by Rachel Lee
He paused to pick seeds off the roll on his plate.
"I saw too much of that, Markie. Innocent kids hurt in the worst ways. Car accidents were bad enough, but the shootings and the rapes and the abuse…That girl was the last straw. The detective came in later that night. The shooter?"
He waited until she met his eyes. "Her cousin. I finished the shift and quit with no idea where in hell I was going to go."
"And you wound up here?"
He nodded. "Three months later. And up until Carter Shippey died, I've enjoyed every minute of it."
"You needed a change of scenery," she said.
"That would be putting it very mildly."
She reached across and touched his hand. "I don't have to say it, do I?"
"What? That it wasn't my fault? No, you don't. My ex would've left me sooner or later, or I'd have hated what I became to keep her. And that girl would've died, no matter who was on duty that night. But that's cold comfort." He paused for a long moment, looking out at the water. "She had hazel eyes."
"Your ex?"
"The girl."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
* * *
Wendy lay on the carpet, sated beyond belief, sweat pouring off her in rivers. Dimly she realized that her bottom had been rubbed raw on the carpet, but she didn't care. Gary's heavy weight on her was like an answer to a prayer. He'd set off all the fireworks and more.
Raising a shaky hand, she smoothed his damp back with her hand. He lifted his head and looked down at her.
"I love you," he said hoarsely.
For the first time in a long, long time she believed that. The words hovered on her lips, too, but she wasn't quite ready to say them.
His face darkened, and he rolled off her, lying beside her on the den carpet. A feeling of loss unexpectedly filled her. She wanted to reach out to him, to tell him that she wanted to believe, wanted to hope for a future with him, but that she was feeling fragile and vulnerable. Too vulnerable to make promises just yet.
But before she could move or speak, a voice broke the silence.
"Dey nev buhn dem bones. Nev."
Gary sat bolt upright. "I turned that off."
"Maybe you just hit the Pause."
"No, I turned it off."
He scrambled to his feet, and Wendy sighed. Giving up, she rose, too, and padded over to his side. The tape was spinning again, Loleen's crackly voice filling the room. Except it kept saying the same thing over and over.
"Dey nev buhn dem bones. Nev."
Gary looked at her, his eyes dark and uneasy. "She didn't say that, Wendy. Not that many times. Not that many times."
Wendy looked down at the tape recorder, her parapsychologist's nature coming to the fore. "You're sure?"
"Of course I'm sure, dammit!"
Just then the tape recorder turned off.
All by itself.
* * *
"So what about you?" Dec asked. "Did you ever marry?"
"Never."
"Smart lady."
"I wouldn't say that." She was clearly reluctant to answer, and he watched the brief struggle on her expressive face. "I may not have married him, but I made pretty much the same mistake."
"He didn't like your hours?"
"Worse, he didn't like my brain. We worked in the same clinic for a while until I couldn't take it anymore. He had this way of…implying that I didn't know what I was doing, without ever coming right out and saying so. I started to lose my confidence in a lot of ways. Too many ways. Nothing I did was right. He always had a better way. And he did it in front of clients."
"He was a vet, too?"
"Yeah. He owned the place. So finally I took a hike to another clinic and moved out of his house. It was a year before I stopped running to the other doctors to verify my diagnoses or treatment plans."
He nodded. "It's terrifyingly easy to sink someone's self-confidence. A bit of unwanted advice here, step in to take over a case there. Next thing you know, you're paralyzed."
"Exactly." She sighed, then said bluntly, "That's the last time I let my gonads lead my brain."
A startled laugh escaped him. "I thought only men did that."
"I don't know about other women, I just know about me. He was so damn attractive. Not movie-star good looks. It was something else, some kind of warm charisma."
"And too full of himself."
"He was good." She thought for a few seconds, then said, "I'm not sure he was egotistical. I didn't really see that. I think he lacked self-confidence and made himself feel better by putting me down."
"I don't pretend to be a shrink." He reached out and took her hand briefly, squeezing it before letting go. "Whatever his reasons, the bottom line is, he was being abusive."
"Yeah, that finally penetrated my dim brain."
"There's nothing dim about your brain," he said firmly. "Self-doubt grows easily. I know. Only an iron-clad ego can avoid it. I sure don't have one."
She smiled. "So what about those sea chanties?"
He laughed, but shook his head. "Later, maybe. I wouldn't want to shock the waiter."
She hesitated, turning her gaze back to the blazing sunset. He waited, sensing she was about to bring up something less cheerful.
Finally she asked, "Anything new from the CDC?"
"You know as much as I do. No, wait. There's one more thing. I know it sounds crazy, but it's the only new thing I've heard. Jolly Wells said someone had stirred up something very bad."
"Jolly said that?" Something in Markie's face seemed to tighten.
"Yeah, why?"
"You've lived here longer than I have."
He squashed a sudden sense of impatience. "Meaning?"
"Jolly came to my house when I first arrived on the island and put some kind of pouch over my doors. He said there was an evil spirit hanging around but the pouches would keep it away."
This was a side of Jolly Dec had never seen. "I had no idea."
"I thought he did that for everyone."
"He sure didn't do it for me. And nobody else has mentioned such a thing."
She gave a little shake of her head. "Well, he was so nice and so darned determined, I let him do it. I figured it was some kind of local greeting."
"Not that I know of."
Red light began to pour through the window as the sun dipped toward the sea. Everything inside the restaurant seemed to burst into orange flame.
"Do you still have the pouches up?"
Markie shook head. "They rotted apart recently, so I knocked them down rather than have them shedding whatever was inside them."
"Maybe you ought to ask Jolly to come give you some new ones."
She looked at him strangely, but said merely, "Maybe I should."
He wanted to dismiss the whole subject with an urbane laugh and put his feet squarely back on solid ground. But he'd seen Alice Shippey die, a sight so shocking that today he'd acted like a paranoid lunatic and gone running out to an abandoned fort to look for secret weapons. Why not witch doctors, medicine bags and evil spirits?
Or maybe…An uneasy thought began to nag him. Maybe Jolly knew something that didn't have anything to do with evil spirits. Maybe he should talk to the man more closely.
* * *
Wendy pulled on a robe and got two glasses of orange juice from the kitchen. Then she sat beside Gary at his desk and watched as he carefully backed up the tape. He played it again, Loleen's crackling voice filling the room.
But the words they'd heard before weren't there. He hit Fast Forward. No. He hit Rewind. No. They weren't there at all.
Wendy felt her skin prickle with excitement. Gary looked at her. "Why do I think this is your area of expertise?"
"Because," she said, "maybe it is."
"Communication from the dead?"
It was something she'd always wondered about, yet never been able to devise an experiment for truly testing. Even the best attempt could be explained by ESP, by the supposed medium picking up telepath
ic messages from a family member who was present. How in the world could you really prove it?
But this…this was beyond weird.
"Play it again," she said to Gary. "Start back about five minutes and play it again."
He was quick to oblige. Loleen's irritating voice returned, but for once Wendy didn't wish it would shut up.
"Maybe we imagined it," Gary said.
"Shh."
If there was one thing Wendy was sure of, it was that they hadn't imagined those words, nor had they imagined the fact that the recorder had turned itself on and then off. Excitement and frustration grew in equal measure as they searched back and forth on the tape.
Suddenly the tape crackled, cutting off Loleen's voice. Another voice whispered.
"Dey nev buhn dem bones. Nev."
17
"I read through that diary today," Markie said. "The one we found at the fort."
The waiter reappeared with crystal goblets, their rims covered with steamed shrimp. A deep, thick red sauce lay within the goblets. Soup would follow as the next course, in the truly formal fashion that hardly anyone followed any longer.
When he was gone, Dec prodded Markie. "And?"
She speared a piece of jumbo shrimp but didn't immediately bring it to her mouth. "A bunch of soldiers got sick. Back in 1969."
"Tell me."
"I'm not sure what to say. Just going by the diary, I'd have guessed I was reading about a tropical disease. He mentioned three soldiers dying. He didn't say how. I didn't get the impression he'd…seen the bodies. Just that it left a big mess."
Dec nodded slowly. "So it might be related, or it might not."
"Exactly."
"Damn." He picked at his shrimp. "This is so frustrating. We're up to our ears in 'might be related, might not.'"
"Dec," she said, trying to offer a reassuring smile, "let's not think about it. Let's enjoy dinner."
"You're right." He dipped the last of his shrimp in the sauce and popped it in his mouth. After a moment, he said, "I wonder how they make this cocktail sauce."
Markie dipped a fingertip in the sauce and touched it to her tongue. "Tomato ketchup, horseradish, lemon juice and minced cilantro."
"You can tell that?"
She nodded. "It's the same recipe I use."
He shook his head. "I don't know how you do that. Just taste something and list the ingredients."
"I don't, either. Call it a talent. I've gotten better at it since I started cooking more, though."
"So how'd you learn to cook?"
She paused, studying his eyes. It was another one of those minefields. Fortunately, the waiter rescued her by arriving with their soup, a creamy chicken and garlic concoction that rolled and sparkled on the tongue and warmed all the way to her stomach. Dec seemed to be enjoying it, as well, and they sipped in silence for a few minutes. But he didn't let it go.
"So? What's in this?"
"Hmm. Cream, chicken stock, garlic, white pepper, a splash of white wine, parsley and a hint of rubbed sage."
He laughed. "Tell me you asked the chef for the recipe. Or something. I just…can't believe you can tell that by taste. It's amazing."
Markie smiled and drew her thumb and forefinger across her lips. "I'll never tell."
"No, really. How do you do it?"
She had to remind herself that he was not William, not the man who'd challenged everything she said and did as if she were incompetent to get dressed without his help. He seemed genuinely curious. In an appreciative, supportive way. Safe.
"When I finally left him, I didn't have a lot left to feel good about. I didn't believe in myself as a doctor, a lover or a woman. So I started cooking. I bought some cookbooks, the classics. The Joy of Cooking. A couple of the Betty Crocker books. Then some ethnic workbooks, for adventure. At first I treated it just like vet school. Study. Meticulous attention to detail. I did everything by the numbers."
She paused as the soup bowls were whisked away and replaced with their salads, which were a visual delight, with lettuce, cherry tomatoes, slivers of yellow bell pepper, red onion, crumbled bleu cheese and black olives. The dressing was fresh and snappy, a vinaigrette laced with garlic and lemon zest.
"You were saying?" he asked gently.
"Oh, yes. I followed the recipes exactly. Then one day I screwed up. A brain fart. I was making bulgogee—Korean marinated beef—and I flip-flopped the measurements for rice vinegar and rice wine. I knew I'd done something wrong as I was mixing the beef in the marinade. It smelled tart. I looked at the bottles on the counter and realized what I'd done."
"And?"
"And I added a bit of brown sugar to take some of the tang out and cooked it anyway. And I loved it. It was…wow! I'd made a mistake, but I'd caught it myself and I knew how to fix it, so I did. And the end result came out…better."
He smiled and touched her hand. "So that's what you meant when you said cooking is therapy."
"Yes," she said, squeezing his fingers gently. "That's what I meant. I learned that I don't have to be perfect. I just have to be the best that I am. And trust that's good enough."
The moment hung thick, their eyes locked together. He returned the squeeze of her hand.
"Yes, Markie Cross. That's good enough. Very…good enough."
* * *
Wendy was on her knees between his legs, her lips wrapped around his member. Wow. This was…wow. His fingers tangled in her hair, claiming her, forcing her down, forcing more of himself inside her, and she let out a low, animal growl. When he finally spilled his passion, she looked up at him with glazed eyes.
"Where were you hiding the last ten years?" she whispered. "My God, Gary!"
She was an incredible lover. He'd always known that. But now she was something more. She was his. His prize. His property. His to love, use or dispose of, as he pleased. The thought rushed through him with an electric charge.
Thank you, Annie, he whispered silently.
He knew Wendy wanted her turn. Wanted her climax. Well, she would just have to wait for that. He had other priorities, and she would have to get used to the new way of things. He looked down at her and reached for her cigarettes. Handed them to her.
His voice was flat, even, devoid of emotion. "You need to get to work."
"Yessssssssss," she said.
He almost smiled as he watched the muscles in her loins twitch. He could get used to this. He could get very used to this, very quickly.
She lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply, as if the poisons were the very breath of the gods, and settled onto her haunches, staring at the blank sheet of paper before her. Her eyes were distant, unfocused. Gary realized she had gone into her own world. And yet it was a world he controlled. He could sit here in his chair, his member still half-full, a drop of his seed glistening at the corner of her lips, and watch. And she would perform.
Seconds stretched into minutes. That was fine. He had time. She wasn't going anywhere. And neither was Annie. Not until he dispatched her.
Wendy stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. Finally she began to draw.
* * *
Dinner had crept by at a luxurious, leisurely pace. Every course was exquisite. Now they were sharing a slice of raspberry cheesecake and sipping warm, rich, mocha cappuccino.
It felt like a dream. The moonlight glistening on the water. Muted candlelight. From a chair at the center of the room, an acoustic guitarist filled the room with island songs. And across the table sat a man with whom Markie felt safe. A man she could talk to. A man whose wounds made him better, not worse. A man who seemed to think her wounds made her better, not worse. It had to be a dream.
Without a word exchanged, they chose to stroll on the beach after dinner. The sky was a black velvet blanket sprinkled with diamonds. The soft lapping of the waves sounded like a lullaby, steady and soothing. The sand beneath their bare feet was cool and damp, soft.
Dec clasped her hand in his, and she squeezed back. Feeling really close to him. When the bal
my breeze whipped her hair around, she wanted to laugh with unexpected exuberance.
It was as if the wind lifted the burdens and sorrow, and for a brief time she was willing to let them go. Life had to be lived, and it deserved to be appreciated.
Smiling, she looked at Dec and found he was smiling, too. They had the beach to themselves, lost in a rare moment that seemed to arise from another time, another place. This was not Martina Town as she had always known it. This was…heaven.
Dec tugged her hand, and, as if floating, she drew near to him until their bodies touched, breast to breast, hip to hip. Then, slowly, as if they had all the time in the world and not just a few stolen moments, he lowered his head to kiss her.
Electricity filled the night suddenly, zapping every cell in her body. Her mouth welded to his, and she never wanted to break away. She caressed his tongue with hers, drinking from him as if he were a fountain of life, wanting to stay in this place, in this moment, forever and ever.
She felt his hands pull her closer, gently crushing her against his firm body. Her fingertips curled into his back, grasping the fabric of his shirt.
"Markie," he whispered, his voice thick and heavy.
"Yes, Declan. Yes."
She didn't want to contemplate the moment. She didn't want to go back to the real world where every action had to be weighed and considered and pondered, every decision agonized over until analysis gave way to paralysis. Not again. Not ever again.
"Yes," she repeated. "Yes."
* * *
A sliding glass door. A patio. Teak deck chairs. A palm tree with a faded leaf hanging near a roofline. The images floated into Wendy's mind like the nicotine that coursed through her bloodstream, welcome, wanted, but not entirely within her control. All she could do was expose herself to the ethereal presence. It did the rest.
She was not an artist, and for a moment she had to quell frustration at not being able to reproduce on paper what she saw in her mind's eye. The trained scientist in her recognized that this was a common problem with remote viewing. The worst thing to do was to try to fight it. Instead, she simply had to accept that her subconscious would guide her hand, that the resulting images would be correct, however inexact, and regardless of their aesthetic qualities.