Deadly Pursuit

27

Steve found Kirstie in the kitchen, peering into the oven, squinting against a wave of heat.

“Where’s Jack?” she asked without looking up.

“Bathroom.”

He leaned over her shoulder and breathed in dinner’s spicy aroma, a blend of garlic, chicken, and cheese.

It occurred to him that after tonight he would never again taste his wife’s cooking, set the table, help her clean up afterward. These mundanities of domestic life seemed suddenly more important than any grand romantic moments.

“Smells good,” he said, holding his voice steady. “What is it?”

“Chicken breasts Parmesan.”

“Fancy.”

“Quite practical, actually.” She shut the oven door. “There were a lot of odds and ends I needed to use up.” She moved away from him, to the counter, and began serving a tossed salad into three porcelain bowls. Red sunlight, filtering through the bottle-glass windows, glimmered in her hair like a nimbus of fire. “And speaking of odds and ends…”

“Yes?”

“When is Jack leaving?”

“Tonight.”

“After dinner. Right?”

“Dinner and… coffee.” He fingered his pants pocket, feeling the shapes of six small capsules, then withdrew his hand with a stab of shame.

“He’s not sleeping over,” Kirstie said firmly.

“Of course not.”

“I don’t want him here when we’re in bed.”

“Why not?” Steve tried to be funny. “Afraid he might join us?”

Kirstie turned to him. “To be honest, I can’t say what I’m afraid of. I just don’t trust him.” She held up a flour-stained palm. “And please don’t tell me he’s a great guy. I’m tired of hearing it.”

Steve hadn’t been planning to say it, anyway.

“He’ll be gone soon,” he replied simply. We both will.

Her gaze flicked to the nylon jacket he still wore. “You’re not worried about sunburn now, are you? It’s nearly dark.”

“Guess I just feel more comfortable with it on.”

“You sure you’re not coming down with something?”

“I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that. How come I don’t believe you?”

“Because you’ve got a suspicious nature.”

Smiling, he kissed her lightly on the mouth. As their lips met, he wondered if he would ever again be this close to the woman he loved.

Jack left the bathroom quietly, checked to be sure he was unobserved, and crept down the loggia into the master bedroom.

The bundle of scuba gear had to be somewhere. Steve had hidden it after returning from the reef. This afternoon Jack had searched most of the house without success. But he hadn’t looked here.

The bedspread was wrinkled, the bed still indented with the imprint of Steve’s body; he had lain there for hours, dispirited and fearful. Jack smiled. Conscience was such a weakness. Fortunately, he had never suffered from it. To him, the moral sense he’d glimpsed in others was as utterly alien as the weather patterns of Jupiter, and as remote from his own concerns.

In the middle of the room, he stopped, quartering the area with his gaze. What was the most obvious hiding place? Under the bed? No, not enough clearance for the bulky carrying case.

The closet, then. He looked inside.

Clothes on hangers. Suitcases on the floor. Nothing else.

Wait.

A small pool of water ringed the largest suitcase.

He unclasped the latches and opened the lid.

The bundle of gear had been hastily crammed inside, wrapped in a towel in a futile attempt to prevent water leakage.

Jack removed the bag, rummaged in it, and found his Swiss Army knife.

There were other knives in the house, of course. Steak knives, carving knives. But those were difficult to conceal. And any of them, unlike this weapon, would be unfamiliar in his hand.

He practiced extracting and retracting the spear blade, pleased by the sharp snap it made with each release.

When he slipped the knife into his pocket, he felt complete again, revitalized. His old sense of power and control was back.

Sometime tonight he would find a way to feed this knife of his.

It was hungry now. Hungry for blood.