by David Hosp
“Don’t be.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.” She looked at him for a long minute. “I think I should go to bed.” She got up quickly, grabbing her plate and glass to clear them.
Jack stood up as well. “Please, let me clean up.”
“I’m just clearing.”
Jack reached out and took hold of the plate. “I’ve got it,” he said.
She turned and collided with him, sending her wineglass to the floor, shattering it as it hit the hardwood. The two of them were silent, looking at the shards spread out on the floor in front of them. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I . . .”
He stopped short when he saw her eyes. She was inches from him, their fingers touching lightly along the edges of the plate they both still grasped. He could smell her hair, his own shampoo, which she must have borrowed, but mixed with her own scent, warm and comforting and powerful. He didn’t want to move. He thought that if he could just stay still forever he might be satisfied.
Then it happened. She leaned forward slightly. Had they not been so close together, the movement might have gone unnoticed; it was barely a movement at all, just a slight shift in body weight that narrowed the gap between them. Her head was upturned, eyes closing.
He kept still, petrified. A screech of thoughts and emotions echoed confusingly in his head, snatches of phrases lost in the noise, warnings of consequences empty of meaning and drowned out by his heartbeat.
Her lips touched his, and the screaming in his head ceased. All he could focus on was her lips, soft and warm and inviting; perfect in every way. At last his body moved, drawing her to him, his hands caressing her with patient urgency. His thoughts lost all structure and language.
As their embrace crisscrossed the line between passion and tenderness, one word seemed to repeat itself over and over in his head, echoing endlessly until he surrendered to the lure of its simplicity. And even, hours later, when they both collapsed, exhausted and sated and happy, too tired for thought or worry or talk, the word remained in his head, a whisper now, soft and reassuring. Home.
Chapter Fifty-two
SYDNEY OPENED HER EYES SLOWLY. The tepid predawn light cast shadows in scarlet gray on the ceiling, and she let the shapes come into focus at a leisurely pace. She stretched her arms and legs, every muscle in her body recalling the prior evening in a dull, satisfying ache; every nerve resounding with an exquisitely raw, electrified feeling.
She smiled to herself as she replayed their time together over in her head, movements of smooth skin running wild in an endless flicker of desire that made her blush. She had been surprised at her own aggressiveness, and at the way in which her body had been so demanding in its needs—and eager in its natural inclinations to satisfy both her cravings and his. They together had been neither selfish nor subservient, giving of themselves without hesitation, and receiving each other in pleasure devoid of guilt. It had felt, she thought, the way she’d always thought sex should feel but did with disappointing infrequency.
She rolled over and draped her arm over Jack, looking up at his face. He was awake, propped on the pillows behind his head, staring off into space, a look of deep concern etched into his features.
“Hey there,” she said tentatively.
He looked down at her, caught in the embarrassment of reflection. “Hey,” he said. “Sorry. I didn’t want to wake you, but I couldn’t sleep.”
“You didn’t wake me. Who could expect more than a few hours of decent shut-eye with all that’s going on.” She took her fingers and rubbed them gently over his chest. He didn’t move, and yet she felt him pull away from her. She sat up, pulling the sheets over her chest, self-conscious for the first time with him. “Anything you want to talk about, sailor?”
“I guess not,” he said, unable to look at her.
“You’d be surprised. I’m a pretty good listener.”
“Nothing about you would surprise me.”
She looked at him, and he avoided her eyes. “Are you sorry about this?”
“No,” he said, though she sensed some hesitation. “There’s just a lot of shit in my past. Stuff you should probably know, to be fair. I was just lying here trying to figure out how to bring it up without convincing you I’m insane.”
She put a hand to her forehead. “I’ve always thought the direct route’s best. Throw it out there and see how it lands; it’s better than hiding it.”
He looked at her again, his eyes searching. “Her name was Kelly.”
She blew out a heavy breath. “Go on.”
“We went to high school together, and she was beautiful in a sad, lost kind of way. I thought I could save her.”
“From?”
“Herself, I guess. She grew up in the same town as me; a nice upper-middle-class spot where everything was perfect. Except it wasn’t. I think that was a huge disappointment to a lot of the people I grew up with—finding out that things could get so fucked up when there really wasn’t anything to complain about. We dated back then, and then lost touch after high school until a few years ago, when she called me.”
“Looking for a reconciliation?”
“Looking for a way out. She never really figured out what was wrong, and by the time she called, she was heavy into drugs. She was living with this guy who was a dealer, and he had her so screwed up she could barely get a sentence out. My brother, Jimmy, told me to leave it alone, that she was too far gone, but I didn’t listen. There was still something in her eyes I thought I could reach.”
“And?”
“Things went well for a while. She cleaned up, went back to school; for a few months I really thought we had a chance.”
“You were wrong, I take it.”
“One night she disappeared. I was out of my mind. And then I got a call, and all I could hear was her sobbing. I swear, I can still hear her sobbing in my sleep, and sometimes I can’t tell whether she’s crying or laughing.”
“Did you find her?”
Jack nodded. “I knew she was with her old boyfriend. He’d been trying to get her back on the junk since she’d left him; even threatened to kill her. I didn’t know what to do, so I called my brother. He was a cop, so I figured he’d have some idea how to handle it.”
“Did he?”
He nodded again. “He and I went to the dealer’s house. My brother pounded on the door, yelled ‘Police,’ the whole deal. We could hear them in there; he was screaming at her, and she was crying. After a couple of minutes of that, my brother kicked in the front door.” Jack closed his eyes.
“What happened?”
“The guy had lost it. I mean totally lost it. He was ranting and raving—clearly high on something. He started shooting as soon as Jimmy was through the door; hit him in the forehead with the second shot.”
Sydney held her breath. “Did he die?”
Jack shook his head. “Probably should’ve, but he was too damned strong. He probably would’ve been better off, for all that’s left of him. He’s in a hospital now. Sitting there, rotting away. There’s nothing left of his mind.”
“What happened to the dealer?”
“He kept firing away for what seemed like forever. I tried to get to my brother, but the door was shattering around me. Then the shooting stopped, and I heard the last two shots. One was for her; the last one he saved for himself.”
They sat in silence. Sydney wanted to comfort him, but no words came, so she lay back again and stroked his arm.
“When it was over, I didn’t know what to do. Everyone I’d ever cared about was gone, and I had nowhere to turn. I kept hoping Jimmy might recover, but there was too much damage. I didn’t have anything left.”
“That’s when you joined the police.”
“I felt so fucking helpless that night. I never wanted to be that helpless again. I don’t know why, but I felt like becoming a cop might help—that way I’d be able to protect anyone I cared about again. Except that it hasn’t really worked. If anything, all the time I’ve sp
ent as a cop, all the shit I’ve seen, it’s made me feel less able to protect anyone. There’s so much ugliness out there, and it’ll find the people it wants to, no matter who’s protecting them.”
She stopped her hand on his arm. “Is that it?”
He gave her a crooked smile. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ve probably got lots of other issues fucking me up, too. I just thought you should know, it’s gonna take some time for me. I have stronger feelings for you than I’ve had for anyone since Jimmy was shot—maybe more than anyone even before that. But that scares the shit out of me, and I’m just trying to deal with all that.”
She lay there for a moment, letting her body settle into his as she started caressing his chest again as though massaging scar tissue. Then she sat up and took his face in her hands, pulling him close into a deep, soulful kiss. When it ended, she whispered to him, “Thanks for the warning, but I’ll take my chances.”
Chapter Fifty-three
CASSIAN MADE IT to the door on the second knock, opening it a crack; all he had on was his jeans.
“Rise and fuckin’ shine,” Train said, looking his partner over. He stood at the top of the stoop, his rumpled gray suit on, the tie already askew. He was holding three coffees and a bag of bagels, and he started to push his way through the door. “I hope you got a good night’s sleep, because we’ve got a lot of work to do.”
Cassian stepped in front of his partner, keeping him from entering the apartment. It was no easy task, given Train’s size. “Gimme a minute, Sarge?”
“What do you mean, ‘gimme a minute’? Take all the minutes you want. I’ll be in the kitchen with the bagels.” He started to push past his partner again.
“Seriously,” Cassian said, refusing to budge.
“I bring coffee and bagels and you expect me to wait outside? Are you shitting me?” Suddenly Train’s eyes narrowed, piercing Cassian. “What the fuck is going on?”
Just then, Sydney’s voice sounded in the background. “Jack, where are the towels? If I don’t take a shower, I’m not going to be fit for decent company, as my mother likes to say.”
Train’s glare intensified, and Cassian was immediately on the defensive. “Sarge, it’s not what you think.” Train pushed the door hard, knocking Jack back a step and giving him a full view into the room. Cassian turned and saw what his partner was looking at. Sydney stood at the edge of the hallway, wearing only one of his frayed T-shirts. Her figure—a fabulous figure, Jack noticed, not without a flash of pride—was clearly visible through the thin cotton, her nipples ever so slightly interrupting the otherwise smooth flow of the fabric. She saw Train and unconsciously pulled at the hem of the shirt, bringing it down over her upper thighs.
Cassian turned back to Train. He leaned against the door in defeat. “Okay, maybe it is what you think, but you don’t have to worry.”
“I don’t?” Train asked slowly, his voice simmering.
“I’m sorry,” Sydney said, clearly feeling self-conscious and recognizing the tension in the room. “I just need a towel.”
“They’re in the closet in my bedroom.”
“It appears she knows where your bedroom is,” Train grunted at Jack.
“I’m sorry,” Sydney repeated.
Jack waved her off. “You have nothing to be sorry about.”
She nodded and turned to head back down the hallway. Then she paused and turned around. “Good morning, Sergeant,” she said tentatively.
Train’s demeanor softened slightly. “Good morning, Sydney.”
“It’s not his fault, it’s mine,” she said. He looked at her noncommittally. Then she nodded and continued back toward the bathroom.
Once she was gone, the scowl returned to Train’s face. “Good to know. It’s her fault. That makes me feel so much fuckin’ better. Maybe they’ll mention that in our discharge papers.”
“Sarge, wait. Before you—”
But Train wasn’t waiting. He pushed his way past Cassian, carrying the coffee and bagels into the kitchen and slamming them down on the counter, the coffee slopping over and puddling on the countertop. “What the fuck were you thinking about, Jack? You know she’s the sister of a murder victim, right?”
“I know.”
“An unsolved murder, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“I haven’t.”
“Technically still on our long list of potential suspects.”
“That list would have to be very long for her to be on it, Sarge.”
“Suspect or not, we put her in protective custody, for shitsakes. In your protective custody.” He rubbed his forehead in disgust. “I should have my fucking head examined for letting that happen.”
“Don’t blame yourself, Sarge.”
Train looked up, his face twisted in anger. “I don’t blame myself! And regardless of what she says, I don’t blame her either. I blame you!” He started to pace. “Didn’t we talk about this?”
“We did.”
“Didn’t we specifically discuss this?”
“We did.”
“I told you—no goddamned personal involvement. There’re people watching this case. We may need this girl’s testimony to convict whoever we find at the end of this twisted rope, and you put her in a position to have her credibility questioned. There’s gonna be hell to pay when the defense lawyer finds out you’ve been fucking her!”
“Hey, back off!” Cassian erupted. “I’m not just fucking her!”
“Oh, sorry, Precious. What are we calling it? Love? Whatever you want to call it, it’s still a major fuckup.” He took a deep breath, calming himself a little. “It can’t happen again,” he said, his voice calmer now.
“I can’t make that promise.”
Train looked at him carefully, calculating his partner’s resolve. “She’s that important to you? You’d risk your career over her?”
Cassian shrugged.
Train shook his head in disbelief. “She better be worth it, because you’re risking everything you got.”
“Even you?”
There was a long silence between them. Then Train’s anger broke like a storm clearing. He shook his head. “Been together for too long to let a little thing like gross misconduct shake us apart. I’m with you whatever happens. What the fuck, if I lose my pension, I guess we’ll all just live off love, huh? I’m just pointing out that to put this much on the line, you better fuckin’ marry this girl.”
Sydney’s voice came from behind him. “I leave the room for five minutes and you’ve got me married off already? Don’t I get a say?”
Train turned. “Sorry, Sydney. I’m just pointing out that you two are playing a dangerous game. You might as well know it, too.”
“That’s his way of saying he’s happy for us,” Cassian said.
“Just sayin’ is all,” Train said.
She looked back and forth between them. “I take it we’re all okay, then?”
Train shrugged. “Got no choice, do I?”
“Good,” she said grabbing a cup of coffee. “So, what do we do now?”
“Now we figure out who killed your sister. If we bury that problem, people will have less of an issue with the two of you.” Train sat down at the table and pulled one of the bagels out of the bag. He ripped off a piece, dipped it in the cream cheese container provided by the store, and popped it in his mouth. “Did either of you figure out how the lawsuit gives us a legitimate motive for Senator Venable?”
Cassian shook his head. “We’ve got nothing. The lawsuit doesn’t even mention Venable’s father.”
“Besides,” Sydney added, “the class of plaintiffs includes patients who were at the Institute both before Venable’s father was there and after he left; so it’s not like anyone can claim from what’s in the pleadings that he did anything that wasn’t already being done.”
“And then there’s the final kicker,” Cassian pointed out. “Even if we could tie the lawsuit to Venable, we’d still have to prove that Sydney’s sister was planning on writing an a
rticle about it, and that Venable somehow found out about her plans. At the moment, we don’t have anything to suggest that she was even working on a story.”
Train chewed on his bagel. “I had the computer forensics guys do another search on the hard drive of your sister’s computer at work for Venable, the Institute, eugenics, and anything else I could think of that might be related to this, but they came up empty.” He popped another piece of bagel into his mouth. “You told us a few days ago that you have her laptop, right, Sydney?”
“I do, but she generally didn’t use it for work.”
“Still, it’s the only place we’ve got to start with, so we might as well begin there. Where’s the computer now?”
“It’s at my apartment.”
Train stood up. “I guess that’s where we’re headed next.”
z
Salvage sat in a coffee shop at the window across the street from Sydney’s apartment. He’d spent the evening camped out in the shadows of the jagged entryways and walk-downs that carved their way along the streets of the funky Adams Morgan section of D.C. An area that was home to much of the city’s artistic community, as well as many of the best bars in town, Adams Morgan was constantly moving, and he’d been able to shift from one location to another in the immediate vicinity on an irregular basis to avoid drawing attention to himself. He’d always stayed in sight of the apartment, though, and he was sure that she hadn’t returned.
She’d have to come home eventually, he knew. Even if she was holed up someplace else—at a friend’s place or a hotel— she’d inevitably need to come back for something. In his experience, people always did. Everybody grew overconfident with the passage of time, and everyone made mistakes. He would wait as long as it took for Sydney Chapin to make hers.