as he had pretended to. He moved along the deck with a predatory, malevolent tread.
"What's eating you, Todd? You won.
Hadley was wrong."
"Maybe about my writing. Not about the other."
"Other?"
"My character. Remember how flawed I am?
Driven by greed and jealousy and envy. Those undesirable character traits about which Hadley waxed poetic."
Roark's stomach heaved and he swallowed a throatful of sour bile. "That's all bullshit.
I didn't pay any attention to it."
"Well, I did."
He didn't see it coming. Moving sinuously only a second before, Todd now lunged at him and took a vicious swing at his head with the liquor bottle. Roark caught it on the temple, and
#if it had been a sledgehammer, it ######721
couldn't have hurt any worse. He roared in pain and outrage.
But he had enough wits to see the bottle arcing once again above his head. He dodged it just in time to spare himself another concussion. Instead it shattered against the wall of the cabin, showering them with broken glass and rum.
Todd attacked with a fury then, throwing blows one right after the other aimed at Roark's face and head. Most of them connected, crunching cartilage and splitting skin. Dazed but fueled by anger, Roark struck back. He landed a fist against Todd's mouth and felt the scrape of teeth against his knuckles. It hurt, but it hurt Todd more.
His mouth gushed blood.
The drawing of blood was a primal and powerful exhilaration. At any other time Roark would have been astonished over how much satisfaction he derived from making Todd bleed. Propelled by jealousy, he wanted to see more of Todd's blood on his hands. He wanted to punish him for succeeding first and making him feel like a failure.
But his hot rage was tepid compared to Todd's.
Todd's bloodlust had escalated
into savagery. With feral growls, he came at Roark, clawing and pounding.
Roark's temper was soon spent. He was ready to back off, cool down, and call a truce.
Todd was beyond that. He didn't let up, not even when Roark stopped being aggressive and only deflected blows in order to protect himself.
"Goddammit, enough!"
"Never enough." Todd's clenched teeth were smeared with blood. Bubbles of it foamed over his lips. "Never enough."
And he launched a fresh attack.
"Wha'sgoin'on?" Mary Catherine appeared in the open doorway of the cabin, naked except for a golden ankle bracelet. Ignored, she
drunkenly staggered onto the deck and stepped on a piece of broken glass. "Ow! What the fuck is going on?"
"Shut up!"
Todd rounded on her and struck a blow that caught her at waist level. Favoring her bleeding foot, she was already off balance. His blow sent her reeling backward. The chrome side railing caught her in the back of her knees.
#Arms windmilling, she went overboard ####723
with a scream that died as soon as she hit the water.
Roark stared at the empty space she'd left at the boat's railing and sobered instantly.
"She's too drunk to swim!"
He executed a shallow dive into the water.
The salt water seared the open wounds on his face and he came up gasping. He was fighting nausea from too much liquor and what he knew must be a concussion where he'd been hit with the bottle.
But all this hardly registered. Treading water, he blinked his eyes as clear as he could get them and frantically searched the surface of the dark water for a sign of Mary Catherine.
"Do you see her?" he yelled up at Todd, who was standing on the deck looking down at him, blood dripping from his chin onto his smooth chest.
"Todd? Christ, did you hear me? Do you see her?"
"No."
"Turn on the lights."
Todd just stood there staring into the water, apparently shocked into immobility.
"Shit."
Heart pounding, head bursting, Roark
jackknifed beneath the surface. Although it stung like crazy, he kept his eyes open. But it didn't matter. He might just as well have been swimming through a bottle of ink. He couldn't even see his own hands as he waved them about, searching blindly, hoping to make contact with a limb, skin, hair.
He stayed under until he couldn't stand the burning in his lungs an instant longer. Breaking the surface, he took a huge gulp of air.
He was surprised to see how far he had swum away from the boat. At least Todd had shaken off his stupor and turned on the underwater lights.
They cast an eerie green glow around the craft, but they didn't penetrate nearly far enough.
Although his arms and legs felt like lead and his brain seemed to have relinquished control of them, Roark began swimming toward the boat. Todd was doing something on the port side. Hope surged inside Roark's chest. He shouted, "Did you find her? Is she over there?"
Todd returned to the starboard side. "No luck?"
_Luck? This wasn't a fishing trip. What was the matter with him? "Call the Coast Guard.
I can't find her. Oh, Jesus." He sobbed
#when the full impact of the situation hit ###725
him. She might be dead already. Mary Catherine--
Sheila--might have drowned because of his inability to save her.
"Call the Coast Guard," he repeated before diving beneath the surface again.
Knowing it was futile, he pushed himself through the seawater, eyes open but seeing nothing, hands groping but feeling nothing. Still, he was unwilling to give up. If there was the slimmest chance that she was hanging on, clinging to life, desperate for help ...
Again and again he went down, coming up only long enough to take a breath before going down again, diving so deep it made his ears hurt.
He struggled to the surface one last time, fearing that he wouldn't make it, afraid that he had made one foray too many. At last he tasted air. Greedily he sucked it into his lungs.
He couldn't survive another submersion. He was too tired even to swim the distance between him and the boat. Weakly he treaded water, barely able to keep himself afloat.
"Todd," he called hoarsely. "Todd."
Todd appeared at the rail. Roark's eyes had been scoured by the salt water. His vision was cloudy. "I can't find her. I can't look anymore. Throw me the preserver."
Todd left to get the preserver, and Roark wondered vaguely why he hadn't had it ready.
Exhausted, he longed to close his burning eyes but was afraid that if he did he would slip beneath the surface and drown before he could garner the energy to save himself. But his eyes must have closed on their own. He must have been only a heartbeat away from losing consciousness, because he was startled awake when the boat's motor roared to life.
Todd shouldn't be starting the motor. He should be throwing him a life preserver. If the Coast Guard had been given the coordinates of their location, they should stay in that spot until help arrived. It was damn stupid to start up an outboard with Mary Catherine and him in the water this close to the boat.
These thoughts flashed through his mind in a nanosecond, not in individual words, but as fully formed and intact conclusions. "Todd, what are you doing?"
He kicked his legs and feebly moved his arms in a parody of swim strokes, but it was like trying
#to push Jell-O through quicksand. But there was ###727
no need to try and swim after all. Look.
Todd was bringing the boat to him.
Only thing, he was running it too hot and too fast for safety.
"Hey!"
It was a nightmare's yell, when you open your mouth and try to scream but you can't utter a sound and that intensifies the horror of the nightmare. He tried to wave his arms, but they weighed a thousand pounds apiece. He couldn't even lift them out of the water.
"Todd," he croaked. "Turn to port!
I'm here! Can't you see me?"
He could see him. He was looking straight at him through the plastic windshield that protected the cockpit. Control panel lights were making a Halloween mask of his bruised and swelling face. His eyes glowed red. Torches of hell.
Roark screamed one last time before fear sent him plunging beneath the surface. In seconds he was engulfed in churning, strangling waters. Then the terror gripped him. Undiluted terror. The kind that few men ever have the misfortune of experiencing. Terror so absolute that death seems a blessing.
Terror championed only by pain.
Excruciating and immeasurable.
Pain that splinters the body but slays the soul.