And he didnt stop. Not until he had taken her with him all the way, higher and further than any man ever could, to a place beyond thought or reason. Only when release came, wave flooding upon wave, did she know how very high and far they had climbed.
A sweet exhaustion claimed them.
Outside, in the grayness of dawn, a bird sang. Inside, the silence was broken only by the sound of their breathing.
She sighed into the warmth of his shoulder. Thank you.
He touched her face. For what?
For making me feelwanted again.
Oh, Cathy.
Its been such a long time. Jack and I, we-we stopped making love way before the divorce. It was me, actually. I couldnt bear having him She swallowed. When you dont love someone anymore, when they dont love you, its hard to let yourself betouched.
He brushed his fingers down her cheek. Is it still hard? Being touched?
Not by you. Being touched by you is likebeing touched the very first time.
By the windows pale light she saw him smile. I hope your very first time wasnt too awful.
Now she smiled. I dont remember it very well. It was such a frantic, ridiculous thing on the floor of a college dorm room.
He reached out and patted the carpet. I see youve come a long way.
Havent I? she laughed. But floors can be terribly romantic places.
Goodness. A carpet connoisseur. How do dorm room and living room floors compare?
I couldnt tell you. Its been such a long time since I was eighteen. She paused, hovering on the edge of baring the truth. In fact, she admitted, its been a long time since Ive been with anyone.
Softly he said, Its been a long time for both of us.
She let that revelation hang for a moment in the semi-darkness. Not-not since Lily? she finally asked.
No. A single word, yet it revealed so much. The three years of loyalty to a dead woman. The grief, the loneliness. How she wanted to fill that womanless chasm for him! To be his savior, and he, hers. Could she make him forget? No, not forget; she couldnt expect him ever to forget Lily. But she wanted a space in his heart for herself, a very large space designed for a lifetime. A space to which no other woman, dead or alive, could ever lay claim.
She must have been a very special woman, she said.
He ran a strand of her hair through his fingers. She was very wise, very aware. And she was kind. Thats something I dont always find in a person.
Shes still part of you, isnt she? Shes still the one you love.
Its the same sort of kindness I find in you, he said.
His fingers had slid to her face and were now stroking her cheek. She closed her eyes, savoring his touch, his warmth. You hardly know me, she whispered.
But I do. That night, after the accident, I survived purely on the sound of your voice. And the touch of your hand. Id know them both, anywhere.
She opened her eyes and gazed at him. Would you really?
He pressed his lips to her forehead. Even in my sleep.
But Im not Lily. I could never be Lily.
Thats true. You cant be. No one can.
I cant replace what you lost.
What makes you think thats what I want? Some sort of replacement? She was my wife. And yes, I loved her. By the way he said it, his answer invited no exploration.
She didnt try.
From somewhere in the house came the jingle of a telephone. After two rings it stopped. Faintly they heard Milos voice murmuring upstairs.
Cathy sat up and reached automatically for her clothes. She dressed in silence, her back turned to Victor. A new modesty had sprung up between them, the shyness of strangers.
Cathy, he said. People do move on.
I know.
Youve gotten over Jack.
She laughed, a small, tired sound. No woman ever really gets over Jack Zuckerman. Yes, Im over the worst of it. But every time a woman falls in love, really falls in love, it takes something out of her. Something that can never be put back.
It also gives her something.
That depends on who you fall in love with, doesnt it?
Footsteps thumped down the stairs, creaked across the dining room. A wide-awake Milo stood in the doorway, his uncombed hair standing out like a brush. Hey, you two! he hissed. Get up! Hurry.
Cathy rose to her feet in alarm. What is it?
That was Ollie on the phone. He called to say some guys in the area, asking questions about you. Hes already been down to Bachs neighborhood.
What? Now Victor was on his feet and hurriedly stuffing his legs into his trousers.
Ollie figures the guyll be knocking around here next. Guess they know who your friends are.
Who was asking the questions?
Claimed he was FBI.
Polowski, muttered Victor, pulling his shirt on. Has to be.
You know him?
The same guy who set me up. The guy whos been tailing us ever since.
How did he know were here? said Cathy. No one couldve followed us-
No one had to. They have my profile. They know I have friends here. Victor glanced at Milo. Sorry, buddy. Hope this doesnt get you into trouble.
Milos laugh was distinctly tense. Hey, I didnt do nothin wrong. Just harbored a felon. The bravado suddenly melted away. He asked, Exactly what kind of trouble should I expect?
Questions, said Victor, quickly buttoning his shirt. Lots of em. Maybe theyll even take a look around. Just keep cool, tell em you havent heard from me. Think you can do it?
Sure. But I dont know about Ma-
Your Mas no problem. Just tell her to stick to Chinese. Victor grabbed the envelope of photos and glanced at Cathy. Ready?
Lets get out of here. Please.
Back door, Milo suggested.
They followed him through the kitchen. A glance told them the way was clear. As he opened the door, Milo added, I almost forgot. Ollie wants to see you this afternoon. Something about those photos.
Where?
The lake. Behind the boathouse. You know the place.
They stepped out into the chill dampness of morning. Fog-borne silence hung in the air. Will we ever stop running? thought Cathy. Will we never stop listening for footsteps?
Victor clapped his friend on the shoulder. Thanks, Milo. I owe you a big one.
And one of these days I plan to collect! Milo hissed as they slipped away.
Victor held up his hand in farewell. See you around.
Yeah, Milo muttered into the mist. Lets hope not in jail.
The Chinese man was lying. Though the man betrayed nothing in his voice, no hesitation, no guilty waver, still Savitch knew this Mr. Milo Lum was hiding something. His eyes betrayed him.
He was seated on the living room couch, across from Savitch. Off to the side sat Mrs. Lum in an easy chair, smiling uncomprehendingly. Savitch might be able to use the old biddy; for now, it was the son who held his interest.
I cant see why youd be after him, said Milo. Victors as clean as they come. At least, he was when I knew him. But that was a long time ago.
How far back? asked Savitch politely.
Oh, years. Yeah. Havent seen him since. No, sir.
Savitch raised an eyebrow. Milo shifted on the couch, shuffled his feet, glanced pointlessly around the room.
Oh, years. Yeah. Havent seen him since. No, sir.
Savitch raised an eyebrow. Milo shifted on the couch, shuffled his feet, glanced pointlessly around the room.
You and your mother live here alone? Savitch asked.
Since my dad died.
No tenants? No one else lives here?
No. Why?
There were reports of a man fitting Hollands description in the neighborhood.
Believe me, if Victor was wanted by the police, he wouldnt hang around here. You think Id let a murder suspect in the house? With just me and my old Ma?
Savitch glanced at Mrs. Lum, who merely smiled. The old woman had sharp, all-seeing eyes. A survivors eyes.
It was time for Savitch to confirm his hunch. Excuse me, he said, rising to his feet. I had a long drive from the city. May I use your restroom?
Uh, sure. Down that hall.
Savitch headed into the bathroom and closed the door. Within seconds hed spotted the evidence he was looking for. It was lying on the tiled floor: a long strand of brown hair. Very silky, very fine.
Catherine Weavers shade.
It was all the proof he needed to proceed. He reached under his jacket for the shoulder holster and pulled out the semiautomatic. Then he gave his crisp white shirt a regretful pat. Messy business, interrogation. He would have to watch the bloodstains.
He stepped out into the hall, casually holding his pistol at his side. Hed go for the old woman first. Hold the barrel to her head, threaten to pull the trigger. There was an uncommonly strong bond between this mother and son. They would protect each other at all costs.
Savitch was halfway down the hall when the doorbell rang. He halted. The front door was opened and a new voice said, Mr. Milo Lum?
And who the hell are you? came Milos weary reply.
The names Sam Polowski. FBI.
Every muscle in Savitchs body snapped taut. No choice now; he had to take the man out.
He raised his pistol. Soundlessly, he made his way down the hall toward the living room.
Another one? came Milos peevish voice. Look, one of your guys is already here-
What?
Yeah, hes back in the-
Savitch stepped out and was swinging his pistol toward the front doorway when Mrs. Lum shrieked.
Milo froze. Polowski didnt. He rolled sideways just as the bullet thudded into the door frame, splintering wood.
By the time Savitch got off a second shot, Polowski was crawling somewhere behind the couch and the bullet slammed uselessly into the stuffing. That was it for chances-Polowski was armed.
Savitch decided it was time to vanish.
He turned and darted back up the hall, into a far bedroom. It was the mothers room; it smelled of incense and old-lady perfume. The window slid open easily. Savitch kicked out the screen, scrambled over the sill and sank heel-deep into the muddy flower bed. Cursing, he slogged away, trailing clumps of mud across the lawn.
He heard, faintly, Halt! FBI! but continued running.
He nursed his rage all the way back to the car.
Milo stared in bewilderment at the trampled pansies. What the hell was that all about? he demanded. Is this some sort of FBI practical joke?
Sam Polowski didnt answer; he was too busy tracking the footprints across the grass. They led to the sidewalk, then faded into the roads pebbly asphalt.
Hey! yelled Milo. Whats going on?
Polowski turned. I didnt really see him. What did he look like?
Milo shrugged. I dunno. Efrem Zimbalist-type.
Meaning?
Tall, clean-cut, great build. Typical FBI.