Foundation (15 page)

It was to him.

Because, despite what unfortunate things had happened in that house, for a brief moment in his life, in there he had been happy. That time was long gone and all that remained were memories. And memories, he had found out, could be very hard to die.

He came to a weather-beaten paned door, brushed off his shoes as if he had been slogging through thick mud, then unlocked the door and, at long last, he stepped inside.

Even if the French door shutters were ajar, the pale light of dawn struggled to find its way in.

The house Starshanna loved had lost much of its luster; it was now silent and buried in dust. Thirteen years had passed since Starshanna had first set foot in it, when Trumaine had led her in, when she had opened her eyes and looked at it in awe.

No way would he forget about how things went ...

Six months later, she had been granted the much coveted job on Aquaria and she had moved there. They had kept seeing each other, of course. As promised, they took turns to visit.

Each time he went, Trumaine had to go personally to the Aquarian embassy and request a temporary visa, since they had never given him the citizenship he had so diligently applied for.

Trumaine went to the dinette and fished out the pills the doctor gave him. They were small, smooth and white in the palm of his hand. He took one and washed it down with the water from the least filthy glass he could find.

He then stepped to the dinette table and reached out for the tray. The few fruits it contained were almost rotten. Trumaine picked up the one barely edible apple, wiped it on his trousers and bit into it.

The bite revealed a small, yellowish worm. It wriggled frantically from his outraged sanctuary. Even if it disgusted him a little, Trumaine found the thing hilarious. After all, he thought, there still was a happy resident in the house ...

Clutching the apple and the worm within, he moved to the living room, pulled the French doors and went out to the patio.

He glanced in the distance, at the beach and at the ocean washing beyond it. Then, in a sudden fit of anger, he flung the apple. It rose high in a graceful arc, shrinking to a dot before it fell out of sight, into the thorny shrubs that overran the beach.

Trumaine shuffled his feet to the edge of the channel. There was no trace of the dolphin that used to splash in there. Starshanna had taken him with her, when she had moved for good, one year ago; when she had realized that their story was over. The cetacean brought back the most painful memories, so he didn’t object when she had suggested that.

The water the channel contained was also gone. The ubiquitous sand and the brushwood blown over by the autumn wind had replaced it.

Trumaine turned back, looking for something. It was a lonely and squashed bucket of metal that lay in a forgotten corner of the patio. He retrieved and studied it, then he threw it in the channel. It hit the concrete floor with a dull clang that reminded him of a mourning bell.

The jarring noise rang painfully in his head. Holding it in his hands, he wobbled to the one weathered deckchair that had survived the scorching sun and the salt and slumped down on it.

As the sun finally got up from the horizon, Trumaine closed his eyes and fell into the soothing arms of long yearned for sleep ...

The dream came as swift, silent and merciful as the edge of a slashing blade. It took away the rising sun and the day and replaced it with a big hanging moon, and with darkness.

The moon shone brightly in the sky, casting a beacon of light above a boundless stretch of dark, churning water, revealing a lone swimmer paddling quietly but steadily toward the shore.

It was a fit, young Trumaine who rolled out of a nine-foot breaker, dropping exhausted to the sand.

He lay there, drenching wet, getting his breath back, squeezing the water out of his ears and nose.

After a long while, the young Trumaine climbed to his feet. He reached out for a nearby towel and started drying himself. When he was done with it, he slung the towel on his muscled shoulders and crossed the beach, headed for a solitary vacation house seen in the distance.

Tonight, Trumaine’s house displayed the flowers and the lush plants that only thrive in the late, hot summer.

Water-filled bowls containing bobbing candles dotted the patio and the path to the house, providing a surreal, exotic atmosphere.

The dinette table had been moved from the kitchen to the outside. It contained a wide selection of fresh fruits and cold courses, as well as a couple of uncorked bottles of wine and some crystal clean glasses that sparkled in the moonlight.

Trumaine came up from the beach, arriving to the patio. He approached the dinette table.

Uncertain about what he should help himself to first, he snatched an apple.

It was round and unscathed. He bit into it, savoring it. It was pristine and fresh, sweet but also salty. It tasted ... of life.

He dug his teeth a second time, when he realized that someone was looking at him from the veranda.

He knew already who it was. He could tell the thin, lean body and the bony, delicate shoulders even in the shadows. Scantily clad, Starshanna leaned in the doorway, her body shining in the flicker of the candles, as if it was covered in some oily essence.

“How’s the ocean tonight?” she asked languidly.

Her voice had the easing but haunting sound of the surf.

“Damn cold,” said Trumaine, stepping up to her.

He stood an inch from her, inhaling her scent.

“You weren’t supposed to be home until next week,” he whispered.

“I gave you a surprise. Don’t you like surprises?”

Her eyes glinted from the darkness. Trumaine couldn’t help but let his gaze drift over Starshanna’s body, contemplating her. Her shapely, tight legs; her fit waist; the small, firm breasts of a swimmer; her full and damp lips.

He swallowed hard. “I’m crazy about surprises.”

He got as close to her as he could get without touching her, smelling her neck. He nibbled at her earlobe, pulling at it.

She shuddered lightly, letting out the faintest moan.

He shifted his hand over her thighs, then attempted to kiss her, but she jerked back playfully. He tried once more. Again, she pulled away.

Slightly thrown by her behavior, Trumaine stopped.

Amused and excited, she approached him. She kissed him quickly at first, then with more passion. The more the kisses, the more the passion that went with them. They craved and sought each other, their fingers clutching hungrily at their flesh like claws ...

Starshanna took Trumaine’s searching hand and led it down, toward her belly. Her breath became heavier and heavier. Soon, she was panting hard. When she couldn’t take it anymore, she threw back her head, toward the moon, and let out a long, deep and slow wail of pleasure.

When she came to, she kissed Trumaine. She took his hand and brushed her lips on it, then pulled him along and led him toward the silent beach.

They dropped to the sand.

Starshanna leaned over Trumaine, but he pushed her aside and straddled her. He searched through her clothes, frantic for her body. She fumbled with him, helping him getting rid of her clothes, but they tangled into them all the more. It became a furious fight until, suddenly, they were naked. Only then did they allow themselves a moment of rest.

When they clung to each other one more time, their movements were graceful, slow and tender again. They started moving in unison, taking the pleasure from each other like the bites from a ripe fruit ...

A few feet away, the roiling ocean lashed away, oblivious of the two solitary bodies engrossed in quiet lovemaking.

The now flat ocean glittered in the first daylight.

Trumaine and Starshanna were still on the beach. They sat on a blanket, wore their clothes again and were surrounded by the empty trays, the glasses and the wine they had brought from the patio.

Peacefully holding onto each other, they watched the sunrise.

The sun came up heavy and slow, bringing along a light breeze that blew cold through their bodies and made them shiver.

Starshanna’s body felt warm between Trumaine’s arm and under his fingers. It felt comfortable, it felt alive.

It was back then when he first realized he could never do without her. It was back then when Starshanna had turned with a smile and, as if she could read his mind, she said, “Chris. I want a baby ...”

Trumaine blinked his eyes open.

He was still in the weather-beaten deckchair on the patio. It was noon and he could feel the warmth of the sun on him. He stirred and sat up, feeling better. All that was left of his headache was a vague throb in his temples. He had an unpleasant furry tongue and his mouth felt dry; it must be the side effect of the pills the doctor gave him, he thought.

He glanced around him. Except for the man standing just outside the French doors, looking at him, nothing had changed.

Trumaine couldn’t tell for how long Firrell had been there, but it might have been some time.

Firrell walked toward him. From time to time, he threw disappointed glances at what was left of the house. Trumaine couldn’t help but notice.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing ...” said Firrell with an innocent shrug.

“I know what you’re thinking. The house is a mess. It’s dirty, the roof needs fixing and the walls are in bad need of a paint job. Is that it?”

“Since you are at it, why don’t you throw in some shoveling? Give it another year, and you’ll be buried in the sand. Also, why don’t you get rid of that cracked deckchair you sit on? Buy a new one, plastic may be cheap, but it’s eternal.”

Trumaine glanced at the bleached couch he was sitting on. Nothing much was left of the original coat of paint; here and there, a few stubborn flakes still hung to the worm-eaten wood showing below.

“Anything else?”

“The pool’s empty. Don’t you swim anymore?”

Trumaine shook his head. He had had enough of water. He could remember a time when he couldn’t do without it, when breathing the brackish smell of the ocean sent a lively shiver down his spine. Not anymore.

“Ask the guys,” suggested Firrell. “I’m sure they will be more than happy to give you a hand.”

He fished out something bulky from his pocket.

“You left this behind,” he said, handing it over.

Trumaine took the bundle and unwrapped it to find his taser gun. He retrieved it and inspected it. Apart from a recent scratch in the butt, it looked fine. He held it in his hand for a moment, feeling its weight, then he put it away in his underarm holster.

The two were silent for a moment.

Firrell kicked a pebble.

“Are you okay, Chris? Head blows can be nasty.”

“I’m fine, Grant ...”

“Been thinking?” asked Firrell with a good deal of expectation.

“I’ve been dreaming.”

“About her?”

“Every goddamn time I shut my eyes. She’s everywhere I look ...”

If there was anything that prevented Trumaine from focusing on the case, Firrell needed to know. Maybe being friendly and straightforward with him would help ...

“How long since you last heard from her?”

Trumaine made a vague movement with his hand.

“Four months?”

“Why don’t you call her? I’m sure it would do you a lot of good.”

“What for? She was clear about it, she won’t come back. That’s it for me.”

“Why did you let her take the dolphin? If anything, it kept you company.”

Trumaine didn’t say anything.

Firrell set his jaw then, trying to be as casual as he could, he asked, “You still love her?”

“I think I do ...”

“But you won’t call her, goddammit!” exploded Firrell. “You’re the most stubborn jackass I’ve met in a very long time! You’d rather lie in here, writhing in painful memories and despair than just goddamn call her! You—you—”

Firrell threw his hands in the air with a defeated scowl and stormed toward the house.

Trumaine straightened his numb back.

“What about Boyd’s postmortem analysis? Was he doped?”

“No, he wasn’t!” snarled Firrell. Then, after he had cooled down a bit, “He didn’t use any drug within the last six months. If you ask me, I doubt he’s ever tried anything stronger than a light cigarette.”

“A sudden illness that could have pushed him to the limit?”

Firrell shook his head. “When he died, all blood parameters were in the norm; he was as sound as a bell. The reason he killed himself—if he killed himself—lies somewhere else. I thought of asking his parents for an explanation. Unfortunately, since Credence is down, so are long-distance communications.”

“Anything about the pirate vehicle?”

Again, Firrell shook his head. “I’m afraid the parking cameras only got the model—a Meteor ’55. It’s an old relic of a hybrid vehicle. Ugly as hell, but quite reliable. There’s still a bunch of them still whirring along in the streets.”