Reilly 13 - Dreams of the Dead (6 page)

He looked exactly as he had as a four-year-old, as he considered lying. Unlike when he was four, he realized he’d get caught. “No.”

“Think of Spanish like you think of music. Listen to it. It can be beautiful, too.”

He snorted and started to leave.

“Um, but you know, clean off the table first.”

He cleaned the table and even rinsed the dishes, although the whole time he sang loudly, songs he knew offended her. Then he went upstairs, and Nina didn’t have the energy to check whether he was playing video games or studying. She cleaned up the rest of the kitchen, threw a load of laundry in the washer, watered the house-plants, petted and fed the dog, fluffed her long brown hair, and changed out of her work clothes into a pair of fresh jeans, finishing as the doorbell rang.

Kurt Scott wore his usual denim and fleece jacket and suede work boots. He carried a six-pack of Coors, which he set on the floor while he gave her a hug and stripped off the winter outerwear, hanging the coat in the small closet in the foyer, and stacking his boots over the layer of melting boots that already lined it. “Almost had an accident on the way in,” he said. “Slid out a little on Pioneer, and sure enough a Chevy Suburban was piling by in the
opposite direction at that moment. Missed it by an inch. You could hear his horn all the way to Reno. I hate the melting spring slush that comes with a warm spell almost as much as I despise the apocalyptic winters here.”

“Cheerful as always, eh, Kurt?”

He laughed.

“Sit.” She brought him a pint glass for his Coors and sat down with him in front of the fire. Kurt actually did look weary and glum. He had Bob’s black hair and blue eyes, an elegant man with a long face and narrow chin who always looked a little out of place in the mountain-man clothes he wore. Of his two dissimilar careers, concert pianist definitely fit him better than forest ranger. His hands were long and smooth. He had recently lost weight, and his face seemed thin and drawn.

The move from Europe to Tahoe hadn’t worked out well. Kurt barely made his rent from his savings and the unemployment checks for his last layoff, and the next stop would be operating a ski lift at minimum wage. She moved closer and put her arm around him, angling up for a kiss. A butterfly flew by her lips.

Nothing had been right for some time. “Rough day?” she asked.

“Usual day. You?”

“Yeah.” Nina told him about Philip Strong wanting to track down his son, and how Paul was coming up, and what he had said.

Kurt frowned, listening without comment, then said, “Somebody’s full of shit.”

“You mean Philip? Or Jim Strong? Or Paul?”

“Let’s not get into that. I don’t care about Paul. Truth is, I don’t care about your case at the moment. What matters is that you care more about your job than me.”

Nina studied the way the logs burned, listening to their crackle. Kurt hurt her so often lately. Was this what it was like when sweet turned to sour? Every tap felt like a blow.

“Care,”
she said. “That seems to be the operative word.”

Kurt set down his beer. “Let’s talk. I came back three months
ago hopeful for our relationship, wanting to mend everything. I wanted us to be a family. And it was a beautiful vision, one you bought into, too.”

Past tense.

“Instead I’m broke and this—unity I hoped for didn’t happen.”

“Three months isn’t long,” Nina said.

His brow creased. “Listen, Nina. I won’t go to work as a cashier at a casino or sell lift tickets. I’m too damn old to go back to tromping around for the Forest Service, making trails and scaring off poachers. I’m a concert pianist. Not playing for people is killing me.”

“But since you had physical therapy, you’ve been able to play in the community orchestra. I thought you loved that.”

“I do, but it’s not enough. I built a reputation for fifteen years in Europe. I have six CDs. I have a following. There’s nothing to challenge me here professionally.”

He sounded confrontational. Nina felt herself heating up.

“I got this today.” He pulled out a letter and handed it to her.

She looked at it. “Swedish. What’s it say?”

“I’m invited to tour Scandinavia and Russia for four months with the Royal Swedish Philharmonic. Short notice, but they want me to sub for Bengt Forsberg. He broke his leg. The Bach pieces I already know.”

Memories of the two of them, young, swept through her mind. She remembered them kissing on a rotting porch at Fallen Leaf Lake and how much she had loved him, trusted him. She had felt abandoned and lost without him, a young, pregnant, unmarried woman.

We can do without you if we have to, she decided. “Roughly one hundred twenty days. A summer apart. We’ll be okay.”

“This offer could work into a full-time gig.”

“Wait a minute.” She paused to think about what to say. “You came here tonight to give up on our family? You’d do that?”

Kurt stood, got close to her, then put his hand on hers, a gesture so familiar it hurt. “You chose me for the wrong reasons. To be a father to Bob. To avoid other hard truths. Maybe you thought I’d fill in the part of parent you don’t do because you work so much.”

“Someone has to make a living. Someone has to support us!”

“That’s right, and you love it. I’m not criticizing. I love that about you, too. But see, you don’t love the same thing about me, that I also love my work and won’t give it up.”

“You won’t stay here and I won’t follow you. That’s the grand idea?”

“No.” He shook his head. “The insight here is that I don’t think you love me.”

Nina tried to say she loved him unconditionally and madly. Her mouth opened. She cleared her throat. Nothing came out.

He watched her try, waiting patiently as she struggled. “Bob will be fine. He knows how much we both love him. He’ll adapt. Tell him I’ll call tomorrow.” Kurt turned her so that he was facing her, then he kissed her on the forehead. “Think about what I’ve said. Let’s talk again soon.”

The sound of his old pickup made her run to the window and look out. Orion shone down like a brilliant number seven playing card on this moonless night, on snow piled roundly all across the yard. She drew the curtains, locked up, turned off the lights, and went upstairs. Peeking into Bob’s room, she said, “Kurt had to go. He’ll call you. How’s the Spanish?”

“Muy malo,”
Bob said, looking up from the Facebook wall he was writing on.

“Good night, Bob.”

“Did you fight?”

“We talked about how we both love you, and ‘that’s about the size, where you put your eyes.’” She sang a favorite childhood song of his. Then she couldn’t resist a compulsion to kiss him on the cheek. He used to smell of talc and baby oil, now he smelled of boy.

“Urk.”

“Sleep well. Love you.”

“Love you, too.” His reply, automatic though it might be, warmed her.

The evening called for a long shower, then a nightcap. Passing through her room en route to the bathroom, she looked at the case file on her bed, taken home to ready her for tomorrow’s work. Stripping off her clothes, throwing them on the floor, she changed course. Quick shower and then a pot of tea instead.

Kicking her shoes toward the closet, she thought about the young boy Sandy had dubbed Burglar Boy. He lived as she had in her youth, without consciousness, hurtling forward, too busy snatching at opportunities to give a thought or a damn about consequences. Hence Bob, the precious outcome of the most important mistake she had ever made, falling for Kurt that summer so long ago.

After her shower, she turned on her night-light and studied Burglar Boy’s paperwork. Yeah. The probation office was recommending time served. The judge wouldn’t go against that. The sentencing hearing would go smoothly. She plotted out her moves to get the kid off, hoping he would do good, not bad, in the future. That was out of her hands, however. Her job had been to earn him a second chance to be the innocent they all wanted him to be.

Eyes drooping, she ticked off her blessings.

Bob. Brother, Matt. His wife, Andrea. Their kids, Troy and Brianna.

Sandy and her family.

Her job. Her good health.

She pictured Kurt. Where did he fit in?

Angel or demon? Or both?

Paul? Same questions.

Nina clicked off the light and closed her eyes. Imprinted on the inside of her eyelids was an image: Jim Strong, murderer. He had
killed her husband and come after her and Bob. Some nights you never forget. The image of a handsome, empty, resurrected face disturbed her dreams.

He was dead. He had to be.

S
he called at ten on Tuesday morning while I was at work. “How about a quickie?”

Crude but effective; she was gorgeous. I was in love, and her roughness excited me. I laughed. “When?”

“Noon. Room 102. Ground floor of the new building. You can park practically at the door from the back parking lot.”

“You have until one?”

“I’ll make it feel like longer. Can you get away?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, you’re coming?”

“Yeah.”

A
s I drove into the half-full parking lot, I noticed only a couple of tour buses—there used to be a hundred. In April, when the skiing gets messy and a few boats are starting to come out on the lake, the doldrums come and the tourists do stay away, but this had been a remarkably poor season. The mountains behind me looked pristine from far away, but a closer look would show the runs had gone to slush. Dark clouds bellied in from Nevada, a hopeful sign. We could use one more blizzard before the skis schussed off for good.

I felt vulnerable, which was unusual for me. With ten minutes to wait, I didn’t want to stand at the door of the room and have people who might know me see me. I’m not great with words, so as I locked up and
leaned against the truck and pulled my baseball cap down low against the bite of the wind, I did some rehearsing.

I’d had shit for a life and a ton of disappointment. Now I needed to talk to her again about my plans. I was pretty sure this time she’d go along with everything, but then again, it’s hard to tell with women like her, who haven’t had it easy either, who don’t always live by the rules of the straight world.

Cyndi, I said to her in my mind, in my fucked-up life, nobody else has come close; that’s the truth. I love you. I want to give you the life you deserve. You didn’t understand last time when I tried to explain, but today you’ll change your mind.

Saying these things to myself, I felt touched enough to wipe my eyes. I could hardly believe I had it in me to fall this hard for anyone. I’ve never been in love before, though I’ve had plenty of women. It took a lifetime to learn that there’s a chasm between loving someone and being in love. Being in love is an uncanny thing.

I watched her walk from the main hotel in tall leather boots, all streaming hair and blowing coat. She saw me. We met at the door. I didn’t say anything or touch her while she inserted the card into the lock and swung the door open, because anybody in the lot could see us. We both took a long look in.

Everything as it should be: bed unmade, bottle stuck in the wastebasket with the cardboard remains of last night’s Thai takeout, lamp and heat left blowing energy. On the little table next to the window, a $20 bill for Housekeeping awaited plucking.

We rushed in together, shoulder to shoulder, and I kicked the door shut. Cyndi smiled, her mouth mischievous. She held up a finger. One hour until she had to be back at her job at the desk. One clear hour before the maid would come to clean the room. Cyndi would know that. Meantime, for this short space of time, the room was a free zone.

Cyndi threw off her coat, stuck out her tongue at me, ran into the bathroom, and slammed the door. I stripped, laying my clothes on the chair, then pulled up the cover and stretched out right on top. I put my
hands behind my head and thought about her, and, man, I started heating up. She came out wearing a blue bra and black tights, swinging and grinning. “What a beauty!” she said, looking at me, before she jumped on and straddled me. And we went at it.

Limber as a gymnast, she was light and sweet to taste and it went on and on, all kinds of moves. Not shy, Cyndi was an expert; she had danced with a lot of poles in her career. She liked a lot of energy from her partner and I gave it to her.

I gave it to her good.

A couple of my women I had loved with that respectful, law-abiding love that meant you couldn’t totally forget yourself in bed. Most I had slept with without feeling any connection. You have to keep a guard up; you have to calculate things, make sure she has equal time, fake things, lie. During my year with Cyndi, though, I had given her complete power over me and my lonely heart. She could make me cry. We didn’t ever have quickies. That was just her little joke.

She was the one.

Finished, we lay on our sides, me pressing against her back. I ran my hands up and down her, slow and calm, enjoying that dancer body, the curvy stomach of a woman who’d had kids.

“I could use a drink,” she murmured in a sleepy voice.

I handed her the half-pint of Martell cognac I had brought. She downed a good slug and handed it back. I powered down the rest.

She turned to face me, stroking fingers on my chest. “You are mine.”

“I am.”

She took another long minute or two to kiss me again. Then she breathed, “I’m sorry. I better—” She began to get up.

“Wait a minute.” I held on to her. “We need to talk.”

“Better spit it out then, sweet one.” She put a bare leg over me and got into a position where she could see the clock radio on the bedstand. “I have to go.”

“Do you love me, Cyndi?” That broke an unwritten rule because we only said that when we were right in the middle of it. “I need to know you do.”

“Ah, c’mon. You’re my sweetie, bad boy. Let’s not get technical,” she teased.