Sleep No More m-4

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Sleep No More m-4 Page 15

by Greg Iles


  The next day, when he took the portfolio from his desk drawer to look at Mallory’s picture, his eyes settled on the unopened bundle of her letters. That he had not yet opened this forced him to realize how badly he wanted to experience a reincarnation of Mallory without exhuming the darker remains of her personality. But that was as impossible now as it had been twenty years ago. Ominous flashes of her instability had already broken through the bright facade Eve worked so carefully to maintain.

  More and more during their time together, she brought up Lily’s name. She questioned him endlessly about her. What had initially drawn him to her? Why had he married her? Was Annelise more like her father or mother? Eve asked these questions as though the answers were of only passing interest, but whenever he said anything even mildly complimentary about Lily, Eve’s face tightened in a way that sent a chill through him. More disturbing, as the days passed, she wanted him to stay later and later at the house. Twice he drove out of the narrow driveway after dark, distressed by the knowledge that Lily and Annelise were waiting for him at home. At first, Eve kept him late by increasing the intensity of the sex as evening approached. But when Waters tore himself away in spite of this, she reversed strategy and drew out the foreplay, so that he stayed late in order to find the release that days before had come in the first hour after his arrival. Beneath Eve’s subtle games he sensed a battle beginning with Lily, and in this Eve truly bore out Mallory’s shadow side. For the Grendel that lived in the dark cave of Mallory’s mind was jealousy, an unthinking possessiveness that could swallow a man whole and not be sated. The fact that Lily did not even know she was in a war began to work on Waters’s conscience in a way that simple sexual betrayal had not. Yet still he returned to Eve, diving ever deeper into the well of her passion, and leaving farther behind all that he deemed precious.

  One night, as dusk fell outside the half-moon window on the third floor, he was trying to find a graceful way to make his exit. Sensing his mood, Eve shook her head and began to caress him. He had thought himself spent, but with patient ministrations, Eve brought him back to a state of arousal greater than that in which he’d begun the afternoon. They started with him above, but as he tired, she rolled him over and sat astride, taking control of their movements. Waters hovered in a purgatory between ecstasy and exhaustion, striving for release but unable to achieve it. With tireless rhythm Eve brought him to a point of exquisite torture, a tightrope in the dark, with pain on one side and pleasure on the other. As he strained against her, feeling as though he might faint, her mantra began again.

  “Say my name, Johnny…”

  He shut his eyes and tried to lose himself within her. Her teeth bit into his neck.

  “Say it, Johnny…say it and you’ll be there. It’s so easy. It’s your magic word…”

  Blood pounded like drums in his ears, and his muscles burned, but still he could not find release. Panting for oxygen, he opened his eyes and found himself staring at the place of their joining. The crosshatched pattern of scars on Eve’s inner thighs had grown red and prominent with her arousal, scars he hadn’t seen for twenty years.

  “Say it, Johnny,” she begged, not even slowing her motion. “Say my name….”

  As she repeated her eternal demand, he heard another voice answer hers. Three whispered syllables filled the room as completely as the screamed confession of a heretic.

  “Mallory.”

  Eve froze above him, her eyes locked onto his. Then she gave a moan riven from the depths of her being.

  “Mallory,” he said again.

  She gripped his head between her hands. “Say it again! Say it! Save me!”

  “Mallory? Mallory, Mallory, Mallory…”

  Tears poured from her eyes like rivers of grief and joy. She sat down with all her weight, the tears dropping onto his face, into his mouth, not warm but cold against his superheated flesh. And though she was not moving, something suddenly broke loose in him, and the point he had struggled so hard to reach came without effort, leaving him shivering beneath her like a malaria patient. Eve lay prone atop him, breathing shallowly.

  “Do you love me, Johnny?”

  Before that day she had often said, “I love you,” but she’d never insisted that he do the same. At those times he’d sensed a careful vigilance over her emotions, as though she knew that moving too fast could ruin everything. Now she had thrown caution to the wind.

  “I don’t know,” he replied. “I honestly don’t know.”

  “I do,” she said. “I know you do.”

  As Waters drove up to his house that night, he felt like a man on the verge of madness. Eve had not demanded that he call her Mallory again before leaving, but neither had he called her Eve. And having surrendered this ground to her, he sensed that only one moral redoubt remained: the renunciation of his love for Lily.

  The next morning, Cole walked into Waters’s office, sat down in the chair opposite his desk, and asked if he had the new maps ready.

  Waters looked blank.

  “You said you had a prospect in West Feliciana Parish,” Cole reminded him. “A close-in deal. You said you’d have it ready in a week.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “The mapping’s going to take a little longer than I thought.”

  Cole gave him a hard look. “What the fuck are you up to, John?”

  Waters shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing but banging the bejesus out of Eve Sumner. Which would be fine by me, except you ain’t doing any work.”

  A flash of temper covered Waters’s shock. “I do more than my share of work around here, and you know it.”

  Cole’s face reddened. “And you make more money.”

  Waters dismissed this with a flick of his hand. He should have known Cole would be on to him. It wasn’t hard to figure out. For no apparent reason the partners had suddenly swapped lifestyles. Cole, usually absent from the office during the odd hours he catted around town, was coming in early every day, making phone calls, evaluating producing wells for possible purchase and workover. Waters, the obsessive workaholic, arrived at nine but usually left by ten, and sometimes didn’t return until four. When he was in the office, he locked his door and took no calls.

  “Come to think of it,” Cole said, leaning back and crossing his legs, “your banging Evie isn’t fine by me for another reason. ’Cause you’re breaking rule number one.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Don’t lose your perspective. That gets you in big trouble. And you have a lot on the line, John Boy.”

  “I should take advice from you?”

  “In this case, yes. That chick ain’t worth it.”

  Waters stiffened. “What do you know about Eve?”

  Cole looked incredulous. “What do I know about her? I fucked her, remember? I know plenty. Evie’s hot to trot, and you’re just the latest in a very long line.”

  The words stung Waters like the lash of a whip. The knowledge that Cole had been inside Eve nauseated him. He knew how ridiculous he must look. He was like a young soldier in love with a whore, defending her honor to a laughing village. But he couldn’t control his feelings.

  “She’s not the same woman you slept with,” he said quietly.

  “No?” Cole’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  Cole shook his head, his eyes filled with amazement. “Holy shit. At first I thought you meant she’d reformed or something. Changed her ways. Got born again. But that’s not what you mean, is it?”

  Waters looked away, not sure just what he had meant.

  “You’re still on your Mallory kick, aren’t you?” Cole leaned forward, his forehead knotted in thought. “Don’t tell me you were right about ‘Soon,’ and all that? Eve’s not actually trying to run that line on you? That she’s Mallory?”

  Waters said nothing. A saying of his father’s had always stuck with him: Two people can keep a secret, if one of them’s dead.
Yet the temptation to confide in Cole was strong. As far as he knew, his partner had never spilled any of his secrets.

  “Eve knows things,” Waters said softly. “Things no one but Mallory ever knew.”

  “We talked about that, John. You don’t know what Mallory told people about you. She lived for, what? Nine years after you two split as a couple?”

  “I know. But that’s not all. Eve…”

  “What?”

  “She kisses the way Mallory did. Exactly like her.”

  Cole barked a laugh. “Do you really remember how Mallory kissed? Does a guy remember that? There aren’t really any unique ways to do it. This is in your head, mon.”

  “I remember how she kissed. It was unforgettable. It’s like muscle memory. Like riding a bike. You can’t forget it. It’s deeper than conscious thought.”

  “You’re losing your mind, Rock. You need a week in Cabo.”

  Waters shook his head. “I’ve seen her handwriting. It’s identical to Mallory’s. She left me a note at the cemetery, just like Mallory used to, and the handwriting was exactly the same.”

  For the first time, Cole looked intrigued. “Do you have this note?”

  “No. I think I left it at the cemetery. I may have put it back in the jar.”

  “Back in the jar.” Cole nodded like a cop humoring an escaped mental patient. “I see. And this note was signed ‘Mallory’?”

  “Yes.”

  “John, Eve Sumner is either batshit crazy or running a scam on you.”

  Waters thought of the scars on Eve’s arm and thighs, but he did not want to mention them. Since he had never told Cole about Mallory’s self-mutilation, Cole might think he had made it up on the spot.

  “Personally, I think it’s a scam,” Cole asserted. “She’s looking for money, baby.”

  Waters shook his head. “She doesn’t want money.”

  “What, then? You think that forty-one-year-old dick of yours is different from the last ten she had? She wants your money, boy, nothing else.”

  “Eve doesn’t want money!” Waters snapped. “You’re the only person who’s asked me for money recently.”

  It was a reflexive blow, but Cole snapped back as though he’d been dealt a mortal wound. After a stunned moment, he stood and walked to the door, but before he went through, he turned and spoke in a quavering voice.

  “I’m going to forget you said that, partner. And you’re right about one thing. Where you dip your wick is your own business. I just don’t want to see you lose Lily and Annelise. You’re not me, and Lily isn’t Jenny. Lily won’t take this well if she finds out. She won’t look the other way. And if you keep this shit up, she will find out. That’s the only sure bet I know. Because they always do.”

  Waters stared out the window until Cole closed the door. He knew his partner’s advice was the fruit of bitter experience, but he didn’t much care. All he cared about right now was the cell phone on his desk. He wanted it to ring.

  It didn’t. It lay there like an insult for an hour, then two, its silence a goad to his pride and to his faith in Eve. Like a junkie going cold turkey, he fought the urge to call her office. He tried a dozen distractions, but none worked.

  Ten minutes before noon, it finally rang. With two chirps of the ringer, he was back on the crest of the wave, Cole’s warnings forgotten. But when he answered, Eve did not say, “Ten minutes.” She said, “We’ve got a problem. Don’t say anything.”

  It was a measure of how much perspective Waters had lost that her words did not cause him panic.

  “Some film producers are flying in from Los Angeles,” she explained. “The ones who bought Penn Cage’s novel. They’re considering shooting the film on location here.”

  “Uh-huh.” Waters had no idea what this could have to do with him.

  “The Historic Foundation is coordinating the visit, and they’re putting the producers up in Bienville for the week.”

  “Ahh.” The strung-out addict’s feeling returned with a vengeance as he wondered if they would miss today’s rendezvous.

  “Today’s no good,” Eve went on, confirming his fear. “But check the jar.”

  He started to say something, but she’d already clicked off. Locking the portfolio in his bottom drawer, he got his keys and walked quickly to the back stairs, his mind already at the cemetery.

  When he arrived at Catholic Hill, he parked and ran behind the wall to dig up the mason jar. Inside lay a piece of blue notepaper and a hotel key card. When he unfolded the paper, he saw Mallory’s flowing script.

  Johnny,

  This is a key to Suite 324 at the Eola Hotel. I’ve rented it for the week. I know the Eola is right in the middle of town, but it’s the safest place for us. It has a bar inside the Main Street entrance, so if anyone sees you go in, you can always say you were going to the bar. The Pearl Street entrance is best for you, though. It’s possible to get all the way to our suite without being seen. The security guard sits deep in the lobby, and he probably won’t see you. Even if he does, he won’t look at you more than a second if you’re dressed nice. Go in and immediately turn left. You’ll see a staircase leading to the mezzanine. Walk up, then take the elevator to the third floor. There’s an exposed walkway just before the suite’s door, where you can be seen from the courtyard or from rooms above, so walk fast there. I’ll be there by 10:30 p.m.

  M

  He put the jar back in its hole, but this time he kept the note. As soon as he got back to the office, he got the portfolio back out and did something he had not yet found the courage to do: he opened the bundle of Mallory’s old letters.

  The handwriting matched perfectly.

  Chapter 10

  When he arrived at the Eola suite that night, he saw that she’d been right to choose it. The brick and stone hotel was a local landmark; it occupied most of a city block, and at seven stories had held the title of tallest building in the city for decades. Two popular nightclubs operated nearby, and their patrons frequently spilled out into Main Street, go cups in hand as they laughed and danced to the beat of live bands thumping through the walls. On any given night, those bars were filled with people who would recognize Waters on sight, but he felt reasonably safe approaching on foot from Pearl Street, as Mallory had told him to do.

  Entering the doors of the grand hotel hurled him back in time, not twenty years but thirty. When he was a boy, his father had often brought the family to the Eola for Sunday dinner. He still remembered his passage through the lobby as they walked to the restaurant. Old men sat in club chairs, smoking cigars and playing checkers; a black shoe-shine man quietly solicited business; an attendant with a gold-braided uniform manned the elevator, which had a brass cage door that Waters always dreamed of opening and closing. He could still hear his father ordering shrimp remoulade from the red-haired waitress, still see the sliced yellow pound cake, strawberries, and whipped cream that awaited them for dessert.

  On the first night he met Eve, the lobby was empty but for a lone security guard who sat far away with his back to the door. A bell rang somewhere, but as Eve had predicted, the guard did not challenge him. A dark business suit provided all the bona fides he needed for access.

  When he opened the door to suite 324, he found Eve lying naked across the bed like Marilyn Monroe, a huge red bow tied around her waist, a champagne flute in her hand. The Rat Pack campiness of it broke the tension that had built inside him on his way up, and they celebrated their new digs with wild excess.

  It was a good beginning for a week that would end badly. For after that first night, things began to change. Lily was behaving differently toward Waters at home. Her tone of voice became more affected, and sometimes he caught her watching him from the corner of her eye. He began to worry that he’d made some mistake, that she could smell Eve on him despite the fact that he always showered before returning home. And not all the clues to his betrayal were as subtle as scent. Eve was so physical that she sometimes left marks on him, even though she tried not t
o. If he and Lily had had a normal sexual relationship, his infidelity would have been discovered in the first week. But though she did not discover the marks of passion, Lily did notice changes in his behavior.

  The move to the Eola had necessitated that the trysts become nocturnal, and Waters’s nightly ritual never varied. He would put Annelise to bed, wait for Lily to retire, then go out to the slave quarters to “do some mapping.” After he was sure Lily was asleep, he would slip on a sport coat, drive down to Pearl Street, park under some trees, and walk two blocks to the Eola.

  One night, though, Lily varied her ritual. She came into the kitchen after they’d put Annelise to bed, and remarked that he’d been cold to her for the past few days. Waters could not believe she’d used the word “cold.” When he asked for clarification, she said he seemed unusually distant, and she didn’t think it was just the EPA investigation. He hadn’t hugged or kissed her for ten days, she said. Waters almost pointed out that Lily hadn’t made love with him for seven weeks, and that effort was only a painful charade she suffered through to keep him from going out of his mind with frustration. But he didn’t. As he stood awkwardly by the refrigerator, Lily walked up and laid her head on his shoulder, then said she was going to take a hot shower. Waters stiffened. Lily normally took baths. “Taking a hot shower” was one of her rare preambles to sex.

  Afraid she would sense his anxiety, he hugged her, then said that he had a full night’s work ahead, mapping a new prospect. Lily gave him a hurt look, but he did not relent. He went out to the slave quarters and sat looking blankly at his drafting table while he waited for Lily to fall asleep. As his mind drifted, an underlying irony of his marital sex life hit him. As long as Lily knew that he wanted to go to bed with her, she was quite content not to have sex. But the moment she sensed real indifference on his part, she felt compelled to take him to bed.

 

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