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Disclaimer: All characters and events in this story are fictitious, and any similarity to a real person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and unintended by the author. "The Pretender" is a protected trademark of MTM Television and NBC and the characters of that series are used herein with no mean intent or desire for remuneration. It is, instead, a tribute to innovative television, that rare and welcome phenomenon.
The Third Highway Series Part 3:
Xenopolis
Chapter 1
Witch1
New York City, Manhattan
If familiarity breeds contempt, it also breeds danger, if what you've become familiar with is balancing on steel girders forty stories above the sidewalk. But for John Seifried, the barrier between familiarity and fear was broken irreparably as he clung to a vertical steel beam, his right foot wedged against a slender projecting bolt, his arms wrapped around the beam for dear life, and his left leg dangling mercilessly out in space. In fifteen years working the high steel he had seen men fall--once a close friend--and he had had two close calls himself. But never before had absolutely nothing stood between him and certain death--nothing, that is, but the only man in a position to help him back to safety: the new guy on the crew, Jarod Roebling. But Roebling, instead of giving him a hand over to the skeleton of girders that long four foot jump away, kept asking him questions. Questions he did not want to answer.
"Is was a bad weld that caused that failure, wasn't it John? A weld you'd signed off on, because you cared more about getting the job done on time than the safety of your crew. You knew that beam wasn't safe, but you let Tom Raintree go out on it anyway, and when it twisted and he fell you covered yourself by saying he'd been depressed, been talking about jumping, about suicide. And then you repaired the weld to hide the truth from the inspectors. He must have hung on for a minute or two, don't you think, before he finally fell. Just like you, this high up, nothing to hold onto, getting weaker by the moment. Scary, isn't it?"
"OK! Jesus, what the hell do you want from me, Jarod?"
"I want to you tell me the truth, John. And I want it to be loud enough that the whole crew can hear!"
John Seifried looked past Jarod for an instant at the other men standing there, in the safety of the half-done building, while he hung in space feeling his arms grow numb.
"OK!" he finally yelled. "I'll tell you the truth--just help me get the hell off this fucking girder!"
Jarod smiled, waiting for the confession he knew was coming, the simple statement of truth that would clear Tom Raintree''s name and reputation, and clear the way for his wife to collect on his life insurance, proving her husband had not taken his own life.
Below them, on the crowded noon-time Manhattan streets, people rushed by each other oblivious to the drama above, never looking up at the unfinished skyscraper looming over them. Except for a tall, auburn- haired woman who stood still in the midst of the shoving, glaring crowd of strangers trying to get by. She felt the June sun on her face and kept her eyes on the beam high overhead, and the man who now reached across the gap and helped the other back to safety.
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Jarod moved quickly toward the truck--his job done here, he felt some urgency in getting away and moving on to the next situation he felt warranted his attention. He tugged off the tool belt slung over his jeans and dropped both it and the yellow hard hat he'd been wearing on a pile of steel girders as he passed it. He left the frayed, torn plaid flannel shirt tied around his waist, enjoying the feeling of the unusually warm day on his bare arms, comfortable in just the stained white tee shirt he was wearing. He felt Jarod Roebling slipping away as he shed parts of that persona's uniform and was already planning his next disguise, his next attempt to set the world right. So that when the woman's voice surprised him from behind, he jumped involuntarily in spite of it's familiarity.
"Suppose he'd fallen before you got the confession you wanted, Jarod, or suppose you were wrong completely? Have you ever really thought about those possibilities? Or are you just so addicted to the adrenaline rush you don't care?"
"Laura!" he exclaimed. "How can you be here? How did you find me? You know you could have been followed--"
"That's something else we need to talk about, Jarod," she replied, "your buddies from The Centre have been watching me a lot harder--and a lot longer--than you let on. You should have told me---"
He grabbed her arm and pulled her between the truck and the construction trailer next to it. "First I want to know exactly, precisely how you found me, do you understand? We could be in tremendous danger--didn't I tell you'd I'd be in touch when it was safe?"
"Like I said, you weren't straight with me about the danger factor, or that my every move was being monitored. Look, I went over the fence and walked out at night and took the train here--with four detours and double-backs, just in case. Plus I sent Paul to D.C. with my credit card to leave a false trail there. That's how they track me, right: credit cards? And the phone, of course. I can't tell you how much I resent their surveillance and your not warning me about it. Unless you wanted me to be a useful diversion, with Miss Joy-and- Happiness Parker following me around everywhere I go."
"Laura, just get in the truck," he sighed, reaching across the front seat to open the passenger side door.
As she walked around behind the truck she noticed the license plate: 'PRE10DR'.
"This monster is yours, Jarod?" she asked incredulously, swinging up into the seat high over the ground. "What happened to the BMW I gave you?"
"Oh, I traded in the BMW for the truck. Hope you don't mind. I needed a truck for this--persona."
"Well, no, that's OK--I was bored with the Beemer or I wouldn't have given it to you. Ditto the Saab before that. You know, the body shop guys were really pretty impressed with the damage you managed to inflict on the Saab. They said they'd never really seen anything like it. But just exactly how do you go about trading in a car you don't own?"
He only laughed. "I changed the registration, of course. Do you have any idea how easy that is to do? Really, someone should warn the DMV people . . . Look, Laura, I need you to tell me--now--how you found me. Not how you got here--but how you knew where to go. So get in the truck."
"OK, you've got side spoilers and a roll cage and a light bar and a bug shield that says 'OFF CENTRE' --any options you DIDN'T go for?"
"Actually, it's basically the exact Dodge Ram 'Walker, Texas Ranger' drives--plus a few extras. Cool, huh?"
"Right," she answered, "just fucking delightful."
He turned the key and she cringed at the whining country song on the CD player--something about a double-wide and a girl 'as true as Texas skies are wide'. Or was it instead 'as wide as the Texas skies are true'--no matter. She reached out in one quick, impatient motion and flipped it off. "OK, I see where this is going--this is your cute little pop culture obsession of the moment, right: hard hat job, macho truck, country music? Forgive me, Jarod, but I don't have the patience right now."
"Do you know about this stuff, Laura, country music? It's so--real! I mean, I guess it is. There's even a bar around the corner that has country line dancing--"
She grabbed his arm and shook it roughly. "Listen to me, Jarod, because I'm only going to say this one time. OK? That's not music. And that's not dancing. Are you clear on that?"
"But Clint Black and Randy Travis and ---"
"Give me a break! Pure schlock! Get over it, Jarod! Move on to the next pretend Jarod, OK?"
He noticed the clenched set to her jaw and dead serious look. "I've finally found something that really irritates you, haven't I?"
"Don't get me fucking started!" she answered. "The whole world is irritating me today."
"I guess I was rude. I'm sorry I didn't say I'm glad to see you. Of course I am--it's just unexpected. Plus I'm concerned about your safety. I mean, I know it's been eight months but I really haven't been able to call . . ."
"Don't flatter yourself, Jarod--that's not why I'm here. I haven't been sitting by the goddamed phone crying and waiting for you to call. I told you when you left never to think I'd do that, OK? I only came because I need your help--for business, as it were--a homicide investigation."
"Oh," he answered slowly, clearly confused. Just when he started to think he understood women they surprised him again. They sat silently in the truck for a moment. "Look, Laura," he finally continued, "I've got to leave here before they notice I'm not still up on the steel--where do you want to go?"
"Madison and 76th: The Carlyle. I booked a room, it's where I always stay when I'm in the city."
"Laura I really need to know: how did you find me?" Jarod asked again.
"I went looking for you--you know, 'the third highway', out of body, that spooky psychic thing I do. But I ended up at the World Trade Center, standing on the sidewalk, looking up at the towers. So I came here, physically, and went and stood there, the spot I'd been out of body, but of course I didn't find you. So I just started walking--and looking up. And then four blocks later, there you were. Terrorizing some poor guilty son of a bitch. It's called synchronicity, when I just sort of run into what I'm looking for. It's not a reliable or predictable phenomenon but when it works it's way cool."
Jarod moved the big truck through the downtown traffic with a calm expertise, digesting the possibility that Laura--or anyone--could find him so simply. And wondering if anyone at The Centre really understood what they had thrown away when they let her leave. And hoping Laura was right about not having been followed.
"I notice you're driving more cautiously than the last time I saw you, " Laura noted.
"This city, " Jarod answers, "teaches respect, caution and fear."
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The valet at the Carlyle was clearly dumbfounded by both Jarod in his tee shirt, jeans and work boots and the huge truck, but the doorman was much better at hiding any surprise he may have felt, ushering them through the massive bronze doors with only a polite "Miss Greggor" to Laura. She was greeted by name at the front desk as well, and fussed over as she checked in, although Jarod overheard the concierge mention something about "rough trade" in French to the blond behind the desk as they walked away. He made a mental note to ask Laura what that meant. He'd grown used to Laura's fondness for luxury and was not surprised by the private elevator or immensity of the Presidential Suite, although the view was magnificent--even for someone who had grown used to seeing the city from a steel beam forty stories up.
Laura dropped her small bag by the door and opened a lap top computer on an antique mahogany desk . "OK, let me show you what I've got." She pulled up a file and a newspaper clipping flashed onto the screen. "Four weeks ago--Frank Caspari, father of Rebecca Caspari, is found by his personal assistant, murdered in his own house, execution style- -one bullet fired at point blank range into the brain. Gun with a silencer, because the assistant was in the next room a the time of the murder. The newspaper doesn't mention it because it wasn't released to the press, but he also had his ears cut off--and taken."
"Rebecca Caspari's father--do you think this is related to her being taken by The Centre?" Jarod asked, skimming the news story quickly. "It says the personal assistant gave a good description of the killer."
"Right. He spoke to him both before and after the killing. White male, above average height. Brown hair cut short. Armani suit--I know," Laura explained when Jarod raised an eyebrow questioningly, "but the personal assistant is also the Caspari's personal shopper and I think he would know."
"You spoke to the assistant?" he asked.
"Yup--spoke at some length. Nice guy, competent but understandably pretty shaken up. The killer talked about the weather. Also asked where the assistant had bought his tie--this after the murder, by the way. Very, very controlled fellow, considering. You'll note he must have had the ears in a pocket while chit-chatting. He gave his name as Thomas Withers when he knocked on the door. The assistant thought Caspari agreed to talk to him at home because he recognized the name. So far no one can tell why. One other thing--the body was found exactly--and I mean exactly--where the blood stain was when Rebecca was missing. The carpet was changed since, but it was still very weird and spooky."
"But Caspari had been involved in any number of illegal financial deals--who knows whose money he was using. This could have nothing to do with The Centre, Laura."
"There's more," she sighed. "It gets a lot weirder, I'm afraid. At the same time Mike came to me about Caspari I was trying to help the cops with this--" she pulled up another file and newspaper clipping.
"How is Mike?" Jarod asked, skimming the clipping.
"Fine, but pissed at you. Don't look surprised--it didn't take long for him to figure out you weren't really FBI, plus you just disappeared on him in the middle of the case. Which he still thinks is unsolved, by the way, which also annoys him. Plus, somehow or another he knew--or guessed, or whatever--that you and I slept together, and he really hates the idea. But otherwise he's unchanged. "
Jarod looked up from the screen. "I'm sorry, Laura, but this is a serial killer. I don't get involved in these kinds of killings. The killers tend to be driven by purely emotional motivations and ---"
"Let me guess: too messy, no nice resolve, no redemption and retribution? In short, no climax for you. Fine, but just listen to me for a few more minutes, OK? Look--when Caspari was found dead we were five murders into this cycle. Always the same pattern--young women abducted from their cars--probably by someone pretending to be a cop-- all the cars found pulled over on the shoulder of the road, engines running. The girls were bound with duct tape, raped, sodomized, sliced across the thighs and torso with a long bladed knife, disemboweled. The killer took body parts--different each time--always organs, though. Also cut off their hair and took it. Bodies dumped in abandoned lots in some of Philly's worst neighborhoods. No connection ever found between the victims. The killer was never seen or at least no witnesses ever came forward, even though some of the families got together and put up a quarter of a million dollar reward. After Caspari's death, there were two more killings. Then it stopped, as suddenly as it started."
"Laura, I'm sorry, but I tried to explain--"
"Jarod, I was at all the crime scenes, all the places these girls were dumped, possibly where they were also killed--and it's the same guy that killed Caspari, I know it absolutely."
Jarod looked thoughtfully at the computer screen for a moment before answering. "There's not even the most remote connection, Laura-- totally different M.O.s--except for taking the ears, but even that's not a fit. I just don't see it. Forgive me, but you're looking at two completely different kinds of murder, here--Caspari's is indeed like an execution--cool, planned, deliberate. Then you have this predator who is just randomly picking women to brutalize--this can't be the same person. What does Mike say?"
"He says I've lost it, that I'm wrong, " she admitted. "He thinks I need some time off from doing this stuff. But I know what I've seen and it's that these killers are the same. And I think he's killed before--many times. I want you to search for me for similar patterns of homicides in other places, Jarod--you know where to look, nobody could do it better. I've never been so sure, or felt the knowledge pressing so hard against me--I'm asking for your help."
He sighed and looked at her, noticing again how firm and tanned and beautiful her skin was, and that when she stood this close to him his heart rate immediately was elevated. Knowing that if she stood any closer he would have just as instant an erection, in spite of his decision to never allow that to happen again. Twice since he had left Laura he had visited Nia in Oregon, and he wanted desperately for nothing to interfere with the closeness and comfort he felt with her. Laura troubled him, and seeing her again and remembering how her auburn hair caught the sunlight like a flame and her hips moved so seductively when she walked, and how husky her voice was, and how angry she could get so fast--all of it felt dangerous and terribly wrong. He wanted suddenly to simply leave without another word to her- -just turn and walk out the door and never, never go back. But instead he found himself smiling slightly, thinking that she had never asked him for anything before and wondering how hard it must have been for her to say those words.
"Call room service and order me lunch, OK?' he said. "Then I'll see what I can do."
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Lunch came with many flourishes and nice bottle of vintage wine, compliments of the Carlyle, and as they ate Jarod asked Laura just how much the Presidential Suite cost per night, but she shrugged off the question, saying only, "Don't you follow the market, Jarod--I've had an incredible six months, let's put it that way. What a ride! All the money I make at gambling goes right into this new stock fund I got into--very exclusive, very high ante, but very worth while. I worry about money less than ever. And because of this fund--well, I've met someone. A man. And, you know--we've been seeing each other. Just so you know I'm not sitting by the phone or anything. I mean, I know you have Nia so I figured--"
"You met him because of a stock fund?" Jarod asked, suddenly paying full attention and trying very hard not to picture her in any way 'seeing' another man.
"Right. He manages it--in fact, he more or less IS the fund--it's his concept, his business, his baby all the way. And it's so cool because he uses the I Ching--do you know what that is?--OK, he uses the I Ching to make picks! So he's sort of like me, you know, psychic, but in a spooky divinatory way. I'm not good at seeing the future, but that seems to be all he gets--like he's tuned into a different radio channel or something--I'm getting alternative rock and he's getting that new age bullshit. So I met him at the stock holders' meeting, which was a bit bizarre because I was the only person there who didn't speak Chinese--"
"He's Chinese?"
"Well, no: Scotch-Irish, actually, but he spent time in Hong Kong with the firm he used to work for, and he latched onto this I Ching thing, and most of his investors are Chinese, understandably. He's, well, he's smart and sexy and . . . " Laura thought of how best to describe Alex. She thought about just telling Jarod the truth: 'he's boring and when I'm in bed with him I fantasize about you', but gulped down the impulse, remembering that Jarod had walked out of her life for eight months, leaving her with Miss Parker watching her every move while he was off in Oregon, and who knows where else. She continued her description reflectively: "Well, he's very special. I just wanted to mention it--you know, so you know about him, because I don't want you to feel awkward about being here with me."
Jarod tried with an increasing sense of panic to focus on what Laura was saying. "Are you in love with this guy?" he finally managed to ask, pouring himself another glass of wine.
"Oh! 'Love'--well, I don't know, exactly. But he puts up with me--you know, the way I get--"
And Jarod pictured the way Laura 'got'--he pictured her pushing him down on her bed, ripping off her clothes and telling him exactly, precisely what to do and threatening his life if he didn't follow orders. He took a long sip of wine, suddenly feeling extraordinarily warm and claustrophobic, and no longer even remotely hungry.
"--I get angry, you know, and demanding and impatient. He puts up with me . . . is something wrong with the wine, Jarod ?--you look sort of pale all of a sudden."
"No, I'm fine, Laura, just--it's seems warm in here--no, it's nothing. So, how long have you been seeing--'Alex', right? He sounds perfect for you," he asked, trying desperately to sound casual but feeling instead as though he were suddenly falling down some long awful tunnel.
"Six months, more or less. It's been great, just a great six months. Again, Jarod--I don't want to get all personal, I just wanted you to know about, well, about Alex, is all. Because, the way we were, you and I, well, you know--I mean, that wasn't like something real or lasting or any sort of commitment, or anything . . . " And she tried to look away from him because she'd found herself staring, inexplicably, at the hair on the backs of his forearms which seemed, suddenly, incredibly sensuous and attractive. So that she had to make a conscious effort not to reach out, quite inappropriately, to touch him. And that effort seemed to be making her breathless.
"Of course, " he responded, trying not to look at her, trying to pretend that he hadn't grown hard in spite of his better judgment, having involuntary memories of her tight, hard nipples and round, firm breasts. He tried to sound clinical and detached: "I've read some books about human sexuality since--well, since all that, between us. And I realize that I was acting like a seventeen-year-old, really- -but I'd never experienced that--being young and just interested in sex, and learning about it." And for some bizarre reason all the air seemed now to have been sucked out of that ridiculously expensive hotel room, so that he couldn't breath at all. "And you were very-- kind--yes, really very kind to put up with me because--"
"Oh, no, you were fine--the way you were, I mean, it was--wonderful really, and touching. Why wouldn't you act like a kid that just discovered sex--you more or less were. I was flattered that you chose me--or, well, I suppose I sort of forced you, but still . . . Besides, I'm not wired like most women . . . " Laura wondered about the Carlyle, thinking it was unconscionable to charge this much for a room and then suddenly lose the air conditioning--Jarod was right, the room was stifling.
He struggled onward, trying again for that attitude of emotional coolness and scientific abstraction Sydney had always been so good at: "I understand now that women require more finesse. With sex. So I can understand as well that you'd find someone else because the things we did . . " and he made another conscious effort to block vivid mental images of precisely the things they did, ". . . probably weren't very satisfying for you."
"No, you're wrong--it was great! You were great--it was the best sex I've ever had." She paused, feeling a bit dazed by the oppressive heat and even more out of breath, and then realized what she had just said when she saw Jarod looking at her with his jaw dropped open. She tried to recover: "But of course that was then! Now is now! We're both past that stage. Were not kids."
"Of course," he agreed. "Like I said--it's understandable. I'm not a skilled lover."
"Damn it, Jarod--haven't you listened to one single fucking word I said, as always! That's not what the problem was! There was no problem--you are just totally fucking impossible is all and I've got to get out of this room--"
And even if you'd been in the room watching them both closely it would have been impossible to tell which one stood up first or reached across the table for the other, or who kissed who or who had most of their clothes off first or even who was moaning louder or rushing more eagerly or whether it was Laura or Jarod who demanded that the sex be that fast or hard or deep. But there was a moment after they'd both come once and caught their breaths and reached for each other again that Laura pinned him with her strong, tanned thighs and kissed him so hard she drew blood and gasped something about missing him too much, too much to stand. And Jarod felt some huge and unresolved question inside himself move into a resolution and sureness as he placed one hand over each of her firm breasts, pushing them upward as she reached behind herself and arched her back, moving absolutely with each of his thrusts, even as he increased the speed and tried to somehow find a spot even deeper inside her, even more perfect and ev n more like ecstasy. And decided that whether what they felt for each other was love or something quite different didn't matter, not as long as he could have her so completely.
He started to laugh and found it impossible to stop even though he felt it must be an inappropriate moment for laughter, but Laura laughed as well, all her anger gone, and she didn't resist when he rolled on top of her, kissing her long, sensuous throat and then licking her nipples even harder. He moved his mouth downward over the taut flow of her midriff, tasting and touching every inch of her, noticing all the little details and filing them away.
"I never noticed this before," he said, "you have a tiny little scar right here."
"Oh, it's pierced--my navel. That's where the ring goes."
"Your navel is pierced? When did that happen?" he laughed, thinking it just incredibly cute and funny.
"A while ago. Do you hate the idea?" she asked a bit nervously.
"No, not at all, it's really cute."
"Because Alex hates it. He won't let me wear the ring--"
Jarod looked honestly shocked. "He won't LET you wear it? Just how does he prevent you from doing what you want? How could ANYONE prevent YOU from doing what you want? And who gave him the right--how do you describe people like Alex: teach me the right language."
"OK, repeat after me: 'controlling, pompous asshole.'"
He repeated the phrase several times and kissed her flat abdomen, laughing, then shifted himself further down, gently pressing her thighs open and licking her softness, spreading the moist lips of her vagina and pressing his tongue inside her as her felt her body rise and fall beneath him like the waves on the ocean. "Teach me what to say, Laura--what words should I use to excite you?"
"Words?" she gasped, "What fucking books have you been reading? Why the hell would you would think this was a moment for words?"
Xenopolis
Chapter 1
Witch1
New York City, Manhattan
If familiarity breeds contempt, it also breeds danger, if what you've become familiar with is balancing on steel girders forty stories above the sidewalk. But for John Seifried, the barrier between familiarity and fear was broken irreparably as he clung to a vertical steel beam, his right foot wedged against a slender projecting bolt, his arms wrapped around the beam for dear life, and his left leg dangling mercilessly out in space. In fifteen years working the high steel he had seen men fall--once a close friend--and he had had two close calls himself. But never before had absolutely nothing stood between him and certain death--nothing, that is, but the only man in a position to help him back to safety: the new guy on the crew, Jarod Roebling. But Roebling, instead of giving him a hand over to the skeleton of girders that long four foot jump away, kept asking him questions. Questions he did not want to answer.
"Is was a bad weld that caused that failure, wasn't it John? A weld you'd signed off on, because you cared more about getting the job done on time than the safety of your crew. You knew that beam wasn't safe, but you let Tom Raintree go out on it anyway, and when it twisted and he fell you covered yourself by saying he'd been depressed, been talking about jumping, about suicide. And then you repaired the weld to hide the truth from the inspectors. He must have hung on for a minute or two, don't you think, before he finally fell. Just like you, this high up, nothing to hold onto, getting weaker by the moment. Scary, isn't it?"
"OK! Jesus, what the hell do you want from me, Jarod?"
"I want to you tell me the truth, John. And I want it to be loud enough that the whole crew can hear!"
John Seifried looked past Jarod for an instant at the other men standing there, in the safety of the half-done building, while he hung in space feeling his arms grow numb.
"OK!" he finally yelled. "I'll tell you the truth--just help me get the hell off this fucking girder!"
Jarod smiled, waiting for the confession he knew was coming, the simple statement of truth that would clear Tom Raintree''s name and reputation, and clear the way for his wife to collect on his life insurance, proving her husband had not taken his own life.
Below them, on the crowded noon-time Manhattan streets, people rushed by each other oblivious to the drama above, never looking up at the unfinished skyscraper looming over them. Except for a tall, auburn- haired woman who stood still in the midst of the shoving, glaring crowd of strangers trying to get by. She felt the June sun on her face and kept her eyes on the beam high overhead, and the man who now reached across the gap and helped the other back to safety.
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Jarod moved quickly toward the truck--his job done here, he felt some urgency in getting away and moving on to the next situation he felt warranted his attention. He tugged off the tool belt slung over his jeans and dropped both it and the yellow hard hat he'd been wearing on a pile of steel girders as he passed it. He left the frayed, torn plaid flannel shirt tied around his waist, enjoying the feeling of the unusually warm day on his bare arms, comfortable in just the stained white tee shirt he was wearing. He felt Jarod Roebling slipping away as he shed parts of that persona's uniform and was already planning his next disguise, his next attempt to set the world right. So that when the woman's voice surprised him from behind, he jumped involuntarily in spite of it's familiarity.
"Suppose he'd fallen before you got the confession you wanted, Jarod, or suppose you were wrong completely? Have you ever really thought about those possibilities? Or are you just so addicted to the adrenaline rush you don't care?"
"Laura!" he exclaimed. "How can you be here? How did you find me? You know you could have been followed--"
"That's something else we need to talk about, Jarod," she replied, "your buddies from The Centre have been watching me a lot harder--and a lot longer--than you let on. You should have told me---"
He grabbed her arm and pulled her between the truck and the construction trailer next to it. "First I want to know exactly, precisely how you found me, do you understand? We could be in tremendous danger--didn't I tell you'd I'd be in touch when it was safe?"
"Like I said, you weren't straight with me about the danger factor, or that my every move was being monitored. Look, I went over the fence and walked out at night and took the train here--with four detours and double-backs, just in case. Plus I sent Paul to D.C. with my credit card to leave a false trail there. That's how they track me, right: credit cards? And the phone, of course. I can't tell you how much I resent their surveillance and your not warning me about it. Unless you wanted me to be a useful diversion, with Miss Joy-and- Happiness Parker following me around everywhere I go."
"Laura, just get in the truck," he sighed, reaching across the front seat to open the passenger side door.
As she walked around behind the truck she noticed the license plate: 'PRE10DR'.
"This monster is yours, Jarod?" she asked incredulously, swinging up into the seat high over the ground. "What happened to the BMW I gave you?"
"Oh, I traded in the BMW for the truck. Hope you don't mind. I needed a truck for this--persona."
"Well, no, that's OK--I was bored with the Beemer or I wouldn't have given it to you. Ditto the Saab before that. You know, the body shop guys were really pretty impressed with the damage you managed to inflict on the Saab. They said they'd never really seen anything like it. But just exactly how do you go about trading in a car you don't own?"
He only laughed. "I changed the registration, of course. Do you have any idea how easy that is to do? Really, someone should warn the DMV people . . . Look, Laura, I need you to tell me--now--how you found me. Not how you got here--but how you knew where to go. So get in the truck."
"OK, you've got side spoilers and a roll cage and a light bar and a bug shield that says 'OFF CENTRE' --any options you DIDN'T go for?"
"Actually, it's basically the exact Dodge Ram 'Walker, Texas Ranger' drives--plus a few extras. Cool, huh?"
"Right," she answered, "just fucking delightful."
He turned the key and she cringed at the whining country song on the CD player--something about a double-wide and a girl 'as true as Texas skies are wide'. Or was it instead 'as wide as the Texas skies are true'--no matter. She reached out in one quick, impatient motion and flipped it off. "OK, I see where this is going--this is your cute little pop culture obsession of the moment, right: hard hat job, macho truck, country music? Forgive me, Jarod, but I don't have the patience right now."
"Do you know about this stuff, Laura, country music? It's so--real! I mean, I guess it is. There's even a bar around the corner that has country line dancing--"
She grabbed his arm and shook it roughly. "Listen to me, Jarod, because I'm only going to say this one time. OK? That's not music. And that's not dancing. Are you clear on that?"
"But Clint Black and Randy Travis and ---"
"Give me a break! Pure schlock! Get over it, Jarod! Move on to the next pretend Jarod, OK?"
He noticed the clenched set to her jaw and dead serious look. "I've finally found something that really irritates you, haven't I?"
"Don't get me fucking started!" she answered. "The whole world is irritating me today."
"I guess I was rude. I'm sorry I didn't say I'm glad to see you. Of course I am--it's just unexpected. Plus I'm concerned about your safety. I mean, I know it's been eight months but I really haven't been able to call . . ."
"Don't flatter yourself, Jarod--that's not why I'm here. I haven't been sitting by the goddamed phone crying and waiting for you to call. I told you when you left never to think I'd do that, OK? I only came because I need your help--for business, as it were--a homicide investigation."
"Oh," he answered slowly, clearly confused. Just when he started to think he understood women they surprised him again. They sat silently in the truck for a moment. "Look, Laura," he finally continued, "I've got to leave here before they notice I'm not still up on the steel--where do you want to go?"
"Madison and 76th: The Carlyle. I booked a room, it's where I always stay when I'm in the city."
"Laura I really need to know: how did you find me?" Jarod asked again.
"I went looking for you--you know, 'the third highway', out of body, that spooky psychic thing I do. But I ended up at the World Trade Center, standing on the sidewalk, looking up at the towers. So I came here, physically, and went and stood there, the spot I'd been out of body, but of course I didn't find you. So I just started walking--and looking up. And then four blocks later, there you were. Terrorizing some poor guilty son of a bitch. It's called synchronicity, when I just sort of run into what I'm looking for. It's not a reliable or predictable phenomenon but when it works it's way cool."
Jarod moved the big truck through the downtown traffic with a calm expertise, digesting the possibility that Laura--or anyone--could find him so simply. And wondering if anyone at The Centre really understood what they had thrown away when they let her leave. And hoping Laura was right about not having been followed.
"I notice you're driving more cautiously than the last time I saw you, " Laura noted.
"This city, " Jarod answers, "teaches respect, caution and fear."
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The valet at the Carlyle was clearly dumbfounded by both Jarod in his tee shirt, jeans and work boots and the huge truck, but the doorman was much better at hiding any surprise he may have felt, ushering them through the massive bronze doors with only a polite "Miss Greggor" to Laura. She was greeted by name at the front desk as well, and fussed over as she checked in, although Jarod overheard the concierge mention something about "rough trade" in French to the blond behind the desk as they walked away. He made a mental note to ask Laura what that meant. He'd grown used to Laura's fondness for luxury and was not surprised by the private elevator or immensity of the Presidential Suite, although the view was magnificent--even for someone who had grown used to seeing the city from a steel beam forty stories up.
Laura dropped her small bag by the door and opened a lap top computer on an antique mahogany desk . "OK, let me show you what I've got." She pulled up a file and a newspaper clipping flashed onto the screen. "Four weeks ago--Frank Caspari, father of Rebecca Caspari, is found by his personal assistant, murdered in his own house, execution style- -one bullet fired at point blank range into the brain. Gun with a silencer, because the assistant was in the next room a the time of the murder. The newspaper doesn't mention it because it wasn't released to the press, but he also had his ears cut off--and taken."
"Rebecca Caspari's father--do you think this is related to her being taken by The Centre?" Jarod asked, skimming the news story quickly. "It says the personal assistant gave a good description of the killer."
"Right. He spoke to him both before and after the killing. White male, above average height. Brown hair cut short. Armani suit--I know," Laura explained when Jarod raised an eyebrow questioningly, "but the personal assistant is also the Caspari's personal shopper and I think he would know."
"You spoke to the assistant?" he asked.
"Yup--spoke at some length. Nice guy, competent but understandably pretty shaken up. The killer talked about the weather. Also asked where the assistant had bought his tie--this after the murder, by the way. Very, very controlled fellow, considering. You'll note he must have had the ears in a pocket while chit-chatting. He gave his name as Thomas Withers when he knocked on the door. The assistant thought Caspari agreed to talk to him at home because he recognized the name. So far no one can tell why. One other thing--the body was found exactly--and I mean exactly--where the blood stain was when Rebecca was missing. The carpet was changed since, but it was still very weird and spooky."
"But Caspari had been involved in any number of illegal financial deals--who knows whose money he was using. This could have nothing to do with The Centre, Laura."
"There's more," she sighed. "It gets a lot weirder, I'm afraid. At the same time Mike came to me about Caspari I was trying to help the cops with this--" she pulled up another file and newspaper clipping.
"How is Mike?" Jarod asked, skimming the clipping.
"Fine, but pissed at you. Don't look surprised--it didn't take long for him to figure out you weren't really FBI, plus you just disappeared on him in the middle of the case. Which he still thinks is unsolved, by the way, which also annoys him. Plus, somehow or another he knew--or guessed, or whatever--that you and I slept together, and he really hates the idea. But otherwise he's unchanged. "
Jarod looked up from the screen. "I'm sorry, Laura, but this is a serial killer. I don't get involved in these kinds of killings. The killers tend to be driven by purely emotional motivations and ---"
"Let me guess: too messy, no nice resolve, no redemption and retribution? In short, no climax for you. Fine, but just listen to me for a few more minutes, OK? Look--when Caspari was found dead we were five murders into this cycle. Always the same pattern--young women abducted from their cars--probably by someone pretending to be a cop-- all the cars found pulled over on the shoulder of the road, engines running. The girls were bound with duct tape, raped, sodomized, sliced across the thighs and torso with a long bladed knife, disemboweled. The killer took body parts--different each time--always organs, though. Also cut off their hair and took it. Bodies dumped in abandoned lots in some of Philly's worst neighborhoods. No connection ever found between the victims. The killer was never seen or at least no witnesses ever came forward, even though some of the families got together and put up a quarter of a million dollar reward. After Caspari's death, there were two more killings. Then it stopped, as suddenly as it started."
"Laura, I'm sorry, but I tried to explain--"
"Jarod, I was at all the crime scenes, all the places these girls were dumped, possibly where they were also killed--and it's the same guy that killed Caspari, I know it absolutely."
Jarod looked thoughtfully at the computer screen for a moment before answering. "There's not even the most remote connection, Laura-- totally different M.O.s--except for taking the ears, but even that's not a fit. I just don't see it. Forgive me, but you're looking at two completely different kinds of murder, here--Caspari's is indeed like an execution--cool, planned, deliberate. Then you have this predator who is just randomly picking women to brutalize--this can't be the same person. What does Mike say?"
"He says I've lost it, that I'm wrong, " she admitted. "He thinks I need some time off from doing this stuff. But I know what I've seen and it's that these killers are the same. And I think he's killed before--many times. I want you to search for me for similar patterns of homicides in other places, Jarod--you know where to look, nobody could do it better. I've never been so sure, or felt the knowledge pressing so hard against me--I'm asking for your help."
He sighed and looked at her, noticing again how firm and tanned and beautiful her skin was, and that when she stood this close to him his heart rate immediately was elevated. Knowing that if she stood any closer he would have just as instant an erection, in spite of his decision to never allow that to happen again. Twice since he had left Laura he had visited Nia in Oregon, and he wanted desperately for nothing to interfere with the closeness and comfort he felt with her. Laura troubled him, and seeing her again and remembering how her auburn hair caught the sunlight like a flame and her hips moved so seductively when she walked, and how husky her voice was, and how angry she could get so fast--all of it felt dangerous and terribly wrong. He wanted suddenly to simply leave without another word to her- -just turn and walk out the door and never, never go back. But instead he found himself smiling slightly, thinking that she had never asked him for anything before and wondering how hard it must have been for her to say those words.
"Call room service and order me lunch, OK?' he said. "Then I'll see what I can do."
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Lunch came with many flourishes and nice bottle of vintage wine, compliments of the Carlyle, and as they ate Jarod asked Laura just how much the Presidential Suite cost per night, but she shrugged off the question, saying only, "Don't you follow the market, Jarod--I've had an incredible six months, let's put it that way. What a ride! All the money I make at gambling goes right into this new stock fund I got into--very exclusive, very high ante, but very worth while. I worry about money less than ever. And because of this fund--well, I've met someone. A man. And, you know--we've been seeing each other. Just so you know I'm not sitting by the phone or anything. I mean, I know you have Nia so I figured--"
"You met him because of a stock fund?" Jarod asked, suddenly paying full attention and trying very hard not to picture her in any way 'seeing' another man.
"Right. He manages it--in fact, he more or less IS the fund--it's his concept, his business, his baby all the way. And it's so cool because he uses the I Ching--do you know what that is?--OK, he uses the I Ching to make picks! So he's sort of like me, you know, psychic, but in a spooky divinatory way. I'm not good at seeing the future, but that seems to be all he gets--like he's tuned into a different radio channel or something--I'm getting alternative rock and he's getting that new age bullshit. So I met him at the stock holders' meeting, which was a bit bizarre because I was the only person there who didn't speak Chinese--"
"He's Chinese?"
"Well, no: Scotch-Irish, actually, but he spent time in Hong Kong with the firm he used to work for, and he latched onto this I Ching thing, and most of his investors are Chinese, understandably. He's, well, he's smart and sexy and . . . " Laura thought of how best to describe Alex. She thought about just telling Jarod the truth: 'he's boring and when I'm in bed with him I fantasize about you', but gulped down the impulse, remembering that Jarod had walked out of her life for eight months, leaving her with Miss Parker watching her every move while he was off in Oregon, and who knows where else. She continued her description reflectively: "Well, he's very special. I just wanted to mention it--you know, so you know about him, because I don't want you to feel awkward about being here with me."
Jarod tried with an increasing sense of panic to focus on what Laura was saying. "Are you in love with this guy?" he finally managed to ask, pouring himself another glass of wine.
"Oh! 'Love'--well, I don't know, exactly. But he puts up with me--you know, the way I get--"
And Jarod pictured the way Laura 'got'--he pictured her pushing him down on her bed, ripping off her clothes and telling him exactly, precisely what to do and threatening his life if he didn't follow orders. He took a long sip of wine, suddenly feeling extraordinarily warm and claustrophobic, and no longer even remotely hungry.
"--I get angry, you know, and demanding and impatient. He puts up with me . . . is something wrong with the wine, Jarod ?--you look sort of pale all of a sudden."
"No, I'm fine, Laura, just--it's seems warm in here--no, it's nothing. So, how long have you been seeing--'Alex', right? He sounds perfect for you," he asked, trying desperately to sound casual but feeling instead as though he were suddenly falling down some long awful tunnel.
"Six months, more or less. It's been great, just a great six months. Again, Jarod--I don't want to get all personal, I just wanted you to know about, well, about Alex, is all. Because, the way we were, you and I, well, you know--I mean, that wasn't like something real or lasting or any sort of commitment, or anything . . . " And she tried to look away from him because she'd found herself staring, inexplicably, at the hair on the backs of his forearms which seemed, suddenly, incredibly sensuous and attractive. So that she had to make a conscious effort not to reach out, quite inappropriately, to touch him. And that effort seemed to be making her breathless.
"Of course, " he responded, trying not to look at her, trying to pretend that he hadn't grown hard in spite of his better judgment, having involuntary memories of her tight, hard nipples and round, firm breasts. He tried to sound clinical and detached: "I've read some books about human sexuality since--well, since all that, between us. And I realize that I was acting like a seventeen-year-old, really- -but I'd never experienced that--being young and just interested in sex, and learning about it." And for some bizarre reason all the air seemed now to have been sucked out of that ridiculously expensive hotel room, so that he couldn't breath at all. "And you were very-- kind--yes, really very kind to put up with me because--"
"Oh, no, you were fine--the way you were, I mean, it was--wonderful really, and touching. Why wouldn't you act like a kid that just discovered sex--you more or less were. I was flattered that you chose me--or, well, I suppose I sort of forced you, but still . . . Besides, I'm not wired like most women . . . " Laura wondered about the Carlyle, thinking it was unconscionable to charge this much for a room and then suddenly lose the air conditioning--Jarod was right, the room was stifling.
He struggled onward, trying again for that attitude of emotional coolness and scientific abstraction Sydney had always been so good at: "I understand now that women require more finesse. With sex. So I can understand as well that you'd find someone else because the things we did . . " and he made another conscious effort to block vivid mental images of precisely the things they did, ". . . probably weren't very satisfying for you."
"No, you're wrong--it was great! You were great--it was the best sex I've ever had." She paused, feeling a bit dazed by the oppressive heat and even more out of breath, and then realized what she had just said when she saw Jarod looking at her with his jaw dropped open. She tried to recover: "But of course that was then! Now is now! We're both past that stage. Were not kids."
"Of course," he agreed. "Like I said--it's understandable. I'm not a skilled lover."
"Damn it, Jarod--haven't you listened to one single fucking word I said, as always! That's not what the problem was! There was no problem--you are just totally fucking impossible is all and I've got to get out of this room--"
And even if you'd been in the room watching them both closely it would have been impossible to tell which one stood up first or reached across the table for the other, or who kissed who or who had most of their clothes off first or even who was moaning louder or rushing more eagerly or whether it was Laura or Jarod who demanded that the sex be that fast or hard or deep. But there was a moment after they'd both come once and caught their breaths and reached for each other again that Laura pinned him with her strong, tanned thighs and kissed him so hard she drew blood and gasped something about missing him too much, too much to stand. And Jarod felt some huge and unresolved question inside himself move into a resolution and sureness as he placed one hand over each of her firm breasts, pushing them upward as she reached behind herself and arched her back, moving absolutely with each of his thrusts, even as he increased the speed and tried to somehow find a spot even deeper inside her, even more perfect and ev n more like ecstasy. And decided that whether what they felt for each other was love or something quite different didn't matter, not as long as he could have her so completely.
He started to laugh and found it impossible to stop even though he felt it must be an inappropriate moment for laughter, but Laura laughed as well, all her anger gone, and she didn't resist when he rolled on top of her, kissing her long, sensuous throat and then licking her nipples even harder. He moved his mouth downward over the taut flow of her midriff, tasting and touching every inch of her, noticing all the little details and filing them away.
"I never noticed this before," he said, "you have a tiny little scar right here."
"Oh, it's pierced--my navel. That's where the ring goes."
"Your navel is pierced? When did that happen?" he laughed, thinking it just incredibly cute and funny.
"A while ago. Do you hate the idea?" she asked a bit nervously.
"No, not at all, it's really cute."
"Because Alex hates it. He won't let me wear the ring--"
Jarod looked honestly shocked. "He won't LET you wear it? Just how does he prevent you from doing what you want? How could ANYONE prevent YOU from doing what you want? And who gave him the right--how do you describe people like Alex: teach me the right language."
"OK, repeat after me: 'controlling, pompous asshole.'"
He repeated the phrase several times and kissed her flat abdomen, laughing, then shifted himself further down, gently pressing her thighs open and licking her softness, spreading the moist lips of her vagina and pressing his tongue inside her as her felt her body rise and fall beneath him like the waves on the ocean. "Teach me what to say, Laura--what words should I use to excite you?"
"Words?" she gasped, "What fucking books have you been reading? Why the hell would you would think this was a moment for words?"
