The Edge of Ruin (16 page)

The NTSB easily determined the cause of the crash. The small commuter plane ran out of fuel. When questioned, members of the ground crew stated the plane didn’t need fuel, and that it crashed because the pilots and passengers didn’t believe. What they had failed to believe varied widely from person to person, but what remained a constant was the complete lack of guilt over the accident …

The hairs on the nape of my neck rose, and a cold line traced its way down my spine to lodge at the small of my back. This was what Grenier had been talking about. People believing crazy stuff. And not just believing; some of them might actually be able to
do
crazy stuff. As logic and rationality leached out of the world, planes might fly powered by belief alone. Unfortunately there had been no magic for the crew and passengers on
this
flight. I groped in my pocket for the snuffbox, fished out a tablet, and dry-swallowed the Xanax. I threw the paper into the waste can next to the desk.

The big copper-paneled doors swung open, and Angela entered. “No tea, painkillers, and sympathy for that one?” she asked.

I shook my head. She looked at me with concern and started toward me, hand outstretched. I dodged the impending touch by rising and limping over to the window. It wasn’t that I dreaded her touch or didn’t like it, but it felt dishonest to allow the contact when I wasn’t sure what I wanted and whether I could reciprocate.

Down in the parking lot a woman struggled against a brisk west wind. The tail of her long coat twisted behind her. She clutched a cardboard box to her chest. Farther along the line of parked vehicles a man slammed the trunk of his Prius closed. I couldn’t help but notice that there wasn’t a single SUV among the employee cars.

“So, what’s the tally?” Angela asked. I could feel her breath on the back of my neck.

“Out of eighty-four employees, five left,” I answered.

“That’s not too bad.” Angela’s arms went around my waist and hugged me tight. I could feel her cheek resting against my back, and her breath made a warm spot on the suit coat. The lonely isolation I had been feeling seemed suddenly too much to bear. It might not be fair, but I was going to take the comfort. I turned around and rested my chin on the top of her head. Her curls tickled, and a faint citrus scent from her conditioner wafted up.

She suddenly frowned and stepped back, and I realized the holster and butt of the pistol had dug into her breast. Angela pulled back the lapel of my coat to reveal the pistol nestled under my right armpit.

I answered the unasked question. “I told Weber to file my resignation in a round file. Don’t tell,” I added hurriedly and then felt stupid. This was one person I could absolutely trust.

“Like I would!” Reaching up, she brushed back that damn lock of hair that continually resisted being combed into place. She stroked her fingertips across my forehead, and I closed my eyes, enjoying their cool touch.

“You look tired,” Angela said softly. “Do you want to lie down?”

I opened my eyes and looked down into her brown eyes. It was still surprising and more than a little pleasant to actually get to look
down
into a woman’s face. “It’s brain tired. What I really need is to give my mind a rest. Do you think I could try a swim today?”

“Sure. Just limit the time, and if it hurts in a bad way instead of a good way, quit.”

* * *

The moment the elevator doors opened, I could hear splashing and sharp breaths. There was already a swimmer in the pool. A flash of resentment shook me, but I limped on through the blue-tiled archway. Maybe it was somebody I could stand to have around me. The room that housed the pool was designed to evoke a Roman bath. I watched the steam wave languidly over the top of the hot tub, and reflected that what I really wanted was some private time. A place to myself without everyone needing something, demanding something, wanting something, and it always ended up that
I
was the only person who could supply the something. I knew I was indulging in a fit of “poor me,” but I was still tasting resentment as I limped to the edge of the pool.

The ripples in the water distorted the figure, and it wasn’t until the swimmer approached the shallow end of the pool that I realized it was somebody I couldn’t stand.

It was Sam. Ever since she had arrived she had been in my face, mocking every remark I made, wondering loudly when we were ever going to fucking
do something
, playing the kind of macho boy games that brought back all those memories of high school gym class, and my worst days on the police force.

Sam executed a neat somersault, braced her feet against the side of the pool, and pushed off again. The young agent must have caught my shadow in the water because she stopped midstroke and began treading water in a slow circle.

It gave me ample opportunity to appreciate the play of muscles beneath the skin of her arms, the sharp bones in her clavicle, the brown hair slicked against her skull. Through the slowing ripples I could see the top edge of the high French-cut one-piece swimsuit defining the slender length of her legs. She made me think of the Scottish legends of selkies.

“Come on in. The water’s fine,” she said.

So quick was my turn back toward the arch that the hem of my bathrobe brushed against the back of my bare heels and threatened to trip me. “I don’t wish to intrude,” I muttered, hoping that would suffice. I began limping away, but my progress was snail slow. The tiling around the pool felt like it had been oiled, and the metal-shod foot of the damn cane kept slipping.

I heard the water churn from a couple of hard kicks, then jerked to a halt when Sam grabbed the trailing hem of my robe. “Fuck, it’s your pool.”

Rage set my temples throbbing.
I could have fallen!
But then I realized I was acting like a big baby. With my temper under control I turned back to face her. She had rested her arms on the edge and was staring up at me.

“Are you always this …” She made a complex gesture with one hand.

“What?”

“Polite?”

“Is that a bad thing?” I asked.

“Yeah, it is when you’re so fucking self-effacing that you’re practically invisible. You’re supposed to be in charge of this joint.”

Sam suddenly grasped my bare ankle and gave a sharp yank. The metal tip of the cane chattered and squeaked as it slipped across the glass tile. I struggled to catch my balance, stepped instinctively onto my right leg, and yelped in pain. Which turned into a glissando wail as I toppled sidewise into the pool.

A house slipper floated briefly in front of me, then started to sink. And I was likely to follow it toward the bottom because the heavy terry-cloth bathrobe I was wearing was now leaden. Holding my breath, I struggled with the belt. Then Sam was there. Our hands bumped together and tangled as we both went for the belt. Suddenly her slim hand darted into my swim trunks and grabbed my penis. I was appalled, but it couldn’t stop a line of silver fire running up into my belly and sending my eyes rolling back. I had been celibate for so long that outrage couldn’t trump the atavistic reaction. I couldn’t prevent the gasp and ended up sucking water.

I finally shed the robe and surfaced to hear Sam say, “Whoops.” She gave me a predatory grin. But the smile never reached her eyes. Instead resentment looked out at me.

I pushed sopping hair out of my eyes, coughed, and managed to croak, “Are you insane?” I could feel the chlorine stinging the wound in my leg.

“Nope, I just find insecure people really boring, and I’m never reassuring. So, do you want to fuck?”

It was a boy’s trick. Use the crudest term possible, remove any possibility of personal or emotional contact, and reduce the person being propositioned to an object. I hadn’t been a psychology minor for nothing.

“You just can’t stand it that I’ve seen you vulnerable, scared, and crazy, and that I made you well,” I said.

We were face-to-face. I watched the self-satisfied smirk melt, replaced with blazing anger. My own anger drowned out the faint arousal I had felt. I looked down at the rounded tops of her breasts, and decided that two could play her game. Leaning forward, I pressed my mouth down hard on hers.

She didn’t respond. I hadn’t expected her to. Instead her arms windmilled, a bare foot caught me on the shin, and she went splashing out of reach. She sputtered, hooked her arm through the ladder, and glared.

“I thought you wanted to fuck,” I said as blandly as I could manage.

“I was just fucking with you,” Sam said.

“Really? It doesn’t seem like it.”

She grabbed the ladder and pulled herself out of the water. Every movement betrayed her annoyance. Snatching up her towel, she stalked for the elevator, her feet slapping wetly on the elaborate tiled floor.

“Sam.” I tried to give my voice that snap of command that comes so easily for Weber. I must have come close, because the young FBI agent stopped and turned back slowly. I stroked over to the side of the pool, folded my arms on the edge, and rested my chin.

“What?”

“Look, we can play mind games with each other, and keep score in blushes and outrage, or we can work together. Your choice.”

She walked back and squatted down in front of me. “I want to understand you.”

“I’m not that complex.”

“I resent you.”

“I know.”

“I think I really do want to fuck you.”

Well, that I hadn’t expected. “We’ll … uh, discuss it,” was the best I could manage.

R
ICHARD

A
n intense wet dream yanked me awake. I wouldn’t have minded the damp and the sticky touch of semen if I’d actually gotten laid, but I hated to awaken with that acrid and musty smell and my thighs coated. My first gymnastics coach used to say I was like a cat because I hated to be sweaty or smell, and it wasn’t a compliment. The man hated cats. He hadn’t much liked me either.

The travertine tile in the bathroom was cold underfoot as I stripped off my pajamas. I ran hot water and swept the washcloth up my legs, feeling goose bumps bloom on my skin. I limped into the closet, dumped the pajamas in the hamper, and pulled out a new pair. I tried to balance on my injured leg, then decided to be a smart wimp and sit down to pull them on.

That done, I stood in the closet door, staring at the bed and trying to imagine sleep. It wasn’t going to happen. Moonlight poured through the windows, making it easy to navigate around the living room. I had to be quiet. If any of them woke up they’d come and cluck at me.

I settled down on the piano stool, opened the lid, and brushed my fingers softly across the keys. It was just a feather’s touch, but it drew a whisper of sound. I froze, but there was no reaction from the bedrooms. I relaxed again and tried to think about the day, but the only memory that stuck was of the swimming pool and Sam.

“I want to fuck you.”

And damn, I wanted to meet the request. Four years. It had been
four
years. As a teenager I had been scared to death to take recreational drugs, and I’d never been able to hold liquor worth a damn. Give me a few drinks and I’d end up in somebody’s bed. Which brought me face-to-face with my greatest vice—I loved sex. If I did a burst of pop psychology on myself I’d say it was because I feel lonely and unloved so I seek intimacy, and mistake sex for love. Or maybe I just really liked sex. At least until sex became inextricably bound up with pain and guilt about my sexuality.

Life without sex won’t kill you.

But I miss it.

So maybe you ought to take Sam up on her offer.

Sam’s sardonic half smile seemed to hang in front of me, and I knew that even if I got into bed with her it wouldn’t be sex. It would be a competition, which would only add to my anxiety. And anxiety meant impotence. I’d never be able to get it up.

I closed the lid on the Steinway, moved to the window. Heat washed through my body, and I felt sweat prickling all along my back. My breath fogged the glass, blossoming and retreating with each exhalation. I rested my forehead against the glass and relished the ache from the cold.

I shouldn’t be thinking about this. We’ve got bigger problems than my dick—

There was the slap of bare feet on the polished floor. I jerked upright and whirled to see Grenier waddling out of the dining room. He was carrying a large mug and a plate piled high with slices of toast. Steam formed a waving pennant over the top of the mug and carried the rich smell of Mexican chocolate and cinnamon throughout the room.

“Can’t sleep?” the former minister said.

“No, I’m sleepwalking. What do you think?” I immediately regretted the tone. It made me sound petulant. I folded my lips together to try to keep any other little croakers from emerging.

Seemingly unruffled, Grenier held out the plate, an implicit invitation. I was going to refuse, but my stomach gave a sharp rumble. I hadn’t been able to choke down much dinner, and the butter, powdered sugar, and cinnamon drenching the bread proved irresistible. The bread was still warm in my hand as I took a slice. The first bite sent powdered sugar puffing upward to dust my upper lip. Hot and sweet burst across my tongue. It tasted wonderful.

“What’s wrong?” Grenier asked.

I couldn’t hold back the sharp, short bark of sardonic laughter. “What isn’t.”

The man settled his bulk into an armchair. “So, putting aside for the moment that alien creatures are invading the Earth from alternate dimensions, tell me what’s bothering
you
.”

Opposing instincts and emotions buffeted me, each struggling for primacy. Intellectually I could neither forget nor forgive what the man had done to my mother. And to me. But Grenier was the first person who had expressed an interest in just talking with me instead of harping at me.

That made me feel disloyal, and I started to run through everyone as I tried to prove to myself that there was someone else I could turn to other than the man who’d run electric current through my balls.

Grenier began to talk, and it was like he’d been reading my mind. “Really, Richard, who else have you got? Angela? She’s in love with you, and you’re not in love with her. If you turn to her she’ll read way more into it than you want.”