“It’s just…I’ve always wanted to be able to give her so much more, you know? Since her mother died, there’s been such a hole. For both of us. And I think she’s tried to fill part of that for me.”
“As you’ve done for her.”
“That’s different. I’m her father. She’s a great companion, but she’s given up so much to be with me. I’ve always urged her to get out, meet new people. That’s why I gave her the place upstairs when she turned eighteen, so she could have her privacy. But she’s such a dreamer, always with her head in a book or tapping away at that computer.” He smiled in spite of his distress. “Or watching movies with her old man. She used to call them flick-tunes when she was a kid. ‘Hey, Dad. Wanna catch a flick-tune?’ I have no idea where she picked that up… And with all that money, I thought…I could stop worrying about her. She’s a bright girl, Lee, she doesn’t belong driving around in a truck. The money would’ve…”
“You’re right, little brother,” Lee said, stroking his brow. “She is a dreamer. That’s her nature and no one can change that. But she’s a talented dreamer. And a determined one. She’s young yet and she knows exactly what she wants from life. She got those things from you. A hundred million dollars couldn’t buy that for her. She’s going to be fine.”
“I hope you’re right…” He was beginning to nod off.
“Of course I am.” She bent and kissed him on the forehead. “You rest now. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
But Keith was already fast asleep.
* * *
Hicks waited outside the locker room door until he heard the bright hiss of the shower, then he crept back inside. He had a bad moment when a radio came on in there, blasting out “Gimme Some Lovin’” by the Spencer Davis Group, Raybould’s big voice singing along, amplified by the cavernous shower room. Cursing to himself, Hicks waited until he heard the splash of water off Raybould’s body, then he returned to locker 203.
He opened the door and slipped Raybould’s service pistol out of its holster. He pulled back fractionally on the slide, unsurprised to find a round already chambered. Working quickly, he unscrewed one side of the rubberized grip and inserted the remote transmitter, wedging it into the lower corner of the metal frame, the way Mayer had shown him. Then he replaced the grip, being careful not to score the black-painted screws, and returned the gun to its holster, the whole operation taking just over a minute. He left the steamy room in a hurry, the welcome coolness of the hallway air flooding his lungs.
Mayer was where Hicks had left him, one floor up in Internal Affairs, hunched over the surveillance receiver—a compact portable unit built into a stainless steel case the size of a carry-on bag—fiddling with dials and guzzling coffee.
Hicks said, “It’s done.”
“Excellent,” Mayer said. “Took you long enough. Any trouble?”
Hicks shook his head. “What’s the range on this baby again?”
“Five hundred yards, give or take.”
“See if you can pick him up.”
Mayer made a few adjustments, fine-tuned—and got Raybould’s voice, singing along to the radio in the shower.
The detectives traded smiles.
* * *
Steve looked up from Kate’s screenplay to watch her come in. She had a red wool toque on her head, snow crusted into the weave, and a couple of plastic grocery bags in her good hand. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold. He’d finished reading the script only minutes ago, rooted to the couch the whole time Kate was gone, flipping the pages as fast as he could read them. He couldn’t wait to talk to her about it.
Kate tossed her jacket onto a chair, getting snow all over everything, then walked over to stand in front of him, the grocery bags still in her hand, waiting.
“So?”
“Kate, this is fantastic. I’d go see this movie in a minute. I feel like I just did.”
“Really?” She set the bags on the floor and took off her hat, getting a strand of hair out of her face with a toss of her head. “It wasn’t too far fetched?”
“Not at all. I’ve always said there’s not enough good science-fiction out there. And your lead characters, the way you bring them together? I loved it. I had no idea they were going to be abducted by aliens.” He handed it to her. “It blew me away. So descriptive, and the dialogue’s really snappy.”
Kate gave him a smile. “Would you like to represent me?”
“I’ll pitch it to Cronenberg in the morning.”
She put the screenplay on the coffee table and plopped down beside him on the couch.
Steve said, “So how’d it go?”
“Well, I got my job back. Without belting him. Bugger didn’t even blink when I picked up the check.” She scratched absently at the snow frozen to her hat. “It’s really coming down out there.”
Steve nodded, hoping they’d be snowed in for a week. “Want to order out for pizza or something?” He’d lost track of the time reading and now he was starved. Eight-thirty already. Normally by this time he’d be scrounging around for an after-dinner snack.
Kate pointed at the grocery bags. “I thought I’d cook.”
“Even better,” Steve said, veiling a sudden apprehension. He was strictly a meat and potatoes man and dinner invitations always made him nervous. A Bahamian girl he’d dated briefly had cooked for him once, their second date, plunked a boiled kidney down in the middle of this big wooden plate. No vegetables, no starch, just this big wet kidney the color of a bruise. He’d poked at it a bit, then faked an attack of appendicitis and got the hell out of there. “What’s on the menu?”
“I make a mean spaghetti sauce.”
Steve smiled. “Sounds great.”
He got right in there and helped, chopping vegetables, showing off some of the knife handling skills he’d picked up in his teens working summers as a salad chef at a sidewalk café. Kate prepared the meat on the gas range behind him, Steve sneaking peeks at her backside in those snug jeans, the little gyrations it made as she stirred the hamburger in the frying pan. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her, couldn’t stay focused, his mind leaping forward into the evening ahead, playing out different scenarios, all of them in direct contrast to the awkward agreement they’d made earlier in Kate’s bedroom. His inattention ended in a cut finger, Steve letting out a surprised yelp when the stainless steel blade drew blood, startling amounts of it. Kate dressed the wound with a butterfly bandage, told him he was gonna live then kissed the tip of his finger.
They dined by candlelight, Eric Clapton providing the music, the “Unplugged” album, Steve toasting the cook with white wine decanted into stem glasses. The sauce was fantastic, the conversation relaxed, each of them offering anecdotes and opinions, testing their fit. Inevitably the subject of future plans came up and Steve went first, letting her know as subtly as he could that after his probationary year he could pretty much apply for assignment anywhere in the province.
That was when Kate dropped the bomb.
“If everything works out I’ll be moving to California in the fall. I’ve been accepted into the film school at UCLA.”
Goddam. Bullet through the heart.
Steve said, “Really?” trying to give it some zest. “That’s great.” The promising part, Kate seemed bummed about it too, the implications dawning on her as she said the words. “Maybe you could come visit,” she said and Steve said sure, he’d love to. They let it go at that, the whole thing too far in the future to dwell on now. After a third glass of wine and a second helping of pasta, Steve had pretty much put it out of his mind. They were here now, together, and that was just fine.
When they were done—hot apple pie and ice cream for desert, followed by coffee—Steve insisted Kate relax while he cleaned up, clearing the table, stacking the dishes in the dishwasher, scouring the big sauce pot and frying pan by hand. By ten o’clock they were downstairs in Keith’s living room, flipping through the video library.
Kate said, “How ’bout this?” holding up
Dirty Harry
, and Steve had to grin. They nestled together on the couch to watch it, Steve giving a running commentary, pulling Clint faces and putting Kate into stitches. When the movie was over, almost midnight before Harry capped the psycho with his magnum, Steve started thinking again about the sleeping arrangements.
Yawning, Kate said, “The couch upstairs all right for you? It’s a fold-out.”
Steve said, “Perfect.”
“My father said you could have his bed—”
“Couch’s good.”
“Then maybe we should turn in. I’m bushed and weather permitting, I’d like to get back on the road first thing.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty bagged myself,” Steve said. He manufactured a yawn that fell a bit shy of convincing. He’d’ve been just as happy to sit up with her all night, watching movies and talking. Sleep was the farthest thing from his mind.
Kate shut off the TV and led the way upstairs. Steve helped her make up his bed, then sat around in his jeans and undershirt waiting for his turn in the john. Kate came out after a quick shower in a silk brocade night dress the light shone through, handed him a bath towel and a new toothbrush, still in its package, and told him he could grab a shower if he wanted. He took the fastest shower of his life, toweled off, brushed his teeth and got back into his undershirt and jeans. He found Kate seated in front of her computer in the dark, pecking away at the keys.
“I had an idea for a story,” she said, looking up at him, the pale blue light from the monitor casting her in soft shadow.
“What’s it about?” Steve said, towering next to her in his sleeveless undershirt, the warmth of the shower still on him, rekindling his mild high from the wine.
She smiled. “It’s about a girl who can’t control herself.”
She turned off the computer and stood, Steve stepping back to give her room. Leading him into the living room now, to the fold-out bed, a subtle scent to her, clean and floral. Turning to face him in the low light, twisting a strand of hair around her baby finger, spun gold in the lamp light. Waiting.
Come on, dummy.
But he couldn’t move.
“Goodnight, Steve,” Kate said, rising on tiptoes to kiss him on the chin. “Thanks for a fun evening.”
“’Night,” Steve said.
She tilted her head, playing with her hair again, a sparkle in those green eyes. “See you in the morning,” she said and started away, lingering in the archway before disappearing, one hand sliding down the molding, a slow caress and then gone.
“See you in the morning,” Steve said.
He was a long time falling asleep.
* * *
Kate lay in the middle of her bed with her arms around a pillow thinking,
I’m a slut
. Had she really struck that cheap Marilyn Monroe pose in the archway just now? On purpose? Then hovered there out of sight for like what, five minutes? Listening to see if he’d taken the bait? Oh, God, then it
had
been on purpose. And that toothbrush, brand new in its package like she kept a dozen at the ready, you never knew who might spend the night. She wanted to go out there right now and explain—one of her friends was a dental hygienist, always bringing her stuff like that, toothpaste and floss, brushes and whiteners, samples the salespeople left. He was probably lying there thinking she had a selection of condoms waiting somewhere, too, all colors and sizes.
God, she was so clumsy at this stuff. Why did it have to be so hard?
But it was fun, too. The build-up. The anticipation. She’d caught him checking her fanny in the kitchen and had put a little more shimmy on it for him, liking the attention. She wanted him to notice her. Everything felt so right with him, it seemed almost ridiculous to be sleeping apart. Yet she’d known him barely forty-eight hours, the only thing preventing her from traipsing out there right now and snuggling in next to him.
She heard the creak of footfalls in the hallway and held her breath…but they stopped at the bathroom door, the light going on out there. A few minutes later the light went out and she heard him again, padding back to the living room.
Shit.
Kate turned on her side and hugged her pillow, her restless gaze touching every now and again on the luminous digits on the clock, chronicling the night’s slow passage.
* * *
She finally drifted off around half past two, waking abruptly three hours later, stiff but surprisingly rested. The first thing she did was look out the window. Not bad. Dense clouds, but no snow falling now. Not much accumulation, the streets already plowed. The worst of it must have given them a pass.
Anxious to get under way, Kate opened the linen closet in the hall, a narrow thing with a balky bi-fold door, hoping the noise would wake Steve. She dug out a fresh towel and went into the bathroom, slipped out of her night dress and yelped when a knock came at the door. She heard Steve chuckle in the hall.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. “I was just wondering, bacon and eggs okay for you? I noticed last night you’ve got some in the fridge.”
Standing there naked Kate said, “Sounds great. How long have you been up?”
“Half hour. I was trying out your stepper. You really work it at that kind of tension?”
Kate smiled, wondering what he’d do if she opened the door. “Buns of steel, baby.”
“Impressive,” Steve said, doing a really bad Arnold. “Go ahead and finish, then we’ll eat. That way we can be on the road by six-thirty or so, back at the hospital by eleven at the latest. How do you like your eggs?”
“Over hard and ugly.”
“I thought I was the only one.”
He served her in the kitchen by the corner windows, at an antique oval table that had belonged to her mother and Kate now used for a big hibiscus that flourished there in the sun. They sat in folding deck chairs Steve found on the landing to the back stairs, sipping pulpy orange juice and nibbling toast, each claiming to have slept like a baby. Kate said to leave the dirty dishes in the sink, but Steve rinsed them off and stacked them in the dishwasher, which he’d already cleared of last night’s dishes. They left the apartment in silence, sharing a kind of quiet melancholy, clumping down the stairs to the exit with the suitcases Kate had packed. Steve helped her clear the snow off her car—a ’96 Civic she’d bought used from a girl at work, dark gray, still in nice shape—and followed her out of town in the Cherokee. Kate drove slowly, checking her rearview at every stoplight to make sure she hadn’t lost him.