Randall was standing in front of the television, absorbed in a videotape. He was dressed like Randall again, though his linen suit wasn’t buttoned and he’d dispensed with his knotted silk tie. Another time, another place, and she might have teased him about it. But with the numbness still on her, she took the cup of coffee he handed her and stared blankly at the television.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what tape I’m watching?” he asked her.
“I don’t give a damn.” She turned away from him. Hordes of brightly dressed gypsies wandering around a field didn’t interest her; the random, dissonant chords of music didn’t hold any fascination, even as they coalesced into the opening strains of something eerily familiar.
And then there it was: a voice, deep, rich, beautiful, and throbbing with life and warmth, singing a stupid song about being free. Slowly Maggie turned, her face frozen, to stare at the television set.
There was Mack, in his guise as Snake, lead singer of the Guess What, his blond hair hanging to his shoulders, his hazel eyes just the tiniest bit doped up, his mouth wide and sexy as he whirled and strutted, danced and pranced over the stage at Woodstock.
Randall was watching her. “Do you play this every night before you go to bed, Maggie?” he taunted gently. “Do you sit there in Pulaski’s shirt and masturbate, pretending he’s still alive? He isn’t. He died two years ago on a sidewalk in Maine. He’s gone, and you’re left behind, throwing your life away on a memory—on a dead man.”
She stood very still, watching the screen. The small, numb part of her that had atrophied since Mack had died came back to an aching, horrible life. She moved toward the television, mesmerized. Randall’s voice was only an irritating buzz in the background as she stared at Pulaski’s flying form.
Then Randall’s hands caught her shoulders and twisted her around to face him, and ther
e was no hiding from the rage and sorrow in his face. “He’s dead, Maggie,” he said again, his rich voice bleak, “and you’re alive.” His strong hands took hold of Mack’s chambray shirt and ripped it down the middle.
Something finally snapped. She hurled the coffee at him, screaming at him, rage and despair sweeping over her, washing away the self-control she’d always clung to. A red haze formed in front of her eyes, and she could hear the screaming voice in the back of her brain, knew it was her own but was powerless to stop it. …
Her voice was raw, her body ached, her hands felt swollen, and there were tight, crushing bands around her body. She opened her eyes, panting, and found that the tight bands were Randall’s arms, holding her. The screaming had stopped at last, and a deep, shuddering sigh left her.
In a matter of a few, mad minutes, she had trashed her apartment. The television was a blank screen of fuzz, the VCR smashed on the carpet. Furniture had been upended, books thrown all over the place, the mirrors and pictures smashed. She looked up at Randall, and there was a welt over his eye where she’d managed to connect. She looked up at him and began to cry.
eighteen
When she stopped crying, the living room was shadowed in twilight. When she stopped crying, she was lying on the littered floor in Randall’s arms, and his suit was rumpled and tearstained beneath her. When she stopped crying, his hard hands gently pushed the torn shirt off her shoulders, and he began to make love to her.
She was too exhausted, too drained to resist or protest. Besides, it made some crazy sort of sense to lie there in the mess and celebrate the life she’d tried to wish away. They made love in complete silence; his hands stripped the rest of her clothes away, and his mouth covered every inch of her body, soothing the aching flesh, claiming ownership with his lips. When his hands cradled her narrow hips and his mouth found her, she tried for a useless moment to squirm away. But his hands were firm, and all the fight was gone from her. She lay floating, removed, and then suddenly, shockingly, she was there—her body convulsed and her raw, torn voice called his name, pleading, demanding.
And he came to her, filling her with his passion, filling the emptiness inside her body, heart, and soul. He moved tenderly with her, giving her time to grow used to him, gently pushing away any lingering restraints until she was clinging to him, burying her face against his muscled shoulder as he drove deep into her.
This time, when reality returned, it wasn’t such a shock. The wool carpet was itchy beneath her bare back, his weight was holding her trapped without crushing her, and the buzz of the broken television warred with the hum of the air conditioner. The artificial chill was rapidly drying the sheen of sweat that had covered her body, and she turned her head slightly to look into Randall’s dark eyes.
Whatever she hoped to see, it wasn’t there. Slowly he withdrew, pulling away from her, his face closed and shuttered. And her face matched his as she watched him.
“What time is the plane?” Her voice was calm, matter-of-fact.
“There are flights leaving almost every hour.”
Maggie nodded, picked up her scattered clothes, and rose gracefully to her feet. “It won’t take me long to get ready.”
He didn’t move. “I’ll pick things up in here.”
“No!” It came out a strangled protest, and it took all her last bit of energy to continue in a smoother voice. “Leave it the way it is. I want to see it like this when I come back from Chicago.”
He looked at her oddly then. Something broke through his reserve, and he started to speak. She waited, but he shut his mouth again and turned away. “Suit yourself.”
They were heading out of the lobby when a figure materialized beside them, coming out of the shadows with stealth that was second nature to him. “Hi there, sweetcakes,” Bud Willis said, his hand connecting with her bottom.
Mack would have broken his arm, Maggie thought. But Mack was dead, gone from her at last, and Randall just watched as Willis made his sleazy moves.
Bud Willis hadn’t changed in all the time she’d known him. Whether he was fighting with rebels in a Central American jungle or sitting behind a desk in Washington, he still had that feral expression in his colorless eyes. His once-short hair was now carefully styled, his suit was almost as good as Randall’s—and at this point, it was in better shape—and his killer’s hands were perfectly manicured. Maggie twisted out of his reach.
“It only needed you to make this day complete,” she snarled. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Ask your friend,” Willis offered, and Maggie turned her outraged eyes to Randall.
“He’s giving us a ride to the airport,” he said calmly.