Chapter 39

Bowman quivered with anticipation as he looked out of the 727's window at the tarmac. The aisle was filled with passengers jockeying for position, struggling with their carry on. He remained in his seat until the throng moved past then rose to retrieve his leather shoulder bag from the overhead compartment. He spotted Annie as he passed through the gate. When she saw him, her troubled look blossomed into a flushed smile. Tears welled in her eyes. She stood motionless as he made his way to her, their eyes locked. She held out her hands to him. He took them in his own hands and raised them to his lips, brushing them with a kiss, then squeezed them gently as he lowered them. They faced one another, a breath apart. She whispered, "Hi!".

On the way to the baggage claim, she stayed slightly ahead of him. He kept his hand on the small of her back. She trembled, and tossed a glance at him. He did not see the tears she quickly wiped away.

He waited as she took the left seat in the rear of the cab. He noticed that she maintained a slight distance, but situated herself closer to him than the door. He reached over and patted her thigh and studied her face. Her eyes spoke volumes in welcome and longing and elation. His hand laid there. Once the driver turned his attention to the traffic, she moved his hand between her knees and shuddered visibly while keeping his hand in place, stroking it. She talked garrulously though a quiver. He wished away the ride.

When they arrived at her room, she went straight to the bathroom. The scotch and ice were on the dresser waiting for him. He washed his hands and made them both a drink, handing her one as she walked by and went across the room to a chair. He sat at a writing table and turned toward her. In silence they sipped their drinks and stared warmly at one another. Then she broke the silence.

"Did you come here to sit and stare at me?"

"No."

"Well, why don't you come over here." She held open her arms.

"No, you come here," he almost whispered.

She rose, then he rose in response. She walked into his arms and lay her head against his chest, then lifted her lips toward his. He kissed her lightly, then fully. Finally, she returned her face to his chest and sighed deeply. He stroked her hair and whispered, "I've missed you."

She turned to the chair where she had been sitting and slowly removed her blouse and bra and draped them over the chair. She stepped out of her heels. Her dark maxi skirt fell around her ankles. She wore no panties or hose. He caught his breath as she turned and posed. He had forgotten how perfect her breasts were, how riveting the scarlet/pink nipples and golden bush.

"Do I look the same?" she murmured.

"No, you look better. Absence from me improves you."

"Bull," she answered. "John, do you still feel the same?"

"No, my feelings are deeper and stronger. Any doubts I may have had, no longer exist."

She moved back to him and busied herself removing his shirt, then his trousers and briefs.

"Do I look the same?" he asked, mimicking her.

"No," she answered, coming closer and closing her hand gently around his member. It swelled. She smiled and looked up to his eyes. "Now you do,"

She threw back the bedspread, then lay on her side facing him and reaching out for him. He moved quickly and met her open lips.

That night their lovemaking was extended, slow and gentle. Awaking the next morning, he kissed the back of her shoulder. She wiggled against him. He pulled her tight against him. He felt her shudder as she turned toward him. Thursday was a slow and aimless day for him. While Annie attended a training session, he took repeated walks, drank coffee and stared with disinterest at a newspaper, treading water, waiting for Annie. She returned from the hospital, tired. He was wired. She pushed herself; he restrained himself. Not great, but good, definitely good.

Spending Friday without Annie was again a bummer. He considered Baltimore a beautiful and vibrant city. It wouldn't have mattered if he was in Baltimore or Paris. He didn't come to tour the city, but to be with her. He had never lived in a metropolitan area and did not feel at ease there. Not uneasy, just not at ease. He normally enjoyed watching people. It seemed to him that the anonymity resulting from the dense population encourages diversity and allows for greater freedom of personality. He loved characters and normally enjoyed appreciating their antics from a distance. But he couldn't seem to be able to get into the spirit of the city. He really just wanted to be with Annie. Bowman fully realized that he was being selfish and ungrateful and even that his attitude was counter-productive. He placed an unfair burden on her. What he longed for was for them both to be back on the Gulf of Mexico to begin the process of settling. He understood all these things and the dynamics involved, but it didn't change his mood. He was bored. It was his own fault, but he was still bored.

For weeks, hundred of miles away from her, he was content to sit alone on a balcony. Here with her, in a city filled with distractions, he couldn't get involved or entertain himself for even a few hours. Irritated at himself, he grinned at the thought that he was acting like a teenager. Why not, he thought. I feel like a teenager. So went his afternoon.

There is something about Friday evenings. Why is it the tiredness evaporates with the prospect of weekends. Annie was back with an elfin gleam in her eye. They were to join some of her nurse friends for dinner. She took him up on his offer to scrub her back. The world was a wonderful place again.

Things had not gone well for Flint. He was increasingly irritated with himself for what he perceived as his personal failure to capture the fugitive. The frustration was constantly gnawing at him. Captain Aubrian recognized it in him and, after a lecture, sent him home on Thursday afternoon with the instruction not to return to work until Monday morning. "Forget this nonsense," he warned.

Eunice Flint was surprised to return home and find her husband waiting. When he told her he was taking a long weekend, she was delighted and quickly arranged for her daughters to visit with friends. She made dinner plans and suggested that they visit his mother for a couple of days. She reasoned that the combination of his mother's adoration and down-home cooking usually settled him. While Eunice was not an outdoors person, she would agree to tromp through the woods with him because it gave him so much pleasure to point out animal life she never would have spotted, and to tell her the boring history of every nook and cranny.

She would wish a thousand times that she followed through on her plans. Eunice had a fiery and impulsive nature. Her emotions and passions were always close to the surface. When she shared her plans with her husband, he acceded, but with little enthusiasm. She reacted angrily and attempted to shame him out of his mood. It did not work this time. She cooked supper with a high flame and with often slammed cabinet doors and banged pots and pans. The meal was silent. He looked down at his food while she stared holes in his forehead. After supper he went to their bedroom to sulk. She left the dishes to soak while she fumed and watched television programs she could later not recall.

It was her nature to flare quickly and to recover almost as quickly. Eunice found her husband in bed, laying on his side facing the opposite wall. His eyes were closed, but she knew he wasn't asleep. She quietly removed all her clothing and slid into a slinky satin nightgown, then slipped into the bed and pressed the length of her body close to him. She was surprised when she got no reaction. It had always worked before. She kissed the side of his neck and asked in a whisper if he was awake.

"Yes," he answered in his usual deep, guttural voice.

"I'm sorry I flew off the handle. I just don't know how to deal with you when you're like this," she said softly, then licked his earlobe.

He crossed his arm over her body and caressed her buttock. "It's not you, it's all me. I know that. It's something I have to come to grips with, and nobody can deal with it but me. Just be patient for a little while and I'll work it out."

"Do you want to go to yo' mama's?" she asked.

"Maybe later. The way I am now would just upset her, too. What I need to do is just go out in the woods and scout for deer signs and trails. I'll have to do that anyway before huntin' season and that'll get me out of your hair."

"You're not in my hair," she answered coquettishly and again kissed his earlobe.

He again patted her buttock and replied: "You know what I mean."

"Do you want me to fix you somethin' to take with you to eat?" she asked softly.

"No, I'll just pick up some snacks along the way," he pulled tenderly against her buttock, closing the conversation.

Eunice murmured: "Okay," and turned away.

Flint arose before first light and took his camouflage clothing to the kitchen to dress. Before putting on his boots, he crept quietly back to his closet for his hunting vest -- which contained a supply of shells, and his twelve gage shotgun.

He arrived at the country store alongside the swamp as dawn was breaking. The owner was just making his way from his house to open the store. Flint identified himself and asked if there had been anymore break-ins. The owner said "Thankfully" there had been none, but the whole episode had ruined his bait business, and he had found himself unable to sleep since that night.

Flint purchased several slices of souse, four cellophane packages of crackers and obtained the man's permission to leave his car parked near the store. The sun was still low over the horizon. It was foggy and a layer of mist settled at the level of his knees. He walked directly into the edge of the swamp and stealthily made his way from cover to cover, always on the alert, scanning the undergrowth, making every use of the terrain to conceal his approach.

He was an experienced deer hunter and, despite his height and large feet, was adept at quiet movement. The going was slow and his senses were working overtime. He stopped and breathed deeply, trying to exhale quietly, but needing to lose some tension. Then he thought about the souse, that spicy concoction of ground pork, garlic and other spices. He was suddenly hungry. He selected a scrub oak near a lagoon. By now the sun was breaking through the fog and mist. He scraped dead leaves away from the the trunk and sat down on the spot he deemed to be the driest one around. He pulled the souse from the pouch on his coat, but before he unwrapped the noisy white paper, he lay the shotgun across his lap, just in case. The aroma of garlic and other spices in souse is pleasant and slight, but it quickly caught the attention of the tall, grotesque looking man for whom Flint had been searching. His eyesight and sense of smell were accentuated, compensating for his other disabilities. It did not take the man long to catch sight of Flint atop a rise, sitting back against the trunk of a tree, eating. The man slipped quickly back to his lair where he sifted through his belongings and chose a heavy oak logging equipment handle he had stolen during his burglary of the store. Then, he returned to the place of concealment, a tangle of wild grape and honeysuckle vines. His face was contorted with hate.

His meal finished, Flint stood up slowly, using his gun as a crutch. His leg had gone to sleep. He shook his head, realizing that he wasn't all he once was. Stretching to his full 6'3" height, he looked in all directions, noting that a wind was growing from the south and clouds suggested the possibility of a thunderstorm. He decided enough was enough. He had taken enough chances and would make his way back to the store. Unknown to Flint, circumstances were no longer in his favor. He was under the surveillance of his prey who was concealed and had no need for movement. Consequently, there would be no cries of alarm from animal or bird life to alert Flint. The growing breeze at his back which would limit chances of detecting his adversary's strong body odor. Flint walked quickly at a crouch, retracing his steps on the sandy trail wending its way between the heavy undergrowth on either side. He caught the odor at the same instant he heard a grunt behind him. He started his turn bringing his shotgun into firing position, but he was too slow. The heavy handle struck the back of his head and he immediately fell, face first to the ground. The attacker stood over his back in an ape like stance, raining blow after blow to the back of Flint's skull. Grunts turned into rapid, frantic squeals. The blows continued as the wound broadened spreading blood and brain matter over the sandy trail.

As suddenly as it began the attack was over. Quiet returned. Ants appeared from nowhere and competed with the absorbing sand for the residue.