The Edge f-4

by Catherine Coulter

  "Incredible," I said, climbing up the deep half-dozen front steps. Lights and mellow chamber music poured out of the house. When we walked into the huge vestibule, I paused a moment, just breathing in the incredible smell of the house. It smelled like standing in the middle of a deep forest with a sliver of sunlight on your face-a hint of flowers, of water-drenched moss, of trees and light, pure air. I inhaled deeply as I turned to see a tall, hawk-nosed man walk toward us. It was, I had no doubt, Alyssum Tarcher, the patriarch of Edgerton, Oregon.

  I am six feet, two inches tall, one hundred eighty-five pounds before the car bombing. He was at least two inches taller than me but not any heavier. He was probably around sixty years old, his hair thick, mixed black and white. He was a strong, vigorous man, no paunch, no softness on him. He looked potent. His son, Cotter, was standing behind him-thick-necked and dark, he looked like a thug. It was quite a contrast. He'd probably just shaved, but there was a hint of dark growth on his cheeks. He cracked his knuckles, his eyes studying my face.

  "Ford MacDougal?"

  Alyssum Tarcher's voice was as deep and rich as the smoothest Kentucky bourbon.

  "Yes, sir," I said. He stuck out his hand and I shook it. An artist's hands, I thought, slender, narrow, long-fingered. Too smooth.

  "You and Jilly don't look a thing like each other," Alyssum Tarcher said, looking through to my molecules, I thought. This was a dangerous man. Far more dangerous than his bully of a son.

  "No," I said. "We don't."

  "Of course you're both fine-looking young people and your general coloring's the same. You've met my son, Cotter?"

  I shook Cotter's hand and smiled down at him, content to wait to let him begin the pissing contest, which he did, quickly. I managed to twist my hand slightly so that I had better leverage than him. I looked him straight in the eye and proceeded to crush his fingers. I let his hand go when I saw the strain around his mouth. I think Paul was the only one who noticed the locker-room behavior. As for Cotter, oddly enough, he looked both homicidally furious and curiously absorbed. He slowly rubbed his hand, staring at me. It was as if he was trying to get inside my head, trying to see how he could best go about smashing me. I knew I'd made an enemy, didn't really care, but I did wonder what he was thinking now. I hadn't met up with a verifiable sociopath in at least six months.

  Cotter never looked away from me. I turned when I heard Alyssum Tarcher say, "Well, Paul, now that Jilly's back with us, you can get to work again. I understand all this has been hard on you, but now, finally, everything will be all right."

  "Yes," Paul said. "Jilly wanted to come tonight, but she couldn't walk more than a few steps. Mac and I left her nearly asleep and disappointed. She wants me to assure everyone that she didn't go over that cliff on purpose. She lost control of the Porsche. She also swears that she won't go a hundred miles an hour around any more curves as long as she lives. She sends her love."

  "That's a relief," Alyssum Tarcher said. He picked up two flutes of champagne from a waiter's tray and handed one to me and one to Paul. Then he picked up one for himself, raised it, and said, "To the future.

  May our project succeed beyond our wildest imaginings."

  "I'll drink to that," Paul said.

  Neither Cotter nor I said anything, merely sipped the champagne, nasty stuff, I'd always thought, remembering fondly the Bud Light Midge had brought me in the middle of the night. Her husband, Doug, was a lucky man. I placed the flute back on the waiter's tray. Alyssum had a dark brow raised, but I didn't give a shit.

  Paul said, "It's a real tragedy about Charlie Duck getting killed. Not something you'd expect to have happen in a great town like Edgerton."

  "Bad, bad thing," Alyssum Tarcher said, nodding that leonine head of his. "Everyone's been talking about it, trying to figure out who could have done such a thing, and why."

  "He was a nosy old man," Cotter said. "He was always pissing people off when he pried into their business."

  "A stranger went to his house and killed him, a random thing," said Tarcher. "It must have been. No one in Edgerton would have hurt a hair on his head."

  "He didn't have much hair left," Paul said. He received a strained smile from Tarcher.

  I turned to see Rob Morrison, looking like a hunk from Southern California in a black T-shirt, black slacks, and a black sports jacket, speaking to Maggie Sheffield. It was the first time I'd seen her out of uniform. She was a knockout. A red dress on a woman, especially one without much front or back, has an amazing effect. Her hair was piled up on top of her head and she was wearing three-inch heels. I had an urge to walk up to her, bite her earlobe, and go from there. Then I saw Rob Morrison's hand on her back, very low on her bare back. Very proprietary.

  "Hello, Mac. You look very nice in that dark suit."

  I turned to see Cal Tarcher, dressed like a frump in a long skirt with a black, high-neck, long-sleeved silk blouse and ballet flats. At least the skirt and blouse fit her, more or less. Her red hair was flat against her head, pulled back and tied with a black ribbon at the base of her neck. Her glasses had black frames.

  Well, at least she was color coordinated. "Hi, yourself," I said. I wondered what had happened to that young woman I'd seen briefly outside Paul and Jilly's house, the one who'd suddenly looked taller and arrogant and cold as ice. We were back to little miss prim and dowdy.

  "I saw you staring at Maggie. She looks beautiful, doesn't she?"

  "Oh, yes. I like a woman out of uniform. Maybe soon you can get out of your uniform. Maybe you could try a red dress like that."

  The cold, arrogant young woman flashed across her face, then smoothed away. "Have you met my mother, Elaine?"

  "No, not yet. The originator of BITEASS?"

  "Yes," she said, and seemed delighted that I remembered. "I hear that Jilly is just fine now. I tried to get to the hospital today but what with the party, I didn't have time. Mother had me running around all day long. You wouldn't believe how much food is going to be consumed tonight. Can you believe someone killed poor old Charlie Duck?"

  "No, I can't."

  "You hungry?"

  "I can't wait to attack the food. Oh yeah, do you know if Paul slept around on Jilly?" I watched her eyes widen behind her glasses. Just shock at what I'd said? It wasn't exactly acceptable party talk. Or was it surprise that I knew that? I realized then that I just had to let it go. Jilly was fine. There was no damned crime here, except for the random murder of Charlie Duck.

  "Paul loves Jilly," Cal said after a moment. "He wouldn't ever sleep with another woman. Besides, Paul's too skinny. He does enjoy sex, that's what Jilly told me. She said he was really good."

  "Were you jealous of Jilly, Cal?"

  Chapter Nine

  She didn't skip a beat, just said in a very nice, indifferent voice, "Not at all. I liked Jilly. She was always so gay, always singing. Would you like a beer?"

  I stared down at her a moment, waiting her out, but she beat me in that staring contest. Finally, I nodded.

  "Let's go to the kitchen. Cotter and I keep our stash hidden behind Father's mango supply. My mother hates mangoes so we have to hide the beer where she won't see it. She disapproves of beer, you know.

  It's low-class."

  I followed her through the crowd of at least fifty people, all different ages, dressed to the hilt, all of them seeming to be enjoying themselves, digging into an incredible array of food-from oysters Rockefeller to trays of chilled fish smothered in limes to heaping platters of pesto pasta dotted with sun-dried tomatoes-set out on a wide table at least twenty feet long.

  The kitchen was the command center. Cal didn't slow, just wove her way through the caterers to a huge refrigerator, opened it, and leaned inside. She was in there awhile, scrounging around. She came out holding two Coors. "Cotter's already been here. This is the end. We've got another six-pack out in the garage if we really get thirsty."

  "This is great," I said, popped the lid, toasted her without saying anything, and drank. I loved
beer.

  "How old is Cotter?"

  "He's twenty-eight, two years older than me. I know, I only look like I'm eighteen, but I'm not. You're also wondering what we're both doing still living at home at our age."

  "I did wonder. But I'm not rude enough to ask."

  "You were rude enough to ask me if I was jealous of Jilly. Why'd you even think of such a thing?"

  "I heard something, I guess. Why are you and Cotter still living at home?"

  She laughed, drank more of her beer, and led the way from the noisy, chaotic kitchen to a small back room, a library from the look of it. It was empty, dark. Cal shut the door and turned on a small Tiffany desk light.

  She set the beer down on a desktop, then turned to face me. "Well, Jilly was wrong. I'm not jealous of her. Actually, I want to paint her. She just keeps putting me off."

  "Paul and Maggie said you were an artist. What do you paint?"

  "I usually do landscapes, but people's faces fascinate me. Jilly has incredible bones. I want to paint them, and her eyes. Her eyes are the key to her. It's the same with you, Mac. You have beautiful eyes. Dark, stormy blue, romantic eyes."

  "Don't make my beer go down the wrong way."

  She stopped then, shook herself, and gave me a bright smile, a really fake smile. "How are you feeling?

  You're looking stronger and more fit than you did yesterday."

  "I feel fine."

  "Cotter lives at home because Father wants him to. He wants Cotter to learn all about his business holdings. He did allow Cotter to leave the state to go to UCLA, even pushed him. Cotter got his undergraduate degree in business and then an MBA, all in four years. The thing is, though, I don't believe Father will ever think Cotter competent enough to take over. He'll just have to die before Cotter can get anywhere. Then, of course, it would be moot. But Cotter thinks our father will live forever."

  "So Cotter wants out?"

  "No, Cotter wants to run everything. I've told him he's too short. It would help if he'd wear elevator shoes. Tall men, like our father, like you, get all the respect. Cotter's too dark as well. He looks like a gangster."

  "What did Cotter say to that?" I asked, fascinated.

  "I believe he ordered some elevator shoes from a catalogue. He might wear them now for all I know. He still looks like a thug though. No way he can ever change that."

  "You're very informative all of a sudden, Miss Tarcher. What's Cal stand for?"

  "You don't want to know, trust me." She took two steps toward me and very slowly laid her open palms on my chest. "It stands for Calista. I like you, Mac."

  I closed my hands over hers and lightly tugged them away. "Thank you. Actually, Calista isn't bad, but I like Cal better. It sounds more natural. I don't know what to think of you, Cal. I think that the picture you present to the world and how the world responds to that picture must amuse you tremendously."

  She drew her hands free of mine and backed up until she was leaning against the desk.

  "Don't bother to deny it. I saw the real you yesterday. You forgot to hide yourself for a moment there when I walked you to your car. I saw arrogance in you, certainty. I have this feeling that you're laughing at the whole town, that you think they're all fools. Maybe you are jealous of Jilly. Or maybe she's seen the real you and she's jealous of you. What do you think?"

  "Is this the FBI speaking?" There was amusement in her voice and a smile on her mouth.

  "Nope."

  "You a profiler?"

  "I'm in Counter-Terrorism. Jilly is very beautiful. Why would she be jealous of you?"

  Cal just shook her head, the abrupt movement clearly telling me that she was tired of this game. Standing there in the shadows cast by the Tiffany lamp, she said suddenly, "Please don't move. I just want to sketch you. Is that okay?"

  I was too startled to say anything. She dashed out of the room, leaving me there alone with two nearly empty Coors cans.

  She came back into the room a couple of minutes later, holding a large sketch pad and a thick charcoal pencil in her hand. "Don't move, please," she said, walking quickly toward the desk.

  I nodded. I looked at her as she flipped open the sketch pad, flipped through several pages, and propped the pad up on her thighs. Her face changed completely. There wasn't a hint of frump. I saw an intense woman who bristled with focus. This was a strong woman. I started to raise my hand, but she said, "No, Mac, don't move, please."

  "I've never had anyone sketch me before. Can I at least talk?"

  "Yes," she said, not really paying any attention to me, just drawing on the paper.

  "Why do you dress like this?"

  "Shut up."

  "You said I could talk. The jeans you wore yesterday, they were huge, baggy. You were wearing a man's shirt. Why, Cal? Why were you hiding yourself?"

  "I want men to desire me for my brain."

  I laughed, I couldn't help myself. I tried to think of a less controversial question and said, "Do you think Maggie is sleeping with Rob Morrison?"

  Her charcoal stopped cold in mid-stroke. She stared at me, her lips pursed. "He's so beautiful he could sleep with any woman he wanted. Why not Maggie?" She began sketching again, more quickly now, her strokes deep and fast, rather like really good sex, I thought.

  She stopped suddenly, the charcoal pencil poised over the paper, and she stared at me. She was breathing hard. Her hands were shaking, her lips slightly parted.

  "Done?" I asked, looking at her hands.

  She didn't say anything, just set down the charcoal and the pad and flipped off the lamp.

  "Mac," she said, in a voice low and harsh, and she jumped me.

  I tried for about three and a half seconds to pull her off me, then a good wallop of lust changed my mind and I gave it up. She kissed me all over my face, ran her hands over my chest, then down, unzipping my slacks, and then her hands were inside my shorts. I nearly lost it when her fingers went around me. I felt a wildness in her, a frenzy, and in her fingers. Dear God, it had been too long and I was a mess. I pulled on her clothes, ripping her blouse, but she didn't seem to care. She pushed me down onto the carpet, climbed on top of me, and straightened over me. I could see her outline, her head thrown back, her throat white and smooth. I could hear her breathing-like someone running a race-hard and deep, jerking with effort.

  "Cal," I said, trying to hold her still for just a moment. "Cal, listen to me. I don't have any condoms."

  "Don't worry about it. I'm healthy. You're an FBI agent. I'm on the pill."

  In the next instant, she'd pulled down her panties, kicked off her ballet slippers, and spread her legs. She straddled me, and brought me up and into her. I went in high and deep and I could feel her, every slick bit of her, and I groaned with the effort of not coming right then. "No," I said, "no." I lifted her off me, nearly throwing her onto her back. I watched her raise her hand, jerk off her glasses, and toss them across the room. She stopped cold then, just staring up at me. "I don't understand," she said.

  "You don't have to," I said, and brought her up to my mouth. I wondered a few seconds later why the entire household didn't come rushing into the room, she screamed so loudly. I managed to fit my hand over her mouth, felt her hot breath lacing through my fingers, felt her cries nearly liquid against my skin.

  When she collapsed, all boneless, I came into her, wild and hard. I didn't stay long, I couldn't.

  It always takes me a while to get my brain back together. I didn't really want to this time; I didn't want to think about any consequences. I just wanted to keep floating free, not thinking, just mellowing, drifting away. Eventually she moved and then I did. She was wide awake, looking up at me in the shadowy light.

  "You came down on me," she said, unexpectedly.

  I still tasted her, a lingering scent of dark promises and bone-deep lust. It was amazing, that taste of hers, and it made me hard again. "Yes," I said, and managed to slide off to her side. I leaned down on my elbow, and kissed her mouth. I kissed her several times, la
zy kisses, and I said against her lips, "You draw a picture and it makes you horny?"

  "Not usually," she said, kissing me back, all the while stroking her fingers over my jaw and back into my hair. It was like she was drawing me all over again. "But you, Mac, you were different. I sketched your mouth, then your jaw, and it was all over for me." She sighed and curled onto her side facing me. "That was very nice, Mac. Come into me again."

  "All right," I said. This time didn't last much longer than the first time, and I was ready this time to muffle her cries when she climaxed. I knew her scent, the taste of her, would stay with me for a while. I'd learned two very important things about Cal Tarcher: She really liked making love, and she had long thin legs that fit nicely around my neck.

  I found out she wasn't much for conversation either, which I appreciated since I didn't have a thing to say. She kissed me once more, patted my cheek, and rose. I watched her blot herself with kleenex, watched her dress and slide her glasses up her nose. She left the small room first to go upstairs and straighten herself up, she told me. I moved more slowly. I finished my beer, now warm, and tossed it in the wastebasket beside the desk. I zipped up my pants, found a bathroom just down the hall, and tried to wipe the just-fucked look off my face. It was difficult because it had felt so good, still felt good. So good if she'd been there I would have asked for more.

  When I went back into the huge great room, confident that I looked normal again, except for the lingering glazed stupor in my eyes, the first person I saw was Maggie Sheffield, standing right in front of me. She frowned a moment, then looked me up and down. Then she smiled. "Well, Mac, who just put you out of your misery?"

  It was impossible. There was no way she could tell what I'd been doing. No way.

  "You want to dance, Maggie?"

  "I wonder," she said, tapping her fingertips on her cheek, her head cocked to one side.

  "All right. No dance. I'd like to meet Elaine Tarcher," I said. "Could you introduce me?"

  "Why not? Come along, Mac, that's Elaine over there, in the midst of that group of men. She's a middle-aged femme fatale. I think she's ridiculous with all her little coyness, a little pathetic actually. She's old enough to be my mother."