The Poet

27

We met back in the conference room of the field office at six-thirty. Backus was there, trying to work out the logistics with the phone, along with Thompson, Matuzak, Mize and three agents I hadn't been introduced to. I put my shopping bag under the conference table. It contained two new shirts, a pair of pants and a package of underwear and socks. I immediately wished I had changed into one of the new shirts because the introduced agents studied me and my FBI shirt with grim looks that suggested I had committed some kind of sacrilege by trying to impersonate an agent. Backus told whoever he was talking with to call him back when it was set up and then hung up.

"Okay," he said. "We start the full meeting as soon as they have the phones set up. Meantime, let's talk about Phoenix. Beginning tomorrow I want to start a ground-zero investigation of both the detective and the boy. Both cases, from the top. What I'd like-Oh, I'm sorry. Rachel, Jack, this is Vince Pool, SAC Phoenix. He's going to give us whatever we need."

Pool, who looked like he had twenty-five years on the job, the most of anyone in the room, nodded at us and said nothing. Backus didn't bother to introduce the other men.

"We have the meeting with the locals tomorrow at oh nine hundred," Backus said.

"I think we'll be able to brush them aside gently," Pool said.

"Well, we don't want any animosity. These are the fellows who knew Orsulak the best. They'll be good sources. I think we have to bring them into this but remain firmly in control."

"No problem."

"This one may be our best chance. It's fresh. We've got to hope the offender made a mistake and between these two deaths, the boy and the detective, we can find it. I'd like to see-"

The phone on the table buzzed and Backus picked up the receiver and said hello.

"Hold on."

He pushed a button on the phone and hung up the receiver.

"Brass, you there?"

"Here, boss."

"Okay, let's run down the list, see who've we got."

Agents from six cities announced their presence on the speaker.

"Okay, good. I want this to be as informal as possible. Why don't we go round-robin to see what people have. Brass, I'd like to finish up with you. So Florida. Is that you, Ted?"

"Uh, yes sir, with Steve, here. We are just getting our feet wet on this and hope to have more by tomorrow. But there are some anomalies here that we think are already worth noting."

"Go ahead."

"Uh, this is the first, or believed to be the first, of the Poet's stops. Clifford Beltran. The second incident-in Baltimore-did not take place until nearly ten months later. That is the longest interval we have as well. This leads us to possibly question the randomness of this first kill."

"You think the Poet knew Beltran?" Rachel asked.

"It's possible. At the moment, though, it's just a hunch we are working. There are a few other things that when thrown into the stew are worth taking a look at in support, however. First, this is the only one with a shotgun. We checked the autopsy file today and they aren't pretty pictures. Total obliteration with both barrels. We all know the symbolic pathology of that."

"Overkill," Backus said. "Suggesting knowledge or acquaintance of the victim."

"Right. Next we have the weapon itself. According to reports, it was an old Smith and Wesson that Beltran kept in a closet, on a top shelf out of sight. This information is attributed in the reports to his sister. Beltran had never married and lived in the house he grew up in. We haven't talked to the sister ourselves. The point is, if this was a suicide, yeah, fine, he went to the closet and got out the shotgun. But now we come along and say this was no suicide."

"How did the Poet know the shotgun was up there on the shelf?" Rachel said.

"Riiiiiight… How did he know?"

"Good one, Ted, Steve," Backus said. "I like it. What else?"

"The last thing is kind of sticky. Is the reporter there?"

Everyone in the room looked at me.

"Yes," Backus said. "But we are still off the record. You can say what you were going to say. Right, Jack?"

I nodded and then realized they wouldn't see this in all the other cities.

"That's right," I said. "We're off the record."

"Okay, well, this is mere speculation at this time and we're not sure how it fits but we have this. On the autopsy of the first victim, the boy, Gabriel Ortiz, the coroner concluded, based on examination of the anal glands and muscles, that the boy was the victim of long-term molestation. If the boy's killer was also his abuser over a period of time, then this does not fit with our pattern of random selection and acquisition of victims. So that seems unlikely to us.

"However, looking at it from Beltran's point of view three years ago of not having the benefit of our knowledge, something here doesn't fit. He had this one case, knew nothing about the others we know about now. When the autopsy came back concluding the boy was the victim of long-term molestation, it stands to reason that Beltran should have jumped all over that and looked for the abuser as suspect numero uno."

"He didn't?"

"No. He headed a team of three detectives and he directed almost all investigative work toward the park where the boy had been abducted after school. I got this off the record from one of the guys on the team. He said he suggested a wider focus looking into the boy's background but Beltran turned him down.

"Now the good stuff. My source at the sheriff's tells me Beltran specifically asked for the investigation. He wanted it. After he supposedly offed himself, my source did some checking and it turns out Beltran had known the kid through a local social services program called Best Pals, which puts fatherless boys with adults. Like a Big Brother program. Beltran was a cop, so he had no trouble going through the screening process. He was the boy's Best Pal. I'm sure you can all take it from there."

"You think perhaps Beltran was the boy's molester?" Backus asked.

"It's possible. I think that's what my source was driving at but he won't put it on the line. Everybody's dead. It was written off. They're not going to go public with a story like that. Not with one of their own and sheriff being an elective office."

I watched Backus nod his head.

"That's to be expected."

There was silence for a few moments.

"Ted, Steve, this is all very interesting," Backus said. "But how does it fit? Is it just an interesting offshoot or are you seeing something there?"

"We're not sure ourselves. But if you say Beltran was a molester, a pedophile no less, and add that he was put down with a shotgun that somebody knew was on the top shelf of the closet because he knew Beltran, then we are getting into an area I think we should explore further."

"I agree. Tell us, what else did your source know about Beltran and Best Pals?"

"He said he was told that Beltran had been with Best Pals for a long time. He'd been with a lot of boys, we assume."

"And that is where you will pursue this, correct?"

"We'll hit it hard in the morning. Nothing we can do with it tonight."

Backus nodded and put a finger to his mouth in a contemplative gesture.

"Brass?" Backus said. "What do you think of all of this? How would that play with the psychopathology?"

"Children are a string all through this. So are homicide cops. We just don't have a handle yet on what this guy is all about. I think this is something that should be pursued vigorously."

"Ted, Steve, do you need more bodies?" Backus asked.

"I think we're set. We've got everybody in the Tampa FO wanting in on this. So what we need, we can take from there."

"Excellent. By the way, have you talked to the boy's mother about her son's relationship with Beltran?"

"We are still trying to track her as well as Beltran's sister. Remember, it's been three years. Hopefully, we'll get to them tomorrow after Best Pals."

"Okay, then, how about Baltimore? Sheila?"

"Yes, sir. We spent most of the day re-covering the ground of the locals. We talked to Bledsoe. The theory he had on the Polly Amherst case from the start was that they were looking for a molester. Amherst was a teacher. Bledsoe said he and McCafferty always thought that she might've stumbled onto a molester on the school grounds, was abducted, strangled and then butchered as a means of disguising the true motivation of the crime."

"Why did it have to be a molester?" Rachel asked. "Could she have stumbled onto a burglar, a drug deal, anything else?"

"Polly Amherst had third-period recess watch on the day she disappeared. The locals interviewed every child who had been in the yard. A lot of conflicting stories but a handful of kids remember a man at the fence. He had stringy blond hair and glasses. He was white. Sounds like Brad wasn't too far off with his description of Roderick Usher. They also said this man had a camera. That was about the extent of the description."

"Okay, Sheila, what else?" Backus asked.

"The one piece of physical evidence recovered with the body was a strand of hair. Bleached blond. Natural color is reddish brown. That's about it for now. We are going to work with Bledsoe again tomorrow."

"Okay. Chicago's next."

The rest of the reports contained nothing noteworthy in terms of identifying or adding to the growing database on the Poet. The agents were mostly covering ground the locals had already trod and they were finding nothing new. Even the report from Denver contained mostly old information. But at the end, the agent on the line said that an examination of the gloves worn by my brother was conducted and a single blood spot was found in the fur lining of the right-hand glove. The agent asked whether I was still willing to call Riley and ask her to allow an exhumation. I didn't answer because I was in a daze thinking about what the indication of hypnotism meant my brother's last moments were like. Asked again, I said I would call in the morning.

As an afterthought the agent concluded his report by saying he had shipped the GSR swabs from my brother's mouth to the lab in Quantico.

"They run a pretty good ship here, boss, and I don't think we'll get more than what they found."

"Which was?" Backus asked, careful not to look at me.

"Just the GSR. Nothing else."

I didn't know what I felt when I heard those words. I guess there was relief but it was no proof that anything did or did not happen. Sean was still dead and I was still haunted by thoughts of what his last moments and thoughts had been. I tried to shove it aside and concentrate on the conference call. Backus had asked Brass to update everyone on the victimology and I had missed most of the report.

"So we are discounting any correlation," she was saying. "Aside from the possibilities mentioned earlier in Florida, I'm saying they are picked at random. They didn't know each other, they never worked together and the paths of all six never crossed. We've found out that four of them went to some kind of bureau-sponsored homicide seminar at Quantico four years ago, but the other two didn't and we don't know if the four who did go ever even met or talked to each other at the seminar. All of this doesn't include Orsulak in Phoenix. We haven't had time yet to do a track on him."

"So if there is no correlation, we are to assume they are chosen by the offender simply because they take the bait?" Rachel asked.

"I think that's correct."

"So he must stand by and watch and see his prey for the first time after the bait kill."

"Again, correct. All of these bait cases received heavy local media attention. He could've seen each of the detectives for the first time on TV or in a newspaper photo."

"No physically archetypal attraction involved."

"No. He simply takes whoever gets the case. The lead detective becomes the prey. Now, that is not to say that after that selection, he may not find that one or more of these subjects were more attractive or fulfilling to his fantasy. That can always happen."

"What fantasy?" I asked, struggling just to keep up with what Brass was saying.

"Is that Jack? Well, Jack, we don't know what fantasy. That's the point. We are coming at it from the wrong direction. We don't know the fantasy that motivates this killer and what we are seeing and guessing about are the parts. We may never know what rocks his world. He's down from the moon, Jack. The only way we'll really ever know is if he decides to tell us someday."

I nodded and thought of another question. I waited until it was clear no one else had anything.

"Uh, Agent Brass-I mean, Doran?"

"Yes?"

"You might've already said this, but what about the poems? Do you have any more of an idea how they fit?"

"Well, they are obviously being used in exhibition. We noted this yesterday. This is his signature, and though he obviously wants to elude capture, at the same time his psychology is such that he just has to leave a little something that says, Hey, I was here. This is where the poems come in. As for the poems themselves the correlation is that they all are or can be read as being about death. There is also the theme that death is a portal to other things, other places. 'Through the pale door,' I believe, is one of the quotes he used. What it may be is that the Poet may believe he is sending these men he has killed to a better world. He is transforming them. It's something to think about when we consider the pathology of this individual. But once again, we come back to the instability of all our conjectures. It's kind of like we are looking through a full trash can to try to find out what somebody ate for dinner last night. We don't know what this man is doing and we won't until we have him."

"Brass? Bob again. What are you reading on the planning of these crimes?"

"I'll let Brad answer that."

"This is Brad. Uh, we're calling this guy a modified traveler. Yes, he is using the whole country as his canvas but he is staying put for weeks and sometimes months at a time. This is unusual in our prior profiling. The Poet is not a hit-and-run killer. He hits and then he stays around for a while. We are to expect that during this period the hunter watched the hunted. He must come to know his victim's routines and nuances. Possibly, he even strikes up a passing acquaintance. That's something to look for. A new friend or acquaintance in each detective's life. Maybe a new neighbor or guy at the local bar. The situation in Denver also suggests that he may come at them as a source, someone with information. He may be using a combination of these approaches."

"Which leads to the next step," Backus said. "After contact."

"Power," Hazelton said. "After he gets close enough to these victims, how does he take control? Well, we assume he has some kind of weapon that initially allows him to take theirs, but there is something more. How does he get six, now seven, homicide detectives to write out lines of poetry? How does he avoid a struggle in every one of these cases? At the moment, we are exploring the possibility of hypnosis combined with chemical enhancers taken from the victim's home. The McEvoy case is the anomaly. Setting it aside and looking at the others, there is probably no one among us who has an empty medicine cabinet. And there probably isn't a cabinet among the bunch that doesn't have some prescription or store-bought medication that wouldn't serve as an enhancer. Obviously some things work better than others. But the point is, if this scenario is correct, the Poet is using the things made available to him by the victims. We are looking at this hard. That's it, for now."

"Okay, then," Backus said. "Any other questions?"

The room and phone speaker remained silent.

"Okay, people," he said, leaning forward, his hands on the table and his mouth close to the phone speaker. "Your best work. We really need it this time."

Rachel and I followed Backus and Thompson to the Hyatt where Matuzak had reserved rooms. I had to check in and pay for my room while Backus checked in and got keys for the other five, which the government would pay for. Still, I got the discount the hotel regularly gave the FBI. It must have been the shirt.

Rachel and Thompson were waiting in the lobby lounge where we had decided on a drink before dinner. When Backus gave her one of the keys, I heard him say that she was in room 321 and I committed it to memory. I was four doors away in room 317 and I was already thinking about the night ahead, about closing that gap.

After a half hour of small talk Backus stood up and said he was going to his room to review the day's reports before heading out to the airport to pick up Thorson and Carter. He turned down an offer to join us for dinner and headed toward the elevator. A few minutes later, Thompson split, too, saying he wanted to read through the autopsy report on Orsulak in detail.

"Just you and me, Jack," Rachel said when Thompson was out of earshot. "What do you feel like eating?"

"I'm not sure. What about you?"

"Haven't thought about it. I know what I want to do first though… That's take a hot bath."

We agreed to meet in an hour for dinner. We rode the elevator up to our floor in a silence couched in sexual tension.

In my room, I tried to take my mind off Rachel by connecting my computer to the phone line and checking my messages in Denver. There was only one, from Greg Glenn asking where I was. I answered it but doubted that he would see it until he came back into work on Monday. I then sent a message to Laurie Prine asking her to search for any stories on Horace the Hypnotist that might have run in the Florida newspapers in the last seven years. I asked her to ship any notes she got to my computer basket but said it was no hurry.

After that I showered and changed into my new clothes for my dinner with Rachel. I was ready twenty minutes early and I thought about going down and seeing if there was a drugstore nearby. But then I thought about the impression it would give Rachel if things worked out and I came to her bed, a condom already in my pocket. I decided against the drugstore. I decided to play things as they came.

"Did you see CNN?"

"No," I said. I was standing in the doorway of her room. She went back to the bed and sat down to put her shoes on. She looked refreshed and was wearing a cream-colored shirt with black jeans. The TV was still on but it was a story about the clinic shootings in Colorado. I didn't think that was what she was talking about.

"What did it say?"

"We were on. You, me and Bob coming out of the funeral home. Somehow they got Bob's name and put it on the screen."

"Did it say he was BSS?"

"No, just FBI. But it doesn't matter. CNN must've taken the feed off the local channel. Wherever he is, if our guy saw it, we could have a problem."

"How come? It's not that unusual for the FBI to take a look at cases like this. The bureau's always sticking its nose in."

"The problem is it plays to the Poet. We see it in almost all of the cases. One concept of the gratification these kinds of killers seek is seeing their work on TV and in the papers. In a way it allows them to relive the fantasy of the incident. Part of that infatuation with the media extends to the pursuers. I get the feeling that this guy, the Poet, knows more about us than we do about him. If I'm right, then he's probably read books on serial killers. The commercial dreck and even some of the more serious work. He may know names. Bob's father is in many of them. Bob himself is in some. So am I. Our names, photos, our words. If he saw that on CNN and recognized us, then he'll assume we are right behind him. We may lose him now. He might go under."

Ambivalence won the night. Unable to decide what or where we wanted to eat, we settled for the hotel's restaurant. The food was okay but we shared a bottle of Buehler cabernet that was perfect. I told her not to worry about the government per diem because the newspaper was paying. She ordered cherries jubilee for dessert after I told her that.

"I get the feeling that you'd be happy if there were no free media in the world," I told her when we were slowing down on the dessert. The implications of the CNN report had dominated the conversation during dinner.

"Not at all. I respect the media as a necessity in a free society. I don't respect the irresponsibility that you see more often than you don't."

"What was irresponsible about that report?"

"That one was marginal but it bothers me that they used our images without bothering to ask what the ramifications could be. I just wish that sometimes the media would concentrate on the larger picture or story, rather than go for the immediate gratification every time."

"Not every time. I didn't blow you people off and say I'm writing my story. I went long-term. I went for the larger story."

"Oh, very noble, coming from somebody who extorted his way into the investigation."

She was smiling and so was I.

"Hey," I protested.

"Can we talk about something else? I'm tired of all of this. God, I'd love to just be able to lie back and forget about it for a while."

There it was again. Her choice of words, the way she looked at me as she said them. Was I reading it correctly or only reading what I wanted to read?

"Okay, forget about the Poet," I said. "Let's talk about you."

"Me? What about me?"

"This stuff going on with Thorson is like a TV sitcom."

"That's private."

"Not when you guys are staring daggers across the room all the time and you're trying to get Backus to take him off the case."

"I don't want him off the case. I just want him off my back and I don't want him out here. He always finds a way to sneak in and try to take over. You watch."

"How long were you married?"

"Fifteen glorious months."

"When did it end?"

"Long time ago, three years."

"That's a long time for hostilities to linger."

"I don't want to talk about this."

But I sensed she did. I let a little time go by. The waiter came and refilled our coffee cups.

"What happened?" I asked softly. "You don't deserve to be unhappy like that."

She reached up and tugged gently on my beard, the first time she had touched me since ramming my face into the bed back in Washington.

"You're sweet." She shook her head. "It was just the wrong thing for both of us. Sometimes, I don't even know what we saw in each other. It just didn't work."

"How come?"

"Just because. It was a just-because type of thing. Like I said, we both had a lot of baggage. His was heavier. He'd worn a mask and I didn't see all the rage behind it until it was too late. I got out as soon as I could."

"What was he angry about?"

"A lot of things. He carries a lot of anger. From other women, relationships. I was his second failed marriage. The job. Sometimes it came out like a blowtorch."

"Did he ever hurt you?"

"No. I didn't stay long enough for him to try. Of course, all men deny the woman's intuition, but I think if I stayed it would have come to that. It was the natural course of things. I still try to stay away from him."

"And he still has something for you."

"You're crazy if you think that."

"There's something there."

"The only thing he has for me is a desire to see me unhappy. He wants to get back at me for being the cause of his bad marriage, his bad life, everything."

"How's a guy like that keep his job?"

"Like I said, he's got a mask. He's good at hiding it. You saw him at the meeting. He was contained. You also have to understand something about the FBI. They don't go looking to bust their agents. As long as he did the work, it didn't matter what I felt or said."

"You complained about him?"

"Not directly. That would've been cutting my own throat. I've got an enviable position in the BSS but make no mistake, the bureau's a man's world. And you don't go to the boss to complain about things you think your ex-husband might do. I'd probably end up on the bank squad in Salt Lake City if I tried that."

"So what can you do?"

"Not much. Indirectly, I've dropped enough hints on Backus for him to know what's going on. As you can tell by what you heard today, he's not going to do anything about it. I have to assume that Gordon's dropping hints in his other ear. If I were Bob, I'd just sit back like he's doing and wait for one of us to fuck up. The first one to do it gets shipped out."

"And what would constitute a fuck-up?"

"I don't know. With the bureau you never know. But he's got to be more careful with me than him. Prevailing factors, you know. He's got to have his shit together if he's going to try to move a woman out of the unit. So, that's my edge."

I nodded. We had come to a natural end to that branch of the conversation. But I didn't want her to go back to her room. I wanted to be with her.

"You're a pretty good interviewer, Jack. Pretty sly."

"What?"

"We've spent the whole time talking about me and the bureau. What about you?"

"What about me? Never married, never divorced. I don't even have plants at home. I sit behind a computer all day. It's not in the same league as you and Thorson."

She smiled and then giggled a bit girlishly.

"Yes, we are a pair. Were. Do you feel any better after the meeting today, about what they found in Denver?"

"You mean what they didn't find? I don't know. I guess it's better that it looks like he didn't have to go through that. There is still nothing to feel better about, though."

"Did you call your sister-in-law?"

"No, not yet. I'll do it in the morning. Seems like something that should be discussed in daylight."

"I've never spent a lot of time with the families of the victims," she said. "The bureau always gets called in later."

"I have… I'm the master of interviewing the fresh widow, the now childless mother, father of the dead bride. You name it, I've interviewed it."

We were quiet a long moment. The waiter came by with his coffeepot but we both passed. I asked for the check. I knew it wasn't going to happen with her tonight. I had lost the nerve to pursue it because I didn't want to risk her rejection. My pattern had always been the same. When I didn't care whether a woman rejected me, I always took the chance. When I did care and knew rejection would cut me, I always held back.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked.

"Nothing," I lied. "My brother I guess."

"Why don't you tell that story?"

"What story?"

"The other day. You were about to tell me something good about him. The nicest thing he ever did for you. What made him a saint."

I looked across the table at her. I knew the story instantly but thought about it before speaking. I could've easily lied and told her the nicest thing he did was just love me but I trusted her. We trust the things we find beautiful, the things we want. And maybe I wanted to confess to somebody after so many years.

"The nicest thing he ever did was not blame me."

"For what?"

"Our sister died when we were kids. It was my fault. He knew. He was the only one who really knew. And her. But he never blamed me and he never told anyone. In fact, he took on half the guilt. That was the nicest thing."

She leaned forward across the table with a pained look on her face. I think she would have made a good, sympathetic psychologist if she had followed that path.

"What happened, Jack?"

"She fell through the ice at the lake. The same place where Sean's body was found. She was bigger than me, older. We'd gone out there with our parents. We had a camper and my folks were making lunch or something. Me and Sean were outside and Sarah was watching us. I ran out on the frozen lake. Sarah ran out after me to stop me from going too far out, to where the ice was thin. Only she was older and bigger and heavier and she fell through. I started screaming. Sean started screaming. My father and some other people there tried but they couldn't get to her in time…"

I drank from my coffee cup but it was empty. I looked at her and continued.

"Anyway, everybody was asking what happened, you know, and I couldn't… I couldn't talk. And he-Sean-said we had both been out on the ice and then when Sarah came out it cracked and she fell through. It was a lie and I don't know if my parents ever believed it. I don't think they did. But he did it for me. It was like he was willing to share the guilt with me, make it easier by half."

I stared into my empty cup. Rachel said nothing.

"You might've made it big as a shrink. That's a story I've never told anyone."

"Well, I think telling it might've just been something you felt you owed your brother. Maybe a way of thanking him."

The waiter placed a check on our table and thanked us. I opened my wallet and put a credit card down on top of it. I can think of a better way to thank him, I thought.

After we stepped off the elevator I became nearly paralyzed with fear. I couldn't bring myself to act on my desire. We moved to her door first. She pulled the card key from her pocket and looked up at me. I hesitated, said nothing.

"Well," she said after a long moment. "I guess we start early tomorrow. Do you eat breakfast?"

"Just coffee, usually."

"Okay, well, I'll call you and maybe if there's time we can grab a cup."

I nodded, too overrun with the embarrassment of my failure and cowardice to say anything.

"Good night, Jack."

" 'Night," I managed to say before walking off down the hall.

I sat on the edge of the bed watching CNN for a half hour, hoping to see the report she had mentioned or anything to take my mind off the disastrous end of the night. Why is it, I wondered, that it is the ones who mean so much that are the hardest to reach out to? Some deep instinct told me that the moment in the hall had been the time, the right moment. And I had ignored it. I had run from it. And now I feared that my failure would haunt me forever. Because that instinct might never come back.

I don't think I heard the first knock. Because the one that raised me from my dark reverie was very loud and surely not the first effort. It had the urgency of a third or fourth knock. Jarred by the intrusion, I quickly turned off the TV and went to the door, opening it without looking through the peephole. It was her.

"Rachel."

"Hi."

"Hi."

"I, uh, thought I'd give you a chance to redeem yourself. That is, if you wanted to."

I looked at her and a dozen responses went through my mind, all engineered to neatly put the ball back in her court and make her make the move. But the instinct came back and I knew what she wanted and what I needed to do.

I stepped toward her and put an arm behind her back and kissed her. Then I pulled her into the room and closed the door.

"Thank you," I whispered.

Almost nothing was said after that. She hit the light switch, then led me to the bed. She put her arms around my neck and pulled me down into a long, deep kiss. We fumbled with each other's clothes and then decided wordlessly to just take off our own. It was faster.

"Do you have something?" she whispered. "You know, to use?"

Crestfallen by the consequences of my inaction earlier, I shook my head no and was about to offer to go to the drugstore, a trip that I knew would destroy the moment.

"I think I might," she said.

She pulled her purse onto the bed and I heard the zipper of an interior pocket opening. She then pressed the plastic condom package into my palm.

"Always keep one for emergencies," she said with a smile in her voice.

We made love after that. Slowly, smiling in the shadows of the room. I think of it now as a wonderful moment, perhaps the most erotic and passionate hour of my life. In reality, though, when I strip the gauze from the memory, I know it was a nervous hour with both of us seemingly too eager and willing to please the other and perhaps thereby robbing ourselves of some of the true enjoyment of the moment. My sense of Rachel was that she was craving the intimacy of the act, not as much the sensual pleasure as the closeness with another human being. It was that way for me as well, but I also found a deep carnal desire for her body. She had wide and dark areolas on small breasts, a lovely rounded stomach with soft hair below it. As we found each other's rhythm her face flushed and became warm. She was beautiful and I told her so. But this seemed only to embarrass her and she pulled me down into an embrace so that I could not see her face. My face in her hair, I smelled the scent of apples.

Afterward, she rolled onto her stomach and I lightly rubbed her back.

"I want to be with you after this," I said.

She didn't answer but that was okay. I knew that what we had just shared was genuine. She slowly pulled herself up into a sitting position.

"What is it?"

"I can't stay. I want to but I can't. I should be in my own room in the morning in case Bob calls. He'll want to talk before the meeting with the locals and he said he'd call."

Disappointed, I wordlessly watched her dress. She moved about in the darkness skillfully, knowing her way. When she was finished, she bent down and lightly kissed me on the lips.

"Go to sleep."

"I will. You, too."

But after she was gone I couldn't sleep. I felt too good. I felt reaffirmed and filled with an unexplainable joy. Every day you fight death with life and what is more vital in life than the physical act of love? My brother and all that had happened seemed far away.

I rolled to the side of the bed and picked up the phone. Full of myself, I wanted to tell her these thoughts. But after eight rings she didn't pick up and the operator answered.

"Are you sure that was Rachel Walling's room?"

"Yes, sir. Three twenty-one. Would you like to leave a message?"

"No, thanks."

I sat up and turned on the light. I turned on the television with the remote and flipped back and forth for a few minutes, not really watching. I tried her number again and still no answer.

Getting dressed, I told myself I wanted a Coke. I took change off the bureau and my key and went down the hall to the alcove where the vending machines were. On my way back I stopped by 321 and listened at the door. I heard nothing. I lightly knocked and waited, knocked again. She didn't answer.

At my door I fumbled to use the key and turn the knob while holding the can of Coke. Finally, I put the can down on the rug and was opening the door when I heard footsteps and turned to see a man coming down the hallway toward me. The hall lights were dimmed because of the hour and the bright lights from the elevator alcove cast the approaching man in silhouette. He was a large man and in his hand I saw he carried something. A bag maybe. He was ten feet away.

"Hiya, sport."

Thorson. His voice, though recognizable, spooked me and I think he saw it in my face. I heard him chuckle as he passed by me.

"Pleasant dreams."

I said nothing. I picked up the can and moved into my room slowly, continuing to watch Thorson move down the hall. He passed by 321 without hesitation and stopped at a room further down the hallway. As he was opening it with a key he looked back down the hall at me. Our eyes locked for a moment, then I slipped wordlessly into my room.