watching.
He restrained himself “So what do you want?” she asked, after taking
another swallow of beer.
He said, “Out of what?”
“Out of me.”
“What do you think?”
“A few thrills,” she said.
“More than that.”
“Home and family?” she asked sarcastically.
He didn’t answer right away. He wanted time to think. This one was not
easy to play, a different sort of fish. He did not want to risk saying
the wrong thing and letting her slip the hook. He got another beer,
drank some of it.
Four members of a backup band approached the stage. They were going to
play during the other musicians’ break. Soon conversation would be
impossible again. More important, when the crashing music began, the
energy level of the club would rise, and it might exceed the energy
level between him and the blonde. She might not be as susceptible to
the suggestion that they leave together.
He finally answered her question, told her a lie about what he wanted to
do with her: “You know anybody you wish was dead?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Who is it?”
“Half the people I’ve ever met.”
“I mean, one person in particular.”
She began to understand what he was suggesting. She took another sip of
beer and lingered with her mouth and tongue against the rim of the
bottle.
“Whatis this a game or something?”
“Only if you want it to be, Miss.”
“You’re weird.”
“Isn’t that what you like?”
“Maybe you’re a cop.”
“You really think so?”
She stared intently at his sunglasses, though she wouldn’t have been
able to see more than a dim suggestion of his eyes beyond the heavily
tinted lenses. “No. Not a cop.”
“Sex isn’t a good way to start,” he said.
“It isn’t, huh?”
“Death is a better opener. Make a little death together, then make a
little sex. You won’t believe how intense it can get.”
She said nothing.
The backup band was picking up the instruments on the stage.
He said, “This one in particular you’d like deadlt’s a guy?”
“Yeah.”
“He live within driving distance?”
“Twenty minutes from here.”
“So let’s do it.”
The musicians began to tune up, though it seemed a pointless exercise,
considering the type of music they were going to play. They had better
play the right stuff, and they had better be good at it, because it was
the kind of club where the customers wouldn’t hesitate to trash the band
if they didn’t like it.
At last the blonde said, “I’ve got a little PCP. Want to do some with
me?”
“Angel dust? It runs in my veins.”
“You got a car?”
“Let’s go.”
On the way out he opened the door for her.
She laughed. “You’re one weird son of a bitch.”
According to the digital clock on the nightstand, it was 1:28 in the
morning. Although Hatch had been asleep only a couple of hours, he was
wide awake and unwilling to lie down again.
Besides, his mouth was dry. He felt as if he had been eating sand. He
needed a drink.
The towel-draped lamp provided enough light for him to make his way to
the dresser and quietly open the correct drawer without waking Lindsey.
Shivering, he took a sweatshirt from the drawer and pulled it on. He
was wearing only pajama bottoms, but he knew that the addition of a thin
pajama top would not quell his chills.
He opened the bedroom door and stepped into the upstairs hall. He
glanced back at his slumbering wife. She looked beautiful there in the
soft amber light, dark hair against the white pillow, her face relaxed,
lips slightly parted, one hand tucked under her chin. The sight of her,
more than the sweatshirt, warmed him. Then he thought about the years
they had lost in their surrender to grief, and the residual fear from
the nightmare was further diluted by a flood of regret. He pulled the
door shut soundlessly behind him.
The second-floor hall was hung with shadows, but wan light rose along
the stairwell from the foyer below. On their way from the family-room
sofa to the sleigh bed, they had not paused to switch off lamps.