Bad Desire (22 page)

While she spoke Slater moved into the kitchen, adjacent to her, to the row of windows overlooking the driveway. Sheila's hair billowed richly about her shoulders; it seemed to attract the waning light, turning dark copper. He remembered how it felt, touching his face; it was the most vibrant thing in the room. Parting the curtains, he looked out.

She said, “What is it?”

He noted the fear in her voice. “It's nothing,” he told her. Trying to appear nonchalant, Slater let the curtain fall. “I thought I heard something.”

“It might be Denny. He's supposed to pick me up at seven-thirty. He sometimes shows up early.”

“No,” Slater said, “it's no one.” He stood an arm's length from her, but the distance between them was incalculable. The slow filtering evening lay between them in a deep gray gulf. “I've brought you a couple of things, Sheila.” He withdrew an unmarked business envelope from his inside breast pocket. “A couple of things for you to think about.”

With her close now, he was afraid of making some small but irreversible mistake. Slater yearned for her. He wanted desperately to soothe and reassure her, but he thought he knew what would happen. She was so susceptible to him now that even the slightest touch might easily flare and reduce them to ashes. I'm doing all of this for you, he thought. If only he could hold her and wipe out the horrible thing that was going to happen. I'm going to do something unimaginable. For you. Do you love me? Do you?

Eyes somewhere were watching these gray windows; he was sure of it. Many things hung in the balance—he still wondered what Sheila had told Reeves. But until he could speak with his heart, everything he said, everything he tried to do seemed stilted and incomplete, as if his only lifeline to the world was badly frayed, awaiting and depending on her acceptance of him to mend it and set things right again.

“I believe Rachel had a little insurance, didn't she?”

“Yes, she did.”

“You'll have to file for that, but you should get that money in about thirty days. In the meantime, I've put a little cash in here—that you don't have to tell anybody about—to tide you over.”

“Mr. Slater, you didn't have—”

“Just take it, Sheila, and don't argue with me about it. Just take it.” Through the twilight, Slater handed her the envelope. He watched her bend forward, the strong, young line of her bare forearm as she took the money.

“Thank you,” she said, grateful for any kindness, and she smiled, still very unsure of herself. To him, her helplessness was enormously appealing.

“Sheila, can I trust you?”

A frown gathered around her eyes. “Oh, but … you know you can. What about?”

“I don't know. I want to trust you. You won't ever repeat the things I tell you?”

“No, I
never
…”

“It's important,” he said. “Don't tell anyone anything unless you've talked to me first. Do you know what I mean?”

“Of course. I won't; don't worry.”

“All right, the other thing,” Slater said, “is something you'll have to keep between you and me. Do you understand?”

Sheila nodded but he continued to study her for several seconds. “If a time comes, when you'd like to get away from all this, I have a place—a place that no one knows about. It's hidden, it's quite safe and comfortable; there's even a small pool. You can go there and stay as long as you like. No one'll ever know. No one'll bother you. All you have to do is say so and I'll give you directions. Or I'll go with you, if you like.”

“Okay,” she said, but behind her voice he heard misgivings. “I might want to sometime.”

He was watching her carefully. “I know how hard this has been for you. I was thinking: I'm driving up to Pacific Grove on Monday next week for a meeting. I'll be tied up most of the afternoon. Why don't you come along? Nobody needs to know. You could soak up the sun and if there's time afterward, I'll take you to dinner.” He waited, his eyes full on her face. Sheila hesitated for what seemed a long time before answering.

She knew what her Gramma would have said about this and she remembered Mrs. Slater's kindness to her on the day of the murder, but she couldn't deny how she was feeling now. The need to escape from her grief overcame her grandmother's persistent lessons. When she finally spoke, it was to ask, “What day did you say?”

Patiently, he repeated it. “I'd like you to, Sheila. I'd like—couldn't you arrange it? It would mean a lot to me if you'd let me do this. Won't you come? You need to get away.”

The indecision had left her face. “Yes, I think I would like to. Where should I meet you?”

“I have a stop to make first in Vandalia. Do you know where that is?”

“Yes. About what time?”

“Ten sharp. The football field on the north end of town.”

“Okay, if I can work it out, I'll be there by eleven. You're sure … Mr. Slater, are you sure you want me to?” Her hair had fallen forward. Sheila lifted strands of it back, first behind one ear, then the other, all the while looking at the envelope in her hand. “I don't know why—”

“Sh-h-h,” he said. “One thing at a time. Of course, I'm sure. I told you I'd look out for you and I am, but I should go now.”

He waited for some word from her that would release him and send him away. Sheila folded the envelope in her fingers. She straightened, pushing away from the counter. The room was almost completely dark now. He thought he could follow her anywhere by the perfumed scent of her hair.

Turning toward him, she said, “Won't you let me give you a cup of coffee? I'm sure it's ready. I remember when I was little you used to come and have coffee.”

The bare simplicity of her request—that it had been years since he sat in this kitchen, drinking coffee, and she remembered it; that she had made the coffee purposefully in anticipation of him—moved him nearly to tears. It evoked a forgotten memory as full and bittersweet as anything in his life: Sheila had been ten or eleven, a tomboy, the warrior princess, he'd called her. But as quickly as it came the image deserted him and he realized she probably was asking him to stay because she couldn't bear to be in this house alone. There was nothing he had to do that couldn't wait, nowhere else he wanted to be, but here, in this old kitchen, with this enchanting, grief-stricken girl.

“Okay,” he said, “but on one condition. If you'll turn on a light.”

“There's a switch,” Sheila told him, “there by the toaster. You know where it is.”

He flipped on the switch. Above the sink, recessed behind the valance, the fluorescent bulb hummed with light, spreading blue-white illumination into half the room. As Sheila prepared to serve the coffee, she moved from the cupboard to the cabinet to the counter. Watching her, he had no sense of time. When she placed the teacup on the saucer, it was Rachel's hand putting it there just so; when she grasped the handle of the old percolator, pouring the coffee, it was with Rachel's good generous heft.

Ice ran down his spine. He would never know how long he stood there before he realized Sheila was shaking with sobs. In her hand, the cup full of coffee chattered on its saucer.

“Sheila, don't …” he said, starting toward her. He lost his head. The coffee spilled and she was in his arms, weeping on his shoulder. He could feel the length of her pressed fiercely against him, the soft shuddering collapse of her body as she gave in to wave upon wave of tears.

“Oh, Mr. Slater, what'm I going to do?”

The folly of it, the insane spontaneity of her need filled him with such lust that he covered her hair with kisses, feeling its silky turbulence slide and uncoil across his face. He started to gather her up, but at the edge of his sight, he saw headlights illuminate the front rooms of the house and flash through them—a moment's pale brilliance struck the kitchen's half-light. As the motor rumbled past outside on the driveway, Sheila drew quickly away. “I'll be all right,” she whispered, wiping her eyes with her hands. “Really. I've been doing this off and on for days.”

They heard the door slam. “That's Denny,” Sheila said.

“Then I'll go.”

But when Slater started out, the screen door under the porte cochere clicked open. Sheila slipped the envelope he'd given her inside her purse, threw Slater a glance and said, “Denny, we're in here.”

They heard his steps in the hall; then he appeared in the doorway, the same boy Slater had noticed at the funeral, a strapping kid, dark, his black hair rumpled. Slater guessed him to be about Sheila's age, maybe a year or two older, athletic and well built, honest brown eyes—but a face with a history of misdemeanors, the thin white groove of a scar near one corner of his mouth. Without hesitation, Sheila said, “Mr. Slater, I'd like you to meet my boyfriend, Denny Rivera.”

Slater smiled and offered his hand. “Hello,” he said, “I'm Henry Slater. I've been hearing a lot about you.”

Surprised and at the same time resentful of his being there, Denny muttered, “Hi,” and abruptly shook Slater's extended hand.

In the awkward silence that followed, Slater finally said, “I really have to be going.” When he stepped past the boy, he said, “You take good care of her, Denny.” The boy regarded him sullenly.

Sheila hastened to say, “I'll walk out with you.” Then to Denny, “I'll be right back.”

On the driveway, in the dark, Slater reached out his hand and took hers in a pantomime of a handshake. It was the most reassuring thing she had ever felt in her life. His hands were hard and strong: she remembered how they had always swallowed her fingers. “Be good,” he said. “If I could hug you, I would.” He was looking at her with eyes that were pure and loving and kind. Slowly he let go. “You know what to do?” he asked, under his breath.

“Yes.” Her hands floated up nervously but didn't touch him. She started to speak but instead looked at the kitchen's curtained windows and changed her mind.

He said, “Good night, then.”

When he was halfway down the driveway, Sheila followed after him a few steps, but already the distance between them was too great. “Good night!” she called. “Good night! Thank you!”

She watched the darkness absorb him until all that was left of him was the faint tread of his footsteps in the night. She stood perfectly still in the driveway, afraid of the house, dreading the hours still ahead. A moment came when she thought the echo of his footsteps returned to her—that he was coming back. But it was only a trick of the night air humming around her; his footsteps had faded completely although she believed she could hear them long after they were gone.

Only a streetlight here and there illuminated the darkness. Canyon Valley Drive lay mostly in shadow. The night air was soft, as subtly perfumed as her hair. Slater was savoring an extraordinary happiness. He had what he had come for: she would keep quiet and she would see him again.

A car sat half-hidden in the darkness between the streetlights. The moment Slater saw it, the queasiness he had experienced only the day before surged through him again.
Reeves, you bastard
.

He stopped, trapped, at the edge of the street. I should've known you'd be around here, somewhere. Watching. Slater considered going on, acting as though he hadn't seen the car, but he knew he couldn't. He had stopped cold in his tracks. Reeves would've had to be blind not to have noticed his reaction. Turning, Slater walked directly to the police chief's open window.

“Evening, Henry. How's our girl?”

Slater wondered if Reeves could detect anything peculiar about him, wondered suddenly what he could say to make his being here appear more legitimate. “She's still—rocky,” he said. “She can't take too much more. I thought you said you wouldn't push it.”

“Sometimes things don't work to plan.”

“Goddamnit, Burris.” The curse escaped him. “I've been thinking about what you said and I don't know. I think you might be on a wild goose chase with this thing. Why don't you just round up those convicts and leave the girl alone?”

The police chief chuckled. “Henry, you can't put heat on me. I
am
the heat. Don't concern yourself with this: I'm handling it. I'm gonna give her another day or two. I saw your car and thought I'd see how things are. That's all.”

You wait, Slater thought, after tomorrow you'll give her a lot longer than that. “Well, maybe you do have a heart, after all, Burris. She'll snap out of it, but she's going through hell right now. Listen, I've got to go.”

“So do I,” Reeves said. The cruiser started up and rolled forward. With a wave, Reeves drove past him as Slater walked to his car.

You wait, Slater thought. Just you wait.

Sheila went inside, shut and latched the door. She imagined she could still see him, standing in the kitchen doorway, tall, vigilant, a man of influence who had said he would always take care of her. What a relief it would be not to have to figure everything out on her own. She liked being looked after, she liked the tender expression that came into his eyes, she liked the feel of his hands. When she turned into the kitchen, her fingers ran over Denny's shoulder in a quick, flirtatious pass. “You're in a good mood,” he said.

“I'll just be a minute.” Moving swiftly, she cleared the counter, rinsed the cups and emptied the old percolator. She knew she couldn't mention that she was planning to meet a married man and it made her feel guilty.

“Sheila, are you okay?” Denny came up behind her. “What was he doing here anyway?”

“You know,” she said. “I've told you. I had other visitors, too. The minister came by for a while.”

“So … what do you think of hizzoner?”

Sheila didn't answer.

“What did you think of him? Come on, Sheila, I want to know.”