"Good for you." Her voice was so lacking in interest that for a moment he wondered if she had heard him.
"Her name is Lisa. She's a—"
"I don't give a damn, Glen." Anne got to her feet and fastened the wire catch that kept the firewood from bouncing out onto the road.
"Anne, I'm serious. I can't—"
"Yes you can, Glen."
"Anne, no."
She whirled, and he took another step back. "No changes, Glen. No negotiations, no changes, not if you want me to drive away tomorrow. I'd be more than happy to stay here and teach my kids and never see you again. It's up to you."
"Jesus, Anne, why?" It was a question he had never asked her before, though he had certainly asked it of himself. "Why do you do it?"
"Don't ask, Glen. You wouldn't like the answer."
She did not move, did not bring up her hands to undo the buttons of her shirt or cock her hip in coy seduction or even pout her lips, but as he stared at her, angry and disturbed, he began to feel something growing along with the anger, something dark and strong and not very civilized but oh, very, very tasty. She felt the change, and a smile grew behind her eyes. He swallowed, put on a crooked smile of his own, and moved forward.
"God," he murmured, sinking his fingers into her thick hair and pulling her face up to his. "The things I do for my country."
Eight—no, nine times, over a period of twelve years, and sex with Anne Waverly had never been remotely the same twice. Breathless one time, funny the next, concentrated and athletic and even—terrible word but quite an experience—nurturing, and never once a repeat.
This time it was brutal.
They started there in the barn, nothing gentle about her mouth on his, her arms half fighting against his own, their two bodies grinding against each other. Their teeth scraped and then Anne's mouth opened and Glen's tongue was free to explore the vividly remembered and weirdly erotic plate of the dental appliance that held in place the front teeth lost in the Utah disaster. Their breathing quickened. Glen's hands moved up and down over Anne's clothes until she pulled away slightly, buried her head in Glen's neck, and bit down hard.
He yelped in surprise and real pain, shoving her away so that her bad knee would have failed to hold her had Rocinante not been there. She said nothing, just turned and walked off in the direction of the house. He followed more slowly, pausing to loosen his collar and crane his neck to see the tooth marks, touching the welt gingerly. He was examining his fingertips in the floodlight over the barn door for signs of blood and thinking ruefully that he would certainly have to stay away from Lisa for a couple of weeks, when the lights went off, leaving him to pick his way, stumbling and cursing, through the obstacle-strewn wood yard and up the steps to the kitchen.
He half expected the door to be locked, but it was not. He flung it open and was drawing breath to bellow a furious protest at the woman inside, when he saw Stan, feet braced, head down, and ready to do battle. Glen strangled on the angry words and forced out a soothing prattle while he inched past the dog. Stan allowed him to pass, and in relief Glen slipped through the door to the living room and slammed it. He then turned, fuming, for the stairs. He didn't know if this was rejection or foreplay, but he wasn't about to get in the car and drive meekly away without knowing for sure.
He found her in the bedroom, and took the fact that she was rapidly throwing off her clothes as a sign that she did not intend him to leave. He watched her push her thumbs into the waist of her jeans and peel them down, and when she stood naked before him, strong and middle-aged and bearing the scars he had given her, he took a shaky breath and decided to make a joke out of the past five minutes.
"Look, Anne, if you're still hungry, I'd be happy to bring you something from the fridge, but try not to bite any more pieces out of—"
Only his training saved him from a split lip, if not a concussion. He caught her arm as it came toward him, and then nearly fell victim to her knee. He was bigger, he was stronger, he was eight years younger, and he was trained, but she was wild and fast and she wanted seriously to hurt him, and all he could do was to wrap himself hard around her like a human straitjacket and ride out whatever storm had hold of her. It took an age to pass, and his arms were aching and his mind was torn between the wish simply to slap her hard to stop her from trying to bite him through his padded coat and the growing and genuine alarm for her sanity, when between one moment and the next she went limp and stopped struggling against him. He held her, fully clothed against her nakedness, and rocked her gently until he was sure it was not a feint. When her arms moved to free themselves, he allowed her to reach up and pull his mouth down to hers.
Still, the skirmish was not over. The outright violence turned to a slow struggle, with Glen gradually realizing that her arms were content only when they were pinned down, her body free to respond only when it was hedged around and wrapped by his. Putting on the damn condom one-handed while he was lying across her, the other hand clasping both of her wrists together behind her back and his legs wrapped around hers holding her down was one of the most difficult and grimly ridiculous things he had ever done. When he finally had it on, he was aroused in more ways than the one. He bruised her mouth with his, grabbed her and pinned her down, and finally entered her with no more thought of lubrication than a drunken teenager. He held her down and thrust against her, knowing that he had to be hurting her, wanting to make her ask him to stop. She did not ask, but eventually, finally, she arched herself away from his restraining hands and gave a brief shuddering cry like a sob. He shouted his relief into the hollow of her throat, moved against her slowly two or three more times, and collapsed.
He lay with his chest heaving, wondering what the hell had gotten into him, hurting her like that, and wondering how the hell he was going to begin to apologize, when to his astonishment he felt her arms go around him and he felt her mouth kiss his hair in an unprecedented gesture of affection.
He turned his head, heavy and damp with sweat, to rest against her breast. "Next time you want to do that," he gasped, "give me a little warning so I can bring along my cuffs and some rope."
"Duct tape," she said indistinctly, and he snorted in astonishment. Then, to his even greater disbelief, he heard her say, very clearly, a thing she had never told him before. "Thank you Glen."
He buried his face into her body and lay there. He listened to her heart slow, and heard her breath return to normal, and gradually he fell asleep.
Chapter Five
case an individual can achieve results that a concerted effort cannot. Small, niggling, low-key Intrusions by an intensively trained individual, who always has at the top of his or her priorities the need to keep a low profile and avoid escalation of the situation's tension, can result in the slow collapse of the group's structure.
Some of you may remember the case of the separatists in White Rock, Illinois a few years ago. I say some of you because it is a textbook example of how a tense religious situation—a 'cult'—is defused. In this case, the early signs of problems were caught, an undercover investigator sent in for several weeks, and the result of that investigation closely analyzed. As a result, one of your men dressed up as a fussy, bespectacled housing inspector in an ill-fitting suit, clutching his clip-board in his hand, utterly reasonable, terribly sympathetic, but determined to carry out his job for the housing department. [laughter] I see a number of you recognize the agent involved, particularly as he has now turned bright red, although I doubt you would have recognized him at the time. Anyway, he went in and spent a number of weeks slowly splitting the community down the middle-literally, as it turned out, by changing the tight living arrangements that had allowed the three leaders to control the rest, as well as figuratively, by sowing seeds of discontent and contributing brief and "accidental" glowing reminders of outside life.
It was a spectacular triumph, but was never acknowledged as such simply because it remained low key. The media were led astray, which avoided the intense pressures of
the citizenry and their elected officials toward action, the community never felt threatened enough to resort to violence (particularly as the agent involved always offered to help them fill out all the forms he brought), [laughter] Tear gas was never even
Excerpt from the transcription of a lecture by Dr. Anne Waverly to the FBI Cult Response Team, April 27, 1994
When Glen woke, it was not yet light, although it seemed to him that the pale square of the window indicated dawn rather than moonlight. Too early to wake Anne, who had a long day ahead of her, although he felt a stir between his legs at the prospect of turning over and fitting himself against her warm and sleepy body. Instead, he thought about sex with Anne Waverly.
The first time—ten? No, twelve years before—had taken him completely by surprise. He had, then as now, been dismayed by the sheer unprofessionalism of it, and had long since convinced himself that the fear that she was about to back out of the project he had fought so long to set up was all that had kept him from standing up and walking out.
She had been terrified that night, so afraid at the idea of putting herself into the North Dakota community under investigation that her hands had been like ice, and she had turned to him impulsively in her apartment in town, where they were working late to complete the briefing, reached for him as the only warm thing in the world. Pity and compassion and the cold-blooded snap decision that a good screw tonight might be the only thing that got her through to the next day had stopped him from gently pushing her away; the intensity of her response had quickly overwhelmed rational decision, and had made the next morning's slow, languorous follow-up an experience that had not faded in memory in all the years and the various women since then—including his fianceé.
He wasn't sure what it was about her that made her so difficult to push from his mind. Physically, she had nowhere near the attraction of most of the women he slept with, and certainly nothing of Lisa's hard, sports-club-tuned body. Anne was fit, but it was the seasonal fitness of someone who went soft over the winter, and her skin was frankly wrinkled and stained with too many years in the sun. She was too old for him, she often made him more uncomfortable than attracted, and she had a knack of making him feel even younger than he was and considerably more incompetent. But he could not forget her and did not really regret whatever quirk it was that made her want to begin a case by sleeping with him. He had finally dismissed his discomfort by classifying their attraction as some mysterious form of "chemistry".
After that first time, three years went by before he had slept with her again, the night before she was to fly to Miami to look at a group of rumored Satanists. It had been a more clear-cut case, less personal to her and more professional, and her nervousness had been less intense. Still, when he had gotten to his feet to leave this house and drive down the hill to town, her cold hand had stopped him, and he had ended up in this same bed, with a vigorous and intense night followed by a slow and climactic morning.
The third session had also been here, eighteen months after the second, just before she left for Jeremiah Cotton's armed camp in Utah. That had been a lighthearted night, punctuated by laughter and the electrifying sensation of Anne seized by giggles while he was deep inside her, and she had turned to him in the morning with a sort of farewell affection. She had bought and restored the old Volkswagen bus by then, and as he stood next to his government sedan he'd seen her arm pop out of the driver's window and wave merrily before the lovingly revived old chatterbox of a vehicle dipped behind the trees and the distinctive rattle of the VW engine faded into the quiet morning sounds of the woods and the distant growl of a neighbor's chain saw.
Only twenty-nine days went by before Glen saw the bus again. He thought he was ready for the sight, having just come from the hospital bed of its owner, but the appearance of the old vehicle by the roadway had been chilling: spattered with mud, most of the paint gone along one side and a fender torn half away, two tires flat and all the front windows shattered by a continuation of the neat line of holes punched up the driver's side door. Inside, the bright cotton Mexican blanket covering the driver's seat was stiff with dried blood.
Anne was in intensive care for a week and in and out of half a dozen hospitals for the next year while they attempted to rebuild her knee. The fiasco aged her badly, and when Glen had last seen her, in a Bethesda surgical ward, she would not meet his eyes.
She disappeared for some months after that, and although the following September Glen had been relieved to get word that she was teaching again, he stayed away from her. Some bizarre impulse had prompted him to send her a Christmas card, but she had not answered it, and he had removed her from his mental list of potential colleagues. Someday, he thought, he would drop in and see her: but somehow whenever business took him to the Northwest, there was never quite enough time for a visit.
Three years went by after that last cold hospital conversation, three years and seven months before the Friday afternoon when he picked up a letter from his desk and saw, in the instantly familiar handwriting, the terse message off the fax machine:
Glen—must talk to you.
Anne
He did not hesitate—or at least not more than an hour or two. She was not at home or in her office, but when he reached the departmental steno pool, the secretary said she was around, and indeed, twenty minutes later he picked up his phone to hear her voice, tight and low.
"Glen, I have to see you."
"That's what your note said. What's it about?" He was pleased to hear that his voice sounded calm, professional, normal.
"Not over the phone. Are you free this weekend?"
He had not expected this. After a minute he said, "I am, but I have to stay available for an investigation I'm coordinating. I can't leave town."
"I'll come out," she said immediately. "Shall we say five o'clock tomorrow? Where shall we meet?"
Glen offered the name of a restaurant where they had eaten before, but she rejected it.
"I don't want to talk in front of waiters. Your office?"
"How about if I meet you at the airport and we can decide on the way in?"
She agreed, and called back half an hour later with the flight information, her voice still tight with inexplicable tension. That tension and her refusal to say what it was about had given him a sleepless night, as a parade of possibilities marched through his head, ranging from a bone cancer induced by the injuries to the revelation of a four-year-old child resulting from one of the dusty packets of condoms she had taken from her bedside table.
This last irrational thought had sent him angrily for the rarely used bottle of Scotch, and he gulped down the dose like medicine. No pregnancy could have been concealed during those months of intense medical care, he told himself, and went with spinning head back to bed.
Her flight was due into Kennedy at three forty-five. At two-thirty, something came up that demanded his attention, or seemed to, and so he sent a driver to meet the plane and take her to her hotel. Finally, at six, he had to admit that the need for his immediate presence was long over, and he phoned her room to suggest she meet him down in the hotel restaurant.
"I'm in Room 546, Glen, just come up. We'll order room service if you want something."
"I, er—"
"For Christ sake, Glen, I'm not going to eat you. I'm not even going to rape you. Just get here."
The phone went dead. Still, she had sounded more businesslike than seductive. She also still sounded tense, almost fierce. He put on his coat and took a taxi to the hotel.
Glen McCarthy was a pragmatist, and no romantic. He was good at his job; good, too, at allowing the past to fade. However, he had to admit that on the rare occasions when he was ambushed by memories, more often than not they were linked with this strange, damaged woman and the emotionally draining cases she was involved with. Odd things such as the sound of children in a park would jolt him with a palimpsest of horror overlaid with pleasure, a clear image of an array of young bodies, lovingly laid out and murdered by a
madman, superimposed by a strong tactile memory of the small mole on Anne's left breast, a low bump tantalizing to the fingertips, two inches northeast of the nipple.
He was hit by such a memory as he stood in the anonymous hallway of the New York hotel, a vivid picture from the days when he was trying hard to shape her into some semblance of a law enforcement professional, driven by the uncertainty of what the hell he thought he was doing and the fear of how utterly unprepared she was for the position in which he proposed to put her. He had shouted at her, in doubt and anxiety, that Jesus Christ, you never open a door if you don't know what's on the other side. There in the hotel corridor, he saw the tiny dot at the center of the glass eyehole darken as she looked through it. She had not forgotten, he thought in relief, and he was oddly sad that she had not.
The security bolt rattled, the door opened, and the four and a half-year-old memory of a mole, lodged deep in the skin of his fingertips, flitted through his awareness before retreating again into deep storage.
"Hello, Anne."
"Glen." She retreated a step and he followed her into the room.
"Sorry I couldn't meet you. Something came up. How are you?" He watched her loop the security device back over its knob and then limp over to the chairs by the window.
"Not bad. With cortisone injections and a knee brace I can almost do an eleven-minute mile, but I hate the brace and the shots, and in the end I decided to make the limp a part of my new persona. I even carry a cane. You want a drink?" The room had a tiny locked refrigerator filled with tiny expensive bottles, but a normal-sized bottle of a California zinfandel stood uncorked on top of the desk and Glen told her he would have some of that. She stripped a glass of its sanitary wrapping, poured it half full, and raised her own glass in a toast.
The Birth of a new moon Page 7