Green Lake

by S. K. Epperson

Eris squeezed her waist in reply, his hand warm and even a little moist. Madeleine put her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  As if on cue, an aide stepped into the room and asked Eris if he was ready for a bath.

  Madeleine circumspectly lowered her arms and moved aside.

  “I'm sure you have other things to do,” she said to the aide. “I can help him with the bath.”

  The woman eyed them in disapproval, but she apparently did have other things to do, because she left the pan, the sponge, the towels, and a fresh gown behind her as she turned and exited the room.

  “Jacqueline says this hospital is incredibly understaffed when it comes to nurses and aides,” Madeleine explained as she moved to close the door.

  “Lucky me,” said Eris, and he reached behind himself to untie his gown.

  Madeleine filled up the pan in the bathroom with warm sudsy water and brought it to him. Then she proceeded to give him his first sponge bath ever, slow and unhurried, taking her time with each limb and massaging as she soaped, being careful to avoid any areas that were painful to him.

  Her lips and fingers followed the sponge across the marks on his back and chest and Eris found himself stirring just watching her.

  The aide ducked in once, just to see how the bath was coming, and Madeleine threw a towel over Eris's middle to hide his state of arousal. When she was gone they looked at each other and grinned like naughty children.

  She gently toweled his skin dry and helped him into a fresh gown. Then she took a small brush from her purse and loosened the band on his long black hair. She began to brush slowly, moving upward with each stroke, until she was brushing from the scalp down. Eris's entire body goose pimpled as she went on brushing and brushing, causing his scalp to tingle.

  He smiled as he felt her pick up his hair and band it again without braiding it. When she was finished, she moved in front of him and looked into his face.

  Eris matched her gaze for a long moment before placing a hand on the back of her neck and pulling her close. She put her arms around him and met his lips, opening her mouth to him and making a noise low in her throat as their breathing slowed and the kiss deepened. Eris heard the whisper of the door opening again and he ignored it, hoping the aide would go away, but a throat being loudly cleared caused them to draw slowly apart.

  A start went through him, and he felt Madeleine flinch when they looked and saw Dale Russell standing in the room, his handsome mouth twisted in disgust.

  “You've got nerve,” Madeleine said, low and angry.

  Russell lifted a hand. “I didn't shoot anybody. I came to let you know that. You can believe it or not, but I'm telling you it wasn't me.”

  Eris only looked at him.

  Russell shifted his feet, put his hands on his waist and shook his head. “Madeleine, I can't get over this. You and him.”

  “Get out,” she said.

  “I'm going. Just wanted to come by and proclaim my innocence, in case either one of you were thinking of tattling on me for anything.” Eris and Madeleine remained silent. Russell smirked and left the room, shaking his head again as he went.

  “I think I'll stay with Jacqueline tonight,” said Madeleine when he was gone. “I'll come tomorrow to pick you up and we'll go back to the cabin together.”

  Eris nodded. He thought it was a good idea.

  Dale Russell walked through the hospital in search of the elevator. What he really wanted to find was a place to throw up. Seeing Madeleine kissing Renard had actually made him sick to his stomach.

  A group of student nurses passed him in the hall, and he felt them all stop and gape at him. Females often did that, stopped whatever they were doing to stare admiringly at him. It didn't happen as often as it used to, him being stuck out at the lake all day, and he missed it in a way, because he knew something inside him fed off the attention. He didn't do anything about it, of course, but that wasn't the point.

  He was beginning to think his problems stemmed from all the time he was spending alone. It hadn't been as bad the year before, but that was the first year, when the job was new and he was concerned about doing everything right. This year he pretty much knew what he was doing, so his mind grew idle during all the long boring hours and he found himself thinking about things he hadn't thought about in years. Like little girls.

  Madeleine. His focus on her kept him straight, as long as she kept saying no to him. But it was also driving him crazy, because no woman had ever said no to him as firmly and consistently as she did. She honestly wanted nothing to do with him, and Russell was completely stunned and utterly confused to find her with Eris Renard, of all people. The bastard was so ugly. All those horrible marks all over him.

  But even Dale had to admit there was something about Renard. Seeing him in Madeleine's house with his hair all wild and wearing nothing but old blue jeans was almost scary. He reminded Dale of some animal just out of a cage, the way it looked when the door first opened, as if it was deliriously happy to be free at last and was doubly prepared to tear your arm off if you went near it or threatened its newfound freedom in any way.

  Renard. If anyone out there unnerved Dale, it was him. Renard didn't give a shit about the governor or the governor's nephew. He proved it when he jumped Dale at the cabin. Dale had spent the night and part of the next day thinking of ways to get Renard fired—until he heard he had been shot. Then Dale became uneasy because of what had happened the night before and he ducked out of sight for the next twelve hours. Eventually he

  decided the best way to play it would be to confront Renard and tell him he hadn't done it.

  One look at Renard's face told him Renard knew he wasn't the one who shot him, and Dale found himself feeling insulted rather than relieved, particularly since he had walked in to find Renard doing what he was doing with the one female who looked at Dale like she recognized what he was inside and knew all his dark, twisted secrets. More than anything else about Madeleine Heron, he thought it was that, the hidden knowledge of him she seemed to possess, that made Dale keep coming back to her again and again. He wanted desperately to have her in a situation where he could see if he was right.

  He wished it wasn't so important to him, that feeling he felt when he was doing something “wrong.” He wasn't a rapist. Rape didn't appeal to him, because he imagined most of the women he touched would wind up enjoying it once they got a good look at him. There was no gratification in being wanted by a woman. Being wanted was empty.

  What he enjoyed most of all was a look of trust betrayed. Like the look Kayla Lyman had given him as he pulled down his underwear and made her open her mouth. Something about that look made him feel powerful and confident and sexy beyond belief. He came for fifteen minutes into that mouth.

  Dale shuddered as he finally stumbled into an elevator. He had to stop thinking about it. Concentrate on Madeleine again. She was much bigger game, and years older, but that same sense of excitement trilled in him when he was near her, danger and elation mixed with anticipation. Only thing was, he had to make her trust him again, and how he was going to do that he had no idea. Small children were no problem, but grown women, particularly keen, intelligent women with big tall boyfriends, were a different matter.

  Still, Dale had to cling to her, had to keep focused on the challenge she presented, if only to keep himself out of trouble and away from any more little girls.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Wes Beckworth sold cocaine and marijuana for nearly twenty years before going into real estate. The change of vocations was a wise decision for him, since most of the people who had supplied him or bought from him were now either dead or in jail. Wes took the money he had made, which amounted to several hundred thousand dollars, and bought every acre of pasture land and riverfront property he could get his hands on. The next twenty years were even more profitable for him, leasing, selling, and developing, and Wes Beckworth became known as a man with a gift for making money.

  His twenty-five-year-old son did not sha
re his gift. Bruce wanted to do nothing but drink beer, drive his boat, fire his guns, and fight with other drunks. Wes would have included women on the list, but Bruce was so obnoxious none would even get close to him. A friend of Bruce's told Wes he had seen his son pick up a hooker in the city, abduct her, drive her out to a county road and beat the hell out of her—without ever having sex with her.

  Wes was not surprised. Bruce had a problem with rejection that started with his mother, who had married Wes only because he could supply her with all the drugs she needed. Wes put her in the hospital a few times, but the night he broke her leg with an axe handle she decided she had had enough. Bruce, who was around six or seven at the time, had screaming fits of anxiety for years after her departure.

  Wes had finally married again in January, and Bruce had been acting like an asshole ever since, getting into trouble every other day by smashing up the SUV, beating up people, and getting arrested.

  Now Bruce had shot a conservation officer, wounding him and seriously injuring a woman who had been riding along in the cab of the truck.

  It wasn't the first time his son had shot at Eris Renard, Wes heard. Renard came very close to catching Bruce and his spotlighting buddies a time or two. It was only by shooting at him that they were able to escape.

  Of course Bruce denied shooting Renard. A lie sprang to his lips as easily as the word hello. But he had told his friend about it, and the friend told Wes. Brace's friend was paid a lot of money to tell Wes things. Wes never trusted his son's version of events, and he had learned early to bribe Bruce's friends into giving him the truth.

  The witness to the shooting had the deer rifle and the cartridges right, but any hunter in the woods could carry a Remington 7400 and use .270 cartridges.

  After learning of Bruce's guilt, Wes's first instinct had been to get rid of the rifle and destroy the evidence.

  But that wouldn't make the blackmailer go away, and that's what he would need to get Bruce completely off the hook this time.

  There was no question of whether he would do it, but it wasn't necessarily loyalty to his son that made him want to see Bruce remain free. Wes loved the challenge of pitting his mental skills against the system. He had been doing it all his life, and so far he had won. He wanted to keep winning.

  When the blackmailer called, Wes was ready for him. It was important to turn the tables quickly and become the aggressor rather than the defender, the hunter rather than the prey, and shift the advantage.

  If the blackmailer was the average dumbshit, he would lose confidence immediately and begin to negotiate rather than demand.

  “This Beckworth?” asked the voice on the phone.

  “Who is this?”

  “The guy who saw your son shoot Renard. You give me what I want, I go away forever.”

  “What do you want?”

  ”A hundred thousand.”

  “Dollars?”

  “No, a hundred thousand dick slickers. Of course I'm talkin' about dollars.”

  “Or you'll do what?” asked Wes, smiling to himself.

  “Make another call, this time to the cops. I'll even testify if I have to. I saw him do it.”

  “You testify and I'll slit you open from your balls to your gizzard,” said Wes in a mild tone.

  There was a pause then, “I bet that works on most people. It don't work on me. I'm gonna want the money by Friday. I'll call again later and tell you what to do with it.”

  The man hung up and Wes took the phone away from his ear to put it in his pocket. He leaned back in his chair and fingered the edges of his desk while his mind worked. He considered giving the man what he wanted and then dealing with him later, after he knew his name and where he lived, worked, whatever.

  He got up from his chair and walked downstairs, to where Bruce was sprawled in a chair, drinking beer and watching an X-rated video. Wes looked at the screen a moment, then he took the beer bottle out of Bruce's hand and hit his bald son over the head with it, breaking the glass and causing Bruce to leap from his chair in an aggressive stance a second before his eyes rolled up and he fell forward onto his face.

  Wes watched the video a moment more, then he turned off the television and walked upstairs to find his wife.

  Jacqueline opened the door of the hotel room and Madeleine carried her purse inside. Things were still awkward between them, but Madeleine sensed her sister's anger and hurt were no longer directed at her so much as at Manuel.

  “It's not a suite at the Marriott, but it'll do,” said Jacqueline as Madeleine looked around herself.

  “It's fine,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Suicidal. How are you feeling?”

  “Penitent.”

  “Don't. I would have done the same.”

  “Would you?”

  “Yes. I take it you're not going to the cabin until tomorrow.”

  “Do you think Manuel will mind?”

  “Fuck Manuel. Everyone else has.”

  Her brows lifted, and Madeleine eyed her sister. She wondered if perhaps she should stay with Jacqueline after all.

  “Jacqueline,” she said, “have you called Mom?”

  “Not yet.” Jacqueline flopped onto the bed. “Shell drop everything to come running out here. I don't want them to worry.”

  Madeleine went to sit down beside her. It had been Jacqueline who called their parents to relay the news of Sam's death. They told her not to worry about Madeleine she was as tough as they came. Things would be different with Jacqueline. Those who gave more needed more, and Jacqueline had always given more than Madeleine.

  She drew a deep breath and said, “Eris asked me to come and stay with him. If you need me, I won't go.”

  Her sister blinked and looked at her. “Renard?”

  ‘‘Yes.” Madeleine's brown-green eyes were steady.

  “Oh,” said Jacqueline. “To help him until he can operate with two arms again?”

  “No. To live with him.”

  Jacqueline stared again. “You're joking.”

  Madeleine was silent.

  “What are you saying?” asked Jacqueline. “Are you telling me the two of you have been seeing each other? You and Eris Renard?”

  “Yes.”

  Jacqueline made a face. “Madeleine, he's . . .”

  “What?” Madeleine asked, daring her to finish.

  Her sister blinked again. Her mouth worked. Finally she said, “You haven't known him six weeks.”

  “I won't go if you need me,” Madeleine said again. “Will you be all right on your own?”

  Jacqueline slowly nodded. “I'm still trying to ... how did the two of you ever connect? He's so...so stiff and always looks so mean.”

  Madeleine looked away from her sister. “I don't see the same Eris the rest of you see.”

  “Apparently not,” said Jacqueline, her voice suddenly quiet. She reached over to bring Madeleine's chin around. They gazed into each other's eyes a moment then Jacqueline said, “I see a lot of potential for hurt in there, maybe as badly as I hurt right now. Sure you can handle this so soon after Sam?”

  “There's no comparison,” said Madeleine.

  “Meaning you're in love this time.”

  Madeleine looked down at her hands. Jacqueline shook her head and fell back onto the bed. “I've seen everything.”

  After a moment Madeleine moved to the other side of the bed and pulled the pillow from under the coverlet. As she lay down, she said, “I think you should call Mom.”

  “Stop worrying about me.”

  “I want to. That's why I think you should call Mom, so she can worry about you for both of us.”

  In spite of herself, Jacqueline smiled. Then she sighed and closed her eyes. “How do things get so screwed up, Madeleine? Please tell me.”

  “I wish I could.”

  “I thought my life was perfect. I had to pinch myself every day. There I was, married to a handsome, talented doctor, living in a beautiful home, working at a job I loved and hav
ing it all.”

  “That would have made me suspicious from the start,” Madeleine murmured.

  “What? What would have made you suspicious?”

  “The perfection. It just doesn't happen, Jacqueline. It never will.”

  “Spoken like a true realist.”

  “I try to be.”

  “You'll have to be.”

  Madeleine turned her head. “What does that mean?”

  “Eris Renard is an adoptee who's just found his birth mother. Isn't that what you told me?”

  “So?”

  “So nothing. You know what you're up against. He's an Indian and she's an Indian and you're not.”

  Madeleine knew. “I've got to find a job,” she said.

  “Go back to the college.”

  “I can't. I can't go back there.”

  “Then take some money from Sam's parents.”

  “No, thanks.” She rolled over on her side to face Jacqueline. “Is there a big and tall shop around here somewhere? I need to buy something for Eris to wear home tomorrow. His uniform was ruined.”

  “Not far, I think. He is pretty tall, isn't he?”

  “He's six-four.”

  “Maybe you have something there, Madeleine. Find a man who looks like Renard and you know he'll never—”

  “Shut up before you say something to make me hate you,” Madeleine interrupted her voice tight.

  Jacqueline was silent for some moments. Then she apologized. A moment later she started crying, and Madeleine moved over to put her arms around her. If Jacqueline didn't call their mother in the morning, then Madeleine was going to do it.

  Manuel made it impossible for her to take the truck, so Madeleine was forced to drive her Audi to pick up Eris. She moved the passenger seat back as far as she could and hoped for the best. She went to the big and tall shop and used the money Eris had given her to buy jeans and a shirt she thought he would like then she hurried to the hospital with her purchases and raced into the elevator, her pulse thrumming with sudden unnamed excitement.

  He smiled when she rushed into the room, and Madeleine had to stop as she reached the bed and simply look at him. How was it that no one else saw the wild beauty of him? she wondered. How could anyone escape the warmth and intelligence in his eyes, the fine, straight nose, or the sensuality of his lips? What were they looking at when they saw him?