Inconstant Moon - Default Font Edition (42 page)

“Think how easy it'd be if we could get a court order to make them all give us samples.”

Lewis laughs. “Never happen.”

A knock on the door, Wolfrom opens it to admit Liz.

“Do you have new information for us?” asks Lewis.

Liz hovers in the doorway, “Uh, no. I thought you had the guy. I'm wondering what you're doing back here?”

Lewis says, “As it turns out, the guy isn't the guy.”

“So you're back here because? You think it's a student?”

“Could be. Might be staff, guest lecturer, former student, stranger. The possibilities are endless.”

“Oh shit. What do I tell Natasha?”

“That we haven't caught the guy. That if she remembers anything she should let us know. She was going to think about smells, if you could remind her.”

“Oh, I will.” Liz nods. “Um. So, now what are you guys doing?”

“Interviewing the rest of the student body for a start.”

When Tamara steps out of the shower she knows she's not alone. She stops, strains to listen. She hears the sound of kitchen cupboard doors closing. Shit.

There's somebody out there. She glances at the knob and sees that it's locked. Flimsy but better than nothing.

Shit shit shit.

Hell, she doesn't even have her cell, it's charging on the nightstand. She towels off quickly, then wraps the towel around her hair. She looks around for a weapon. Who keeps weapons in the bathroom? Draino maybe? Yeah right. like she's got any hope of getting some sneak thief to imbibe. Shit.

Who is she kidding. No way it's a thief, she knows damned well it's the goddamn rapist. Psycho is still scary, lousy special effects and outdated medical theory and all, because it doesn't get much more vulnerable than this. They oughta sell mace-on-a-rope so you could at least feel safe in the fucking shower.

Shit shit shit.

What could she use? The curtain rod, no, too damned flimsy. Wait. how about that lavender air freshener Quentin hates. A squirt of that shit in the creep's face ought to be as good as mace. She pulls on her robe, stuffs the aerosol can in her pocket, takes a deep breath and carefully pulls the door open. It's not a very big apartment but still she can't see in the kitchen without going down the hall. Maybe the best thing would be to take off out the bedroom window. It isn't like she wants to tangle with that bastard.

Nope, getting beaten and raped isn't on today's 'to do'list.

Tamara quietly pads along the hall away from the kitchen and into the bedroom. She pulls the door closed ohhhh so gently. She can barely hear the snick of the latch, so no way the bad guys heard it. Pushing her clothes off the chair onto the floor she tries to prop the chair under the doorknob like they always do in the movies. Doesn't work, though, chair's too short. Tamara settles for standing the chair in the doorway.

Well, hell, get some clothes on.

Gingerly, carefully, quietly opening the closet.

Grabbing a pink sweat suit off the shelf and pulling it on. Now she doesn't feel so vulnerable. Good.

Next thing. Gotta get the heck out. Tamara crosses to the window. She leaves the heavy drape closed and just slips behind it.

Quiet as a mouse, she releases the catch and slides open the window. Damn. The screen. There's a trick to getting it out, but she doesn't know it. Q does but she doesn't.

Tamara tries pushing, pulling, shimmying. Every sound is too loud. Gotta be quiet.

Suddenly it's out, but she has no idea how she did it, it's just done.

She eases open the drape, drops the screen on the bed, then lifts her leg up and out the window. She needs her morning coffee. Once she's out of here she'll get the cops and . . . the smell of fresh coffee in the hall.

Which is when it hits her: how many rapists make coffee in their victim's apartments?

Shit. It must be Q come home. Bastard. Scaring her out of her skin like this.

She pulls her leg back inside, glances at the screen. Not knowing what she did to get it out, she sure as shit has no idea how to get it back in so, what? Stuff it under the bed. Don't let him know he scared her.

Good. She's in a position of strength here. He's in the wrong, but he's come back. That's something. Barbie thinks she's nuts to care, but, hell, Q is her guy. Q has always been her guy. Sometimes he acts like a jerk, in a lot of ways he's like a little boy, but . . . she loves him. What else is there, right?

She pulls the sash of the robe tighter and moves the chair back to its usual position by the wall. Great.

Quentin is pouring coffee into mugs when she walks in.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

He says, “I thought maybe we could talk.”

“Why? You never wanted to talk before.”

“Maybe that's 'cause talking wasn't necessary before.”

“Maybe not for you. Look, I've got to get ready for class.”

Q gestures to the dinette. “This won't take long.” He carries the mugs over and sets them on the table before taking a seat on the bench. Tamara sighs and joins him.

His whole demeanor is wrong. What gives?

“Aren't you even going to apologize?” she asks.

“No. There was a time I would have but this isn't it.”

“Okay, fine. Whatever, Q, just get to the point, okay?”

“Paperwork's in. I'm withdrawn from the program.”

Blood drains from her face. “What? Why . . . you can't . . .”

“It's done Tam. It hasn't been working out for me.”

“Maybe it would have if you actually went to classes, or did your assignments instead of just smoking up all the time. There's no degree program in being high, Q.”

He shakes his head. “I guess I deserve that. But you don't see that toking was the effect, not the cause. Photography just isn't my thing. I thought it'd be an adjunct to film, but it's something completely different. I thought I could do it so we could be together but I just can't.”

“So you're saying it's my fault?”

“No, Tam, if it's anybody's fault it's mine. You did the right thing for you; picked the program you needed. I'm the one screwed up. I should have gone to Ryerson. It's just, I wanted to be with you. I thought I could make Christie work for me, but it's never been right. And now I'm screwing you up too.”

“What about us?” Tamara asks, tears welling in her eyes. “You wanted to get married. It was your idea. Now you're gonna blow it off?”

“You're in a heavy duty program, Tam. You don't have time for me. I can switch to a different school or pull out and go back later. Sticking out photography here is a waste of money. And they're still willing to take me at Ryerson.”

“So you're just gonna up and leave me?”

“That's why I'm here now, Tam, I wanted to talk it over with you. But you haven't let me talk to you at all. It sure as hell feels as though you've left me.”

“You're the one who doesn't show up. Who spends all the time smoking up. I've been wondering why you married me. You never want to spend time with me. But the worst kick in the head was walking in to find you fucking some other woman in our bed.”

The look of horror on his face almost convinces her. Almost. But Tamara knows what she knows. She was there. “That was my tipping point, Q.”

“I've never been unfaithful to you, Tam. I just wouldn't.”

“In our bed!”

“Wait a minute, are you talking about Friday?” Tamara nods, unable to form words. Quentin shakes his head. “Jesus, Tam, that wasn't me. Mouse and Jose were here and we all got high watching Harold and Kumar. I passed out on the recliner and they got to messing around and ended up in our room. That's it. You don't believe me ask either of them. But then, hell, if you don't believe me there really isn't much point anymore, is there.”

He looks so angry. Is he telling the truth? Tamara feels her eyes filling. She wants to believe him. Is he playing her? She says, “I don't know what to believe anymore.”

“Look, Tamara, I've been miserable. I haven't felt good here at all. It's a waste of money for me to stay. Say the word and I'll pass on Ryerson and grab a job here. After you're done it'll be my turn, and we'll be together. It might be better if I just go to Ryerson now. Hell, it's not like you have any free time. And from the sounds of it, that's only gonna get worse, not better.”

Tamara is stunned. “Wait a minute. Why didn't you ever say anything about any of this before? This is the first I've heard.”

“I didn't really understand why I was miserable at first. It seemed easier to smoke up than figure out what the problem was. Made me feel better for a while. Kinda forget there's even a problem. It makes you think it's licked, but it isn't really.”

Tamara shakes her head. “What do you want to do?”

“I think Ryerson is the best choice for me now. But I don't want you to think I'm running out on you or anything.”

“We wouldn't hardly see each other.”

“We don't hardly see each other now, Tammy.”

“Not what I thought married life would be like.”

“Things are worse than I thought, but this isn't exactly unexpected. I mean not really. Neither of us have been having fun. Even if you never noticed how miserable I've been.”

“That is crap. You haven't been acting miserable, you've been acting like an asshole who's having too much fun getting high to waste his time going to class.”

“I deserve that but . . . I guess I thought you'd be able to tell.”

“How? By magic? It doesn't work like that.”

“I know that now. But that's what it felt like to me. I mean, you're the smart one. But when I started figuring it out how was I supposed to talk to you? You wouldn't let me near.”

She looks at him. “When would you leave?”

“I thought tonight. Give me a day to pack up and say my good byes, then I get a good night with my lady before I head out. Please tell me you're not doing an allnighter tonight.”

Tamara sees that he's serious. “We'll talk tonight?”

“Yeah. Hey, did you notice? I cleaned the place up for you. Think I can figure out how to make dinner for you by the time you get back?”

Tamara looks at him. Q is offering to make dinner. The world is spinning and she just doesn't know what to think. Maybe. Maybe they can start over. Make it work.

Barbie's blonde hair is back lit by the sunlight streaming through the library windows behind the reading table. Stacks of books fan out around her, some laid face down, others heaped in jumbles, paper bookmarks conspicuously protrude as she makes notes, drumming her fingers on her laptop until she feels the glare of the other patrons.

Digging in her purse, she extracts an HB pencil, now idly tapping the eraser end against her front teeth while she works. Her brow creases into a frown of concentration as she plows through a particularly weighty tome.

Suddenly her concentration slips. Blinking myopically she readjusts her focus to take in the wider world. Even the pencil stills as she looks around the room. It feels as if she's being watched, except everyone else seems caught up in their work. What gives?

Laying down the pencil, she looks again. She scans back and forth. Still nothing. But the feeling of being watched is even stronger. So she lifts her head and looks up at the second floor balcony that rings the reading room. And there he is. Jose, leaning up against the rail, is looking down at her.

“So gorgeous,” she thinks, smiling up at him, giving a little wave. He returns her wave with a crisp salute but doesn't smile, just looks down at her expressionlessly. Barbie feels her body betray her.

She uses both hands to indicate her ostentatious research display, then gives him a palms up pantomime “what can I do”.  He shrugs and she tears away her gaze, lowering her eyes to her work. Concentrate.

She's got to get this paper done or she'll be in big trouble. But she is dying to look up to see if he's still watching her. Barbie pushes the impulse down. Hard. She picks up the pencil again, tightens her grip. No. Don't look, work.

Don't encourage him. Flip through pages. Pretend to work, real work will follow soon enough.

Someone drops into the chair beside her. Barbie's first thought is that it's Jose come down from above, so although her heart is pounding, she doesn't look.

But then she knows it's not Jose. Looking over she sees it's only Tamara. “Are you busy?” Tamara asks.

Barbie shakes her head in amazement, waving her hand at the reference materials.

“Of course I'm busy. I've got to get my term paper done or I'm toast. Is yours done?”

Tamara shakes her head. “Not exactly, about half.”

“It's due the end of the week.”

“I know.” Barbie is telling her when things are due? The whole world is upside down. “I thought I'd let you know Q's leaving. He's gonna switch to Ryerson. Probably make my work easier.”

Tamara gets up to leave but Barbie reaches out a hand to grab her arm. “Wait. Are you all right?”

“Could be worse.” Tamara nods tersely, although she looks on the verge of tears. “At least it wasn't him screwing Mouse.”

“What?” Barbie isn't following this conversation at all.

“On Friday night. It wasn't Q, it was Jose.”

“You're saying Jose slept with Mouse?” Barbie asks, not quite believing it. She thought— no, don't go there.

“Yeah, that's what Q said.”

“Don't tell me you can't tell Jose and Q apart”

“I was freaking out, and it was dark.” Seeing Barbie's agitation, Tamara realizes Barbie is jealous that Jose got it on with Mouse. “Hey, sorry. I didn't think it'd bother you. I kinda thought you'd be, you know, happy, if, I mean, Jose and Mouse . . .”

“Yeah, that's great. Takes the pressure off,” Barbie lies. “Look, Tam, why don't you go grab your books and get your research done. It'll take your mind off things.”

“Yeah, okay. I think I will.” She smiles wanly at her friend. Who'd have thought. Barbie may be flight, but she has really been a good friend. “Can I leave my stuff here then?”

Barbie nods, “Sure. Here, spread out on the table so nobody else takes your spot. We can talk at lunch, okay?” Thinking, Jose and Mouse?

Tamara nods, and does as she's told. Barbie watches Tamara head into the stacks and takes advantage of the moment to glance casually up at the balcony. Wishing he was there. Here. But he isn't. He's gone.