She slept peacefully in his arms as dawn crept into the win-window. The flu, which had gripped her these last days, was fading quickly and again, she was the pain in the ass he’d grown accustomed to. She was a paradox who became, with time, not simpler but more complex. Her exquisite face, thickly lashed eyes and sensuous mouth became even more beautiful; her capricious moods, if irritating, became even more intriguing. He wrestled with this paradox as the sun finally opened her eyes.
The kiss that followed was as fresh and sweet as all those before it, bridging the time since the last one — before those terrible days of danger, cold and sickness. Her slender arms clung to him with the hunger, not of days, but of a lifetime. And with an equal desire, he imagined the kisses that might have filled those days had she not been ill - kisses that couldn’t be responsible for the poison creeping over him now. No, it wasn’t kissing over which the germs of hell had crawled, but the dank quarters of endless trailers and abandoned buildings.
He just had time to dash to the toilet and sink to the floor before the vomiting began. Over and over he convulsed, until the stench filled his nostrils and the vileness choked his throat. The world spun painfully.
“Tyler, you’re on fire!” Mayson’s fingers suddenly pressed against his forehead. Running cold water over a cloth, she swabbed his face and then the vomit-stained toilet. “Men are such babies,” she said, filling the cup with Emetrol and holding it under his nose. “Drink this, and let’s get back to bed.”
He gulped her anti-nausea medicine and the thick, warm liquid soothed his throat; hopefully it would do the same for his stomach.
She noticed the sickly green shadow that had crept over him. He’d get worse before getting better, and the only thing to do was let it pass. “Come on,” she said, grabbing his arm and leading him back to bed.
“It’s so... cold!” His teeth chattered.
She jumped back out to turn up the furnace, returning with an extra blanket. “Tyler, I’m so sorry I gave you this,” she said, and she wrapped herself around him. “But don’t worry, I’ll take as good care of you as you did to me. Now get some sleep.”
He did, fitfully, burning one minute, chilled, the next. The Emetrol effects faded and nausea gripped him again. Dashing to the bathroom, he wretched until his gut emptied, and blood flecked his vomit. His head was spinning, and he doubted that he’d make it back next time.
But he did. As did she, hobbling, coaxing, washing his face, giving him more Emetrol. Her tender care was rewarded with his childish whines; her patience, with his curses. “Amore mio, you’re such a baby. What would you do without me?”
The question echoed through the fog; it was one he couldn’t answer, and wouldn’t have to. They were trapped like rats on the coast of Lake Superior. It was just a matter of time until they were smoked out. They couldn’t count on another miracle. There were no Halos in Wisconsin.
Again, she bathed his feverish skin. “Can you eat yet?” she asked. It was night again, a fire was flickering in the hearth, and the furnace was rumbling. Yet the sheets were like ice. He couldn’t get warm — or eat.
“How about a banana?” she asked. “I went up to the inn this afternoon. You were right — the kitchen’s fully stocked.”
He pulled the covers around his neck. “How can I eat when my stomach won’t sit still long enough to digest it?”
“I was so hungry I made a bowl of tuna salad. I even made hard-boiled eggs and added mayonnaise.”
“Do you know how disgusting that sounds?”
“Yes, I do.” She stroked his hair. “I’ve been there, bought the T-shirt. Just one banana — it’s full of potassium.”
“No,” he said, rolling away.
Greasy globs of mayonnaise and rancid tuna swirled in his dreams, and again he paid homage to the Toilet God. “There’s nothing left in my gut but blood and lining,” he moaned.
Still bundled up, her cheeks glowed from the arctic air. “I went back to the inn, and guess what? More Emetrol... and this.” She lifted a banana from her pocket.
In disgust, he rolled away again. Then he felt guilty; she’d suffered the same agony, without a warm bed. And with far more adversity: a broken leg, bruised ribs, deep snow and icy trailers. Yet she’d never complained. “You’re right. I am a baby. I just can’t deal with this shit.”
“Maybe not,” she nodded. “But you can deal with so much more. Like me, for instance.” She put his hand to her chest. “Can you feel it?”
“An apple?”
“The vibrations, you dope! When the heart vibrates, it means the songbird is singing.” But her eyes became grave. “I turned on the news at the inn. Travis Culpepper resigned.”
Meaning their last link to the world had now been severed. With Longbridge alienated, they had neither evidence of the conspiracy nor an audience, if by some miracle, they discovered any evidence.
“We still have Vernon’s story,” she said, groping for optimism.
“His account is purely circumstantial. Standing alone, it’s worthless. What we need is that damn chest.”
“So where do we start — Dale Markham?”
“He’s the one who turned it over to Morris. But how can we contact him, without risking exposure?”
“Even if we could,” she said, “haven’t the Feds already pumped him for all he knows? Still, we have to assume they don’t have the chest. What makes you think we can find it?”
“Because it’s our only hope.”
“Then let’s give it our best shot. Which means getting you well.” She gave him more Emetrol for his nausea, some Tylenol for his fever and, over his whining, a banana. “Now go to sleep,” she ordered softly.
It was a restless slumber, in which patrol cars rushed from the darkness in an endless stream. Black choppers, like bats, menaced the sky. Dark-suited Feds, with the same stony glares, marched towards the cabin. He was motionless, when he should be moving; his mind was paralyzed, when it should be calculating. Mayson screamed, yet he couldn’t react...
Shivering, he woke to the icy sheets and the black wilderness in the window. Then, like a tidal wave, the nausea rushed over him. He streaked to the bathroom.
As he heaved more bloody spittle, she thumped from the darkness like she had each time before. She washed his face and gave him more Emetrol. Slumped over the toilet, he moaned, “Just shoot me, all right?”
“Please, amore mio, have patience.” She dabbed his mouth. “Now, let’s get back to bed.”
Getting him situated, she started a fresh fire and returned. “So, little boy.” She settled his head in her lap. “Would you like a bedtime story to make it all better?”
“Chapter Two. You promised.”
Yes, she had. And if he was entrusted with her life, wasn’t he also entitled to know it? Even the parts never told before? His interest had deeply touched her. But now she wanted to know its nature. Did it rest in their friendship? Or had she become his rehabilitation project? His good deed?
“Like Papa had left, Santa did, too,” she began. “The moment he was eighteen and no longer subject to Mama’s control. We were lucky to see him on Christmas, and those rare occasions when he popped in drunk, boasting about what a big shot he was in the Bertolucci family, and all the money he was making. But did we ever see a dime? Santa was a bum, which made Stephen shine even brighter in my eyes.”
“Stephen was a boyfriend?”
“For so long, Stephen was everything.” She smiled sadly. “And then nothing. We’ll get to him later, all right?”
“Tell me about your other brother.”
Idly, she coiled his thick hair around her finger as she drifted back to a world that had never seemed farther away. “Vinny was sweet, but irresponsible. A great-looking guy, but not too much upstairs, if you know what I mean.
“After dropping out of school, he washed dishes at an Upper East Side club, eventually landing a waiter’s position. With his looks and charm, he was an instant hit with the ladies, many of whom I suspect he was sleeping with. Vinny wasn’t a bad person. He just didn’t always think clearly. The little boy in him wanted to please everybody.
“Shortly after his twenty-first birthday, we learned that he’d pleased the wrong woman. He was working at an expensive club in the Hamptons, and she was the wife of a club member who was running for Congress.
“When they were caught in the caddy shack one night, she started screaming and clawing, as if he’d forced her rich buns to the floor. We got a call later, informing us he’d been arrested for rape.” She sighed. “We couldn’t afford bail, much less a lawyer. Finally the judge appointed one, who met with us at the jail. When Vinny confessed the affair, he said, to our shock, that it didn’t matter.
“‘How can the truth not matter?’ we asked, to which the lawyer replied, ‘Because this woman’s husband is a very powerful man who can’t be made to look foolish. Especially when he’s running an expensive campaign for Congress.’
“‘But the people at the Club!’ Vinny cried. ‘They’ll testify about the affair.’
“‘Don’t count on it,’ he smirked, as if we were stupid. Then he advised Vinny to plead guilty in exchange for a lenient sentence he was confident could be negotiated.
“When Vinny refused, the case went to trial and, as the lawyer predicted, the people who knew of the affair denied it. Witnesses testified that Vinny had forced himself on the woman that night. Then she swore tearfully to the same lies. By the time he took the stand, the jury had already convicted him. You could see it in their eyes. They took less than an hour to reach a guilty verdict.
“So he was shipped off to Attica to begin serving a thirty-year sentence we knew he wouldn’t survive. And he didn’t. Three months later, we learned that he’d hanged himself with electrical cord stolen from a supply room. Again, Mama’s heart broke. And mine hardened. I was beginning to see the world’s darkness and understand its unyielding laws.”
“Such as?”
“That truth is reality shaped by powerful men. Ambition and greed drive the system. Love and trust aren’t strengths, but weaknesses to exploit by the corrupt, the same as ignorance. Life is a chess game. You’re either a king or pawn. There’s no in between.”
He pondered these observations. Had he experienced what she had, he would have felt the same way. “I’m sorry, Mayson, but I’m also relieved to know these things.”
“Then is there a need to hear more?”
“I need to hear it all. How many chapters are left?”
“Two, I suppose – Mama, and Stephen. But they’ll have to wait. I want you to sleep now.”
What was the expression?
It came to Marty Kennesaw seconds later, as he gazed at the sleek, golden babes sunning in front of him. So close to heaven, yet so much like hell. Heaven was the crystal sky, the tickle of the balmy Caribbean breeze, the gentle glide of the mammoth cruise ship. It was realizing he had ten days left of fine food, Bacardi rum, and making no decisions greater than whether to hang by the pool or in the air-conditioned lounge below.
Hell was sharing this floating leisure palace with bikini-clad babes who bounced across the deck, splashed in the pool, lolled on soft towels... being so close to their smooth, coconut oil-scented skin that his mouth watered and his dick hardened with a sweet torture. Being so close, yet so far away. So far, they were unreachable.
He’d spent Eastwood’s money on Panama shirts, madras shorts, Jantzen trunks, leather sandals and the fancy shades now resting on his nose. And for what? To be ignored by primo babes, like the two sunning at his feet? Sipping piña coladas, they whispered and giggled, unaware of him even though he’d introduced himself an hour ago.
Gulping his daiquiri, he brooded over his empty horizons and Dutch’s infinite ones. The lucky bastard had latched onto Deanna Taylor just minutes after dropping anchor, and days later, was still banging the big-busted redhead, while he hadn’t gotten to first base. “Time for another,” he said. “How about you, ladies?”
The one with cascading auburn hair turned to swat him away. “No, thank you.”
Their conversation returned to its triangular pattern. Boston to New York to D. C. They’d been Radcliffe roommates before “Auburn” had gone to Harvard Law School and the sleek, honeyblond went to New York with her portfolio of pictures. “Auburn” was now a D.C. lawyer and “Blondie” was a fashion model.
They were equally beautiful, with stunning faces and long, angular bodies that, thanks to their dental floss bikinis, left little to the imagination. Glamorous, worldly, and educated, they were a planet away from Northwood. But hadn’t this cruise brought them closer, maybe even within reach? “What are you ladies drinking?” he tried again. “Piña coladas, I bet?”
“That’s right.” Blondie turned to swat him this time.
Without missing a beat, they returned to their triangular excursion. From Radcliffe to the fast-paced worlds of D.C. Law and Fifth Avenue fashion they glided, then giggled, as they landed on some sacred ground shared in their lives — a man of mythical attraction. “If that waitress doesn’t return soon, I’ll have to mosey down to the lounge. Would you ladies like another round – my treat?”
“That’s sweet Monty, but no thanks,” Blondie replied.
“Marty,” he corrected.
“The lounge is still a great idea,” Auburn said. “It’s air-conditioned. And they have TV and games. Go on, Marty, we won’t mind.”
“May just do that if the waitress doesn’t show up soon. In the meantime, I’ll catch a few more rays. This sun’s great, isn’t it? Say, I’m from Wisconsin,” he said again. “My inn’s on Lake Superior. Forty rooms and ten cabins. I’m seriously considering adding a wing on it. Maybe ten more cabins.”
Auburn looked nauseated. Blondie pretended not to hear. And he pretended not to notice their lack of interest. “If you ladies ever get out my way, look me up. The Kennesaw Inn. I’ll give you free cabins for as long as you want to stay.”
Their silence became too heavy to ignore. And he’d run out of lines, anyway. Slumping back, he eavesdropped on their conversation. “If he had to be a criminal, at least it was a notorious one,” Blondie mused.
Auburn squinted against the sun. “Are you saying, Kelly, you honestly believe Tyler Waddill’s mixed up in a conspiracy to steal FBI records?”
“Listen, Darcy, he may have been ours for a few sweet minutes, but there’s a legion of women who can claim the same.”
“Your point being?”
“That if he can steal so many women’s hearts, why not a few government records?”
“Scoring with women is hardly the same as obstructing justice,” Darcy frowned. “Besides, he never misrepresented his intentions. I spent that first night in his Harvard Square apartment because I wanted to.”
Kelly had been forced to wait another year for her turn. “The way he looks at you — it’s like you’re the only woman on the planet. An illusion, you discover, when you’re coming out of your trance —after he’s slipped off. That’s deceitful, and therefore dishonest.”
“A non sequitur,” Darcy said, shaking her head.
“Please, you promised no legalese on this cruise.” Kelly became aware now of the leech’s slobbering eyes and turned to him. “Say Marty, the lounge might be a good idea. You’re getting a nasty case of sunburn.”
“The sun’s brutal down here,” Darcy added. “Nothing like Michigan.”
“Wisconsin,” he said. “And this sun ain’t nothing.”
“Even so,” she said as she tossed him a tube of suntan lotion, “I’d rub this on. You’ll be sorry if you don’t.”
“Great!” Kelly whispered. “Now we’ll have him all afternoon.”
“We would, anyway,” she said. “Besides, he’s harmless — I think.”
“So are flies,” Kelly said, watching him smear suntan lotion over his bony, lobster-red torso.
“So you ladies know that fugitive, huh?” he asked.
“Marty, it’s not nice to snoop. Don’t they teach you things like that in Wisconsin?” reprimanded Kelly.
“It’s not snooping when a person talks loud enough for you to hear.”
“I believe he has you on a technicality,” Darcy smiled. The waitress returned and Darcy ordered two piña coladas and another daiquiri for Marty. “Our friend here’s a Minnesota innkeeper,” she explained.
“Wisconsin,” he corrected again, as the waitress whisked off. “And thanks for the drink. Darcy, is it?”
“That’s right,” she nodded, and then introduced Kelly.
He returned to his earlier probe. “So Waddill’s hot stuff with the ladies, huh?”
“More like a legend,” she said wistfully.
A handsome guy for sure. Marty envisioned his picture on the news and that of his beautiful companion.
Kelly squinted at the bright sun. “So where are they now, Darcy — Minnesota or North Dakota?”
“There or Wisconsin. Maybe they’ve stayed at Marty’s inn.”
“I’d definitely remember that pair,” he said.
“They’re gorgeous, all right,” Darcy nodded. “With those stunning cheekbones and huge, dark eyes, Corelli could pass for Audrey Hepburn.”
“How about Waddill? Who does he look like?”
“Ryan O’Neal,” Kelly glowed. “Only a shade more handsome.”
“His hair’s a shade darker gold, too,” Darcy added. “And his eyes are bluer. I vote for a tall Brad Pitt.”
“He’s tall?” Marty asked. “The news just shows his face.”
“A lean, muscled six-three. Kind of a young Clint Eastwood.”
“So you’re changing your vote?” Kelly frowned.
Dark gold hair? Marty’s brain scratched suddenly. Tall, lean, Clint Eastwood. Could Waddill be his Eastwood? Wisconsin was in the tri-state region the fugitives were believed to be in now. And Eastwood had given him six hundred bucks for cabin #10 without even taking a look. Didn’t that show his desperation? “How are they traveling?”
“What difference does it make?” Kelly squinted.
Maybe a lot, he thought, recalling the truck leaving Lacey’s. He’d been packing the Trooper. Minutes later, Eastwood had mysteriously appeared at the inn.
“Supposedly, they’re jumping trucks like stowaways,” Darcy explained.
It was looking more like Eastwood by the second. If only he hadn’t been wearing shades. “Does either of you have a picture of Waddill? The one from the news isn’t too fresh.”
“Sure,” Kelly laughed. “Large, framed ones we carry everywhere.”
“Actually, I do have one,” Darcy said. “It’s of me, Tyler and the Chief Justice taken at a big bash on the Potomac.”
“When Falkingham arrived by helicopter?” Kelly asked.
She smiled. “He was drunk as a skunk, which Tyler said wasn’t unusual. When we greeted him on the Dearing’s lawn, someone snapped our picture. Tyler had this silly Safari hat on... here, let me show you.” She reached for her wallet.
Kelly’s eyes lifted as a man approached — a darker, better-looking version of Marty in his red Panama shirt, madras trunks and sandals. “Hey Dutch!” Marty said as he jumped up.
“Ladies,” Dutch grinned cockily.
In your dreams, clodhopper, Kelly smiled back.
Darcy, who’d found the picture, beamed, “Hi, I’m Nedda!”
“And I’m Wedda,” Kelly chimed. “Cute, huh? Nedda and Wedda. Kind of like Heckle and Jeckle.”
Dutch’s smile faded as he turned to Marty. “April’s feeling better. She wants you to join us this evening.”
Marty’s heart jumped. April was Deanna’s friend who’d been sick ever since leaving Miami —a real knockout with blond hair, dimpled cheeks and big blue eyes.
“You ladies don’t mind, do you?” Dutch asked.
“It’s a sacrifice, but we’ll manage,” Kelly replied. “April — what a beautiful name.”
Darcy fought the laugh tugging at her face. “Marty, you don’t plan to run off without taking our picture, do you?”
“Heck no!” he grinned. Grabbing his Nikon, he shoved it at Dutch, as half-naked Darcy and Kelly sprung up. “Damn if this isn’t my lucky day!” he said, wrapping an arm around each. Sick with envy, Dutch began snapping pictures. The memory stick was exhausted before Marty let him stop. Darcy retrieved her wallet. “Marty, do you still want to see Tyler’s picture?”
“I guess not.” He glanced at Dutch crossing the deck. “Hey, can I bring April around to meet you?”
“We’d be crushed if you didn’t,” Kelly said.
“Marty!” his brother shouted, “come on!”
“I gotta go,” he said, shuffling backwards. Grinning and waving, he scrambled off.
Kelly sighed. “Now that Forrest Gump’s gone, what do you want to do?” Flipping through Darcy’s pictures, she found the one of her standing between Tyler and Falkingham. Tyler’s Safari hat was rakishly angled for the camera. “You’re right,” she nodded. “With that hat, he’s definitely a young Clint Eastwood.”