The Burning Point

by Mary Jo Putney

  Painstaking she raised her torso until her right arm was straight without finding anything to hold with her left hand. Her whole body shook with the effort of holding her position. With growing fear, she recognized that she might really die here.

  "Kate!" Donovan's voice echoed around the bare glass walls.

  An instant later he was kneeling above her. Bracing his left hand on the column, he wrapped his right arm around her waist and heaved upward. She whipped through the air and tumbled over him, her leg pulling free of the hole and her hard hat flying off. They rolled away from the shaft, ending with Donovan half on top of her.

  Near hysteria, Kate's first surge of relief was followed by a panicky reaction to the weight of his body. Touching her. Trapping her.

  "Christ, Kate! How could you do something so stupid?"

  The terror flooding her veins connected to an older, deeper horror. She shoved him away and grabbed a ragged chunk of concrete. "Stay away from me!"

  Donovan pushed himself to a sitting position while she raised her improvised weapon, ready to strike if he moved toward her. He stared at the concrete in her upraised hand. "Planning to bash my skull in, Kate?"

  She dropped the concrete and wrapped her arms around herself, on the verge of nausea. "Oh, God, I'm sorry, Patrick. You save my life, and I react as if you're a mugger. I'm...sorry."

  She rocked back and forth. This was why she had stayed a continent away from her former husband, because of this pain, this fear--this searing rage--that had never gone away, only been buried by time and her passionate desire to forget. Yet it had taken only an instant for the old scar to rip into an open, bleeding wound.

  The worst he'd ever hurt her had been an accident, really. He'd become furious for a reason she couldn't even remember. Some jealousy thing. She'd been putting together a peach pie when he came raging into the kitchen. He'd grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward him, his expression ferocious. She cried out.

  Struggling to control himself, he pushed away from her and swung around to smash his fist into the refrigerator. Knocked off balance, she fell, her head striking the corner of the counter. She blacked out for an instant and come to with blood pouring from a laceration in her scalp as Donovan frantically tried to staunch the flow.

  That time they did end up in the emergency room. The young doctor sent Donovan away while she cleaned the wound and stitched Kate up. Quietly she asked what had happened, adding that Kate could tell the truth, her husband wasn't there.

  Shocked that the doctor suspected she was an abused wife, Kate swore that she'd tripped and fallen against the counter. It was almost true, after all. Donovan had been angry, but he certainly hadn't meant to injure her.

  The doctor pressed her lips together, but said no more.

  Later Kate recognized how much her fear had increased after that incident, which had demonstrated that her husband could hurt her seriously without meaning to. At the time, though, her most fervent desire had been to pretend it had never happened, and she had become world-class at denial.

  The doctor had wanted her to stay overnight for observation, but Kate had been desperate to return to normality. Donovan drove her home and put her straight to bed. Hazy from a painkiller, wanting to show that she didn't blame him for the accident, she'd seduced him. Rather easily--he'd been as eager as she to repair the damage to their relationship. He made love to her with tender care, then held her as she slept.

  Kate returned to the present to find herself compulsively tracing the ragged scar hidden by her hair. Her hand dropped, and she made an effort to collect herself. "Please excuse my temporary insanity. It was a side effect of practically getting myself killed."

  "Kate, don't brush this aside. It's normal to be scared by an accident that could have killed you, but there's nothing normal about reacting like a cornered animal."

  "I don't want to talk about it." She retrieved her hard hat. "Time to get back to work."

  "No, dammit." He took off his hard hat so that his eyes were no longer shadowed. "You've refused to talk for too long. After you left Baltimore, did you ever go to a therapist? Get counseling?"

  "What could a therapist tell me? That I was an abused wife who had spent far too long denying and rationalizing? I already knew that."

  He didn't back off. "A good counselor could have helped you come to terms with what happened, so it wouldn't hurt as much now."

  "Which would let you off the hook for what you did? I didn't go into therapy, but I did a lot of reading. One thing I learned is that abusive men are nowhere near as out of control as they claim. They know who they can get away with hitting. Not the boss, not their friends, that would cause trouble. But wives and kids, that's okay. They're property. Perfectly all right to knock them around."

  "It was never right, and even at my worst, I never thought it was," he said quietly. "I'd give anything to change the past, but I can't. The best I can do is try to make amends. That's why Julia supported the idea of us being forced into each other's company--so that we could get out of our emotional ruts."

  She turned her hard had restlessly in her hands. A scrape on one side marked where she'd bashed into the concrete column. "I kind of like my emotional rut."

  "Oh? I think you can't forgive yourself for having gotten tangled up in such a sleazy situation, or for staying in it so long," he said. "Things always came to you easily, maybe too easily. You were attractive, intelligent, charming, doted on by everyone who met you. Yet you weren't spoiled. I always loved how nice you were to everyone, the geeks as well as the A crowd."

  Thinking her youthful self sounded obnoxious, she asked, "So where did I go wrong?"

  "You never really had to deal with the hard stuff. Until you met me, there wasn't any hard stuff. So when the first problems showed up in our marriage, you went into denial for a long time. Then, during the"--for the first time, his voice faltered--"the last incident, something snapped and you got out of Dodge as fast as you could. You were right to leave. The situation was going to hell fast. I hate to admit it, but as long as you put up with me, I didn't have reason to change."

  "Have you changed now?"

  "I hope so." His eyes darkened. "God knows that I've tried my damnedest."

  "Have you ever abused any other women?"

  "No," he said flatly. "Never."

  Her voice became edged. "How did I get to be the lucky one? Was I bitchier than your girlfriends?"

  "Never that." His gaze slid away. "I...I was violent with you because I cared more, Kate. And I don't need to be told that's a lousy, sick reason."

  Her eyes narrowed. "The East Baltimore guy I married never would have talked like this. Did you actually get counseling?"

  "After you left, I couldn't hide from the fact that I was a rotten bastard. Basically it was a matter of change, or shoot myself. So I joined a group for abusive men sponsored by a women's shelter. The worst part was admitting to myself how much I had in common with the other men." He looked away. "After all, I loved you--I had never wanted to hurt you. Then I found that most of the other men said they loved their women, too. Obviously love wasn't enough."

  She'd learned that, too, and it had been the saddest discovery of her life.

  "I learned more practical stuff, too," he said. "Such as the fact that I had lousy impulse control. That the times I hit the wall instead of you might not have inflicted physical damage, but they were still emotionally brutal. That there's nothing romantic about irrational jealousy. I stayed with the group until I had a good handle on where I went wrong."

  "So now you're all repaired."

  "I don't really know." His mouth twisted. "I've avoided any relationships that would put me to the test."

  "You seem to have everything figured out. So tell me where I crashed and burned."

  "I suspect that you swept everything under the carpet after you left," he said. "Not surprising, given the hell I put you through, but not a good long-term solution. Now the edge of the carpet has been flipped back, and y
ou're finding that the pain and anger are alive and well."

  Maybe there was some truth to what he said. She'd always prided herself on being able to control her anger. It was terrifying to learn how easily it could sizzle into ugly life. It had erupted with appalling force in the explosive end of her marriage, and it simmered inside her now.

  She fingered the scrape on her hard hat. "Any suggestions, Mr. Enlightenment?"

  "Forgive yourself for the fact that you were young, Kate," he said quietly. "If you'd been older and wiser, you would have caught on sooner. But you were barely nineteen when we married, and my fatal weaknesses were heavily camouflaged by a lot of love. That was very real, and I'll never believe otherwise."

  She felt the sting of tears. Yes, the love had been real. But as Patrick had said, it hadn't been enough.

  "You used to be pretty good at expressing your feelings," he said. "It's time to get back in the habit. If you get mad at me, yell instead of being so damned civilized. You're half Italian--you should be able to yell."

  She had her "Italian moments," and when she did, she was apt to do a lot worse than just yell. That's why she tried so hard to control her temper. "This is a really strange conversation to have while sitting on the floor of a building under demolition."

  "It would be a pretty strange conversation anywhere and anytime."

  "But maybe overdue." She got to her feet, and almost fell as pain shot through her knee. Muscles weren't designed to be yanked the way hers had been.

  "Your leg is bleeding."

  "Scraped it on some rebar, I guess. When I loaded the charge, it went all the way through the column and out the other side. I was trying to retrieve it when I stepped into a concealed hole and lost my balance."

  "Carmen has a first aid kit in the office, so she should be able to patch you up. If your tetanus shots aren't up to date, you get one pronto. That's an order." Donovan crossed to the elevator shaft. Testing the security of his footing and avoiding the crumbling area where Kate had come to grief, he leaned out and retrieved the stick of explosive with a sharp jerk that undid the wires around Kate's anchor. Being over six feet tall gave him an unfair advantage.

  He turned back to her, the stick of explosive held casually in his hand. "This wouldn't have gone off even if it had fallen down the shaft."

  "I thought it probably wouldn't, but I didn't want to find out the hard way."

  "Can't fault you for being careful." He tucked the dynamite into a vest pocket. "We'll have to get another hole drilled. Since this one goes all the way through, it might alter the distribution of force too much for a test shot."

  "I appreciate the fact that you haven't turned this into a lecture on the dangers of demolition."

  Humor glinted in his eyes. "Not saying 'I told you so' has been a real strain. Do you understand better why Sam didn't want you working under these conditions?"

  She considered what it would be like to have a child of hers in danger of falling down an elevator shaft. "I concede the point--working demolition is dangerous. I've certainly learned a lesson in caution that I'll never forget. But if you're hoping I've decided this is not a career I want to pursue, forget it."

  "The information doesn't surprise me." Because he knew her well--surprisingly well, given the number of years they had been apart.

  And she didn't know him as well as she'd thought.

  Chapter 19

  The day after Kate's near fatal slip, activity at the Nevada Palace kicked into high gear. Movie set designers started grooming the surrounding area to restore the illusion of normalcy, while safety lines were strung around the outer reaches of the parking lot to keep onlookers at a safe distance.

  Donovan had finalized the explosives plan, so it was time to start preparing the columns for loading. He put Kate in charge of the covering crew, which would wrap the designated columns with chain-link fencing and geo-textile fabric.

  The local laborers who made up her six-man group regarded Kate with surprise when she walked up and introduced herself, then explained what they would be doing. As she asked each of their names, a cocky young devil named Luis studied her hair in fascination. It was long enough to make a short braid, and it hung from the back of her hard hat, blond and hopelessly frivolous.

  Expression innocent, he said in Spanish, "Think I'll ask little blondie to go dancing, then show her what a man's stick of dynamite is for."

  Glad for her experience with California construction crews, she said in Spanish, "A stick of dynamite? More like a wet firecracker, chico."

  Luis turned scarlet to his ears as the rest of the crew broke into roars of laughter. One of the older men clapped Luis on the back. "Never mess with a boss lady, hombre."

  After that, the men accepted Kate with good-natured respect and gave her no trouble. Lugging the rolls of fencing and black fabric up to the shot-floors was heavy work, as was wrapping and wiring the coverings in place. After nine hours of laboring with only a brief lunch break, Kate was more than ready to call it a day. She'd thought she was in pretty good shape, but whole new muscle groups were complaining loudly.

  Back at the Grand Maya, she showered and emerged into the suite living room with damp hair as the phone rang. It was Luther Hairston and Jim Frazer, the other PDI men, who had just arrived from Maryland and checked into the hotel.

  The four of them spent the evening working over room service food in the conference area of Kate and Donovan's suite. Besides going over the explosives plan, the men discussed the problems that might be caused by the extra-heavy reinforcement. Kate followed the conversation silently, absorbing every word toward the day when she could participate as an equal.

  As the main meeting broke up, Donovan and Jim started discussing some engineering fine points. Kate took the opportunity to visit with Luther, who had been Sam's first employee. The two men had met in the Army Corps of Engineers, and learned explosives side by side. When Sam started PDI, he'd hired Luther at a time when it was a good deal less common for white and black to work side by side as equals.

  Though Luther had been a pallbearer at the funeral, Kate hadn't had a chance to speak with him then. His hair was white now, which made his skin seem even darker, but his smile was the same one she'd loved as long as she could remember. "I'm glad you're on this job, Luther. You can keep me out of trouble."

  "That husband of yours can do that, Katydid."

  "Ex-husband, if you please. Sam deserves a few years in purgatory for drawing up such a will."

  "Your daddy was high-handed, no denying it, but he was also no fool," Luther said. "You should take this time to think hard about your marriage."

  "It takes two people to make a marriage. Neither of us wants to go back."

  "Maybe not back, but that doesn't mean you couldn't go forward. I haven't forgotten how you and Donovan were together. There was something pretty fine there once. Maybe there could be again. I've worked with him for a dozen years now. He's got a temper on him, but he's a good man, Kate. Smart. Fair. Responsible. A sense of humor. You could do worse." Luther grinned. "After all, you aren't getting any younger. Time you got married again. At least with Donovan, you already know his bad points."

  Too true. "The world is full of divorced people. Why does everyone have to have an opinion about me and Donovan?"

  "Because we care about you, honey. But I won't belabor the point, or you'll dig your heels in just like your daddy would."

  "They're already solidly planted."

  "Then I won't say any more on the subject." Luther covered a yawn with one hand. "Time for bed. It's way past midnight East Coast time."

  She was glad to see him go. The last thing she needed was more good advice.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Luther's departure triggered Jim's, leaving Donovan alone with Kate. He glanced up from his seat at the conference table to see that she was stacking dishes on the service cart left by the waiter. "You don't have to do kitchen duty. Leave everything for the maid. It's one of the great advantages of
staying in a hotel."

  "I fantasize that huge hordes of cockroaches will invade if we leave dirty dishes here all night." Kate piled silverware on the top plate. "I'd rather roll everything into the corridor and hope the cockroaches give us a miss."

  "Since you put it that way..." Actually, if she hadn't started cleaning up, he probably would have. They were both pretty neat. In that area, as in so many others, they'd always gotten along well.

  There was a clink of glassware as she collected the empty tumblers and wheeled the service cart outside. Stepping back into the room, she said, "Looking at the glassware made me realize that you didn't have anything but soft drinks, even though everyone else ended the evening with a beer. Then it struck me that I haven't seen you touch any alcohol since I came back to Maryland, not even when we were eating lasagna. Are you a recovering alcoholic?"

  Jesus! He set his notes in his briefcase and snapped the lid closed. "No. But I could be. So I stopped drinking."

  She dropped into an upholstered chair. "An interesting statement. Care to elaborate?"

  Reluctantly he said, "After you left, I realized that every time I did something god-awful, I'd had something to drink. Maybe only a beer or a glass of wine, but there was always something."

  "I don't remember you ever getting really drunk." Her brow furrowed as she thought back. "You did the same kind of drinking everyone else did. Maybe you'd get a little high at a party or after playing softball with your buddies, but you always held your liquor well."

  "The fact that I wasn't stumbling or slurring words or wearing lampshades didn't mean I wasn't affected." He squared his briefcase on the table with great precision. "One thing I learned in therapy was that for some people, even a little alcohol is all the excuse they need to lash out if they're angry about something. Turns out that's what happened to me. Most of the time my reaction to drinking was normal, but if I was mad or jealous, a couple of beers were all it took to blow my impulse control to hell."