Charade (3 page)

Before kissing her, he held her face cupped between his hands and gazed into it for a long time. His voice was gruff with emotion when he said, "I'll try and be home early." As he got behind the steering wheel, he added, "If you need me, call." "I will." When he reached the corner, she raised her hand and waved. Her lower back began to ache while she was washing the breakfast dishes. She rested before making the bed, but the dull ache persisted. By noon, she was experiencing abdominal twinges that couldn't be ignored. She thought then of calling him, but held off. Contractions could occur weeks before actual labor began. The baby wasn't due for another fourteen days. This could be a false alarm. His work was demanding and difficult, and she didn't want to distract him unless it was absolutely necessary. Shortly after four o'clock her water broke and labor began in earnest. She phoned her obstetrician. He assured her that there was no need to rush, that first children sometimes took hours to be born, but advised her to check in at the hospital. She could no longer delay alerting him. She called his office but was told he was currently unavailable. That was okay. There were still things she needed to do before leaving for the hospital. She took a shower, shaved her legs, and shampooed her hair, not knowing when she'd have another opportunity. Her suitcase was already packed with nightgowns, a new robe and slippers, and a unisex sacque in which to dress the baby for its homecoming. She added her toiletries and last-minute items, then latched the suitcase and placed it near the front door. The pains began coming harder and closer together. She called again and asked for him. "He's out," she was told. "But I can track him down for you. Is this an emergency?" Was it an emergency? Not really. Women had babies in every conceivable circumstance. Surely she was capable of getting herself to the hospital. Besides, it would be out of his way to drive home and then backtrack to the hospital. She desperately wanted to speak with him. Hearing his voice would bolster her. Instead, she had to settle for leaving word that he should meet her at the hospital as soon as possible.

She realized that there was no sense in being noble and driving herself, but no friends or family were available. She called 911. "I'm in labor and need a ride to the hospital." The ambulance arrived within minutes. The paramedic checked her over. "Tricky blood pressure," he said as he removed the cuff from her upper arm. "How long've you been in labor?" "A few hours." The pains were severe now. The breathing and concentration exercises learned in the childbirth classes they'd attended were less effective when done alone. She tried them, but they did nothing to lessen her pain. "How much farther?" she asked, gasping. "Not far. Hang on. You're doing fine." But she wasn't. She knew that when she saw her doctor's frown after his preliminary pelvic examination. "The baby is in a breech position." "Oh God," she whimpered. "Now don't get excited. Happens all the time. We'll try to turn it. If that doesn't work, we'll do a c-section." "I called the number you gave me," the obstetric nurse told her, sensing her panic. "He's on his way." "Thank God." Amanda sighed, relaxing somewhat. He would be here soon. "Thank God." "He's your coach?" "He's my everything." The nurse squeezed her hand and talked her through the next dark tunnel of pain while the doctor tried to turn the baby into the correct position. Its heartbeat was being monitored continuously. The nurse took her blood pressure at increasingly short intervals. Finally the doctor said, "Prepare her for a c-section." The next several minutes passed in a blurred kaleidoscope of light and sound and motion. She was rushed into the delivery room. Where was he? She called out for him in a plaintive, hushed voice, then ground her teeth in an effort to ward off the pain that knifed through her midsection. Then she overheard an exchange between two of the obstetric nurses. "There's been a terrible pileup on the Loop." "I'll say. I just came through the ER on my way up. It's a zoo down

there. There've been a few fatalities, mostly head injuries. So several organ and tissue retrieval teams are standing by to talk to next of kin as soon as they arrive." Amanda felt a needle prick in the back of her hand. Her belly was being swabbed with cold liquid. They were draping her legs with sterile blue sheets. A pileup on the Loop? He'd be coming by way of the Loop. He'd be in a hurry to reach her before the baby was born. Driving too fast. Taking chances he wouldn't ordinarily take. "No!" She groaned. "Hold on. In just a few minutes you'll be holding your baby." It was a kindly voice. Not his, though. Not the one she yearned to hear. And suddenly she knew that she wouldn't be hearing his voice anymore. In an instant of cruelly sharp ESP, she knew, inexplicably but unarguably, that she would never see him again. That morning when her eyes had stung with unshed tears, she'd had a premonition that their goodbye kiss was to be their last. Somehow she'd known she would never touch him again. That's why she had been so reluctant to let him go. She recalled how intently he'd looked at her, as though memorizing the nuances of her face. Had he also sensed that it was their final goodbye? "No," she sobbed, "no." But their fate was sealed, and her realization of that was profound and unequivocal. "I love you. I love you." Her hoarse cry echoed off the tile walls of the delivery room. But he wasn't there to hear. He was gone. Forever.

Chapter Four

October 10, 1990

Cyc is one ugly sumbitch." Petey pared a sliver of oily dirt from beneath his fingernail, then wiped the blade of his knife on his jeans. "And he's meaner than he is ugly. If I was you, I'd give her back to him. That'd make life a whole lot more comfortable for you, Sparky." "Well, you're not me." He hacked and spat a glob of phlegm near his friend's scuffed black boot. "And I won't be giving Cyclops anything but grief if he comes sniffing around her again." "Kismet was his old lady first, remember. Long before you came into the picture. He ain't likely to forget that." "He treated her like shit." Petey shrugged philosophically. "If he as much as lays a hand on her ... if he as much as looks like he's thinking about laying a hand on her, I'll nail his balls to a stump." "You're crazy, man," Petey exclaimed. "A good piece of ass is a right fine thing, but it's fairly easy to come by, you know. It sure as hell ain't worth dying for." He shook the tip of his knife like a

remonstrating finger. "Watch your back. Cyc's used to having his way. That's how he got to be leader." Sparky muttered an expletive. "Leader my ass. He's a goddamn bully." "Same as." "Well, I'm not scared of him. I won't take any of his shit, and from now on neither will she." He looked toward the group of women who had mellowed out on a joint they'd passed around as they lounged on the rickety porch of the roadhouse. The tavern was located in the foothills above town on a state highway that was rarely traveled now that there was an interstate nearby. It was an out-of-the-way place. In bygone days it would have drawn bootleggers, whores, gamblers, and gangsters on the lam. Now it attracted bikers, petty criminals, and others who lived on the fringes of society. A brawl broke out at least once nightly, but even disputes that drew blood were settled without the interference of police. Among the women clustered on the porch, Kismet stood out like a jewel among ashes. Her hair was dark, dense, and curly. She had sultry dark eyes and a lush figure, which she proudly displayed in skin-tight jeans. Her waist was cinched by a wide black leather belt with silver studs. Tonight she had on a tank top with a scooped neckline so low it revealed the crescent moon tattoo above her heart. He was pleased to notice that around her biceps she wore the brass bracelet he'd brought her from Mexico a few weeks ago. Several glittering loops and charms dangled from her ears. She felt his glance and met it with a challenging toss of her head. Her lips parted enticingly. She laughed at something one of her friends said, but her dark eyes remained steadily on him. "You're pussy-whipped, all right," Petey said with resignation. He resented Petey's remarked but let it pass. This mental zero wasn't worth the energy it took to argue with him. Besides, Sparky wasn't certain he could put into words what he felt for Kismet, but it was beyond anything he'd felt for any other woman. He was reticent about his past and reluctant to divulge his real name. The other bikers in the gang would be surprised to know that he'd earned a degree in literature from an Ivy League college. Among

this crowd, intelligence and knowledge gleaned from books tended to be scorned. The less they knew about him, the better. Evidently Kismet was equally as disinclined to talk about her life before linking up with Cyclops, because she'd never broached the subject of her past. He'd never pried. Like kindred spirits, they had recognized in each other a common restlessness, a wanderlust, which was more an escape than a pursuit. Each was running away from a situation no longer tolerable. Perhaps without knowing it they'd been searching for each other. Perhaps their search was over. He rather liked that metaphysical scenario and entertained it in his daydreams. The first time he'd seen her, she was sporting a swollen, discolored eye and a busted lip. "What the fuck are you lookin' at?" she asked him belligerently when she noticed his stare. "Just wondering who worked you over." "What's it to you?" "Thought maybe you'd like me to stamp the shit out of him for you." She looked him over and snorted contemptuously. "You?" "I'm tougher than I look." "And I'm the Queen of fuckin' Sheba. Anyway, I can take care of myself." But it appeared that she couldn't. A few days later, she bore fresh bruises on her face and upper body. By then he'd learned that she belonged to Cyclops, so called because he had a glass eye. The handicap didn't lessen his sinister demeanor. His good eye was as cold and lifeless as the one made of glass. When he fixed his ominous, solitary stare on someone who'd fallen out of favor, it more than compensated for the poor prosthesis, which was slightly askew. Behind his back everybody referred to Cyclops as "the breed." Along with the Anglo blood that flowed in his veins he had either Mexican or Indian, no one was sure. Probably Cyc himself didn't know his origins. It was doubtful that he cared. He was swarthy and lean and as tough as whipcord. A knife was his weapon of choice. If it hadn't been for Kismet, Sparky would have avoided tangling with him. Unfortunately, fate had intervened. He'd been instantly attracted

to Kismet's voluptuous body, her sloe eyes, her untamed hair. On a deeper level, he'd responded to the fear and vulnerability he saw lurking behind her defiant eyes and hostile expression. Miraculously, she'd been likewise drawn to him. He had never made an overt move, never vocalized an invitation for her to ride with him. Nevertheless, she must have read the silent signals. One morning as they were pairing off and mounting their bikes, she climbed on behind him and placed her bare, sleek arms tightly around his waist. An expectant hush fell over the gang as Cyc sauntered toward his bike. He glanced around, obviously looking for her. When he spotted her seated behind Sparky, Cyc's good eye narrowed menacingly. He peeled back his thin lips in a feral snarl. Then he tromped on the petal of his bike and roared off. That night Kismet joined him. He had planned on treating her gently because of the recent beatings she'd taken from Cyclops. Surprisingly, she'd been the aggressor, attacking him with her nails and teeth and seemingly insatiable sexual appetite, which he was more than capable of satisfying. They'd been lovers ever since; they were now regarded as a pair. But those who'd been with the gang longer than he, those who knew Cyc well and had witnessed the vengeance he'd taken on real or imagined slights, feared that their ring leader's temper was merely simmering and might suddenly reach the boiling point. No one took something belonging to Cyc and got away with it. Petey's words of caution were unnecessary. Sparky was already wary of Cyc, whose indifference to Kismet's jilting was probably a pose, an attempt to save face with other members of the gang. He was distrustful of Cyc's nonchalance and remained constantly on alert for a surprise attack. That's why the hairs on the back of his neck rose when Cyc stumbled through the doors of the bar onto the porch. He placed one hand on the door jamb to regain his balance while raising a bottle of vodka to his mouth with the other. Even from a distance, peering through the tricky shadows of twilight, he saw the brute's good eye single out Kismet. Cyc staggered toward her and reached out to stroke her neck. She

swatted his hand away. Bending from his narrow waist, he leaned down and said something to her. Her lewd comeback made the other women laugh. Cyc wasn't amused. He dropped the bottle of vodka and whipped a knife from the leather sheath at the small of his back. The other women scattered. Kismet stood her ground even when he tauntingly waved the tip of the blade directly in front of her face. She didn't flinch, not until he made a quick, jabbing motion with it. He laughed at her spontaneous recoil. Heedless of the warnings being whispered to him by Petey and others loitering about, Sparky stormed toward the porch. Cyc sensed his approach, whirled around, and assumed a crouching, attack pose. He tossed the knife from hand to hand and goaded him. "Come and get it." Sparky deftly parried several vicious swipes of the knife blade, any of which could have sliced him in half. Cyc was physically superior. Relying strictly on his sobriety, speed, and dexterity, Sparky carefully timed his counterattack. He waited until the moment was right, then kicked Cyc in the wrist. His boot solidly connected with bone. The knife sailed from Cyc's hand as he howled in pain. Then Sparky's well-placed fist against Cyc's chin sent him reeling backward. He landed hard against the wall and sank to the porch in an ignominious, drunken heap. Sparky retrieved Cyc's knife from the dusty ground and threw it as far as he could. Everyone watched, transfixed, as it turned end over end, the honed steel blade glinting in the light from the roadhouse's neon sign, until it landed in a patch of shrubs. His breathing was labored, but, with quiet dignity, he held out his hand to Kismet. She took it without hesitation. Together they moved away and climbed onto his bike. He didn't look back. She did. Cyc was coming around, shaking his head groggily. She gave him the finger before the bike shot off into the gathering darkness. The wind shrieked in their ears, making conversation impossible, so they communicated by other means. She clasped his hips tightly between her thighs and rubbed her breasts against his back while fondling his crotch with eager hands. Her teeth sank into the meaty part of his shoulder. He grunted in pleasure, pain, and anticipation.