Always Love a Villain on San Juan Island (18 page)

Somewhere in the last two weeks, Larry was discovering, he had crossed a line. Susanna being held as hostage had made him realize this. Without Toni to confide in, to act as a sounding board, to give him support, he might have lost his mind. Before Susanna was kidnapped, he had been deeply smitten with Toni. Now he knew he loved her.

Better keep his mind on driving. At the end of the road, there she'd be. Together they'd prove that the immediate act always outclassed memories.

PETER EMAILED A
PDF of Beck's writings to Kyra. She would open and read them on her iPad. “I can print out the pages,” he offered.

“Nope, I'm fine. I'll find a coffee and get on with it.” She looked around for a comfortable chair.

“No problem if you don't mind it from the cafeteria.”

“How bad is it?”

“Okay-plus.”

“Sounds good.”

“Back in a couple of minutes.” Peter left.

Kyra examined the page count and said, “This shouldn't take long.”

Noel laughed. “That's what I thought too. I came up for air three hours later.”

“Shit. So we can have a late lunch or an early supper.” She sighed dramatically. “It'd be a good idea to just talk. We haven't, for a while.”

“Oh. Yes. Okay.”

They took Peter's car. On the way to the condo, Peter described for Noel the courses Jordan Beck had taken that led to his writing the essays and the novella. Peter's account seemed straightforward—nothing suggested Jordan might try to plagiarize, nothing either that hinted at reasons for the multiple styles in his work. Noel asked Peter if Islands Investigations International was being hired by the university. By the English Department, said Peter. Keep the investigation as close to home as possible.

They left the car parked in the condo's small, nearly empty lot and walked around to the front door. Inside, Peter led the way to the living room. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “Something to drink? Munch on?”

“I'm fine.” Noel glanced around. A corner room, windows on two sides. Two chairs and a couch in olive green, overstuffed. Not the furnishings he'd have expected of Peter; Noel hadn't noticed them last night. A coffee table covered with books and magazines, small neat piles. Another wall was floor to ceiling bookshelves. Should've let Peter find him a coffee or something, get him out of the room, check on his taste in books, get a sense of his social profile. He sat in one of the armchairs. Comfortable.

Peter sat on the couch. “So,” he said, “did you have a chance to think about coming back, say in October, for a couple of lectures on investigative journalism?”

No, he hadn't. Not a priority thought in the last few hours. Though it might be worth doing, make him think about his past life, see if it still interested him. And Peter seemed a good person to spend time with. Right now he—and Kyra—would be around at least for a day more. “Lately I've just been investigating. No journalism attached.” Because his last piece of journalism, where he'd done what he'd thought was good deep exploratory work, he'd botched badly.

“Maybe going back to your roots?” Peter prompted.

Maybe. And that was gentle encouragement. But still, after the Cowley story four years ago, a woman he made out to be the villain when she was only tangentially involved, and she'd nearly killed herself—he couldn't bear to live with any of that again. Since Cowley, no public face to his investigating. Talking to a bunch of students about the journalistic mistakes you can make? Might be worth trying. “I'll give it some thought.”

“Couple of lectures, one in the afternoon, another the following morning. Our usual request from guest lecturers.” Peter paused. “Then you and I could just sort of—hang out for a few days.”

Well. He was drawn to Peter. And here the possibility it was mutual. At supper yesterday, Peter had chosen Kyra to flirt with. Some kind of triangulated attraction? Acting out his potential affection for Noel through a more socially accepted relationship? Man by way of woman to man? Peter coming out but still uncomfortable in what might become his new skin? And was Noel prepared to
hang out
? Been a long time. His love for Brendan still haunted. “Yeah, like I said, I'll think about it.”

Peter said, “Good,” sighed quietly and looked embarrassed.

Now Noel felt self-conscious. Peter's discomfort both moved and irked him. Oh well, he thought, take the bull by the horns. As if he, Noel, were any kind of expert. Peter needed a little help here. Was this devious intent on Noel's part? Whatever it was, let it be. “Look, Peter, it's not easy, you know.”

“Huh?” Peter squinted at him. “What isn't?”

“What you're trying to do.”

“What am I trying to do?”

“Let someone else know how you feel, or might be feeling, or think you might be feeling.”

“About?”

“About someone else.”

“Who?”

“Shall I stop?”

“Yes. No—” He stared at the ground. “I, uh, don't know what you mean.”

“Yes you do. If I were a woman, and you were a straight man, and you found yourself feeling, or thought you might be feeling, attracted to her, maybe you'd be a little more direct, right?”

Peter said nothing for maybe a quarter of a minute. Then: “I guess so.”

“So. Want to start over?”

More silence. Then, “I don't think I know how.”

“You were okay talking with me about you being maybe gay, telling your wife how you felt.”

“Yeah.”

“But this is different.” Noel knew only too well Peter was about to get into a whole other thing. “Right?”

“Yeah,” said Peter. “Different.”

“Telling someone that your sexual proclivity is different from what you'd been pretending involves only you. But you remain you. The past is still there, even if you have to look at it in a new way. There may be hurt, but leaving your wife behind was an extraction from a situation. Considering an intimacy with a new person opens up a whole new kind of future. At the same time, closing down other kinds of future, sure—but the important part is, you're proposing a new kind of relationship. And that involves someone else's psyche. Someone else's self. And that can be kinda scary.” Now there was a speech. Wow.

After a bit, Peter sniffed. “Noel. Once again, thank you.”

“I'm just saying what I think you're thinking—what you've been thinking about for the last few months. Maybe for years.”

Peter fumbled around in his pocket, brought out a tissue, and tamped his nose. “Sorry about that.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. Except about not saying what you're thinking, and feeling.” Easy, Noel, don't push him.

Peter pulled his shoulders back, stretched, and stood. He walked around the room and glanced out of each of the windows as if looking for—what? Some kind of strength, Noel guessed. Then he stepped behind Noel's chair, reached over and laid his hands on Noel's shoulders. They lay wholly still for a few seconds. Then, with a light pressure, Peter began to massage the side of Noel's neck, the tops of his shoulders.

Noel let his head fall limply forward. Years since he'd had someone kneading his nape. Felt good, he had to admit. He knew too well that when he had been describing Peter's psychic situation, he had also been talking about himself. What was he letting himself in for? He had no time for a relationship. And certainly not one of international scope. He knew nothing about Peter Langley beyond his role at Morsely and a little about his marriage. Or about his son. Did he want in any way to become emotionally involved with someone? Soon as he'd asked the question, he knew part of the answer was,
Yes!
But how large was that part? He realized Peter's hands had stopped moving. Now pressure on the top of his head, through his thinning hair.

At the corner of his glance, movement. Then a flash of black and white and the cat, Delilah, landed on his lap. “Oop!” said Noel. The cat was purring.

Peter rounded the chair and reached for Delilah. “Come on, girl.”

“It's fine,” said Noel.

Peter backed off. “She takes too many liberties with people.”

“Maybe that's a good thing,” said Noel. The cat leapt to the sofa, turned around and settled in. “And thank you for the massage. It felt good.”

“I didn't quite finish.” He walked around to the back of the chair, hands again on Noel's shoulders, then up the sides of his nape to under his ears. He sensed something else from Peter, and then again that pressure on the top of his head. A kiss. Slowly, slow. He waited for Peter to raise his lips.

Delilah watched as if fascinated. Or jealous?

The pressure on his pate remained firm. He didn't want to move; it felt good. Like the intention behind it. He slowly let his head droop further, and the balance of the previous few seconds fell away. Peter's head straightened. Noel turned and looked up at him. On Peter's face, the embarrassment had returned with the tinge of a flush. He wouldn't meet Noel's eyes. Noel said, “That was nice.” Pretty weak, but anything stronger could be too much.

Still looking to the side, Peter said, “You're not angry.”

“Why should I be angry?” He turned to Peter and slowly brought his face close. They leaned lightly toward each other and their lips brushed, held for a moment, and Noel pulled back. “We'll see,” he said.

“Good,” said Peter.

“I'd like a glass of water, please.”

“Easily done.” Peter left the room. To the cat, Noel said, “Kyra sends you greetings, Delilah.” He could hear water running. The cat flicked her ears. Peter returned with two glasses of water.

“Thanks,” said Noel.

“What would you like to do?”

Was this a complicated question? Noel would not treat it that way. “I need to know more about plagiarism, but my battery's low. Where can I plug in my computer?”

“Oh.” No response for a couple of seconds. “The kitchen table okay?”

Kyra closed the files containing Beck's essays. Clever but not exactly heavyweight. Certainly might have come from the mind of an intelligent twenty-seven-year-old. She made a couple more notes, found Beck's novella, brought it to the screen.

She read one page, another, another. Page five, and she realized she'd not grasped a single sentence. She'd been good with the essays, kept her mind trained on them. But her attention had dissolved. She hated thinking of herself as unfocused—which of course she wasn't, just that the focus had gone elsewhere. Here she sat reading and minutes passed, half an hour. Time she'd never get back, time that drained her body of energy and health, time that aged her womb and the cell-sized egg follicles within it. She needed to allow her biology to do what it naturally wanted to, and right now!

Stop it! Focus on the goddamn work! You'll talk with Noel in a few hours. Figure out if the kid stole these words, okay?

She stared at the screen. “Piper Blues.” Something about a bus—no, a van—guy's going to drive it somewhere—

How the hell should she know if this creep had made up this stuff by himself or if he'd stolen it? Establishing plagiarism or the lack of it wasn't Triple I's sort of work. They dealt with real people turned into victims, their job to find perpetrators and bring them to justice. Whatever kind of justice. This plagiarism stuff, it's an abstraction. Who gets hurt if someone plagiarizes, anyway? Some construct like The Common Good? Triple I was no bleeding-heart agency, right? Damn Noel for taking this assignment seriously. He should've told Langley immediately they couldn't work on a case like—like—like somebody maybe stealing words. Words, for shitsake! Who cares!

Okay, Kyra. Cool out. What're you on about anyway?

She wished she still smoked. If ever there'd be a time for a cigarette, now was it. She wondered if Peter Langley had a pack hidden in a desk drawer. She shouldn't invade his privacy. Even if she found a pack, she shouldn't go back to smoking. Not after the battle she'd fought—and won! But would a single cigarette throw her off the wagon? She didn't believe that. Couldn't hurt just to pull a drawer open. She got up from the chair, still holding the iPad, walked to the desk. A thin middle drawer right below the computer, two deeper drawers on each side. She opened the drawer at her waist. Paper, pencils, marking pens, scissors, staples. No butts. On the left, top drawer—a toaster, a coffeemaker; neither bread nor coffee. Bottom drawer, a blanket and a pillow; yeah, Noel did say Langley and his wife had split up, maybe sleeping at the office. Top right—hmm, a picture frame, upside down. She lifted it from the drawer, turned it. Photo of a boy's beaming face. Masses of blond curls, full cheeks, wicked green eyes, small peg of a nose, dimples, and a huge grin. If Peter had separated from his wife and had to leave this kid behind—If Kyra ever had to leave a little boy like this behind—What? She'd be in total despair. Yes.