Night Hunter (44 page)

Somewhere in the back of her mind she experienced a pang of shame for her desperate abandonment. What must he think of her? Then the shame was gone.

As he undressed her, she became aware of how little she had on. The dress, shoes, and sheer panties. Had she subconsciously dressed for lovemaking? Then he was naked, lifting her and carrying her to the bed, where he lowered her slowly. Atop the cool satin spread of rose petals, he entered her, thrusting all the way into her until she gasped from a mixture of pleasure and pain, pain that was so brief she wondered if she had imagined it. And then, filling her up, not moving, he kissed her with a fevered passion, saying her name.

She began to rotate her hips, reflexively, as waves of ecstasy spread outward from that pulsating core. She had forgotten how good it could be. Had it ever been this good? Yes. No.
No. never.
It was building, beyond slowing down, beyond stopping. And then she cried out with an abrupt, gripping orgasm. She rode the waves for what seemed an eternity as John glided into her, seeking his own release. Minutes later, when he shuddered in climax, Regina, again cresting the wave, cried out.

John kissed her earlobe, her temple, her swollen lips. Without speaking they lay in each other’s arms, sweaty, spent.

In John’s living room, with the cool blue rays of a full moon illuminating the interior, Corinne sat stiffly in the straight-back pine chair. She had unbuttoned her coat, letting it fall open, but the hood remained up, coming far forward on her head. From where she sat she could read the digital clock on the VCR. 1:16. Four hours ago she had entered his apartment and sat down to wait.

Coming here had been a hard decision. John had called her twice since Donna’s attack, and both times she had refused to speak or listen. But she couldn’t hide from him forever. It was only a matter of time before he would seek her out. Try to come to her. She wanted him nowhere near her place. He would be shocked, disgusted by the filth and squalor. He wouldn’t understand about her father. So she had come to him.

These past few weeks, seeing him through his window, watching him on the street, had brought him despairingly close to her again. After all these years her love for him had not dissipated. It had, she realized, only been smoldering, like sparks on a bed of wood shavings, waiting for a breeze to rekindle its fiery life.

She allowed herself to think of him. It was impossible not to anymore. Their time together before her attack had been so brief, a few precious months, yet Corinne could recall, with crystal clarity, everything about him.

The way he looked, smelled, spoke, and laughed. The way his hands felt on her skin, his lips against hers in a kiss. And now to see him again, practically unchanged, perhaps even more handsome and alluring ...

She felt sick with love and desire for him.

She rose slowly, her cramped muscles screaming in agony, her gaze sweeping the room. She was desperate for a cigarette, a butt would do, but it was clear by the absence of ashtrays that John had given up smoking.

Corinne walked around the room, her hands buried deep in the pockets of her coat. She had to use the bathroom.

Minutes later, with the moonlight reflecting off the white tiles, she stood at the sink and took in everything. John’s toiletries stood on the back of the commode, and more stood on a shelf above. She touched nothing, though God help her, her fingers ached to hold something of his. On the back of the door hung a blue wraparound towel. Reaching out, her fingers brushed against it and she felt a slight dampness before she jerked her hand away, as if burned, and thrust it back into the pocket of her coat.

She pivoted, stepped to the doorway of the bedroom, and stared into his room. John’s bed. It was so big. Big compared to hers, that is. She went to the bed, taking hesitant steps, then leaned over and ran a hand across the ribbed clay tone comforter. Her hand traveled upward until she tentatively touched his pillow. She lifted it, squeezed the downy fullness to her chest. Then she rested her cheek to it and closed her eyes. A picture of John materialized in her head. John then and now. And she felt a painful ache deep inside her.

The pillow went back on the bed and Corinne gingerly followed. She lay stiff, her legs drawn tightly to her as she tucked the pillow close. It smelled of him. A smell she hadn’t forgotten. She would just lie here a minute to ease her cramped muscles.

Sometime in the night John and Regina awoke to make love again. No words were spoken.

Corinne sensed the light. Coming awake abruptly, she sat up, confused. It took her a moment to realize that she had fallen asleep on John’s bed. The faint light of dawn had awakened her. The clock read 4:50.

She had to leave.

Back in the living room, as she buttoned up her coat, with the early light bringing the room into focus, she spotted the note on the large mahogany coffee table.

Aunt Anna, Gone to Napa. Back on Sat. Feed Ollie, please,

Thanks,
J

On the note was a small canister of turtle food.

Out of town? She had worked up the nerve to come to him and he had been out of town.

Out of town alone?

Rushing to the window, she looked up and down the street. The station wagon was nowhere in sight.

No. Please, no.

She came back to the note and read it again.

Napa. The romantic wine country. A night under the stars in the valley of the moon.

Reaching into the bowl, she took hold of the turtle and lifted him out. His head and feet disappeared into the greenish-black shell. She placed him on the palm of her hand, staring intently at the creature. John had gone away with her.
Her ...
Regina. She closed her hand around the turtle, the tendons along her wrist stood out, stark against the purple veins. Her hand trembled.
John and Regina were together this night. In one another’s arms.

Corinne put her hand back into the bowl and gently released Ollie.

C
HAPTER
27

He stared at her face, thinking she was as radiant asleep as she was awake. Her lips were parted slightly. A wisp of dark hair fell across her cheek to lie curled at the corner of her mouth. John gently lifted it away. She stirred, but didn’t wake.

Carefully, he slipped out of bed, gathered his clothes. While he dressed, he watched her sleep. She was on her side, one hand on the pillow where he had been.

It was 7:05, too early to wake her. Too early for him, actually, but he had awakened abruptly, his mind troubled by something unfinished.
Posers.
The clues that the anonymous informant had given Regina hadn’t gotten them any nearer to a solution.

The newspaper clipping had enabled them to discover that prior to her death Carmenita Flores had spoken to a person with a deep, raspy voice. True, there was a good chance that that person was the same one who had made warning calls to the finalists, but it brought them no closer to disclosing the identity of the killer.

Amelia’s original alibi had been shattered, only to be replaced with a more solid one.

Was someone sending them on a wild goose chase?

All that aside, John had a poser of his own: If Amelia’s only crime was to sleep with another woman’s husband, was it then merely a coincidence that butcher tape found at Tammy’s house and also in the Corde’s freezer came from the same meat company, a company that did not sell to the general public?

He found it hard to believe that neither he nor Regina had thought of that the night before, but then for
him,
other things—such as the impression of her nipples beneath the thin material of her dress, her rich laugh, the depth of her thickly lashed hazel eyes —had clouded his reasoning.

In the bathroom he splashed water on his face and ran a comb haphazardly through his hair.

Before going out the door, he looked once more at the woman sleeping beneath the satin comforter. She had turned over on her back, an arm draped across her forehead, one lovely, full breast partially exposed above the sheet. He had known her breasts would be round, but what he hadn’t known, what he couldn’t know, was how fantastic being with her—making love to her—would be. She had seemed wanton in her desire, yet somehow inhibited, as though trying to hold back—wanting, though ashamed of her need. Perhaps the fact that her husband had been dead so short a time had something to do with it. Afterward, as they lay in each other’s arms, he had waited for her to speak first. When she remained silent, he followed suit, afraid to break the spell. Thinking about her now he felt a fluttering in his gut. He was tempted to hold off on the investigation and return to bed.

Instead, he strode to the door and went out quickly and quietly.

Regina heard the latch click. She opened her eyes to a room filled with soft morning light. A room not her own, smelling of roses, cedarwood smoke, and sex. She lifted herself up on her elbows and looked around. She was alone.

She propped her back against the headboard, drew her knees up, circling them with her arms, and hugged herself. The champagne cork lay on the spread beside her. She lifted it and turned it around in her fingers, breathed in the scent of it, and allowed thoughts of John to come into her mind, filling it with the images of the two of them together. She sucked in a deep breath, exhaled it slowly. Then she began again, at the beginning, with John bringing her that glass of champagne.

She smiled, hugging her knees tighter.

He was a gentle, yet bold lover, one who derived great gratification in pleasing his partner. Physically she had soared to great heights, yet she had held back emotionally. On an emotional plane she was still a cripple, afraid to run, afraid of falling. The sheltered one. The one who had known only one man ... until —
not
now.

But thinking of John now felt wrong. She reached over and, without knowing why she did it, dropped the champagne cork into her purse as she lifted the phone. After pressing 9 for an outside line, Regina dialed her home number. Kristy was with Sonya, but it wasn’t Kristy she was calling. The answering machine clicked on. Regina dialed the code to retrieve any messages that might be on the machine. Donna’s voice came over the line. “Reg, call me as soon as you hear this message, no matter what time. Call.”

She glanced at the watch that was still on her wrist. 7:15. Surely, Donna didn’t mean this early? But she’d sensed an urgency in the tone. So, getting an outside line again, she dialed the hospital and asked for Donna’s extension.

Donna came directly on the line. “Reggie,” she said, her voice anxious. “Where have you been?”

A red flag went up. “What’s wrong? Is it Kristy?”

“
No. No, it’s you. I mean, it’s you I was worried about.”

“
Me? Why?”

“
Reg, that man you brought to the hospital, John Davie. I remembered where I’d seen him before. It was a long time ago, but I know it’s him. He was with Corinne.”

“
What do you mean ‘with Corinne’?”

“
They were a couple. He didn’t tell you that, did he?”

Regina was confused. John and Corinne? Donna was mistaken.

“
I saw them together on the day of the crowning, I heard them arguing in the wings. She called him Jack. I heard a slap. I can’t say who slapped who. Then he stormed off.”

“
He said he was a reporter.”

“
I doubt that. He was a just a kid, no more than eighteen, nineteen. Our age.”

“
But why would ...” Regina didn’t bother to finish. What was going on? Why would he lie to her?