by Jason Frost
"Maybe it's my cologne," he said, but there was no smile on his face, in his reddish-brown eyes. In fact, he wasn't even looking at her, he was looking past her, over her shoulder. She knew at what, but turned to look anyway.
Col. Dirk Fallows.
He was standing, his lawyer smiling and chattering happily at him. But Fallows wasn't listening. He was staring past the crowd, burning a path through them with his pale blue eyes. So pale they almost seemed colorless. Yet, set in that long V-shaped face, framed by the premature white hair, they were strangely compelling.
How many times had she traced the rocky slopes of his face with her Staedtler 3H, shaded the hollows under his cheeks, struggled to get the cruelty in those thick, full lips? How could she convey the arrogant tilt of his head, the sneer that flashed across his face like the shadow of a passing bird? And hadn't she once or twice even thought it was a handsome face, in a fascist sort of way? She winced at such thoughts. Why does the moth fly so close to the flame, until singed and exhausted it lies, beating useless wings against a table top? Oh, Christ, here I go again, she sighed. Save it for your diary, babe, it's safer.
Not that Eric Ravensmith was much better. He was a good family man, at least according to a character witness, the Chairman of the History Department where he taught. "Well thought of was the phrase Dr. Leopold had used. But what about the black scabs on Joshua Sempleton's face. The cast on his wrist. The kid's testimony of how he was dragged across the kitchen floor, how coolly Ravensmith had popped open the dishwasher looking for something to torture the boy with. Finding a damn cheese grater, for Christ's sake. And the whole court was buzzing with something that had happened only minutes before today's session. A shooting of some sort. Ravensmith blasting away in a crowded corridor, killing a man, wounding a dozen bystanders. She noticed for the first time a smudge of dried blood on his pants leg.
Still, the two men stared at each other. Silent, yet intense. Like two sophisticated computers exchanging information. Both their faces remained rigid, expression less, except for the corner of Fallows' mouth. It twitched slightly, finally stretching into a tight, grim smile. The triumphant grin of a jackal about to bury its face into the innards of a slaughtered deer. She shuddered, pulled her sweater tighter around her shoulders.
"I'm Tracy," she said finally, offering her hand. "Tracy Ammes."
Eric hesitated, his eyes still fixed. Then he shifted his head slightly, almost a nod. A nod of resolution, Tracy thought. Resolving what?
"Nice to meet you." He turned to face her, shook her hand.
"I appreciate the help. I'm a little clumsy sometimes."
"Perhaps, but not this time. I saw that guy blindside you."
"Well, Steve's motto is Do Unto Others Until Thou Art Rewarded With a Network Anchor Job." She'd never been this close to him before, never really seen how wicked that scar was, the way it sprouted up out of his collar, wound around his jaw like a jungle river, then pooled against his cheek in that strange pattern. It must hurt, she thought.
"It doesn't," Eric said.
"Pardon me?"
"It doesn't hurt. The scar."
She felt her face flush. "I didn't mean to, uh-"
"Stare?"
She nodded. "I'm so embarrassed."
"Don't be," he laughed, the sound coming out oddly out of tone, as if he hadn't done it for a while.
"How did you know what I was thinking?"
"It's what everybody wonders when they see it. They think it must hurt. It doesn't though, no feeling at all. Kind of nice in a way."
Tracy could see he was just killing time with her until Luther Nichols finished arguing with Flip Bendix, the D.A.'s special assistant. Ravensmith's eyes kept drifting toward the closed door through which the cops had just hustled Dirk Fallows. He looked almost as if he could see through the door and was following Fallows down the hall.
"Heard you had some excitement earlier," Tracy said.
"Some."
She nodded again, not anxious to pursue it. After all, she wasn't a reporter. She was an artist. Let the glory boys do their own damn job.
"Let's go, Eric," Luther Nichols said, bustling by them. "We have to talk."
"I don't think so," Eric replied calmly, but with an unmistakable edge. "Everything's been said. The case is dismissed. Fallows will be out on the street. On my street."
"We're looking into possibly pressing charges against the Sempleton kid for-"
"Sempleton? Forget him. He'll be dead by the end of the day. Don't bother looking for the body."
"What do you mean?" Luther said.
"I mean he talked. He broke under torture. Brought Fallows' name into it. Dirk won't let that go. Bad discipline."
"Maybe we can put some men on them. Try to catch him in the act."
"Forget it. They can shake anybody you put on. Let it go."
"Well, there're still the two who attacked you. Sam DeSoto and Gordon Maag. Maybe we can tie Fallows in there."
"Sure. Maybe."
Luther looked at Tracy as if noticing her for the first time, "Hi, Tracy."
"Hi, Luther. Sorry about the loss."
Luther shrugged. "We'll get him. Eventually."
Eric snorted, started walking away.
"Hold up, Eric. We still have to talk."
"About what?"
Luther looked around the room. Most of the people had left, except the bailiff, Eric and Luther. And Tracy. "Let's talk in my office."
"Don't clam up on my account," Tracy said. "I was just leaving. Nice meeting you, Mr. Ravensmith. See you, Luther." She hurried past them and out the doors, glancing over her shoulder at Eric before disappearing down the hall.
"What did you tell her?" Luther asked,
"What's to tell?"
Luther sighed. "Yeah, you're right. Let's get out of here. I've got a bottle in my office."
"Why?"
"Why do I have a bottle in my office?"
"Why do we have to talk?"
"We have to discuss the charges."
"What's the big deal? They killed your guard and they tried to kill me. Murder and attempted murder."
"I don't mean the charges against them. I mean the ones against you."
Luther twisted off the cap of the Diet 7-Up. The resulting hiss sounded like escaping steam. He poured a glass for Eric.
"When you said you had a bottle in your office, I expected something a little more dynamic."
"Can't drink alcohol. Bad stomach. Besides, you don't drink anyway. I haven't seen you touch a single drop of booze since I've known you."
Eric sipped the soft drink without answering.
Luther continued. "And I noticed a couple other things. Like you've been spending more and more time working out at Goodman's gym. Sparring with some of his fighters."
"I'm just keeping in shape."
"More like getting back into shape. Not that you weren't already the envy of every man in that courtroom. Except maybe Dirk Fallows." Luther perched on the edge of his desk and sipped his drink, his eyes studying Eric's impassive face. "That guy must do push-ups in his sleep. There isn't a square inch on him that doesn't look hard and mean."
"What's your point, Luther?"
"I want you to stay clean, that's my goddamn point. You've gone back into basic training again, as if you were still with the Night Shift in Nam. I have a feeling that you think you're going to take up where the law left off. Search and destroy. Target: Dirk Fallows. Am I right?"
"No."
"Bullshit, Eric. I've seen that look before. Everytime some slime gets off, the victim or the victim's survivors get that I'm-going-to-teach-him-justice look. With you it's buried deeper, camouflaged better. But it's still there. Well, I'm warning you right now, if it hadn't been for your methods in the first place, we might have nailed that bastard to the wall. He'd be doing hard time-"
Eric smiled.
It was an eerie smile that cut Luther short. He swallowed, shrugged. "Okay, we probably wouldn't have eve
n been able to make the connection. And the only reason we're handling it in Los Angeles is because Orange County kicked it free and we established the conspiracy took place here. But that didn't make Greg McMurtry happy. You know how Greg wound up the District Attorney? You know how he started in politics?"
"I don't really care."
"Well, you'd better care, pal. Because he is not thrilled about us losing this case in an election year. He'd like to get some convictions. And since he couldn't get Fallows, he's starting to think about you and your damned shoot-out today." He swigged his soda and plopped back into his desk chair. "Greg McMurtry was twenty-one and just out of UCLA when he decided he wanted to run for office. He went down to the Democratic headquarters and told them he wanted to run for office. 'Which office?' they asked. 'Whatta ya got?' he answered. They laughed at him and told him to get lost. So he went over to the Republican headquarters and asked them the same thing. They talked to him a little, helped him get into law school, and he hasn't lost an election since. That gives you an idea of what his priorities are. If he thought dragging you down Rodeo Drive behind his Mercedes would get him votes, he'd be tying you to the rear bumper right now."
"So he wants to charge me with what?"
"Discharging a firearm within city limits. Creating public disturbance. Loitering in the men's room. Whatever he can make stick. So don't go mistaking California for Asia. I think I can handle things on this end, just don't make it rougher on yourself and me. Okay?"
Eric slowly stood up, stretched out his hand. "Thanks for everything, Luther."
Luther grasped Eric's hand with both of his and shook warmly. "I didn't think you'd listen to me, but I had to try."
"You're wrong, Luther. I'm not out to prove anything or get anyone. I'm just out to protect what I have. Whatever it takes."
"Just remember I haven't given up on this end yet. I know we'll get Fallows for something. Maybe even on this shoot-out today."
Eric nodded, started for the door. No point in arguing. Luther didn't know Fallows the way he did, didn't know what he was capable of.
"Give my love to Annie and the kids," Luther called after Eric.
Eric turned back to wave. Saw Luther opening his top desk drawer.
Heard an odd metallic click.
Like a cricket.
Somehow familiar.
Luther was peering into his desk, a puzzled look on his face. "Jesus Christ, what-?"
Then it all came back to Eric in a dizzying rush of data. Weight: 0.69 Ibs. Length: 4.5 inches. Diameter: 2.25 inches. Color: apple green with RGD-5 written on body. Explosive: 110 grams of TNT. Fuse: percussion with delay of 3.2 to 4.2 seconds. Type: RGD-5 anti-personnel hand grenade.
"Get out! Get out!" Eric screamed at Luther.
But Luther returned only a look of confusion, then a flash of understanding, and a sad look of acceptance.
The explosion tore the desk in half, spitting shards of wood like sharpened arrows through Luther's chest. The impact of the explosion twisted his head sideways, half ripping it off his shoulders. His body was lifted and tossed against the wall hard enough to imbed him momentarily in the plaster before his body plopped lifelessly to the floor. Thick, dark blood splotched the white plaster wall in a crazy buckshot pattern.
Eric was thrown against the opposite wall, his head cracking against a metal filing cabinet. He flopped to the floor, feeling his body being tugged this way and that, as if caught in a violent ocean tide. He remembered the last time he'd taken the kids body surfing. Thought he heard Annie calling his name, warning him not to swim out too far.
Then a dark, heavy wave washed over him and he went under.
6.
"It's good practice," Annie said from the motel bathtub, "but it'll never replace sex."
Eric said nothing. He was stretched out next to the tub doing push-ups.
"How many's that?" she asked. "I've made a resolution not to count anything higher than my age."
"Eighty-two… eighty-three… eighty-four…"
"Hurry up, Eric," she said, trying to keep the concern out of her voice. Trying to keep it light, not let the fear in. "The water's getting cold."
"Run some hot," he grunted without stopping.
"I can't. I've got the temperature scientifically balanced for both our tastes. Hot enough so I can relax, yet cool enough so you don't burn your cute little buns. Besides, there're already more bubbles in here than there is water." She scooped up a palmful of fluffy white bubbles and blew them at him. They fluttered about him like thick snowflakes, but he didn't slow his pace.
"Almost done," he said, rhythmically snapping his body up and down.
Annie frowned, watched the thick, blue vein pulse across his temple before disappearing under the Band-Aid over the deep gash he'd received in the explosion. His face was red from the exertion, except for the scar. It remained white, oddly calm and untouched by the rest of his body, a line of icy water finally gathering into the strange frost pattern on his cheek. Like a frozen lake. Even after ten years she sometimes found the scar a little unnerving. As if it were a stranger, a distant relative uninvited into their home who wouldn't leave.
Lately she'd been feeling the same about Eric. Since the trial, and especially since the death of Luther Nichols, Eric had changed. Not drastically, not horribly. He was still a loving husband and a caring father. But he was also endlessly exercising, training, running. Every time he had a few extra minutes he'd drop to the floor and do a hundred push-ups. He was spending most afternoons lifting weights or sparring in a downtown gym. It was getting harder and harder to tease him out of his black moods.
"Fine. Here we are, a man and woman, alone in a motel, and not even any heavy breathing. Well, if you're not going to climb in here and molest me, I'll just eat until I get fat and there's no room in here for you." She reached over to the open box balanced on the toilet seat and grabbed another slice of Fast Eddie's deluxe pizza. It was already cold, the cheese having taken on a shiny, plastic look. But Annie took a big bite anyway. A slice of pepperoni dropped into the tub. She groped around under the bubbles for it, finally fishing it out between thumb and forefinger and tossing it over the side with a loud "Yeechh!" It flipped through the air and landed with a wet splat on Eric's back.
"Ooops," she giggled, then started laughing her loud whooping crane laugh, rocking so much that she dropped the rest of her slice of pizza into the tub.
Eric shook his head. "I see you've found a new way to reheat pizza."
"S-s-sorry," she laughed, her head thrown back in spasms of laughter.
Eric stood up, let the wet pepperoni roll off his back. Seconds before he'd been lost in a grim, violent vision of Dirk Fallows. Now he was smiling, chuckling. Annie had a way of doing that to him, reaching down to the bottom of some dark, cold ocean floor and yanking him to the surface where he could breathe fresh air. And laugh.
Quickly he stepped out of his underpants and into the tub, easing himself slowly into what felt to him like boiling water. To Annie it was probably lukewarm.
"Don't worry about finding that slice of pizza," he said. "I'm sitting on it." He reached into the water and pulled the soggy pizza out, tossing it across the bathroom into the sink.
"Good. That's your piece then. I get the last one."
"Like hell!"
They both lunged for the last piece of pizza, splashing water and suds over the side of the tub. Annie reached it first, but Eric wrapped his hand around hers and squeezed until it oozed between her fingers.
"Owww," she whined, but she was laughing too hard to be taken seriously.
They quickly washed each other off, scrubbing the pizza scraps from their bodies, lingering gently here and there.
"Und now for za last part of your training," she said, kicking a blob of bubbles into his face, then hopping out of the tub. She ran into the bedroom, trailing puddles of water and suds behind her.
"You've had it now, lady. It's all over but the begging."
"Beg
ging?" she laughed from the other room. "For what?"
"For my essence. My manhood. My throbbing member."
Her laughs came in loud whoops. "Oh, you mean your love rod."
"My passion pole."
"Your sex pistol."
Eric rinsed the last of the pizza off his hand and sprang out of the tub and into the bedroom. Annie was lying naked on top of the bed, her wet skin glistening sensuously in the room's dim light. As always, Eric hesitated, let his eyes linger on her body, surprised and delighted to find her still so sexy after all these years. The breasts round and firm, yet yielding to the touch. The nipples, easily excited, were already hard and pointing. The slim waist sloping down from narrow ribs and sweeping up over sharp protruding hip bones. The stomach flat and smooth as an ocean beach, dark skinned from some tropical ancestor no one in the family remembered. The legs were long and shapely, hard with muscles and determination. Nothing on her body jiggled, it had all been trained into compact submission from years of ballet as a child, years of jazzercise and weight training as an adult. She'd followed Jane Fonda's Workout Book until she looked better than Jane Fonda.
She pulled the pencil out of the bun of her hair and let the long black tresses cascade over her shoulders. Her hair was thick and luxurious, hanging past her waist, shimmering as she tucked it behind one ear. He loved her hair, its richness and length somehow so primeval, prehistoric. And she was proud of it too, knew its effect on men. She held a lock in one hand, teasingly brushed her nipples with the ends. Then she glanced over at Eric's crotch and smiled wickedly. "Hey, I know I'm cute, but no need to salute."
He looked down at himself, grinned, and walked slowly toward her. "You'd better behave or I'll withhold my services."
"Ha. You couldn't if you wanted. Once it's awakened, it can't rest until it's been satisfied. Like some kind of science fiction monster. The Beast With No Conscience."
He slid into the bed next to her, wrapped his arm around her waist, his hand clasping her smooth round buttocks. She snuggled closer, clamping her legs around his thigh. He felt her thick pubic hairs scuffing his skin. They kissed, long and deeply, tongues playing tag. He pictured them on a beach somewhere, a Caribbean island. A warm breeze skipping off the ocean and covering them, a dying sun glowing red as it's pulled into the ocean. A safe place.