Time of Departure (20 page)

A blue VW Jetta was parked in a visitor space three units up from mine. A man was sitting behind the wheel. When I noticed him, his head was down, his face obscured behind the peak of a ball cap.

But his window was open, and his left arm was resting in plain view. Even from sixty feet away, I instantly deduced his identity.

I entered my town house and bolted the door behind me. I waited ten minutes, then used my landline to call Marc's cell.

When he answered, I announced, “I'll be back in three hours.”

“Okay.”

“Just so you know.”

“Okay.”

“I'm being tested.”

“I understand.”

I disconnected, wondering if he had really got my message. Then I relaxed. Based on past performance, I was pretty certain he had.

I ran up the stairs to my bedroom. I stood a few feet back from the balcony window and watched the parking lot.

Sure enough, after a few minutes, the man in the Volkswagen took a call on a cell phone. Seconds later, he drove away.

I started packing a suitcase.

*   *   *

I parked on the street near the entrance to Marc's building. It took about three seconds to confirm my earlier impression. Either my stalkers' situational awareness skills were severely deficient, or they had an extremely low opinion of mine.

The car was parked on the opposite side of the street, halfway up the next block. This time they were using a full-sized American sedan, but they hadn't had the sense to tuck the nose of their car tight against the vehicle parked in front of it. With the setting sun dipping low behind me, the wigwag emergency lights mounted behind the car's front grille glowed like neon.

I left my suitcase in the car. Feigning oblivious confidence, I walked directly to the front entrance of Marc's building. I pushed the button on the console. Marc answered.

“I think you should come down to the lobby,” I said.

“On my way,” he replied, and buzzed me in.

Sixty seconds later, he was standing in front of me. “Let's go,” he said, taking my hand.

“Where?”

“I'll explain on the way.”

He led me out through the rear door into the alley. We walked two blocks east and then took a jog back to the main street. We crossed to the opposite sidewalk and strolled west, approaching the vehicle from behind. When we were one car length back, Marc stepped quickly into the street and strode toward the driver's door.

The man sitting behind the wheel must have spotted Marc in his side-view mirror. He opened his door, but before he could step out, Marc had him by the jacket. With the same strength and speed I'd seen him use on my assailant outside Sam's apartment building, he hauled Ted Lipinski out of the car and slammed him facedown on the asphalt.

Geiger was in the passenger seat. He was taken by surprise. He spilled coffee down his shirt, yelled with pain, and immediately tried to open his door. I kicked it shut. He gaped at me in shock and went for his gun.

I stared at him, daring him to pull it.

He seemed to shrink. His hand reappeared from under his jacket, empty.

Marc jerked the now-dazed Lipinski to his feet, disarmed him, and yelled at Geiger. “Give Claire your gun!”

“What the fuck! Are you both crazy?”

“Shut up! Lower your window and give her your gun!”

Geiger slowly removed his weapon from its holster. The window slid down. He passed his gun out to me.

Marc maneuvered Lipinski into position and shoved him headlong back into the car. His face landed on Geiger's crotch. The old cop scrambled to right himself. “Aggravated assault on the police!” he spluttered. “I'll have your ass, Hastings!” He swung his head to glare at me. “And yours, too, you bitch!”

“We'll welcome the charges, Lipinski! Not only will they give us a chance to expose your utter incompetence, but we look forward to hearing you explain to the feds what part of your
lawful
duties required you to stalk Claire Talbot and illegally tap her phone!”

“And,” I added, yelling at the two red-faced cops, “you can expect a civil complaint against both of you for malfeasance! Get ready to lose your houses, your cars, and”—I stabbed a finger at the TAG Heuer on Geiger's wrist that had given him away—“your fancy watches!”

I straightened, heaved Geiger's gun over a chain-link fence into the empty lot next to the sidewalk, and walked away. Marc joined me, still carrying Lipinski's weapon. After a few steps, he dropped it into a storm drain.

“He'll have fun explaining that,” I said.

He chuckled. “Nice performance.”

“You, too.”

“Are you really going to sue them?”

“Maybe,” I replied. After a few seconds, I said, “Probably not.”

“That's good. I don't think you'll have time. I'm planning on keeping you pretty busy.”

“Oh, you are, are you?”

“Yes. I am.” He studied my face, and broke into a grin.

At that moment, I realized that I had grinned first.

I took his arm, and we walked to his building.

When we reached the front door, I said, “I brought some clothes.”

“I thought you might.”

“Presumptuous of you.”

“I figured you'd want to get away from the newshounds.”

“Or idiot cops?”

He nodded and looked up the street. I followed his gaze. Lipinski and Geiger were down on their knees in the gutter. They had the storm grate pulled vertical. Lipinski was holding it while Geiger had one arm shoulder-deep in the drain.

“Get your suitcase.” Marc instructed. “I'll meet you in the lobby.”

The expression on his face sent me hurrying to my car.

As I rolled my suitcase back to the building, I spotted Lipinski walking determinedly toward me from the opposite direction. Geiger was trailing several feet behind him, walking slowly. Marc opened the lobby door. I entered and headed for the elevator. He put a hand on my arm. “No. We walk.”

“The front door won't stop them! They'll get someone to open it!”

“Don't worry.” He hefted my bag and led me up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

As we passed the last landing, I panted, “Are you doing this just to show off?”

“Sort of,” he replied. “But not in the way you think.” I was about to blurt some caustic remark when an alarm bell sounded.

Marc smiled at my confusion. “The elevator,” he explained. “It jams between first and second floors.”

“Since when?”

“Since three minutes ago.”

I gaped at him. “How did you do that?”

“I know things.”

“I've already gathered that! But how—?”

“Preplanning.” He grinned and started up the last flight of steps. “Coming?”

 

29

Four hours later, we were sitting at Marc's dining room table, nursing the last drops of a very fine Montrachet. Empty plates and dishes were all that remained of a two-course dinner Marc had calmly prepared while the sounds of the elevator alarm and, later, the commotion caused by the fire department's rescue efforts, drifted up from floors below. Eventually, we'd watched from the dining room window as Lipinski and Geiger plodded away from the building in the direction of the police car.

“How did you know they wouldn't keep coming, pound on your door, and arrest us for assault?”

“Geiger isn't the smartest cop around, but he has a bit of common sense. I figured an hour or two in an elevator would give him enough time to convince Lipinski that he was playing with fire.”

I was long past hiding my skepticism. I gave him a narrow look. “You're very good at guessing everybody's next move, aren't you?”

As usual, he didn't answer. He sipped his wine, waiting for me to change the subject.

And, as usual, I did.

“Who taught you to cook like that?” The main course Marc had prepared—salmon poached in a wine and blueberry sauce, served with a dish that he called Persian jeweled rice—had been exquisitely delicious.

“A beautiful young woman.”

“Was she also intriguing?”

“Oh yes. Definitely.”

“Did you love her?”

“Yes.”

“Where is she now?”

His eyes were suddenly damp. “It's a long story.”

I sighed. “They always are.” I drained my glass.

“One day you'll understand.”

Damn!

I already knew I was in love with this enigmatic man, but all this evasiveness about his past was pissing me off.

“For God's sake, Marc! How many years between us?”

“Too many.”

“And how many years could we have together? Ten? Fifteen?”

“Too few.”

“Right! And what about kids? What if we wanted children? You wouldn't be around to see them grow up!”

Marc's eyes filled. I saw his throat working. He rose slowly from his seat. “I think I'll get an early night. Leave the dishes. I'll clear them up in the morning.” Before I could think of a response, he left the table and strode across the apartment to his bedroom. He entered and shut the door behind him.

Once again, my temper and my caustic tongue had left me silently kicking myself.

I got up and cleared the table. In the kitchen, I rinsed off the dishes and methodically loaded them in the dishwasher. I'd been told a hundred times that prerinsing before loading a dishwasher is a complete waste of energy, time, and water, but the mindless action was exactly what I needed at that moment.

It didn't work. My mind was in turmoil. I returned to the table. There was still an inch of wine left in the bottle. I lifted the bottle and poured the wine straight down my throat.

“Go to bed, you idiot!” I whispered to myself. “Just go to bed! And tomorrow, you apologize!”

I set the bottle on the table and walked straight across the apartment to Marc's bedroom. I opened the door and walked in. In the spill of light from the door, I could see Marc lying on his side, with his back to me. Somehow, I sensed he was awake. I stripped off all my clothes and slid in next to him.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered.

But then … my nerve failed me. I didn't touch him. I just lay there, trembling like a schoolgirl. A long second passed. I was about to change my mind and flee when Marc rolled over and folded me into his arms. He kissed my eyes, my nose, my neck … my mouth. The kiss was long and soft, and I felt a rush of heat and desperate need.

I melted into him.

And then it came … an unbelievable lust that almost stopped my breath. It was a desire for this man and this man alone that seemed at once alien and familiar, known and unknown.

Can this be me?
my reasoning mind asked in the single millisecond before I forgot everything and let myself go.

Marc Hastings devoured me.

And then I devoured him.

And then he cried.

It was long after midnight when we finally fell asleep.

*   *   *

When I awoke, the room was soaked in sunlight and I was sprawled on my stomach with the covers down around my thighs.

I felt Marc touching me.

Actually, I felt only his fingertip. It was tracing the outline of the butterfly tattoo that I'd had on the small of my back since I was a college student.

I murmured. “It's a blue morpho.”

“First one I ever slept with.”

“Butterfly?”

“No. Tattoo. I've slept with a few butterflies in my day.”

I rolled over and stretched, giving my best imitation of feline contentment. “How did you know?”

“What?”

“How did you know exactly what I would … like?”

“Experience.”

I snorted. “Oh, of course!” I reached over my head, grabbed my pillow, and whacked him with it. “The arrogance of the elderly!”

A broad grin spread across his face. “Elderly, huh?” He grabbed me and held me down. He really was surprisingly strong, and he kept grinning while I squirmed and bleated and giggled.

He hovered over me. “Elderly, huh?”

Ten seconds later, he didn't have to hold me, and I wasn't squirming or bleating or giggling.

I was savoring every second.

At the end—after the end—we lay in each other's arms.

I couldn't speak.

I couldn't speak because I was totally stunned.

Stunned by his tender lovemaking.

And … stunned at my own desperate passion for him.

After long minutes, Marc stirred. He stroked my face and whispered, “I knew this.”

I felt my brow knit as I looked into his eyes. “Knew what?”

“That we would be here.” He spoke so quietly, I almost missed the words. “And I still find it impossible to believe.”

I kissed his hand and asked lightly, “And how long have you known this, my oh-so-very-handsome older man?”

He tried to smile, but I saw haunted eyes. In place of a reply, gentle lips touched mine. His kiss was long and filled with emotion.

He broke away and rose from the bed. Pulling on his shorts, he said, “I'll fix us some breakfast.” He lifted my arm, kissed the inside of my wrist, and left the room.

I decided right then that I would get to the bottom of the mystery that Marc sometimes seemed to flaunt but more often seemed to wear like a mortifying hair shirt.

 

30

I didn't start out with the idea that my affair with a man who was twice my age couldn't last. All rational thinking, all critical awareness—and all my inbred wariness—were swept away by a torrent of emotion. I just drank in the passion, and lived minute to minute.

It was late on the fourth day before we left the apartment, and even that was just a quick trip to pick up some groceries. We cooked, we drank, we embarked on dozens of unfinished conversations, snuggled in front of the television, and made love in every room.