The Seduction - Art Bourgeau (27 page)

"I'm going to tell her," Lois said. Justin,
not agreeing, didn't try to stop her.

"The police came and went; there wasn't much we
could do to help. We hadn't seen Felix, and the news about Cynthia—"
She reached for her cigarettes, offered one to Laura and held her
lighter for both of them. "After our finest had come and gone
the second time, Felix did show up. I could see he was upset, and I
thought it was about Cynthia. I was wrong . . . he didn't even know
about Cynthia . .

"What was bothering him then?" said Laura.

Violet interrupted Lois' answer with their drinks,
and Justin used the opportunity to get up and leave the table.

After Violet had gone Lois said, "When I asked
him what was wrong he started telling me some weird story about
having just come from Missy Wakefield's place and how he'd left her
there almost hysterical because she wanted to get married and have
his baby and he wouldn't go along. Can you beat that?"

Laura shook her head. "It sounds crazy. There's
got to be some sort of explanation—"

"It is crazy." Lois agreed. "I don't
care who the guy is, even if it's Felix, the day our Missy Wakefield
gets pregnant will be the day Willie Penn's hat blows off the top of
City Hall. Missy once said that having kids meant having someone to
loathe you when you get old. Nobody's going to get her pregnant."

Laura tried to push back her own jealous feelings
about all this. "What happened then?"

"That's when it got off the wall. I told him
about Cynthia. Naturally, that really threw him. I mean, after all,
he was married to her. And then when I told him about the police, I
thought he was going to lose it entirely. He started saying things
like, 'Not again, not this time,' and he had a look that made you
think he was going over the edge. I talked to him, Justin talked to
him, but it didn't do any good. He seemed convinced the police were
going to try and railroad him again, like they did in New Orleans. Do
you know that story?"

"Yes, and I know he was innocent. But I can see
how he'd feel like he does about the police. Do you know where he
is?"

Lois hesitated.

"Come on, he needs me."

"All right, he's at our house in Cape May. On
Washington Street." She wrote out the address.

Laura stood, and leaned over the table to kiss Lois
on the cheek. "Thanks, I'll keep you posted," she said as
she turned to go.

Outside the rain was coming down harder as Laura
hurried to her car. She took Front Street past La Familia and Raymond
Haldeman's to the Delaware Avenue exit. She tuned the radio to WFLN,
where the announcer said she was listening to Mozart. She didn't
recognize it. Her thoughts were all on Felix, what she'd just heard,
the scary resemblance to the picture of Peter . . . At Oregon Avenue
she turned right and headed for the Walt Whitman Bridge and New
Jersey.

She understood that what Lois was not saying, but was
afraid of, was that Felix might be guilty. Fortunately Lois didn't
yet know about the tie-in to Terri's and Marie's deaths. As for
herself, she still had no doubt about Felix's innocence; how could
she? But he needed her help; running away like this was making things
look worse. She had to convince him to come back with her.

Traffic was light on the bridge. She paid the
ninety-cent toll and started for the Atlantic City Expressway. As she
drove through the rain and the New Jersey night she thought how she
would like to be holding Felix in her arms right now, helping him put
all this awfulness in the past . . . Between Philadelphia and
Atlantic City she stopped at a rest stop for coffee and
cigarettes—her stomach was too knotted up to eat anything . . .

About ten miles out of Atlantic City she took the
Garden State Parkway south, and when her radio station began to fade
and she couldn't find one that suited her she turned it off and drove
on in silence . . . The weather, the time of night and the off season
made the road almost solely hers as she passed Ocean City, Avalon,
Stone Harbor, working her way south. Twice she stopped to pay tolls;
once in Atlantic County, once in Cape May County.

Finally, about an hour and a half into her trip,
through the rain she saw the sign for the end of the Garden State
Parkway and crossed the bridge into Cape May. Even though it was late
autumn the marina was still filled with pleasure boats, motor and
sail, all shapes and sizes, and the lights at both the Anchorage and
the Lobster House showed they were still doing a lively business in
spite of the late hour.

She took Lafayette Street until she could make a
left, then turned and went the one block to Washington Street.
Normally the tree-lined street with its brightly colored old
Victorian houses trimmed in the intricate gingerbread woodwork of a
bygone era made her feel as though she had stepped back into a time
of innocence. But tonight it was different. With the leaves gone from
the trees and many of the grand houses closed and empty for the
winter, she somehow felt unwelcome.

The street lights were widely spaced, leaving long
patches of darkness between, and she drove slowly, trying to make out
the house numbers through her windshield wipers. Squinting through
the rain, she at last found the number she was looking for on a
brown, cedar-shingle house with white trim, and there, as far back as
possible in the drive, almost hidden from view, was Felix's jaguar.

She pulled to the curb and stopped, suddenly
exhausted and shaking from the strain of the day. Taking a couple of
deep breaths, she forced herself to move on, the sea wind blowing the
rain hard against her back as she went up the walk and mounted the
steps to the house.

She pounded hard on the door to the glass-paned,
year-round porch. No response. Inside the house, through the lace
curtains, she could see a hint of light. She pounded again. No
response. She rapped once again.

This time she saw a shadow move inside the house, and
then Felix was at the door, astonishment on his face as he pushed it
open. "Laura, what are you doing here?"

"Aren't you going to ask me in?"

He stood aside for her to enter. The living room was
ice-cold, the furniture was covered with sheets.

"They're remodeling. The only place there's any
heat is in the den. Come on."

It was also the only place where there appeared to be
any light. Laura followed him through the darkened dining room and
kitchen, her arms crossed to keep down her chills and shakes.

The den was a shambles. Most of the furniture had
been pushed to one side with the exception of a recliner and a sofa
that was covered in sheets like the living room furniture. The
recliner wasn't. A lighted table lamp was beside it and there was a
bottle of Jack Daniels, a glass and an open bottle of beer on the
table.

The non-working fireplace was covered by stacks of
lumber and tools being used in the remodeling. Heat came from a
kerosene heater sitting on the plywood subflooring.

Felix poured a generous dollop of Jack Daniels and
handed the glass to Laura. "Drink this, it'll help warm you up."

He pulled the sofa nearer the kerosene heater and
took off the sheets. Laura shed her wet trenchcoat and sat down. The
warmth of the heater felt good.

Without looking at him, she said, "Felix, I know
that you've heard about Cynthia's death. Lois and Justin told me
about seeing you. I'm very sorry. And I know how she died; well, I
can understand how you feel. But you can't stay down here, no matter
how upset you are, or afraid of another unjust arrest. The police are
looking for you. They need to talk to you. You were one of the last
people to see her alive. They think maybe you can tell them something
to help find her killer . . ."

Felix stayed outside the small circle of light and
began to pace. When he finally spoke there was a deep sadness in his
voice.

"We hadn't even been friends in a long time, but
I wished her well, I wanted her to get on with her life, to find some
new happiness. It didn't seem to work out that way. After our
divorce, except for her store, she seemed to live in some sort of
limbo, not even trying to rebuild her life. And now this . . ."

"You'll come back then?"

"I can't help them. We had a drink, I put her in
a cab, that's it. We didn't even have dinner."

"Felix . . . are you saying you won't come
back?"

"Laura, believe me, I have nothing to
contribute—"

"Let them be the judge of that. You may know
something you're not even aware of. Let's go back right now, talk to
them—"

"It's out of the question."

"Felix, you've got to put the past out of your
mind. You don't know this, but they're sure Cynthia's killer is the
same man who killed Terri and Marie. That should eliminate you.
Please, come back with me, face them and at least clear yourself . .
."

"You forget something—the past doesn't go
away, I'm an ex-convict, already convicted of a killing. Times like
this, the fact I was innocent and pardoned gets forgotten. It's not
my help the police are interested in; it's my hide—"

"That's not so. You're innocent—"

"I was innocent before but I still went to
prison."

Laura got up from the sofa. "I can't believe
what I'm hearing. All right, I understand how you'd be bitter, but
you can't go through life being paranoid, running—"

"You're a great one to talk. Every time someone
gets close to you, you run like a scalded dog."

"That's a different—"

"Why is it different? I don't know what your
problem is, but I sure as hell know mine. Those cops came by
Lagniappe twice today looking for me. Think about it. I don't own
Lagniappe, I don't work there and I don't live there. Which means
that if they wanted me badly enough to come twice to a place I just
happen to go to, then they were at my apartment and the job site who
knows how many times. I'm no material witness, I'm the number-one
suspect, innocent or not. I've got a damn good reason to run—"

Laura tried to interrupt but he wouldn't let her.
"You, on the other hand, you seem to run from shadows, from
phantoms. Who knows from what. So please, don't talk to me about
running—or do talk to me about running. You're an expert. Maybe I
can learn something."

His words stung. Especially since she knew he was
right. Right about her, but wrong about himself. She had to make him
see it, and there was only one way, even though taking it would
probably ruin what was between them . . .

She turned her back to him, and there in that small
circle of light slowly pulled her sweater over her head, dropped it
on the sofa. The air felt cool to her bare skin, bringing goosebumps
with it. She felt him behind her, his eyes on her every move, but he
said nothing. Her heart was beating like a triphammer as she reached
behind to unclasp her bra, slid it slowly down her arms, laid it
aside, being sure the prosthesis was with it.

Dear God, please don't let him say anything. And then
she turned to face him, her eyes on the floor, not wanting to see the
look on his face.

He was quiet for what seemed like hours. She wouldn't
look at his face, but she could feel him looking at her, his gaze
searing her flesh as he stood there in the darkness outside the
circle of light.

And then, finally, he said, "I understand."
He said it quietly, without pity, with acceptance. And she began to
cry.

Now, just as she'd fantasized it, she was in his
arms, and he was kissing her—lips, hair, her eyes, everywhere.

She opened her eyes and looked at him. What she saw,
or rather didn't see, brought a huge relief. Pity, sympathy, none of
them was there. What she saw was desire. Good God, he wanted her—even
with . . . he wanted her. She closed her eyes and returned his
kisses.

"I love you, Laura. Believe it. I love you . .
."

The coarse wool of his shirt made her skin tingle as
she moved against him. His hands were on her, touching her, even on
her breast and scars . . .

"You're beautiful," he whispered. "I'm
going to make you believe that . . ."

He wasn't afraid of her body, wasn't revolted by the
sight of her. That was enough. She felt his need, his hardness
pressing against her.

"I can't wait, I want you now," he was
saying.

She let him lead her to the sofa, undress her and
make her lie back. Good, he understood she wasn't fragile, wouldn't
break. He knelt between her legs. When she saw the eager redness of
his erection, she wanted to hold it, fondle it. She wanted to feel
the smoothness of its head against her cheek, her lips, her belly . .
. her breast.

"You're breathtaking," he was saying,
looking down at her. She felt tears. Opening her arms to him, she
said, "Come to me, baby. Come to me. I want you, too, and I've
waited so long, so long . .

When he entered her she
suddenly found herself in sync with him . . . moving, squeezing,
brazenly urging him onward with word and movement, the desire for the
wetness of his come inside her, a need such as she had never
experienced before. He felt it, too, and he never faltered, never
hesitated, giving as he was getting.
 
In
the cold of the room, sweat covered their bodies . . . slick belly to
slick belly. lt was marvelous, she wanted it to go on for hours, but
soon he was rasping in her ear, "I'm going to come . . ."
 
She held him tighter and whispered back,
"Now, now," and melted with him as he pushed into her with
one last shuddering thrust.