Authors: John Lescroart

Tags: #Suspense, #Thriller

Sunburn (13 page)

BOOK: Sunburn

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The moonlight angled down through the bedroom window. Outside, the wind was blowing in gusts. She knew Douglas was awake. It was perhaps four in the morning and she hadn’t slept at all. He was on his side, turned away from her.

“Douglas.” She hugged him from behind. “I’m sorry.”

“OK.”

She pulled his shoulder so that he rolled onto his back and crossed her leg over his. She whispered to him.

“What did you say?”

“I said I think I want to have a baby.”

He breathed heavily. She knew he was angry. “You’re too old.”

“Then why am I taking these pills?”

“All right, then, we’re too old. Let’s talk about it in the morning.” He turned back on his side.

She was tired and wanted to sleep, but the memory of Mike’s kiss kept coming back to her, distracting her, exciting her. She put her hand between her legs, and her fingers finally brought her some relief, at least enough so that she could sleep.

Ten

The steady drone of the breeze outside was anything but soothing to the man lying, open-eyed, on the couch in the middle of the afternoon. It was the first real hint of colder days to come, and the approach of winter depressed him. For all that, the breeze was only a breeze. It was still warm in the room, a slow Sunday afternoon.

A fly landed on his forehead and he slapped at it with his only hand. He heard footsteps leading down the hall toward his study and in a moment Kyra appeared in the doorway. He closed his eyes.

“Sean?”

“Uh.”

“You sleeping?”

“Not hardly.”

She came over and sat on the chair by his desk, picked up the sheaf of papers and hefted them. He swung his feet to the floor and stood up.

“It’s coming along,” she said.

“Not bad. I had a good day yesterday and this morning was fine, but now I’m pretty dry.” He put his hand on her shoulder and shook it gently. “How you doin’? Lea and Doug about?”

“No. Lea got up early and left, and I’m not sure Doug’s out of bed yet.”

“There’s a sack artist for you. What time is it?”

“Around two.”

“And he’s not up yet. Is he sick?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. They haven’t been at their best lately, you know.” Suddenly she stood again. “You feel like taking some time off and doing something? I’m going stir-crazy in here.”

He looked at the desk and realized he wasn’t going to work any more today. Kyra was desirable, as always, wearing white shorts and a blue cotton shirt.

“Sure,” he said. “What the hell. What’ve you got in mind?”

“Maybe Barcelona. Just to get away from here.”

“OK.” Again he looked her over. “You’ll have to change, though.”

“Right back.” She pecked his cheek.

He sat down at his desk and surveyed the room. It wasn’t large, but it was his favorite room in the house, removed and quiet. Its walls were white stucco, and he’d put a fake Persian rug over the tiled floor. His desk was in the middle of the room, facing the nearly empty bookshelf and the doorway to the hall that led back to the house. The only other furnishing was the couch he’d been lying on.

The room had a strange but natural communication with his bedroom opposite; almost any noise in the one was clearly audible in the other. He often heard Berta cleaning up, and always knew when Kyra was awake. He’d often wondered if the same effect worked with the guest bedroom directly above his office, but he’d never gotten around to checking it. He guessed that it worked only one way, though, since he’d never heard Doug and Lea upstairs.

Still, acoustics could play tricks. He would have to check it someday.

Of course, now with his ear so bad he couldn’t hear much anyway, but if Doug and Lea could hear noises from his bedroom, he should know about it. He smiled. Wouldn’t that be embarrassing?

He walked down the hall to the front room and stood leaning against the door, waiting for Kyra.

He wondered how he’d gotten so involved with her. A couple of years before, he’d had everything he wanted, less a hand, but even that hadn’t been so much of a burden once he’d gotten used to it. He’d immediately loved it in Spain, and this house had suited him perfectly. Then he’d met Tony, and then Kyra. He remembered his first sight of her, looking more or less demure—she could never look really demure—in a pair of slacks and a high-collared blouse. They’d hit it off at once, had talked all night, and she’d essentially raped him in his car in front of Tony’s apartment.

Then began what Sean had come to call the Months of Sorrows, when Kyra had alternately screwed around with a near-sublime lack of discrimination, while at the same time she labored to keep Sean on the string, coming to him at all hours, often directly—and obviously—from another man’s embrace.

Testing Sean’s tolerance, the limits of his capacity to forgive, the depth of his love. She would not give herself completely over to him until she satisfied herself that he would never leave her, no matter how bad her behavior.

And when finally he had convinced her, she had agreed to move in with him, and to be faithful. But simple self-preservation demanded that she not allow him to become complacent, so it was to her advantage always to appear to have one foot out the door, an eye out for the next attractive man to enter their universe.

So Sean, for his part, and as Kyra intended, remained jealous, but his jealous rages took on an odd character. He was more protective of his house than of his heart. Or he thought so. As long as she lived with him, he wouldn’t stand for her infideli ties. If she were unfaithful to him, it wouldn’t so much break his heart as outrage his sense of territory. He was out to protect himself. He knew, or thought he knew, that Kyra had to keep moving, had to keep changing partners, and that her stay with him was fated from the beginning to end with her one day packing off without a word. He’d known that when he’d asked her to move in.

He was a logical man and, except when he was drunk, kept his emotions in firm check. This made him a ponderous drunk, but his friends bore him well. Even his explosions of rage or laughter were once removed from his real feelings. His personality was one logical step removed from his person. All of his acquaintances enjoyed his personality, and no one knew him.

He thought he’d better go in and tell Berta that they wouldn’t be home for dinner. She was in the kitchen, sitting at her table, drinking some coffee, and reading.

“Hola,”
he said. “How’s the queen of the kitchen today?”

They spoke together in Spanish, which gave them a bond within the house. Often, at dinners, they would speak to each other and exchange meaningful glances to the amusement of the others at the table. It was another touch of Sean’s to keep the atmosphere of the house happy and carefree. He fancied that it worked.

They both enjoyed the ride into Barcelona, passing fields for the first few miles, then catching glimpses of the sea, finally coming through the factories and warehouses and slums into the city itself.

They parked by the Plaza Puerta de la Paz at the end of the
ramblas
and walked holding hands through the old city to the Plaza Berenguer el Grande, where the Roman wall ran near the avenue. It was nearly dark as they took their seats on the plaza.

“Tony should be here today, you know,” she said.

“Fomenting revolution?”

She lifted her shoulders. “He is committed.”

“I know. I just hope he doesn’t get too caught up in it. When Franco dies, if the crusty old fart ever does, things will change fast. You watch.”

They leaned back in their chairs and watched the traffic. It was cooler, but they’d brought sweaters, and put them on. Kyra helped Sean like a mother.

“Buttons,” he said, smiling. “I don’t think I’ll ever get good at buttons.”

She kissed the top of his head, not bothering now to tease him and feeling ashamed that she ever had, although she felt it had been more Douglas’s intrusions than Sean’s reactions to her teasing that made her feel that way.

The waiter brought them two cognacs. More people came out for walks. It was, after all, a Sunday. The streetlamps went on.

As they sipped their drinks, they talked first about Tony and the rally being held that day in the city, probably not far from where they sat. She asked him about his book. They talked until it was quite dark, then decided to go to Los Caracoles for dinner. Still they remained seated, not wanting to end the moment.

“You know, Sean,” Kyra said suddenly, “I do love you.” She kissed him quickly and got up. “Come on. Let’s go eat.”

He got up and put his arm around her. They began walking across the old city. The streets were ill-lit and smelled bad. Too narrow for cars, they were crammed with people.

As they walked, he held her close to him. She had never told him she loved him before, and it bothered him. It was as if she’d broken the rules. He found himself unable to say anything, and so they walked in silence. His arm kept her pressed against him. Stopping in a doorway, he kissed her.

The people in the street were beginning to move quickly as Sean and Kyra stepped back down off the curb. Two or three young people went rushing through the crowd, pushing everyone to make way, and a low roar came from behind them.

Somebody said something about the rally getting out of hand.

“What’s going on?”

Now there was really something wrong. Behind them people were pushing and screaming. Sean and Kyra were nearly running to keep up with the flow. When they were about two-thirds of the way down the block, a group of fifteen or twenty
guardia
came around the next corner directly in front of them, swinging their nightsticks indiscriminately. By now the noise was deafening behind them, and still they tried to turn and run against the crowd, but it was no use.

Sean stumbled but Kyra held him up. They pressed themselves against the wall, hoping it would pass, but they were almost directly between the
guardia
and the surging mob. Someone from behind threw a rock, and a barrage of rocks followed. They kept trying to squeeze back into the crowd. The police were swinging at everyone. Someone grabbed Kyra and she yelled for Sean. He stepped out and grabbed her, trying to butt everyone out of the way, but he was hit in the head and lost his balance. Kyra screamed his name again as he fell to the street, but then he was hit again, and lost consciousness.

His leg was turned awkwardly under him, and it started to cramp. He tried to straighten it, but there was something in the way. Slowly he came to. The crowd was gone, and he lay in a doorway. Turning to free his leg, he moaned involuntarily. His head felt as though it had been cracked in half. He opened his eyes wide with a great effort. The street was quiet now.

He thought of Kyra and tried to stand, but the effort nauseated him and he was sick into the gutter.

He cursed.

Where was she?

He sat for another minute leaning his head against the wall, trying to orient himself. His neck was cold and damp from his blood, some of which had also dried on his face. He swore again, and stood up.

He knew there was a fountain nearby, and he had a good idea of exactly where he was. He had to find Kyra, but any search would be useless until he’d cleared his head.

The fountain was three blocks to his left, and the walk to it was eerie. No one was about, as though it were just before dawn, although he felt it was not yet midnight, and probably earlier. Occasionally, through an alley, he could see up toward the
ramblas
where the lights shone as though it were a normal Sunday evening.

At the fountain, he knelt and plunged his head into the water, rubbing with his hand to wash away the crusted blood. He had two lumps on the back of his head, and he realized from the sting as he washed that his face was cut. Still, it wasn’t as bad as it might have been.

He struggled out of his sweater and left it on the ground, then got up and made his way toward the lights. His head was remarkably clear. His first instinct had been to rush about calling Kyra’s name, but now he realized she must have been arrested, or knocked down, or somehow had made her way back to the car. He contemplated turning then, and going back to the doorway where he’d come to. If she had made it to the car, he could wait for her there. But he really didn’t think she had made it to the car.

A small café with five or six old Spaniards at the bar caught his attention. There was a phone in the back, and he thought he’d call the police to find out if she’d been arrested. They probably wouldn’t tell him, but it was worth a try. As he entered the café, though, the proprietor came around the bar, waving him away and shaking his head.

“Cerrado,”
he kept yelling, pushing Sean toward the door.
“Cerrado.”

Sean pointed to the phone on the wall.
“Telé fono,”
he yelled just as loudly.
“Solamente telé fono.”

BOOK: Sunburn

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