by Rachel Lee
The first time they had kissed had been at the end of a very long day. They had planned to go to a movie that evening, but work had interfered for them both, and finally, around eleven that evening, they had managed to meet at her old apartment.
They had decided to take a walk down the dimly lit streets, and had come to a huge old magnolia that spread its sheltering branches over the sidewalk. Seamus had turned to her and drawn her into his arms, giving her a kiss at once hungry and gentle. From that moment she had been his. And to this day, whenever she smelled magnolias, she thought of him.
He spoke. “There's one outside the hotel. I was walking out there earlier when I found it, and I was standing under it remembering …”
“We made a lot of mistakes, didn't we?”
“Every one in the book.” He looked at her mouth. “Are we about to make another one?”
“I don't give a damn.” And right now she didn't. She had been needing him for five long years, and she wasn't about to let fear of tomorrow stand in her way now. There was something to be said for the Scarlett O'Hara approach to life.
If he smiled, she never got the chance to see it. He seized her mouth in a deep, ferocious kiss, as if by will alone he could make the past and future vanish, leaving them with now and only now.
And now was more than enough. His lips were warm and firm, his tongue was hot and wet as it pillaged her mouth. The heady scent of him was evocative of all the pleasures she had known with him, and her body responded instantly, giving full rein to the hunger he had always awakened in her.
His weight bore down on her as he shifted so that he lay over her, crushing her aching breasts, fitting himself to her so that she could feel the heat of his manhood at the apex of her thighs. It was a sensation so exquisite that her desire pooled instantly there, a heavy, throbbing weight of need. She opened her legs, wrapping them around him, trying to bring him closer yet.
Long, lonely nights were driving them too fast, and for an instant she feared it would all be over before she could savor these long wanted moments.
But then, as suddenly as he had become fierce, he gentled, lifting his mouth from hers to trail butterfly-soft kisses across the arch of her cheekbones, over her eyelids, and down her throat. She tipped her head back, encouraging, and drew a sharp breath of pleasure when the moist heat of his mouth found the pounding pulse in the hollow of her throat.
He nibbled her earlobe gently, the whisper of his breath in her ear causing her to shiver and arch with delight. Then he pulled away, just long enough to pull the nightgown over her head and expose her to his view.
Long ago, he had taught her to be proud of her body. She was proud now as his gaze trailed over her, followed by his hands, stroking her from head to toe as gently as if she were a cat, pausing to linger over the aching, yearning places just long enough to drive her to the edge of madness.
Then he followed his hands with his mouth, sprinkling kisses and gentle licks of his tongue over her shoulders, her arms, her belly, her thighs, her knees, and her ankles. Each gentle caress fueled her longing until she felt as if she was a vessel full of throbbing, aching need.
“Seamus …” She heard herself groan his name as his tongue touched the arch of her foot. He lifted his head and smiled at her, waiting.
“Seamus, please…”
He returned to her side, drawing her full-length against him. “What do you want, sweetie?” he asked huskily. “Tell me.”
She rubbed against him like a cat, trying to ease the ache in her breasts and between her thighs, seeking touches he had not yet given her. Something near desperation drove her to push him onto his back and straddle him. As she rose above him, he at last gave her some of what she wanted, reaching up to cup her breasts tenderly in his palms.
She let her head fall back, reveling in the exquisite shocks of pleasure that shot from her breasts to her center, adding to the heavy weight between her legs. Reaching down, she found his nipples and plucked them genty, the way she wanted him to pluck hers.
He knew. He had always known. From the instant he had first touched her all those years ago, he had known her body better than she did. But even as he groaned in response to her touches, and arched his pelvis toward hers, seeking the warm place inside her, he denied her what she wanted.
But she knew how to push him past this teasing game he was playing. Pushing his hands away, she bent down and took one of his small nipples in her mouth, lapping at it with her tongue, nipping gently with her teeth. She felt him jerk sharply with reaction, and heard his groan with deep satisfaction.
He was hers. The thought gave her a heady sense of power, as it always had. And for now the desire to torment him as he had tormented her overtook everything else.
But just as she moved to his other nipple, prepared to torment him as fully as he had tormented her, he rolled her onto her back and rose over her.
In an instant he was buried inside her, filling a place that had been empty far too long. For a moment, she hung suspended on the wonder of their union, glorying in the overwhelming satisfaction of having him deep within her.
Then he bent and took her breast into his mouth, tormenting her exactly as she had tormented him, with gentle nips and licks that each sent fresh shocks of passion racing through her. She writhed against him, but his hips pinned hers, denying her the satisfaction she sought.
She loved it. But finally, when she could stand it no longer, she called out his name. He answered with the strong thrust she had been waiting for, carrying them both on the climb to completion.
With a wrenching cry, she reached the top and tumbled over to the peaceful place beyond. A moment later, he followed her.
They fell asleep twined together, replete at last.
When Carey awoke in the morning, Seamus was already gone. For a few minutes, she didn't move, allowing herself to relish the way she felt, allowing her body to remember all that had happened.
But reality didn't leave her alone for long. Finally, she could no longer ignore the fact that he'd left her, and could no longer pretend that it didn't matter. He was putting distance between them, and that was a good thing, she told herself. They had to keep away from this precipice.
But she didn't believe it. She had the worst urge to curl up and cry into her pillow, because she had lost Seamus all over again. God, how could she have been so stupid? Had she really believed that she would wake up this morning and feel no pain? Had she really convinced herself that it would “burn out?”
She turned over, hugging the pillow, smelling the scent of him on the sheets, and felt her eyes burn and her throat tighten, and her chest ache so hard she could barely breathe. Oh, God, she couldn't stand this again! It would rip her apart, and she didn't know if she had enough strength left to put herself back together again.
But as quickly as the impossible grief surged through her, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut and forced herself to sit up and pull the sheet around herself. No. She was absolutely not going to give in to this. She couldn't afford to. Grief and loss were things she'd learned to put away in some dark, dusty corner of her heart, and she was going to put this new wave back in its place no matter what. She absolutely was not going to do this to herself again.
Pawing through her purse, she found a battered pack of cigarettes and lit one, her first in two days. Her hand was shaking, and she could barely see, but the act of drawing a deep breath of smoke steadied her a little. Quitting was something she would deal with when she got Seamus safely out of her life again. Until then, she was going to use any crutch she could find, and not apologize for it.
She smoked half the cigarette, forcing herself to think about John Otis and the people they were going to meet today. Think about the really important things, she told herself. The really essential things. Her own emotional catastrophe could be dealt with later.
The adjoining door opened, and Seamus stepped into the room, wearing his pajama bottoms. Around his neck was a towel, and his hair stood up
in wet spikes.
“Damn,” he said with a smile, “I was hoping I could wake you up.”
She gave him a fleeting smile and took another drag of her cigarette, sure that if she tried to speak she was going to fly apart into hysterics. She could feel him looking at her, but she refused to meet his gaze.
“I'm sorry,” he said after a moment. “I figured, as late as we were up, that I could shower before you woke.”
“No problem,” she managed, and flicked her ash into the ashtray.
“You shouldn't have been alone when you woke up,” he said gently.
She shrugged a shoulder, holding on to her self-control as desperately as a drowning man clinging to a raft. Her voice held an edge. “It doesn't matter. We need to get started, don't we?”
“Okay.” Now his voice had an edge. She dared to glance at him from the corner of her eye and wondered why he looked angry.
He opened the adjoining door wider and turned to go back to his room. “Breakfast is here,” he said over his shoulder. “We've got a ten o'clock meeting with the Wig-ginses.”
My, she thought almost bitterly, he had been busy. She stubbed out her cigarette, pulled on her robe, and followed him.
Breakfast was laid out on the small table in one comer of the room. Lifting the covers, she found he'd ordered steak and eggs for one, and fruit and French toast for one. He remembered her morning preferences, she realized with an aching twinge. She poured herself a cup of coffee from the insulated carafe and sipped it until he came back out of the bathroom, this time with his wet hair combed and a pajama shirt on.
“Is it okay?” he asked. He didn't sound as if he really cared.
“Great,” she said.
They sat across from one another, and ate in a silence that was almost stony. She didn't want to admit how much she hurt, and he wasn't going to ask her what was wrong.
Typical, thought Carey. Their relationship had ended this way, with long, stony silences interrupted by flaming arguments when things built up too much. How could she possibly be missing thisl
Finally, her appetite killed by tension, she went to shower and dress. And to hell with Seamus Rourke!
Gerry Wiggins was an accountant who worked out of his home, so they met in his office. He sat behind his large cherry desk, and his wife sat nearby. Seamus and Carey took the two green leather chairs facing the desk.
Gerry Wiggins was an athletic-looking man of about forty-five with a car salesman's smile and a pair of very dark, intelligent eyes. His wife, Marcia, was about fifty, with short auburn hair and green eyes. She looked frazzled and worried, and more tired than her husband.
“Yes, we adopted Jamie Otis,” Gerry said in answer to the first question. “Marcia felt so sorry for him after she read about him and his brother in the paper. We didn't want the boy who'd done the killing, of course. Couldn't be sure he wouldn't do it again.” He gave a brief, humorless smile. “Apparently he did.”
Seamus merely nodded.
“We've adopted a lot of children, though. We have three right now, still in school. And there were two before Jamie.”
“That's remarkable,” Carey said. “Do you always adopt older children?”
He shrugged a shoulder. “They're the ones most in need of a loving home. One of our boys has muscular dystrophy, and one of the girls is mildly retarded. These are the kids that nobody else wants, but we've got plenty of room for them here, and plenty of love, too.”
Marcia nodded agreement. “It's the right thing to do.”
“You're to be congratulated,” Seamus said.
“I think so,” said Gerry Wiggins. “We feel very blessed. And never a moment of regret, have we, Marcia?”
“No, never.” She said it with a determination that indicated she suspected where this might be heading.
“But you wanted to talk about Jamie,” Gerry said, leaning forward. “Is he in some kind of trouble?”
“I really don't know,” Seamus said carefully. “I heard he was released from the hospital around a month ago.”
“That's right. Unfortunately, Jamie was our only disappointment. After he was institutionalized, he didn't want to see us anymore, and after he got out—well, we're still hoping he might call or stop by, but he hasn't.”
“Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”
Gerry shook his head. “None at all. It really surprises me. I never thought he was an ungrateful child, and I paid for all his hospitalization—I hate to tell you how much it cost—and he still wouldn't see us. And now this. Well, maybe once he's had a taste of life, he'll come back. We're the only family he has left now.”
“You're very generous people.”
“Just trying to do what's right. I'm sorry we can't be more help. But I wish you'd tell me why you're interested in him.”
But Seamus changed tack. “I understand that Jamie had some trouble in high school.”
“Just some scrapes. He did some things he shouldn't have. That all pretty much cleared up, though, by the time he was sixteen. We never had any more trouble after that”
Seamus nodded, making a note in his ever-present notebook. “I also understand that you occasionally … made monetary settlements to keep him out of trouble.”
Gerry Wiggins bridled. “If you're suggesting I bribed anyone—”
“No, of course not” Seamus interrupted hastily. “The thought never entered my head. I apologize. I was just trying to get a complete picture.”
“Well, I made restitution, if you will. That's all I did. His teachers and the school were very understanding about what might happen to Jamie if he violated probation. Everyone understood that he was a difficult child, and that he had a great many problems to overcome.”
Carey decided this guy must be made out of money. Seamus made another note before he continued the questioning.
“Now,” he said, “I'm sure you know that Jamie's brother John is on death row in Florida for killing Linda and Harvey Kline.”
Gerry nodded. “Which just goes to show I was correct in not taking both boys, doesn't it, Marcia?”
“Yes, dear.”
Seamus favored her with his best smile. “Now,” he continued, “you may remember just before John's trial you were asked to confirm Jamie's whereabouts the weekend of the Kline murders.”
“Yes, of course,” Gerry answered. “My wife said he was home all weekend.”
“But you didn't make an affidavit?”
Gerry shook his head. “They never asked me. I was out of town at the time they approached Marcia, and while I expected them to get in touch with me, they never did.”
“Mm.” Seamus looked down at his notebook, as if he were reading something there. “Was he really at home?”
“Now wait one moment!” Gerry nearly came out of his seat. “How dare you imply—”
Seamus looked at him with hard eyes. “I'm not implying anything. I'm asking.”
“lf my wife said—”
“Look,” said Carey, intervening. “ I was the prosecutor on the John Otis case. I saw the affidavit. I know what your wife said.”
“Well, then.” Gerry settled onto his chair. “Before we go any further, I want to know why you're asking these questions. Otherwise, this interview is over.”
Carey answered. “There have been a couple of murders in the Tampa area. Slashing murders just like the Klines. Both the people who were killed were involved in the John Otis trial.”
“That doesn't mean—”
“It wouldn't necessarily mean anything at all, except that a man has been calling me, telling me that John didn't do it, that he did, and that he's going to keep killing people unless we stop the execution.”
“Anyone could say that!”
“Perhaps. But we can't imagine who else would be killing people to try to save John Otis, and frankly, we've got only five days left before the execution. We're looking for anyone or anything who can help us find this killer before he kills again, and if this person rea
lly did kill the Klines, we need to know it as quickly as possible so we can keep the execution from going through.”
“Basically,” said Seamus in a hard voice, before Gerry Wiggins could reply, “if you know anything at all that you've been keeping back to protect Jamie, and it turns out that he is indeed the person who's been doing these killings, then you may be responsible for the deaths of other innocent people. And you will most certainly be responsible for the death of John Otis.”
There was a silence so long that Carey found herself listening to her heartbeat. She didn't think the Wigginses were bad people. Maybe a little full of their righteousness, and proud of themselves, but their intentions were the best.
Finally Gerry spoke. “I can give you the names of some of Jamie's old friends. Maybe he contacted one of them. But after all this time …” He shook his head again. “I don't think you'll find out much. And since I know most of the families, I think I would have heard about it if Jamie had seen or called any of them.”
“It's worth a try,” Seamus said.
It was then that Carey looked at Marcia. “I understand why you want to protect your son. Truly I do. I'd feel the same way if I were you. But if there's anything you know, you might save lives.”
Marcia darted an uncertain look at her husband.
Seamus spoke. “Did Jamie have a driver's license?”
“Before he was hospitalized,” Gerry answered. “Obviously, I don't know if he's gotten one since. But he had his own car then. I saw to it.”
“Why?” Seamus asked.
Gerry gave a crooked smile. “I always believed that making sure children had their own pocket money, and later their own transportation, helped keep them from life's temptations, you know?”
Seamus nodded. “I see your point.”
“I even make sure they have credit cards from the time they're sixteen. You don't need to steal what you can buy, or what you already have,” Gerry continued, looking more comfortable now. “And our children have already been deprived of so much. Marcia and I want to make it up to them, don't we, dear?”
Marcia nodded, casting another uncertain look, this time at Carey.