“Nasty, huh?”
“Looks like a railroad track.” She traced the wound with a finger, light as a feather. Keyes shivered pleasurably.
“Did the knife hit your lung? Or was it a knife?” Jenna asked.
“Nicked it,” Keyes said.
“Ouch,” Jenna whispered. She stroked his forehead and smiled. “How do you feel? I mean really”
Keyes flushed. He knew what she meant. Really.
“Woozy,” he said, thinking: Something extraordinary is happening here; maybe Wiley’s under the bed.
“Too woozy? What if I took this one away … would you be all right? Could you breathe?”
“Well, let’s find out,” Keyes said. Of course she couldn’t be serious. Not here. He removed the oxygen tube and took three breaths.
“Okay?” Jenna asked.
Keyes nodded; it was pain he could live with.
Jenna slid out of bed and unbuttoned her starched nurse’s uniform. Suddenly she was standing there in bra and panties and white hospital hose. She had a deliciously naughty look on her face. Keyes didn’t think he’d seen that particular look before.
“I think we should make love,” Jenna announced.
Keyes was stupefied. Considering what had happened the last few days, maybe he was due for a miracle. Maybe this was God’s way of balancing fate. Or maybe it was something else altogether. Keyes didn’t care; it was bound to be his last spell of infinite pleasure until Skip Wiley was caught or killed.
“It’s possible I still love you, Brian,” said Jenna, slipping out of her bra. “Mind if I lock the door?”
“What about the nurses?”
“We’ll be oh-so-quiet.” Jenna stepped out of her panties. She looked radiant, her new tan lines providing a phenomenal lesson in contrasts. Keyes had never seen her velvet tummy so brown, or her breasts so white.
He said: “I’m a wreck. I need to shave.”
Then he said: “I don’t know if I can do this.”
And then he decided to just shut up and let things happen, because he really couldn’t be sure that this wasn’t some splendid Dilaudid dream, and that Jenna wasn’t just your usual breathtaking nude mirage in white hospital stockings.
She studied him from an artist’s pose, arms folded, a finger on her lips. “This is going to be tricky. I guess I’d better get on top.” And she did.
Smothered in delight, Keyes kissed Jenna’s neck and throat and collarbone and whatever else he could get his mouth on. He half-hugged her, using the arm that wasn’t attached to the intravenous tube, and played his fingers down her spine. Jenna seemed to enjoy it. She arched, then pressed down hard with her hips. Her aim was perfect.
“Have you missed me, Brian?”
“Yup.” Which was all the breath he had left.
Jenna sat up, straddling him. Her eyes were liquid and, for once, not so far away. She swayed gently with a hand on each bed rail, as if riding a sled.
“Am I hurting you?” she asked with one of those killer smiles. “I didn’t think so.”
Partly out of passion and partly to get the weight off his tortured diaphragm, Keyes pulled her down. He kissed her lightly on the mouth and right away she closed her eyes. At first she was tentative, maybe even nervous, but soon she started doing all the amazing things she used to do when they were lovers; things he’d never forgotten but never thought he’d experience again.
Lovemaking with Jenna had always been an emotional workout for Brian Keyes—shock therapy for the heart. True to form, his brain shut down the moment she pressed against him. He totally forgot where he was and why he was there. He forgot his stitches, he forgot his collapsed lung, and he forgot the tube gurgling out of his side. He forgot the nurse, who was pounding on the door. He even forgot Ida Kimmelman and the goddamn crocodile.
He forgot everything but Jenna and Wiley.
“What about Skip?” he whispered between nibbles. “I thought you were madly in love with Skip.”
“Hush now,” Jenna said, guiding his free hand. “And try not to kick the I.V.”
14
Jesus Bernal finally got a chance to build another bomb, thanks to Ricky Bloodworth.
On the morning of December 12, the Miami Sun published its first front-page story about Las Noches de Diciembre. It was not a flawless piece of journalism but it stirred excitement at Skip Wiley’s Everglades bivouac.