She was glad when he turned the light off. Less glad that he didn’t undress her. Leaving that choice up to her might have derailed the whole thing, if she’d been less determined. Less desperate. But she’d disengaged her thinking mind when she’d left her room and gone to knock on his door, and it was without thinking that she took off her clothes in the kindly darkness and laid them neatly over the room’s only upholstered chair. She turned back toward him, and watched him in the faint light that leaked into the room from outside the uncurtained window, watched him tug the bedcovers back, then hold out his hand to her. She took it, and he drew her to the bed, then got in and held the covers open for her. Once again, leaving the choice up to her. She could come to him…or not.
She felt her heart thumping with appalling force inside her chest. Moving in a dream, not thinking, she sat on the edge of the mattress and lay down beside him. The cool, crisp sheets settled over them both.
She lay in the darkness with the rain pulling a curtain of sound around them, shivering at first, curled tightly against him-this man she barely knew-with her fist nested in his chest hair, the thump-thump of his heart loud in her ear and her hand rising and falling with his slow, even breaths. She closed her eyes, and the images came and played through her mind like an old-time newsreel, the faces, one after the other: A lovely young girl, the bride and her groom…like children playing at a make-believe wedding. A little boy, laughing and fat in his snowsuit, throwing snow at his mother. Her mother and father-her daddy, the one she knew and adored-gazing at her with love and pride. Her mother’s face as she’d seen it last, haunted and terrified…her dad’s face growing sadder and sadder by the day. Holt Kincaid, a grown man asking in a man’s voice a child’s question: Why?
The pain came and this time she didn’t fight it but let it wash over her in waves and waves, and he-this hardened cop, this man she barely knew-stroked her gently, so gently, until gradually the pain subsided and the shivering stopped and her body grew heavy and supple, and unfurled along his side the way a flower opens in the sun.
“I should have known you’d be so gentle,” she whispered. “So kind. You are a kind, gentle man, Detective Cameron.”
He gave a snort of laughter and growled, “That’s just what every homicide cop wants to hear.”
“I’m sorry. It’s true, though.”
“How do you know? You don’t know me that well.”
“Maybe not well, but I know that. I saw it that first day I met you, you know-the way you were with my mother.”
He didn’t reply, and after a moment she added, “I knew that you wouldn’t turn me away, even if you do think you shouldn’t-”
“Hush,” he said for the second time, and raised himself so that he loomed above her, big and solid in the darkness. His head swooped down, blotting out what light there was, and his mouth found hers unerringly.
She gave a gasp and sank into it-the sheer pleasure of being kissed, held, stroked. Sank into it as she would a hot tub, sighing with the pure sensual pleasure.
After a while-she lost all track of time-he lifted his head and said in a soft growl, “Maybe I’m not all that kind. Maybe I just want to make love to you. Did you ever think of that?”
She laughed, and just as softly growled back, “That’s okay, too. Make love to me, then.”
Her eyes closed and she didn’t notice or care; her body was doing what it wanted, with no direction from her thinking mind. She felt his lips brush her eyelids…his hands cradle her head while his thumbs stroked her cheeks…so lightly, so tenderly.
And it was the tenderness that was her undoing.
Prickles washed through her body in a stinging shower, a wave of longing that caught her unawares. It was pain, yes, but different from the other, the pain that had weighed her down and brought her to this almost-stranger’s bed in the dead of night. This was bright and breathtaking, and she let herself be carried on it, into a realm of fantasy…of possibility…of what if?
What if this wasn’t just for tonight, but for always?
What if it wasn’t just making love, but love?
What if I love him?
What if he could love me?
What if he does?
So easily, the lines between fantasy and reality blurred and ran, like watercolors in the rain. She felt as if she’d always known him, this man who held her and touched her so tenderly. His hands seemed to know her body better than she did. His mouth, his fingers, his body came into her most intimate places, not as explorers, but as loved ones welcomed home.
She felt safe in his hands. Beyond the gentleness, there was strength in this man. How did she know that? It wasn’t something she asked herself, then, her mind having disengaged from her body. It was just something her body knew. She was safe in his hands.
“Make love to me,” she whispered, not even remembering she’d already said it.
He didn’t reply with words, but simply did as she asked.
He’d never known a woman like this, so completely immersed in the act of making love, so utterly without reservation, self-consciousness or inhibition. Yet, not in a frantic way. Her body was pliant…relaxed, her movements so languorous and sweet he felt as though he could sink into her and lose himself there completely.
Her joy, her pleasure, her delight in his touch, his kisses, made him feel bigger, better, stronger. More. More of everything good and admirable than he’d ever felt in his life before. He felt blessed and yet humbled, as if he’d been entrusted with a great treasure to cherish and protect. Which should have been daunting, perhaps, except he also felt completely up to the task. Not only that, it seemed to him he was the only man alive who would be.
She sighed when he kissed her…swelled under his hands. He no longer heard the rain or saw the darkness, because the world was her, and him…nothing more. Just the two of them and then, so easily, so naturally, one.
Being inside her seemed so right, the only place he could be, then, the only place he felt he belonged, as if he’d come home after a long, long time in exile. He felt a swelling in his chest, an unanticipated sting behind his eyelids, and quickly ducked his head to claim her mouth again, releasing emotions in a way he could understand and allow-in passion.
Reaching under her, he drew her more closely against him and seated himself even more deeply inside her, and felt her move with him as if she were truly part of him, not a separate person at all. He didn’t ask himself, How can this be? How is it possible I’ve never made love with this woman before? Not then. It was only later that it occurred to him to wonder, and ask: Where was the strangeness, the getting-to-know-you awkwardness that went with having sex with someone for the first time?
But just then, at that moment, he could only go with it, immerse himself in it as she did.
They moved together in the same rhythms for an unmeasured time, letting their bodies set the pace, tuned to each other as if they listened to the same music. And when the music rose finally to its crescendo, they rode it out together, bodies arching, swelling, pulsing and clenching in tandem. They clung together, first in something akin to terror, then exhilaration, and finally, a kind of thankfulness…and sweet relief.
Afterward, they lay intertwined and uncovered, bodies slick and humid where they touched, already beginning to feel the chill where they didn’t. Even so, when he took his arm away from her to reach for the covers, she gave a little growl of protest.
He laughed softly and kissed her forehead, and when he had them covered up, gathered her close again. He heard her sigh, and for a few minutes more, let himself drift in the kind of contentment he hadn’t believed himself capable of. But as his body cooled, inevitably so did his mind. Reason returned. And responsibility.
Still holding Lindsey close to his side with one arm, he lay back on the pillows and swore, muttering under his breath.
From her nest on his shoulder the murmur came, “Regretting it already?”
He shook his head. “No, it’s not that. Regretting
my own stupidity, I guess. And no-” he raised up to touch a kiss to her forehead “-I didn’t mean that, either. What I mean is, I didn’t even think about protection. I’m sorry. I think I even have a couple of condoms over there in my wallet. I just…forgot.”
“You can’t get me pregnant,” she said after a moment. “And I haven’t had sex since my divorce. I think I would know if I was…you know.”
“And I was tested fairly recently-got sliced up by a suspect in a domestic abuse case, so they tested me as a precaution. But that’s-”
“Is that what this is?” Her fingers traced the newly healed scar on his side, making him wince involuntarily. “Oh-sorry,” she cried. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, you didn’t. But what I was going to say was, that’s no excuse. I should have remembered.” He let out a breath. “Well-”
He stopped, but the words he’d been about to say hung there between them, unspoken: Next time…
Would there be a next time? Tonight…maybe. Even probably-or today, since it was already Sunday. But beyond that? He couldn’t see it.
Her voice came, quietly and without much expression. “You do regret it, don’t you.”
“How could I regret what was probably one of the most amazing experiences of my life?” He felt exasperated, cornered, unnerved by his own unprecedented honesty.
She was silent for a moment, absorbing what he’d said. Then she drew a shaken breath and said, “It was for me, too. But I’m betting you’re not thinking the same things I am right now.”
“For instance?” It was a growl of futile belligerence.
“You don’t want this-what just happened between us-to happen again.”
“Not true.” Again…futile. His body was already calling him a liar, and she knew it.
“I don’t mean tonight,” she said, with both a smile and sadness in her voice. “You said once, this-us-is a bad idea. You still think so.”
“It’s not a matter of what I think, or want,” he said slowly, as if speaking to someone of limited intelligence. “It’s just what is.”
“Why? Is it because I’m part of a case you’re working on?”
“Partly.”
“What, is it against the law for a police officer to be involved with someone connected with an open case? Even if she’s not a suspect?”
He stirred restlessly, his thoughts becoming scrambled…scattered. Fatigue, he wondered, or the distraction of her body lying warm and round against him. “No, not against the law.”
“Department policy, then?” She stirred, too, and he felt her hand move, innocent of design, across his belly.
His voice seemed to come from there-deep in his belly. “Yeah, probably. Ethically…”
“So-it’s your policy. Your ethics.”
His laugh was harsh. “God, that makes me sound like such a prick.”
Her hand grew still. “I don’t mean for it to. I’m trying to understand. You’re a man of principle-I understand that. It’s one of the things that makes me…” She didn’t finish it, and instead, after a long pause, drew an unsteady breath. “So, what about when it’s all over? What then?”
“Lindsey…love.”
And there it was, the pet name he’d been looking for. Lindsey-love. And now realized had been there all along, only he’d been too afraid to say it out loud. Why? he wondered. Afraid it might be true?
He took refuge in a tried and true cop-out. “It’s not that simple.”
She raised herself on one elbow and looked down at him, her bewitching eyes only smudges in the darkness. After what seemed an endless silence, she said very softly, “You think my father is guilty, don’t you? And you think I’ll blame you…hate you…for bringing him down.”
“Lindsey…”
In a quick, almost violent movement, she sat up, pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. Her voice sounded breathless and muffled. “I wouldn’t, you know. Even if he were guilty. Which I know he’s not. But if he were, I wouldn’t blame you.” Her head swiveled toward him. “How could I? You’re only doing your job. In fact, doing what I asked you to do. How could I blame you?”
He heard the anguish in her voice as she emphasized the last word and thought, Yes, there it is. “You would,” he said gently, raising himself on one elbow. “Or maybe more than that, you’d blame yourself. Whichever way it goes, it’s always going to be there between us.”
Again, a flurry of movement in the darkness as she shook her head. “It doesn’t have to be. People have overcome worse things. It’s only an obstacle if you let it be. And maybe-”
He heard a sharp intake of breath, as if she’d stumbled, and when she continued there was a new note of breathlessness and pain in her voice.
Which was just what it was like, he thought-stumbling over the truth. Like stubbing your toe in the darkness.
“Maybe you want it to be. Because…maybe what you want is an excuse.”
“An excuse?” he said. “For what?”
“An excuse not to try again.” She paused, and he caught a furtive movement-her hand, brushing her cheeks. “Like me. I know what it’s like, you know-to be so afraid of getting your heart broken, you won’t let yourself take another chance.”
Chapter 11
I had gone there to kill her-to finish the job I started. When I found she had no memory, and then they told me she was pregnant… How could I justify killing a child? And she didn’t know me, didn’t recognize me at all…
Excerpt from the confession of Alexi K.
FBI Files, Restricted Access,
Declassified 2010
Alan was a homicide cop; he was accustomed to listening to confessions. He knew not to interrupt with questions at this point, but simply to listen…and wait.
In the neutral, nonjudgmental darkness, Lindsey paused to gather her courage, and after a moment, went on.
“After my baby died, I had an operation-it’s called a tubal ligation. I had my tubes tied, in other words. So I couldn’t get pregnant again-ever. I couldn’t stand to go through that again-the pain. I just couldn’t. Other people seemed to be able to have miscarriages, lose babies, and try again and again. But not me.” Her voice seemed to clog up, slow to a trickle, so she continued in a whisper. “It cost me my marriage…broke my parents’ hearts.” She paused once more, gathering strength. “And I’ve always convinced myself I was right to do what I did. But the truth is, I was just not brave enough. I was a coward, Alan. Afraid to take the chance.” She made that surreptitious little movement again, brushing at tears. “Please…don’t do what I did. Don’t cut yourself off from relationships just because one didn’t work out for you. Give-this-us-a chance.”
What could he say to her? Lie to her? Make her promises he wasn’t sure he could keep?
In the end he said nothing except to murmur her name, and gathered her into his arms even knowing that doing so may have been as much a lie as saying the words out loud. But to leave her to weep uncomforted seemed to him too great a cruelty. And besides, he needed the comfort as much as she did.
He made love to her again. It solved nothing, she knew-and she was fairly certain he knew that, too-but it felt so good, and for a short while, at least, it did make the pain go away. His hand between her thighs…his mouth on her breasts…his big body solid beneath hers, on top of hers…every place he touched her, every way he touched her-a little rough where her body craved roughness, gently, delicately, carefully where any but the lightest touch might have brought pain-gave such exquisite pleasure. There was no room for thought or feeling. He really did make the world go away-and at that moment, it was all she asked of him.
Then, like an uninvited guest, a line from another song, one neither of them had mentioned, popped into her mind. Something about raindrops blowing against windows, and then: Make believe you love me…
Longing sliced through her, sharp and bright and hot as a blade. She gasped; her body arched and opened to him, and he responded to her urgency as if
he knew exactly what she needed. He drove himself into her, hard and deep, and her body clenched and tightened at first until he covered her mouth with his, claimed her with his mouth, his hands, his body…filled her completely, and drove everything else from her mind.
Much later, exhausted and hovering on the edge of sleep, she heard him groan, then whisper, “Damn. Forgot the condoms again.”
She laughed, and fell headlong into oblivion.
“I keep coming back to it-the question Holt asked.” Lindsey shook her head, then leaned it back against the headrest but didn’t close her eyes. “Why?”
They were driving south on the 405 Freeway in light Sunday morning traffic. The storm had moved on east. Somewhere off to their right the Pacific was living up to its name, for once. On the left, distant mountains sported caps of new snow. The color palate was crisp and bright, the sky overhead a brilliant blue, dotted with artist’s clouds. A chamber of commerce postcard day.
When Alan didn’t reply, she looked over at him. His profile was sharp-edged, his eyes narrowed and focused on the road ahead. He was all cop this morning, and she was actually glad. It made it easier to put the night that had passed between them into its own compartment in her mind, something rare to be locked away…protected…kept separate from real life.
“I know you think my dad is guilty, that he’s the one who kidnapped the McKinneys-” she still couldn’t think of that young couple as her parents “-and shot them and threw them into the Chesapeake Bay…”
“Your mother says he did,” Alan said quietly. “You want to believe she’s confused, that she made a mistake. But she was right about everything else-having a different husband, a child named Jimmy, being shot, floating-why would she be confused about that one thing? The most important thing, maybe.”
“But, why? It doesn’t make sense. It seems pretty certain my dad was the man who showed up at the hospital and claimed Jane Doe as his wife, Sally Phillips. It’s absolutely certain he’s the man who raised me and made a happy home for me and my mother for the next forty years.” Her voice was tight now, with the anger that constricted her throat and chest. “You tell me-how does it make any kind of sense that he’s the same person who shot her in the first place?”
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