Peter bolted upright, half-expecting to see Henderson, but instead it was Beatrice. He saw the anguish in her face and it made him instantly heartsick. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I assumed you’d still be at the lab.” He gave a halfshrug, feeling utterly sheepish. “The thoughts weren’t flowing,” he said.
“I’ll only be a moment,” she said. “I left some things behind.” He watched her cross the room, brushing past the Erlenmeyer flask of dried flowers to open the drawer of a scarred blond bureau. Watching her graceful movements, seeing the pain in her eyes, he felt a sudden urge to confess, to share his own pain and confusion. Beatrice, I’m in trouble, I need your advice. “What have you been working on?” he said gently. She shot him a look: how quickly they forget. “Use of genetically altered blood,” she said tonelessly. “In combat trauma.” “Yes, of course, I’m sorry.
She nodded, just barely, but it was enough for him to feel encouraged. “I feel terrible,” he said.
“Yes? About what?”
If Henderson knows, she surely suspects, he thought. “About the way,” he said, experimentally, “we ye grown apart.” “Only six inches or so, I’d say. But it does make a difference.” At this flash of wit-which seemed to imply ignorance of any third party to their difficulties-Peter took heart, rising from the bed and going to his wife. She moved away, but not toward the door, which further gave him hope. “I was told we’re going back to White Sands soon,” he said. No, he was wrong, she was angrier than he had assumed-she was staffing to empty her drawers, packing a small suitcase. “You really feel you’re ready to travel?” “Of course I am,” he said.
She turned and looked at him, moving a strand of hair from her eyes. “Or would you rather stay here?” He tightened. “Why would I want to do that?” She hesitated a moment, keeping her back to him. “For the sake of your recovery,” she said. Her voice sounded hollow-as though she were trying to convince herself there was nothing more than his health at stake. As she dropped some toiletries into her bag, Peter moved closer and touched her hair. She pushed his hand away. “Please, don’t condescend.” “To want to touch you, B., is not condescension.” “And don’t call me B. That’s what my husband used to call me. Beatrice will do just fine, thank you.” Peter sank.
“Beatrice, please? Don’t abandon me because I’m different now. I need you. “Do you, Peter?”
“Yes,” he said. His voice, echoing back to him from the blank walls, sounded choked and puzzled. He felt like a child watching an adult weep at a funeral, knowing he couldn’t possibly understand the pain around him, yet the tears were welling up in spite of his confusion. Turning, she saw that he was about to cry and he felt her break inside. If I can still feel that, he thought, there’s hope. “I’m still me. You’re still you. We knew there would be adjustments-a few changes-” “A few changes!” she said. “Jekyll and Hyde are slouches compared to you!” He had to laugh. And then so did she, though with less ease. But she let him take her in his arms, and as soon as he did, she began to cry Silently he stroked her hair. “It’s been hellish,” he said. “Has it? I’m glad.” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “Would you care to be more specific?” He didn’t know how to begin. “Wondering who’s in control.” “You or your body?”
“It’s driving me crazy It’s frightening. And the doubts are coming back. In spades.” “Tell me.” She folded her hands in her lap as though trying to hide the wrinkles. “I’m not old anymore. I don’t have an old man’s thoughts. Old men are much more comfortable making weapons of mass destruction,” he said, relieved for the moment to be taking the high road. “But you were young, Peter, when you went into weaponry “Maybe so. But why does it feel so different now?” “And why is the sky blue? And why is there something rather than nothing? You tell me, Peter, because I don’t know anymore. You bought this body with your career, so there we are. “Yes, here we are.” He held her tighter. “I’ve missed you so much.” “Have you really?” She was near breaking again. “Yes,” he said, kissing her. Her hands trembled as they moved to his chest, then slid down his shirt, over his trousers and to his crotch. He felt no passion. None whatsoever.
He looked away guiltily. She took her hand away. “Beatrice, I’m exhausted, that’s all it is.” She pursed her lips. “In spite of your youth.” “Don’t turn your back. Give me a chance.” “Peter, is there someone else?” She was looking at him from the corner of her eye. This is it, he thought. “Because really, I don’t care if it’s just your body jumping over the fence like an alley cat. Under the circumstances, I could forgive that. But if it’s you doing the jump-ing… if there’s someone that means something to you.. . That’s what I’m asking.” He lifted her chin, turning her face toward him. “Beatrice, there never was anyone but you. Her gray eyes froze. Was?”
“And never will be.”
“You swear?”
No, there was a wall beyond which he could not pass. He couldn’t lie to Beatrice, the way he had lied to Wolfe. He was aware in full measure that if he did, his soul would indeed be lost forever. And then he lied anyway.
“I swear,” he said, wanting with all his heart to believe it was true. “You’re lying,” she said.
God help me, thought Peter.
“And you’re a wretched liar, too, you shit.” Helpless, he watched her snatch up her handbag, walk briskly to the door and out of the apartment. Then, even before he could move, she was back, tears in her eyes. But now there was a terrible fury as well. “What the hell am I doing? she asked no one in particular, and threw down her bag. “You get out!” She threw open the door and stepped back. The power of her rage was overwhelming. There was a primal force in her eves, more devastating than any weapon he could dream of devising. It smashed into his very being and exposing his selfishness in all its squalor. He walked out, and heard the door slam behind him.
Outside in the corridor, his feet seemed glued to the tile. Voices were drifting in from the breezeway one of them Henderson’s. Prying himself loose and muffling his footsteps, he hurried in the opposite direction, out the side exit and across the stretch of weed-choked sand toward the palm grove, barely acknowledging the guard who was posted on the path to the beach. Within minutes he reached the water’s edge and started running toward the lights on the horizon. A half-hour later he was at the base boundary, about to cross over to Phosphorescent Bay. From there he could walk or hitch a ride to Esperanza and the woman who was waiting for him at the Casa del Frances, unaware of the dangers swirling around them both. Except there was a naval guard, a Seal at the fence between the two beaches. “Dr. Jance?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“This is as far as we’re authorized to let you run, sir.” Peter held on to his composure. “I know that. Just thought I’d say hello before turning back. Pretty bay over there, isn’t it?” The Seal glanced back over his shoulder at the luminous blue water and shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. God knows what kinda shit’s in there to make it glow like that. Probably radioactive runoff from the base.” Peter nodded, then turned back the way he had come. He ran, panic rising as he put more and more distance between himself and his goal. At the far end of the beach he stopped. Another guard, a quarter mile ahead. He looked left, he looked right, and then he looked out to sea. You can do this, he thought.
Removing his shoes, he slung them around his neck and waded into the water. He’d been a strong swimmer in his youth, but then he instantly realized this body hadn’t learned the same skills. It struggled through the surf, having to focus with all his strength, literally teaching his muscles and limbs how to navigate the water. It took a good fifteen minutes to find any semblance of the crawl stroke he had won swimming meets with in college. A hundred yards out into the open sea he turned right and swam parallel to shore, fighting a considerable crosscurrent. For an hour he churned on in this manner, each exhausted pause sending him drifting backward, cursing his clumsiness and plunging forward in renewed desperation. In the second hour, he experienced severe cramping and, despite the warmth of the water, his extremities began to grow numb. And then something bumped him, something big. Peter swore and kicked out in panic, flashing on all the varieties of shark that were endemic to these waters. When his foot hit metal, he realized he had collided with the buoy that marked the channel into the marina in Sun Bay He clung to it until he regained his breath, then struck out for shore. In another twenty minutes he was washed up on the beach. He had lost his shoes, and was chilled to the bone, shaking so hard he could barely see straight. Stumbling to the road, he flagged down a car of astonished German tourists and told them his sailboat had sprung a leak. They bought his story and kindly drove him to Casa del Frances, even giving him a pair of tennis shoes that, unbelievably, fit. Thanking them profusely, he staggered toward the inn. Despite his exhaustion, he had never felt so purely in the momentlike Byron swimming the Hellespont. Or-and his mood darkened at the thought-like a salmon fighting its way upstream to spawn and die. You hypocrite, he fumed, you didn’t have to go to all this life-threatening trouble. You could have found some other way to warn her. A phone call would have sufficed. No, they must be monitoring all my calls by now, he thought. You would have put her life in even greater danger. You’re doing the right thing. He rang the bell at the hotel’s gate. Inside the guard’s shack, a white-haired old man with a scarred, sunken face sat dozing on a folding chair; steadying himself, Peter beaned him with a well-aimed pebble from the driveway. The man snapped awake, shuffled over and let Peter through. Peter tipped him a soggy ten-spot and, fighting for breath, asked for the American woman with blond hair. The old man beamed and pointed at the lighted window. “Ole,” he said, waving this strange gringo whose body shook like a leaf in a hurricane inside the hotel. 12