Infernal Affairs

by Jane Heller

  “This is the work of the entity,” Constance announced. “He is revealing himself to us tonight. To show us his power.”

  At the mention of the word “power,” I thought back to my session with Dr. Schaffran, during which “power” had certainly been a theme. Was there a connection somehow? Something that linked my apparent psychological problems with Constance’s ravings? Was there a single thread that tied together all the things that had happened to me recently? Was there a reason why my life had suddenly taken such a bizarre turn? A reason that involved dark forces and negative entities?

  Of course not, I told myself. Get a grip.

  I rose from the table, walked over to the screen and looked up at the sky. I shielded my eyes momentarily as a bolt of lightning flashed before me. When I refocused my gaze, I saw something truly astonishing and, at the same time, vaguely familiar. Tucked between the storm clouds, dotting little slivers of sky, were silvery starlike faces. Yes, they had eyes and noses and mouths, and they were sitting up in that sky as surely as I was standing on Ben’s screened porch.

  And then one of the little faces winked at me!

  I saw it! I swear I saw it! It looked right down at me, gave me a sly half smile and winked!

  I was completely flabbergasted and yet I’d been winked at before by a starlike face in the sky. I knew I had. Once before. On another stormy night. But which night? Where? Under what circumstances?

  I couldn’t remember. I wanted to remember, but I couldn’t. Something wouldn’t let me.

  “Barbara? What are you looking at?” Ben asked.

  I turned around to face him but I was unable to answer his question.

  “Barbara?” he tried again. “Did you see any negative entities lurking out there?”

  His tone was lighthearted, playful. He didn’t understand what was happening. How could he?

  “Barbara?” he said once more.

  Involuntarily, I glanced at Constance, who held my eyes for several seconds.

  And then she crossed herself.

  Chapter 11

  I spent the rest of the week shuttling back and forth between Home Sweet Home, Dr. Schaffran’s office, and the supermarket, where I was forever scouring the aisles for something Pete would eat. To say he was finicky about his food was an understatement. Forget Purina Dog Chow. Forget Ken L Ration. Forget Gaines Burgers. Even Milkbone Dog Biscuits, the canine equivalent of Saltines in their innocuousness, got the cold shoulder from my Pete.

  The odd thing was that no matter how little he ate, he never seemed hungry. He never stuck his nose in my plate, lusting after the meals I made for myself. He never whined when I opened the refrigerator to browse. He never barked when the Domino’s Pizza guy delivered my large pepperoni with extra cheese. It occurred to me that he might be finding sustenance from the great outdoors, that perhaps his taste in food ran toward small rodents. As I said, it was odd. But then what wasn’t these days?

  Saturday night was my dinner date with David. I had been looking forward to it, obviously, and talked about my feelings with Dr. Schaffran. Louise.

  “I can’t imagine what he sees in me,” I confided to her during our Friday afternoon session. “He’s everything I’m not—movie-star attractive, wealthy, well traveled. I’m sure that the only reason he’s asking me out is because he’s new in town and doesn’t know any other women.”

  “Isn’t…it…possible…that…he…likes…you?” asked Louise.

  I shrugged.

  “How…do…you…feel…about…him?” she asked.

  “I’m mesmerized by him,” I said. “Literally. When he looks at me with those big brown eyes and talks to me in that low, velvety voice, I’m powerless.”

  “Powerless?”

  “Yeah.”

  Louise nodded and made notes and nodded again.

  “Oh, I get it,” I said. “You think I’m attracted to David because he reminds me of Mitchell; that they both make me feel powerless; that it’s some kind of neurosis that draws me to men who intimidate me. Well, let me tell you: David Bettinger is nothing like Mitchell Chessner. Nothing. David is kind and considerate and respectful of my feelings. He finds me amusing, clever, intelligent. Oh, and he’s very romantic, unlike Mitchell, whose idea of a romantic evening is taking you to one of his restaurants, where the only things he kisses are his customers’ asses.”

  “You…seem…angry,” Louise commented.

  “I’m not angry,” I said. “I’m just glad I’m having dinner with David on Saturday night and not Mitchell.”

  “Are…you…sexually…attracted…to…David?” asked Louise.

  I blushed. “Yes. Very much so. But I’m so sheltered, so inexperienced. Mitchell was the first and only man I ever slept with. I don’t know how to act with men. Sexually, I mean.”

  “How…do…you…want…to…act?” asked Louise.

  “I…Well…Gosh. I don’t know. Come to think of it, if David tried to initiate sex, I’d probably freak out.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I wasn’t raised to have sex on a second date. I was raised to have sex after the man produced the engagement ring. My mother always said, ‘Why should he pay for something he can get for free?’”

  “Do you agree with your mother, Barbara?”

  I considered the question, then said, “Yes and no. I would love to have sex with David, but I don’t want him to think I’m…a slut.”

  “Why don’t you just wait and see how you feel about David when you’re with him,” Louise suggested. “Your mother won’t be along on the date. You’ll be in charge of your own destiny, Barbara. It’ll be your decision whether or not to have sex with this man. Your choice.”

  My choice. The idea was terrifying.

  The house that David was renting was Bahamian in style. It was painted pastel pink, had a white tile roof and overlooked the St. Lucie River. With its spacious bedroom suites, ceiling fans, pickled hardwood floors, and lushly landscaped swimming pool and spa, the house was one of Banyan Beach’s prime rental properties. If memory served, its owner, a businessman from Singapore, had paid over $3 million for it.

  When I arrived at seven-thirty, David greeted me at the door with a smile and a quick kiss on the cheek. I inhaled his scent, an expensive cologne, and felt light-headed, dizzy, off-balance, the way I always felt when I was close to him.

  “It’s good to see you again,” I said, taking him in. God, he got more gorgeous every time I saw him. Strands of his golden hair fell casually across his lightly tanned forehead. His brown eyes were penetrating, impossible to look away from. He was wearing a bright red polo shirt that went well with his coloring and showed off his broad shoulders and hard, muscular chest. It was tucked into a pair of worn blue jeans—extremely tight blue jeans that hugged his thin hips and long legs and fit extra snugly around his crotch. How did I know that? I looked, that’s how. I couldn’t help it. My eyes just gravitated there, and when they did, I thought, Boy, this David Bettinger is well-hung. As I had told Dr. Schaffran the day before, I was a novice when it came to sex. I was even more of a novice when it came to a man’s sex organ (except, of course, for Mitchell’s, which wasn’t worth talking about). But even a novice couldn’t miss the bulge in David’s pants. The question was: would I know what to do with it when and if the opportunity presented itself?

  “Welcome to my temporary quarters,” he said as he took my elbow and guided me into the house.

  “They may be temporary quarters, but they’re pretty sensational,” I said, thinking that I wouldn’t mind renting a place like David’s. Now that Mitchell and Chrissy intended to kick me out of the house on Seacrest Way, it wouldn’t be long before I’d be looking for a new home. Unless, of course, David fell madly in love with me and begged me to move in with him.

  “It’s very comfortable here,” he agreed. He asked me if I wanted a tour of the house and, as I hadn’t seen it since it had been put up for sale by the previous owner, I said yes.

  The house was sty
lishly appointed and tastefully furnished with a mix of antique and rattan pieces, upholstered in light fabrics with tropical motifs. Each room had a breathtaking view of the water and nothing was the slightest bit askew or out of order. In fact, everything looked eerily tidy, more appropriate for a photographic shoot than a bachelor pad. Either David was incredibly neat or he had a terrific housekeeper.

  “This is the master bedroom,” he said when we’d reached the west wing of the house.

  I sighed as I stood in the doorway. The room was straight out of an ad for a romantic Caribbean hideaway—brass bed, vaulted V-grooved ceiling, paddle fan, potted palms. I had seen a lot of nice bedrooms in the nine years I’d been a real estate agent, but David’s was especially seductive. Or was it David himself?

  “Come,” he said, offering me his hand. “Let’s get you a drink and something to nibble on.”

  Nibble on, I thought, as I admired his left earlobe and took his hand. I experienced another wave of dizziness when I felt his fingers curl around mine. My heart beat faster and my face flushed.

  “Aren’t you going to show me the kitchen?” I asked as we walked back toward the living room. The minute I’d entered the house I’d been aware of the intoxicating aromas that were emanating from the kitchen. I was dying to see what David was making for dinner.

  He shook his head. “You’re my guest. I slave in the kitchen, while you relax out here and enjoy the view.”

  He motioned for me to sit on the sofa that faced the pool and, beyond, the river. Then he disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes later he returned, carrying an ice bucket containing a bottle of Dom Perignon and two fluted glasses.

  “My, my,” I said appreciatively. “When you invite someone for dinner, you don’t mess around.”

  “No, I don’t,” he smiled. He poured us each a glass of champagne and handed me one. “To my first dinner guest since I moved to Banyan Beach,” he toasted.

  “I’m your first? Really?”

  He nodded. “Why? Does that surprise you?”

  “Yes. I can’t imagine you sitting here by yourself night after night, watching TV and eating SpaghettiOs out of the can.”

  He laughed. “You have the impression that I’m a real ladies’ man, is that it?”

  “Well, aren’t you?”

  He shook his head. “Hardly.”

  I considered his response and thought it strange. I mean, the guy was rich and gorgeous and nice. Any woman would find him irresistible.

  “You told me you were divorced,” I said. “Have you been single long?”

  “About six months,” he replied. “And it’s been a lonely six months, let me tell you.”

  “Come on,” I scoffed.

  “It’s true,” he said. “Believe me.”

  “Where is the former Mrs. Bettinger?” I asked, hoping she wasn’t a possessive ex-wife. That type could snap under the strain of a divorce and turn into a stalker.

  “In Palm Beach,” he said.

  “Was the divorce bitter? Or was it a mutual thing?” I asked.

  “It was bitter,” said David, offering no further details. His expression had darkened and it was clear that it was time to change the subject.

  “Will you excuse me for just a minute?” he said. “I’ve forgotten to bring out that nibble I mentioned.”

  “By all means,” I said, perfectly content to sip my champagne, admire the view, and be catered to.

  David emerged from the kitchen five minutes later with an exquisitely garnished platter of hors d’oeuvres: smoked salmon on black bread, Beluga caviar, assorted cheeses. Quite a spread for his real estate agent, I thought, wondering if he went all out like this when he entertained his accountant, his insurance agent, and his periodontist.

  “This is lovely, but you shouldn’t have,” I protested, as I reached for some smoked salmon.

  “Why not? We deserve the best, you and I,” he said. “After what we’ve been through.”

  “After what we’ve been through?” I repeated, a bit mystified by his remark.

  “Well, our marital breakups, for one thing,” he explained.

  I nodded as I polished off the salmon and went for the caviar. David refilled my champagne glass.

  “What else have you been through? From the look of things, your life has gone pretty well,” I said, indicating his plush surroundings.

  He smiled ruefully. “Ah, Bah-ba-rah. There’s that directness I find so refreshing.” He sipped his champagne. “Let’s just say that, while I may appear to have everything a person could want, my life hasn’t gone as smoothly as I would have liked. There’s a lot you don’t know about me, you see. So much you don’t know.”

  “Like what?” I said, then drank more champagne.

  He shook his head. “Not now,” he said. “Not yet. Just know that I’ve been as unhappy as you’ve been. And you have been unhappy, haven’t you?”

  I nodded. “Very. Until recently.”

  “Yes, I know. Same here. Now I don’t mean to sound sorry for myself,” he went on. “I just want to suggest that we have more in common than you might think, Bah-ba-rah.”

  “You said that once before. About us having a lot in common,” I recalled, going for another hors d’oeuvre. A slice of Camembert this time.

  “It’s true,” he said. “And I have a strong sense that by the time this evening is over, you’ll understand why I said it.”

  With that, he poured more champagne into my glass and offered me a smoked salmon canapé. I washed down the Camembert with the champagne and took the hors d’oeuvre from him. I noticed that I was outdrinking and outeating David by at least three to one, but decided not to worry about it.

  At some point, David left me alone in the living room and went to the kitchen to finish making dinner. I offered to help but he told me to relax and enjoy myself. So I did. I polished off the rest of the hors d’oeuvres, had a few more glasses of D.P., and wandered around the room, admiring the decor. It struck me that there were no personal effects whatsoever. No magazines indicating David’s interests or hobbies. No souvenirs from any of his business trips. And no photographs. Not of David or anyone else. I reminded myself that he was only renting the house and that his knickknacks were probably in storage somewhere. Still, the lack of personal memorabilia gave the place a rather cold and sterile feeling, almost as if David Bettinger had no past at all.

  We sat down to dinner at about eight-thirty. I wasn’t exactly drunk by then, but I was at that stage in the inebriation process where words get harder and harder to pronounce. For example, when David led me into the dining room and I saw how beautiful the table looked, I said, “Oh, David. I can’t tell you how much I ‘appreeshit’ this.” I made a mental note to try to avoid words with more than one syllable.

  The meal was truly amazing and David was obviously an accomplished chef. He had prepared a roast tenderloin of lamb with wine sauce, garlicky mashed potatoes, sautéed spinach, and a Caesar salad—all of which was accompanied by crusty French bread and a very dry Merlot, my favorite.

  I don’t remember the precise moment when I knew that he wanted to sleep with me, but by the time I had finished eating (the food was so good I’d had to restrain myself, not only from licking the plate but from asking for seconds), I knew. I just knew. There was something in his brown eyes, something about the way they narrowed when they looked at me, something about the way his hand kept brushing mine, something about the way he kept refilling my wineglass in spite of the fact that I’d told him I’d had enough.

  And I’d had enough all right. I could tell because I could no longer see David’s handsome features clearly. His face had become a blur and the room was starting to circle my head like a wagon train.

  Still, I refuse to sound like one of those women who has sex with a man she hardly knows and then claims it was because he got her drunk. No way. I knew what I was doing. I wanted David to seduce me. I wanted him to find me so desirable he couldn’t control his ardor. I wanted him to let m
e see the real him—and that included that big bulge in his jeans. Most of all, I wanted us to be intimate, not just physically, but emotionally. I wanted David to confide in me, to share the source of his unhappiness, to allow me to know him. Really know him. I wanted, for the first time in my life, to bond with a man.

  And so when he told me he was as skilled at giving neck rubs as he was at roasting a lamb, I said, “Prove it.”

  He put his hands on my shoulders and then began to massage the muscles in my upper back and neck. I’m telling you, the guy was gifted. I purred like a cat as he kneaded me, rubbed me, stroked me.

  “Bah-ba-rah,” he murmured at some point in the massage, then parted the hair on the back of my neck and pressed his lips to my skin.

  Every molecule in my body exploded with sensation.

  The next thing I knew he was holding out his hands and pulling me up out of my chair. He stood facing me, our bodies so close I could feel his breath on my lips. And then he kissed me on the mouth. It was some kiss, let me tell you. It got me so hot I thought I was melting. Sure, it’s a cliché, but melting is what it felt like. A slow, hot, liquid surrender.

  Part of me—maybe, five percent—had misgivings about the way things were headed. As I had told Dr. Schaffran, I wasn’t raised to sleep with a man after only a couple of dinners. What’s more, Mitchell had only been gone a week. I was still, technically, a married woman. But the other ninety-five percent of me was powerless—yes, powerless—to resist. From the moment I’d first heard David’s deep voice on the telephone, from that fateful Friday afternoon when Deirdre had asked me to cover for her and he had called Home Sweet Home about the Nowak house, I had been drawn to him, mesmerized by him, under his spell.

  David led me to the master bedroom, stopping only once. To kiss me.

  When we got there, he did not turn on any lights. Instead, he reached into his jeans pocket for a book of matches and lit the pair of candles on the dresser opposite the bed.

  He’s done this before, I thought nervously, as I noticed the smoothness, the ease with which he prepared the room for lovemaking. I guessed that he was an experienced lover, a man who knew just what to do to give a woman pleasure. I hoped I wouldn’t disappoint him.