by Art Bourgeau
Tem, the Mongolian doorman, greeted her and helped her with her coat. When Laura asked if Felix had arrived, Tem's face darkened.
"I don't know. You'll have to ask Justin or Lois about that. They're in the back," he said coolly.
As she walked through the bar toward the dining area, his tone struck her as odd. Normally Tem was much warmer. What was wrong with him tonight?
Justin and Lois were at a table in the corner finishing their dinner. When he saw her Justin frowned but Lois smiled and invited her to sit down. Felix was nowhere to be seen. Hesitant to intrude, especially since Justin's brief frown made her feel unwelcome, she remained standing. "I'm supposed to meet Felix here."
Lois pressed until Laura joined them. "It's cold and wet out there. How about an Irish coffee to warm you up?"
When Laura again mentioned her date with Felix, out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of Justin shaking his head slightly. Finally Lois said, "He was in earlier but he left . . ."
Justin was not being at all subtle. He obviously did not want Lois to talk about Felix, and it wasn't until Laura laid her cards on the table that Lois came over to her side.
"Look, I'm not here as a reporter. I'm here because Felix asked to meet me here. I know what's happening, I've been with the police all day and I want to help him—"
"Tell me one thing," Lois said.
"What?"
"Are you in love with him?"
Laura felt decidedly uncomfortable as Lois and Justin stared at her, waiting for her answer. Well, she thought, might as well level with them. Secrets didn't last long in this place anyway . . ."Yes, I guess I am," she said quietly. "I know you think I'm mixing business and pleasure, but sometime before that and—"
"I'm going to tell her," Lois said. Justin, not agreeing, didn't try to stop her.
"The police came and went; there wasn't much we could do to help. We hadn't seen Felix, and the news about Cynthia—" She reached for her cigarettes, offered one to Laura and held her lighter for both of them. "After our finest had come and gone the second time, Felix did show up. I could see he was upset, and I thought it was about Cynthia. I was wrong . . . he didn't even know about Cynthia . .
"What was bothering him then?" said Laura.
Violet interrupted Lois' answer with their drinks, and Justin used the opportunity to get up and leave the table.
After Violet had gone Lois said, "When I asked him what was wrong he started telling me some weird story about having just come from Missy Wakefield's place and how he'd left her there almost hysterical because she wanted to get married and have his baby and he wouldn't go along. Can you beat that?"
Laura shook her head. "It sounds crazy. There's got to be some sort of explanation—"
"It is crazy." Lois agreed. "I don't care who the guy is, even if it's Felix, the day our Missy Wakefield gets pregnant will be the day Willie Penn's hat blows off the top of City Hall. Missy once said that having kids meant having someone to loathe you when you get old. Nobody's going to get her pregnant."
Laura tried to push back her own jealous feelings about all this. "What happened then?"
"That's when it got off the wall. I told him about Cynthia. Naturally, that really threw him. I mean, after all, he was married to her. And then when I told him about the police, I thought he was going to lose it entirely. He started saying things like, 'Not again, not this time,' and he had a look that made you think he was going over the edge. I talked to him, Justin talked to him, but it didn't do any good. He seemed convinced the police were going to try and railroad him again, like they did in New Orleans. Do you know that story?"
"Yes, and I know he was innocent. But I can see how he'd feel like he does about the police. Do you know where he is?"
Lois hesitated.
"Come on, he needs me."
"All right, he's at our house in Cape May. On Washington Street." She wrote out the address.
Laura stood, and leaned over the table to kiss Lois on the cheek. "Thanks, I'll keep you posted," she said as she turned to go.
Outside the rain was coming down harder as Laura hurried to her car. She took Front Street past La Familia and Raymond Haldeman's to the Delaware Avenue exit. She tuned the radio to WFLN, where the announcer said she was listening to Mozart. She didn't recognize it. Her thoughts were all on Felix, what she'd just heard, the scary resemblance to the picture of Peter . . . At Oregon Avenue she turned right and headed for the Walt Whitman Bridge and New Jersey.
She understood that what Lois was not saying, but was afraid of, was that Felix might be guilty. Fortunately Lois didn't yet know about the tie-in to Terri's and Marie's deaths. As for herself, she still had no doubt about Felix's innocence; how could she? But he needed her help; running away like this was making things look worse. She had to convince him to come back with her.
Traffic was light on the bridge. She paid the ninety-cent toll and started for the Atlantic City Expressway. As she drove through the rain and the New Jersey night she thought how she would like to be holding Felix in her arms right now, helping him put all this awfulness in the past . . . Between Philadelphia and Atlantic City she stopped at a rest stop for coffee and cigarettes—her stomach was too knotted up to eat anything . . .
About ten miles out of Atlantic City she took the Garden State Parkway south, and when her radio station began to fade and she couldn't find one that suited her she turned it off and drove on in silence . . . The weather, the time of night and the off season made the road almost solely hers as she passed Ocean City, Avalon, Stone Harbor, working her way south. Twice she stopped to pay tolls; once in Atlantic County, once in Cape May County.
Finally, about an hour and a half into her trip, through the rain she saw the sign for the end of the Garden State Parkway and crossed the bridge into Cape May. Even though it was late autumn the marina was still filled with pleasure boats, motor and sail, all shapes and sizes, and the lights at both the Anchorage and the Lobster House showed they were still doing a lively business in spite of the late hour.
She took Lafayette Street until she could make a left, then turned and went the one block to Washington Street. Normally the tree-lined street with its brightly colored old Victorian houses trimmed in the intricate gingerbread woodwork of a bygone era made her feel as though she had stepped back into a time of innocence. But tonight it was different. With the leaves gone from the trees and many of the grand houses closed and empty for the winter, she somehow felt unwelcome.
The street lights were widely spaced, leaving long patches of darkness between, and she drove slowly, trying to make out the house numbers through her windshield wipers. Squinting through the rain, she at last found the number she was looking for on a brown, cedar-shingle house with white trim, and there, as far back as possible in the drive, almost hidden from view, was Felix's jaguar.
She pulled to the curb and stopped, suddenly exhausted and shaking from the strain of the day. Taking a couple of deep breaths, she forced herself to move on, the sea wind blowing the rain hard against her back as she went up the walk and mounted the steps to the house.
She pounded hard on the door to the glass-paned, year-round porch. No response. Inside the house, through the lace curtains, she could see a hint of light. She pounded again. No response. She rapped once again.
This time she saw a shadow move inside the house, and then Felix was at the door, astonishment on his face as he pushed it open. "Laura, what are you doing here?"
"Aren't you going to ask me in?"
He stood aside for her to enter. The living room was ice-cold, the furniture was covered with sheets.
"They're remodeling. The only place there's any heat is in the den. Come on."
It was also the only place where there appeared to be any light. Laura followed him through the darkened dining room and kitchen, her arms crossed to keep down her chills and shakes.
The den was a shambles. Most of the furniture had been pushed to one side with the exception of a recline
r and a sofa that was covered in sheets like the living room furniture. The recliner wasn't. A lighted table lamp was beside it and there was a bottle of Jack Daniels, a glass and an open bottle of beer on the table.
The non-working fireplace was covered by stacks of lumber and tools being used in the remodeling. Heat came from a kerosene heater sitting on the plywood subflooring.
Felix poured a generous dollop of Jack Daniels and handed the glass to Laura. "Drink this, it'll help warm you up."
He pulled the sofa nearer the kerosene heater and took off the sheets. Laura shed her wet trenchcoat and sat down. The warmth of the heater felt good.
Without looking at him, she said, "Felix, I know that you've heard about Cynthia's death. Lois and Justin told me about seeing you. I'm very sorry. And I know how she died; well, I can understand how you feel. But you can't stay down here, no matter how upset you are, or afraid of another unjust arrest. The police are looking for you. They need to talk to you. You were one of the last people to see her alive. They think maybe you can tell them something to help find her killer . . ."
Felix stayed outside the small circle of light and began to pace. When he finally spoke there was a deep sadness in his voice.
"We hadn't even been friends in a long time, but I wished her well, I wanted her to get on with her life, to find some new happiness. It didn't seem to work out that way. After our divorce, except for her store, she seemed to live in some sort of limbo, not even trying to rebuild her life. And now this . . ."
"You'll come back then?"
"I can't help them. We had a drink, I put her in a cab, that's it. We didn't even have dinner."
"Felix . . . are you saying you won't come back?"
"Laura, believe me, I have nothing to contribute—"
"Let them be the judge of that. You may know something you're not even aware of. Let's go back right now, talk to them—"
"It's out of the question."
"Felix, you've got to put the past out of your mind. You don't know this, but they're sure Cynthia's killer is the same man who killed Terri and Marie. That should eliminate you. Please, come back with me, face them and at least clear yourself . . ."
"You forget something—the past doesn't go away, I'm an ex-convict, already convicted of a killing. Times like this, the fact I was innocent and pardoned gets forgotten. It's not my help the police are interested in; it's my hide—"
"That's not so. You're innocent—"
"I was innocent before but I still went to prison."
Laura got up from the sofa. "I can't believe what I'm hearing. All right, I understand how you'd be bitter, but you can't go through life being paranoid, running—"
"You're a great one to talk. Every time someone gets close to you, you run like a scalded dog."
"That's a different—"
"Why is it different? I don't know what your problem is, but I sure as hell know mine. Those cops came by Lagniappe twice today looking for me. Think about it. I don't own Lagniappe, I don't work there and I don't live there. Which means that if they wanted me badly enough to come twice to a place I just happen to go to, then they were at my apartment and the job site who knows how many times. I'm no material witness, I'm the number-one suspect, innocent or not. I've got a damn good reason to run—"
Laura tried to interrupt but he wouldn't let her. "You, on the other hand, you seem to run from shadows, from phantoms. Who knows from what. So please, don't talk to me about running—or do talk to me about running. You're an expert. Maybe I can learn something."
His words stung. Especially since she knew he was right. Right about her, but wrong about himself. She had to make him see it, and there was only one way, even though taking it would probably ruin what was between them . . .
She turned her back to him, and there in that small circle of light slowly pulled her sweater over her head, dropped it on the sofa. The air felt cool to her bare skin, bringing goosebumps with it. She felt him behind her, his eyes on her every move, but he said nothing. Her heart was beating like a triphammer as she reached behind to unclasp her bra, slid it slowly down her arms, laid it aside, being sure the prosthesis was with it.
Dear God, please don't let him say anything. And then she turned to face him, her eyes on the floor, not wanting to see the look on his face.
He was quiet for what seemed like hours. She wouldn't look at his face, but she could feel him looking at her, his gaze searing her flesh as he stood there in the darkness outside the circle of light.
And then, finally, he said, "I understand." He said it quietly, without pity, with acceptance. And she began to cry.
Now, just as she'd fantasized it, she was in his arms, and he was kissing her—lips, hair, her eyes, everywhere.
She opened her eyes and looked at him. What she saw, or rather didn't see, brought a huge relief. Pity, sympathy, none of them was there. What she saw was desire. Good God, he wanted her—even with . . . he wanted her. She closed her eyes and returned his kisses.
"I love you, Laura. Believe it. I love you . . ."
The coarse wool of his shirt made her skin tingle as she moved against him. His hands were on her, touching her, even on her breast and scars . . .
"You're beautiful," he whispered. "I'm going to make you believe that . . ."
He wasn't afraid of her body, wasn't revolted by the sight of her. That was enough. She felt his need, his hardness pressing against her.
"I can't wait, I want you now," he was saying.
She let him lead her to the sofa, undress her and make her lie back. Good, he understood she wasn't fragile, wouldn't break. He knelt between her legs. When she saw the eager redness of his erection, she wanted to hold it, fondle it. She wanted to feel the smoothness of its head against her cheek, her lips, her belly . . . her breast.
"You're breathtaking," he was saying, looking down at her. She felt tears. Opening her arms to him, she said, "Come to me, baby. Come to me. I want you, too, and I've waited so long, so long . .
When he entered her she suddenly found herself in sync with him . . . moving, squeezing, brazenly urging him onward with word and movement, the desire for the wetness of his come inside her, a need such as she had never experienced before. He felt it, too, and he never faltered, never hesitated, giving as he was getting.
In the cold of the room, sweat covered their bodies . . . slick belly to slick belly. lt was marvelous, she wanted it to go on for hours, but soon he was rasping in her ear, "I'm going to come . . ."
She held him tighter and whispered back, "Now, now," and melted with him as he pushed into her with one last shuddering thrust.
* * *
Afterward they lay together, drained. No bridal suite this, the room cold beyond the circle of warmth and light, the covered furniture, the stacked lumber, the waiting tools the only witnesses to their lovemaking.
Laura, resting under him, his head nestled against her, had to wonder now that the moment was past, what future, if any, there would be. Was this the end? A few minutes from start to finish?
Felix stirred slightly, and as if he had read her mind he said, "I can't risk losing you, lady. We'll go back together and I'll talk to the police. First thing in the morning" And to himself, "Even if it turns sour, she is worth it . .
CHAPTER 25
IT WAS after ten when the first police car answered Missy's call for help. He waited for a backup that arrived no more than a minute later, and together they approached the slightly ajar front door of her townhouse.
The first policeman, an Irishman named—what else—O'Ma1ley, formerly of Kensington but now living in the north-east section of the city, cautiously pushed open the door with his flashlight and called out.
What they heard were a woman's sobs from inside the darkened living room. They called out again, then went in with guns drawn.
The flashlight beam of the second policeman, a black man named Perkins from West Philly, picked up the figure of a woman on her knees, her head resting against the seat
of a leather-covered chair. "Holy shit!"
It wasn't until they turned on the lights that they saw she was nude. O'Malley went to the bedroom and came back with a blanket while Perkins quickly removed the stainless steel chain from around her neck and used his master key to open the cheap handcuffs imprisoning her wrists.
As O'Malley put the blanket around her, Missy peeked between sobs to be sure he was the white one, then threw herself into his arms. He did his best to comfort her while Perkins asked what had happened.
Missy shifted her position slightly against O'Malley to make it easier to keep her legs together so that the sperm sample from the office that she'd inseminated herself with wouldn't leak out. Sobbing louder than ever, she said in a broken voice, "He raped me."
When they asked who, she told them in near-hysteria, "Felix Ducroit. He raped me and tried to kill me . . ."
The officers looked at one another. Both understood from the handcuffs and chain what they'd stumbled onto—the identity of the rapist-kilIer who'd been keeping a whole section of detectives working overtime.
Perkins went to the phone to call in, and Missy snuggled a little closer to O'Malley, pleased with her performance so far and their response to it. Nice guys, good little cops, who would help her make Felix Ducroit pay and pay for the way he'd treated her.
Sloan told Perkins and O'Malley to sit tight until he arrived with a policewoman to be on hand during the questioning and to help during the trip to the hospital.
In less than fifteen minutes Missy's townhouse was a hive of activity. She watched in silence while the team from the mobile crime lab went over everything, pleased that she had had the foresight to remove all of Peter's things and put them in the trunk of her car.
When Sloan and the policewoman, Detective Kane, arrived, she went into the bedroom with Missy and helped her dress. When they came back to the living room one of the lab men was talking to Sloan. Missy couldn't hear what was being said, only saw Sloan nod a couple of times.