by Wim Coleman
“Maybe they take after their father that way, too,” Marianne said.
Nolan chuckled modestly. “Yeah, I wasn’t such a bad student, either,” he said.
They both just looked at the fire for a moment. Marianne could feel the departed wife’s ghost lingering in the room—benignly, unthreateningly, wanting nothing more than to have her presence acknowledged.
“What was your wife’s name?” Marianne asked at last.
“Louise,” said Nolan. “Lost her about five years ago, right around this time of year. Can’t remember if it’s been a little more or a little less than five years.”
He was quiet for a moment. Marianne could feel that it was a good kind of quiet—a nurturing one out of which either of them could speak freely or not at all. It was Nolan’s turn to tell his story, and he could take as long as he wanted to. A sweet Scott Joplin waltz was playing now. Marianne remembered what Joplin had said about his art: “It is never right to play ragtime fast.”
It was good advice for a time like now.
“I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know Louise,” Nolan said at last. “We knew each other all the way back to grade school. We were each other’s first sweethearts. Dated all through high school. Got married when we were both freshmen at UCLA. She was studying sociology, I was studying law.”
Nolan laughed softly. “We both figured we’d save the world,” he said. “It was that kind of time. But we had two babies in the next three years, Jack and then Molly. While we were still in school, can you believe it? Well, we were just a pair of happy idiots, enjoying all the perks of being students, not thinking about the years to come. We thought we could handle everything. I finished my degree on schedule, but it took Louise six years to finish hers. After that, there was no way for me to go to law school. We were flat broke. I had to get a job as fast as I could.”
“So you became a cop,” Marianne said.
“Yeah.”
“Any regrets?”
Nolan’s brow furrowed as he thought about the question. “Louise and I had to skimp over the years, and I sometimes worry that maybe it was hard on the kids. Also, I spent a lot of late nights on cases away from the family. But I think I made up for it during the time we spent together.”
Marianne glanced around the portrait gallery.
Yes. You obviously made up for it very well.
“Besides,” Nolan continued, “I’ve probably done the world more good as a cop. If I’d gone on to be a lawyer, I could’ve forgotten all my ideals and turned into some greedy monster yuppie, just like the rest of my generation. It’s taken some doing in this line of work, but I think I’ve kept my soul. So I guess things worked out for the best. Jack, my oldest, is a clerk in a law firm up in Seattle, going to law school part time. We’ll see how well his ideals hold up.”
“I’ll bet he’ll do just fine,” Marianne said.
Nolan smiled. “I’ll bet so, too,” he said.
Then his face darkened.
“When the kids got well into their teens,” Nolan said, “Louise and I both figured it was time for her to go back to school and finish her education. She was way too smart to spend the rest of her life keeping house—an empty house, at that. So she started doing graduate work in psychology. And she took a job doing social work with inner city kids—keeping them off drugs, out of gangs, out of trouble. It had its frustrations, but she loved it. She loved the kids she could help, and I think she even loved the ones she couldn’t help.”
Another silence fell. This silence seemed strangely final, as if Nolan had finished his story and had nothing more to tell. When he spoke again, he sounded as if he had to force every word out of his throat one at a time.
“One night, I was working late at my desk at the division. It was nine-thirty, maybe. I got a call from a buddy on patrol. He was real upset. Wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. Just told me to come right away to this alleyway in East L.A. When I got there, I saw her, just like she was when the guys had found her. Even the coroner’s assistants hadn’t touched her. She was splayed in a concrete enclosure next to a rust-colored dumpster. She looked like a tossed-away rag doll. She had bled to death from the knife wounds. You could see from the blood trails that it hadn’t happened there. She must have crawled there to get away. But I still can’t figure out how she got all sprawled like that. Her arm was twisted above and in back of her head and her legs were wrenched every which way. I guess … when you’re in pain and terror and you’re dying … you don’t worry too much about how you look.”
His voice had faded away into a barely audible whisper.
“Did they catch whoever killed her?” Marianne asked.
“Yeah. It wasn’t hard to run them down. A couple of teenagers she’d been working with. They knew her route, knew she’d be stopping at an automatic teller. All they had to do was wait for her across the street from the machine. I’m sure she didn’t resist or scream or anything. They were either junked up or in withdrawal, and that’s probably why … why they killed her. They just got out of control.”
Nolan closed his eyes.
“I remember, after they’d been caught, I decided I had to meet them face to face. I was worried about it. I didn’t know how I was going to react. I was afraid maybe I’d go berserk, pull out my service revolver and blow the both of them away. But when I actually saw them in their jail cells, I didn’t feel much of anything. It wasn’t like I loved or pitied or wanted to help them, but I didn’t hate them—didn’t itch to break their necks with my bare hands or watch them die from lethal injections. I wondered if something was wrong with me. Eventually, I figured it was just because I’d loved Louise too much to want to add more deaths onto hers.”
He fell silent again. Marianne thought about herself and Renee—all the unfinished matters, the unanswered questions they had left behind.
“Maybe that’s what it means to love somebody completely,” Marianne said softly. “Losing your capacity to hate.”
Nolan nodded and said nothing.
Marianne took a long, deep breath. “Do you … ever forget she’s gone?” she asked. “Do you ever expect to see her step into some doorway in this house, for her to call you at the office, anything like that?”
Nolan looked at her with a curious expression. “No,” he said. “I never did. The division counselor told me all about denial, told me to expect it, but I never went through it. Don’t get me wrong. I was a wreck. I drank too much for months and screwed up cases and almost got myself fired. But I never went through denial, never failed to get it through my head that she was dead. I guess it was because I saw her in that place, all twisted up like that. It didn’t leave any question, any doubt.”
Marianne watched the fire and thought about Nolan’s words. She had seen Renee’s corpse in the morgue, had mourned with her friends and family. But even so …
“What about you?” Nolan asked. “Have you accepted the truth about your friend?”
“No,” Marianne said simply. “I haven’t.”
“Give it some time. It’s supposed to take time.”
Marianne and Nolan looked into each other’s eyes. They jumped slightly when the phone rang.
“Your other child, maybe?” Marianne asked.
“No such luck,” Nolan said. “I’ll try to keep this short.”
*
Nolan felt an edge of apprehension as he wandered into the kitchen. Other than the occasional chats with Molly or Jack, phone calls were seldom a welcome part of his life. They usually had to do with business—and they almost always came when business was going badly.
He picked up the kitchen phone.
“Hello?” he said warily.
“Nol?”
Nolan smiled slightly. It was Clay, and he could count on Clay to understand that he didn’t want to be bother
ed right now.
“Hey, guy. Could we keep this short and simple? I’m kind of busy right now.”
“Sure, no problem. I just got back from the DNA joint.”
“They ran the tests?”
“Some of them.”
“So what’s the news? What did they tell you?”
“Well, they can’t say much without a match. But guess what?”
“What?” Nolan asked, shuffling his feet irritably. Clayton obviously hadn’t taken the hint that he wasn’t in the mood for guessing games.
“Gauld’s killer was a woman,” Clayton said.
Nolan staggered slightly, then sat down in a kitchen chair. He felt his heart rate change. He couldn’t tell if it was beating dramatically faster or dangerously slower.
“Are you still there?” Clayton said.
“Yeah. Are they sure?”
“It’s the only thing they are sure of at this point. Guess this puts the Hedison woman back in the running, huh? Boy, you’ll never let me live it down if she turns out to be the one. Of course, you could still be wrong.”
“Thanks for calling, Clay,” Nolan said simply.
“Sure,” Clayton said, sounding a little surprised at Nolan’s brevity. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah.”
Nolan hung the phone up gently.
Why did Clay have to call just now?
The evening had been so perfect, so rare. It had been wonderful to learn that he could still cook for more than one person at a time, that he was capable of entertaining a guest in his own home. It had been so long since he had had such an opportunity. And he had shared thoughts and feelings with her that he had never expected to tell another living soul.
Of all times, why now?
He looked out the kitchen doorway toward the living room. Marianne was turned slightly away from him, facing the fire, lost in its flames. Nolan walked slowly toward her, feeling as if he were moving through some thick gel. Whole days seemed to pass before he found himself standing beside the chair where she was sitting. He sat down on the arm of the chair. It was the closest he had allowed himself to approach her all evening. She looked up at him, her green eyes reflecting the cheerful firelight.
Nolan knew that his life was changing unalterably as every millisecond passed. He had no idea how. All he knew was that it felt terrifying and splendid at the same time.
“Has something happened?” Marianne asked quietly, with a concerned look.
Nolan said nothing for a moment. He took Marianne’s warm hand in his and began to stroke her thin fingers. If Marianne was startled by the gesture, she didn’t show it. Nolan wondered why he wasn’t startled himself.
“Clayton just got word that Renee’s killer was a woman,” Nolan said, almost in a whisper.
Marianne tilted her head slightly. She looked intrigued, but not shocked or surprised.
“How do they know?” she asked.
“They did a test on blood and tissue samples found at the scene.”
“Am I a suspect, then?” she asked calmly, without averting her gaze from his.
“You might be asked to take a DNA test,” he said.
“I’ll do it,” she said.
“Marianne, don’t jump to any decisions.”
“Why?” she asked. “Do you think I’m guilty?”
Nolan smiled at her warmly.
“What do you think I think?” he asked.
Marianne returned his smile.
“This kind of testing is still controversial,” Nolan continued gently. “It might be unreliable. Like a polygraph, you know?”
“I’ll take a polygraph, too,” she said.
“Marianne, listen—”
“Nolan, I want to. If I don’t, I’ll only cloud the issue by remaining a suspect. I’ll get in the way of your search for the real killer. I’ve got to do whatever I can to clear this up. I’ve got to do it for Renee.”
Nolan studied her face for a moment, then reached out and pulled her body against his. She gasped slightly and tucked her head into his chest, clinging to him as he held her. He began gently rubbing her back.
Nolan stared into the fire. He worried that his hands were cold—that she might feel their coldness through her blouse. But her shoulders melted into his fingers, and he realized with surprise that his hands were warm—and more confident than he was.
What am I doing? What am I feeling?
It seemed to be loneliness—a distinctive kind of loneliness it took two people to feel. It was a loneliness he could remember experiencing from time to time with Louise. He felt eerily isolated with Marianne, about to instigate something both of them might very well regret. He knew that she wanted him as much as he wanted her, but did that make it right? It seemed too big a decision for only two people to make.
*
You probably should leave now. This can’t be a good idea.
But how could she get up and move away from something this warm, this comfortable? And where did she have to go? Her hotel room? Her home? Did either of those places have rows and rows of lovely pictures and a fine, gentle man who wanted nothing more than someone else with whom to share his wonderful capacity for love? Were either of those places inhabited by happy ghosts, by lives fully lived?
Nolan put his hand on Marianne’s cheek and leaned over and kissed her. A powerful emotion swept over her. She recognized it at once.
Gratitude.
She felt grateful for his evident desire, and deeply, deeply grateful for her own chaotic overload of emotion and sensation—a kind of glorious, dizzying panic sweeping her along like a roller coaster ride. It had been a long, long time since she had felt this way.
“I think it’s too late for me to leave,” she murmured.
“I think so too,” Nolan said, kissing her repeatedly.
But good sense scored one small point before the splendid panic carried her completely away. She drew back from Nolan slightly.
“I didn’t … bring anything,” she stammered.
The words sounded so painfully awkward.
Oh, for the way it happened in the movies, so seamlessly, so gracefully ...
But real life was fleshy, sweaty, and more than a little dangerous, and certain protocols were necessary.
Nolan looked embarrassed, too.
“I’ve got some condoms upstairs,” he said.
“Fine. I’ll go up and use the bathroom,” she said.
“There’s a robe hanging in the bathroom you can use,” Nolan said.
“Thank you.”
Marianne walked upstairs, went into the bathroom, undressed, and washed. Then she found her way into the bedroom, which was lit only by a small lamp on the end table. Nolan was standing by the bed wearing a robe of his own and holding a condom packet in his hand. The covers on the bed were turned neatly down.
Nolan looked at her a bit shyly for a moment, set the packet on the end table, and drew her to him. She could feel his erection against her. Then Nolan led her to the bed and pulled her under the covers. He ran his hands under the robe across her bare flesh.
She closed her eyes and focused on the sheer sensation of his hands searching the surface of her skin, of her own hands running everywhere on his body—over his slightly sweaty skin, through the shaggy fine hair on his head and the curled hair on his chest and the coarser and tightly curled hair surrounding the smooth skin of his cock. She reached across the top of the end table for the packet, tore the damp condom free from the foil, and delicately pulled the sheath over him.
*
It had been so long since Nolan had been with a woman that he feared that their first encounter would be a little peremptory. He expected to be slightly impatient, slightly abrupt. He expected to have to apologize a little af
terward, ask her indulgence, promise to be more attentive the next time around.
But the moment he was naked with Marianne, his concerns vanished. Every movement, every touch slowed down, stretched out, prolonged itself. He became lost in their kinesthetic bond as he pressed his mouth on every part of her body and his fingers stroked and caressed her smooth, narrow torso—so alarmingly thin and delicate.
There was no mistaking her growing excitement as he ran his outstretched fingers across her nipples, as the muscles of her belly rose along the heels of his hands. At each point of contact, he felt an electric charge coursing through his own body.
*
Marianne was aware, with some surprise, that Nolan was taking over the process of their lovemaking. He asked no questions, said nothing at all, simply let her responses lead him.
She thought fleetingly of Stephen …
Odd, how he never entered my mind till just this instant.
… and how sex with him was a negotiation.
Will you do this for me?
What do you want me to do?
There was none of that now. Marianne wrapped her arms around him and lifted her knees on each side of his body. She was surprised at her openness as he varied his pace and direction.
Marianne cried aloud as a deep, shuddering force drove her back arching upward and exploded all the way through her body.
*
When Nolan came, there was no sad awareness of temporality, no aching realization that the moment would quickly be lost and gone. Finally he pulled out of her and flopped over beside her. He pulled off the condom and tossed it into a dish on the bedside table. He rolled onto his back and pulled Marianne’s head onto his shoulder.
*
The flood of sensations ebbed, and Marianne was left with a mild sense of surprise. She was surprised that it had happened, that it had been good, but also that it had been so simple.
The missionary position, for God’s sake.
Sex with Evan had been one experiment after another, with countless positions, locations, and roles. It had taken variety to keep Evan excited, and Marianne did her best to accommodate him. Evan devised all the scripts and plans, of course, and he also determined afterward whether the experiments had been successful. There was no point in Marianne trying to tell him that lying on her back in the woods was downright uncomfortable or that most of the odd positions really did nothing for her.