The Big One

by Harrison Arnston

  She stopped talking and blushed. “God! I sound awful. I’m prattling on like a fishwife. You must think I’m terrible. I’m sorry.”

  He could see the hunger in her eyes. It wasn’t a hunger for sex. It was a hunger for companionship. For someone she could talk to without being constantly on guard. Someone who wasn’t posturing, putting their best foot forward in conversation that was a prelude to what amounted to a mating dance. Someone who wasn’t making judgments, playing the angles, determining the best way to make the score.

  Someone who could be a friend.

  She desperately needed a friend.

  So, for that matter, did he.

  “Don’t apologize,” he said. “You’re right. It’s not a pleasant experience at all. I guess when you get married, you think it’s going to be forever and when it isn’t, it throws you. No matter what the circumstances.”

  The hunger in her eyes turned to pain. Not her own. She was thinking of Ted.

  “It … must be awful for you.”

  He didn’t want her to think that. “No,” he said, smiling. “It’s better now. Much better. I’ve been dating some myself. Nothing serious, just some casual dates. People I know. Mostly divorcees. They think as you do, for the most part. There are a lot of sleazes out there, no question. It’s always easier for the man.”

  That brought a smile to her lips. “At last. A liberated male. And have you met someone yet?”

  “No,” he said. “I guess I haven’t really made an effort. I know I should. None of us are getting any younger. But, it’s just such a bunch of crap, you know? They all ask a lot of questions that I really don’t feel like answering. I understand their need to know, but I usually end up lying, just to avoid talking about it. And then I feel like a shit and things go downhill from there.

  “Once, I told the truth and it was terrible. I was something to be pitied. It was sickening. I don’t want to be pitied. What happened happened. I can’t change that. Life goes on.”

  He stopped and took a deep breath. He didn’t want pity from anyone. It was the reason he’d left the FBI, knowing that every man who’d ever worked with him in the past would see him in a new light. They all would look at him with a mixture of pity and fear in their eyes. A double-edged sword aimed at his heart. They’d wonder if the same thing might happen to them some day. Or they’d wonder if he was really all right, able to face whatever came with a clear mind and sharp eyes. Would his reactions be dulled by the tragedy that had been visited upon him? Would his own grief cause him to hesitate a moment too long, putting their own lives in danger?

  He couldn’t have that. So, he’d left.

  Life goes on, he’d said to himself. Too many times.

  But it wasn’t true. Life didn’t go on. Not in that sense. There was no continuity, no blending. Instead, there was an end to something and the beginning of something else. It was a shearing, a severing. And then there were two lives proceeding in tandem. Like two trains going in the same direction on parallel tracks, the memories of the old life being carried along like baggage on one train, while the new experiences were being transported by the train beside it. Side by side. In a way, it was the antithesis of the fault lines Tommy had written about, where two slabs of rock moved in opposing directions.

  She looked at him intently, aware of what he’d said, understanding it the way he’d meant it. Trying hard to keep the pity out of her eyes. He didn’t want pity. And she didn’t want to provide it.

  “I think dinner’s ready,” she said.

  It was delicious. Chicken mixed with celery, tomatoes, carrots, onions, herbs and spices … just enough garlic so you knew it was there. What was Italian cooking without garlic? The wine was a California Cabernet, slightly chilled.

  For dessert, they had strawberries and cream.

  They ate slowly, both talking a lot, exchanging memories, until both of their hearts were filled with nostalgic mellowness. The initial tension that both had felt, as if they were doing a mating dance of their own, had left, and now they leaned back in their respective chairs, looking at each other, relaxed and enjoying the moment. For over an hour, they sipped decaffeinated coffee and rambled on like teenagers encapsulated in a world of their own brought about by the first blush of discovery.

  “What does cacciatore mean?” he asked.

  She grinned at him. “It means hunter style. I guess, in the old days, the hunters would throw whatever they brought with them into a pot and cook it up. I imagine there are hundreds of different recipes.”

  “This one was wonderful.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  She started to clear the table. “You sit and relax. I’ll make some more coffee and we’ll sit and listen to music and talk. Lots and lots of talk. I’m starved for talk.”

  There was a certain timbre to her voice that he found attractive. In fact, he found everything about her attractive. The way her eyes searched his face when he talked, open and frank in their approval of him as a man. Letting him know that she found him interesting and attractive. Flattering him without being mawkish. Keeping her own conversation devoid of guile, simply spilling out her thoughts on a variety of subjects that were of interest to both of them.

  He found himself drawn to her, almost against his will. She created stirrings in him that he’d thought were dead forever. And to his surprise, he realized that his mind and body were in concert, silently expressing a desire he’d thought was part of that other life, dead and gone forever.

  Memories flooded his mind. Memories of silky skin, warm lips, tender hands. Memories of shared bodies, shared souls, a giving of each other that renewed the spirit. It wasn’t sex he craved. It was that union, total absorption with another human being, an act of love that pushed away the darkness and let the sun shine in.

  And then, reflexively, he felt guilty. The guilt descended upon him like a blanket, shutting out the light created by his desire, and in his mind’s eye he saw the shattered body of Erica before him. The vision sent a chill down his spine.

  Almost as though she could read his mind, Terry was beside him, bending over, placing her lips upon his, gently at first and then, as his big arms encircled her neck, harder, her tongue darting inside his mouth, urging him on. For a moment, there was little response and then …

  Ted was shocked at first. He waited for the horrible image to return. Mercifully, it didn’t. He could feel the warmth, smell the perfume, sense the need in both of them.

  He started to fumble with her blouse and felt her hand upon his, the touch electric, the fingers directing his hand to her breast.

  “Come with me,” she said, a new note of huskiness in her voice.

  She led him to the bedroom and sat him on the bed. She lit a candle on the dresser and then, slowly, deliberately, started to remove his tie and unbutton his shirt.

  Their eyes never left each other.

  And then he was shirtless, sitting on the bed, and she was kissing the scar on his chest.

  His hands were in her hair, pulling her toward him so his lips could meet hers again. And then, they stopped, as though some secret signal had been given, and both removed the rest of their clothes.

  They lay beside each other, moving slowly, exploring with their hands and their lips and their tongues, his cologne and her perfume blending into an aroma that both found intoxicating. Time was suspended. What went on beyond this small bedroom ceased to exist.

  In the dimness of the light cast by the candle, her skin was a soft, almost glowing yellow, her large, firm breasts rising and falling with each breath. The nipples, long and taut, seemed to beckon him.

  He felt her hands upon his manhood, now engorged with desire, throbbing and aching, begging for fulfillment.

  They each moved with an almost studied calmness, as though both wanted this moment to last forever. A man and a woman, each seeing the need in the other, wanting to fill that need above all, and by doing so, receiving in return a joyful satisfaction of their own.

/>   She was astride him now, moving slowly, her long neck arched, her eyes closed, her lips parted, the tongue flicking up and running along the upper lip, her long hair hanging down and tickling his neck as her nipples brushed his chest.

  He was deep inside her, moving equally slowly, enjoying every exquisite sensation, experiencing a passion that brought tears to his eyes.

  She looked at him with passion-filled eyes as his big hands cupped her breasts, the thumbs and forefingers caressing the nipples, now gently squeezing and then releasing, and she noticed the mistiness that covered his eyes. Her own eyes immediately filled with tears of understanding, the liquid falling in drops upon his chest.

  “Oh, Ted!” she moaned, as her pelvis moved in more deliberate fashion, as though her body wanted to consume his own, devour it, bring it all inside her.

  His arms went around her back and he hugged her tightly. For a few moments, they just held each other, neither moving. And then, they began again.

  Her head was resting on his chest. His arm was around her, one big hand gently brushing against the skin on her back. Her eyes were closed, her breathing slow and relaxed. She seemed totally comfortable, at peace with the world, if only for these few precious moments.

  “I have a confession to make,” she said, her voice low and purring.

  “What’s that?”

  “I shouldn’t tell you.”

  He laughed and said, “You can’t start off like that and leave it hanging. It isn’t fair.”

  “You’ll think I’m terrible.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  She sighed and said, “I often wondered … Oh … I can’t.”

  Again, he laughed. He sat up and propped the pillows behind him. Then he leaned back against the headboard. Instead of joining him, she laid her head back down, this time on his stomach.

  “I often wondered what it would be like with you. Isn’t that terrible?”

  “No.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “No, it isn’t. I did the same.”

  She sat up and looked him in the eye. “You did?”

  “Yes,” he said. “When we were all together, you and Tommy and me and Toni. I wondered. Often.”

  “I thought it was just me.”

  He shook his head.

  “And how was it?” she asked. “Now that it’s happened.”

  “A fantasy come true,” he said.

  She made a face. “Oh … I know that’s not true. But you’re sweet for saying it.”

  He put an arm around her and brought her close again. He kissed her, long and deeply. Then he said, “Terry, you are a very sensuous woman. A delight. It was wonderful, just wonderful.”

  Her eyes started to mist. “You were crying,” she said.

  “Yes. I haven’t felt like that in a very long time. I never thought I could feel like that again. You brought out something in me that I thought was gone forever. I haven’t felt such pure passion for … It was … I can’t find the words.”

  She kissed him again and asked, “Will you stay the night?”

  “What about the neighbors?”

  “I don’t care about that. I care about you. Will you stay?”

  “Yes,” he said, as he brought her close to him again.

  Fourteen

  * * *

  The ferocious winds of the night before had faded to a gentle breeze as George Belcher drove his rented car down the narrow roads within the confines of the Nevada Nuclear Test Range. The sun was perched just above the horizon, its light, as it bounced off the bleached brown sand, almost blinding.

  He parked the car outside a low, mottled green building, hunkered down in the waste, the drifts of sand against its wall vivid testimony to last night’s storm. He left the car and headed for the front entrance. After ringing the bell, the door was unlocked and opened and a uniformed soldier checked his credentials, then escorted him to the office of Jason Shubert. Shubert looked like a man who hadn’t slept in days. Belcher just looked angry.

  “So you lost him?” Shubert said, as Belcher entered the office.

  “For a few hours. But we have him again. It was like I figured. He’s shacked up with Wilson’s ex-wife. At least he was when I left. Don’t worry. My men are on top of it. If he takes off again, they’ll keep him in sight. We won’t lose him again.”

  Some of the tiredness went out of the eyes, replaced by anger. “What the hell are you waiting for?” Shubert shouted. “If you have him located, go in and drag his ass out here! The woman too. Damn it, man! That’s what you were supposed to do!”

  George Belcher gritted his teeth and said, “That’s why I came out here to see you, Shubert.”

  Jason Shubert’s eyebrows rose as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Don’t tell me we’re going to have this discussion again. We’ve been all through that.”

  Belcher took a seat in front of the desk and rested his own elbows on the desk, his arms outstretched as though in supplication. “Look, Jason, he said. “This guy is an ex-agent. He was a damn good one, who played by the book every day of his life. I’ve talked to him and I can tell you that he already has most of this put together.”

  The eyebrows moved up even further. “Then why in God’s name didn’t you grab him at that point? You were told that if it appeared he was making waves, he was to be brought in.” He slammed a hand on the desk in frustration. “You’re not handling this well, Belcher. Not well at all. I suggest you get on the phone and have your people go in now. Bring them both in. You’re wasting valuable time.”

  “No.”

  It was a flat, matter-of-fact statement.

  Shubert looked astonished. “No? Do you realize who you’re talking to?”

  “Listen to me,” Belcher barked. “You people have handled this stupidly from the beginning. So far, I’ve gone along because I was ordered to, but this is it. No more. I’m not going to trash my career because of the poor judgment of others. I know you have some powerful people in your camp, but sooner or later, this thing is going to crash and burn. You’ll never be able to maintain secrecy for any length of time and once the word gets out, everybody’s ass will be in a sling, including yours. I don’t want mine to be one of them.”

  He dropped his voice a few decibels and continued. “Maybe you’re right about evacuation and the rest. Maybe you’re right about being able to stop this thing, but the way you’re going about it is wrong. You’re operating like this is some tin-pot banana republic. You can’t get away with shit like this any more. In the old days, maybe … but not now.”

  Shubert sighed and shook his head. “We’ve done what we had to do. And for very good reason. If this ever hits the press, well never be able to get anything done. It’ll be a circus. Damn it, man. We’ve been all over this! Why is it every time I see you, you want to reinvent the wheel?”

  Belcher clenched his jaw. “Did you talk to Wilson?”

  “Yes. He’s decided to cooperate.”

  “He has?”

  “Don’t look so surprised. He’s an intelligent man. He sees the logic of our position.”

  “I want to talk to him.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  Belcher blushed. “I believe you. But if he’s decided to cooperate, maybe he can tell me how much he told Kowalczyk. That’s something I’d like to know before I go any further.”

  The FBI man stood up and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I want to talk to him,” he said, his voice reflecting his resoluteness. “Then, I want you to contact Graves. He needs to come out here. We all need to have a talk. This thing is almost out of control. It can’t go on like this.”

  For a moment Shubert looked as though he were going to argue. Instead, he pressed the button on the desk and a uniformed soldier entered the room, marched to the desk, and stood at attention.

  “Take Mr. Belcher to see Mr. Wilson,” Shubert ordered. “After he’s finished, he’s t
o come back here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Belcher and Shubert eyed each other angrily for a moment and then Belcher turned and walked out of the office, accompanied by the soldier. The two men walked down a long, narrow corridor to a room marked B-226. The soldier fished out a small ring of keys, put one in the lock, then opened the door, standing aside so Belcher could enter the room.

  The room looked very much like a standard medium-priced hotel room. There were framed prints on the grasscloth-covered walls, a carpet on the floor, and a minimum of furniture. Atop the low dresser stood a small speaker, from which emanated what some would call “elevator music.” Night tables stood on either side of the double bed, both adorned with lamps. A coffee table held some out-of-date magazines. One of the walls was fully draped, but it was simply a stage set, there being no windows in the room. A large vent in the ceiling and a smaller one in the wall above the dresser took care of air circulation.

  The only things missing, aside from the window, were a television set and a radio. Clearly, they wanted Tommy Wilson to be kept unaware of activities outside the complex.

  As for Wilson, he was lying on the bed, his arms behind his head, his eyes focused on the nothingness of the ceiling. He glanced at Belcher for a moment, then returned his attention to the ceiling. “Ah … the Gestapo,” he said, his voice filled with scorn. “What brings you to this fair place at the break of dawn?”

  Belcher spread his arms out and looked around the room. “This isn’t so bad,” he said, his eyes shining, a large smile on his face. “I hear you’ve decided to cooperate.”