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Authors: James Lepore
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heartbeat, which was steady and strong. He wrapped his arms around her and again drew her to him, but she gently resisted so that she could face him, looking up, as at six feet or so he was taller than her by at least a head. Her last lover had been a boy of twenty-four. Here was a man in full, still only in his early forties, but with a hardness in his eyes that spoke of a disdain for life, for the mere years that are given men. No man, except for her father, had ever had or acquired the slightest power over Megan Nolan. The thought of ceding it to Lahani was suddenly quite erotic, causing her to involuntarily press against him, confused at first and then made slightly dizzy by the wave of desire that swept over her as she felt his very large erection against her abdomen. Pulling away, she smiled, regaining her composure, holding Lahani’s hand but keeping him at arm’s length.
“How long will you be in Marrakech?” she asked.
“Three or four days:”
“Will you show me the sights?”
“The sights? You mean tourist attractions?”
“Whatever you think might be of interest:”
“Leave it to me, Megan Nolan. You will not be disappointed:”
~8~
PARIS, JANUARY 3, 2004
“What were you doing in the tobacconist’s shop?”
“I went to see the gypsy fortune-teller next door:”
“I see. Why?”
“She was a friend of Megan’s.”
Nolan and Catherine were in the living room of Catherine’s apartment on Rue St. Paul in Paris” upscale Marais District. On a plush sofa, Pat sat naked from the waist up, his left arm wrapped at the bicep in gauze pads and hospital tape. Catherine had just finished washing and bandaging his superficial but very bloody wound. On the elegant coffee table between them sat a snifter of cognac and two codeine-based pain pills she had left over from her previous life when her husband was alive and she was struck blind every couple of months by migraine headaches.
Two oversized armchairs faced the sofa. Catherine sat in one and Pat’s flannel shirt and dark blue sweater—both with clean-as-a-whistle bullet holes surrounded by coagulated blood—lay on the other. These he reached over and plucked up, and then slowly fumbled into while Catherine watched. The beauty and obvious strength of his arms and chest, and even his abdomen, was enhanced rather than diminished by the awkwardness of his movements, evoking in the policewoman a strange feeling of despair. She studied the large American’s chiseled face, his eyes giving away nothing, as he finished off his cognac in one long sip and returned the empty glass to the table. His hands, she realized—burnished like loved and well-used tools—were more revealing of his character. Though she did not have the legend, she was sure they were the road map to his soul. At one time she had believed that the quest to access the soul was the journey that all human beings were on. But that was before she had killed her husband by wishing him dead. How odd that a pair of human hands, hands possibly belonging to a man who was acting in aid of a terrorist cell, would remind her that her despair was turning to self-pity.
“What are those pills?” Pat asked.
“Codeine, for your pain:”
“I won’t need them:”
“What did the gypsy tell you, Monsieur Nolan?”
“Pat:”
“Pat:”
“Why did you leave that dead guy in the park? You’re an officer of the law.”
“I saw the one speak to you. What did he say?”
“Who were you following, them or me?”
Catherine watched as Pat rose abruptly, pulled off his sweater, threw it onto the sofa, and walked over to one of the three tall windows that took up most of the nearest living room wall. Opening it halfway, he stood still for a second or two, breathing, seeming to look at his reflection in the darkened window. Catherine felt the cool winter air as it wafted into the room in her direction.
“How long will you be in Marrakech?” she asked.
“Three or four days:”
“Will you show me the sights?”
“The sights? You mean tourist attractions?”
“Whatever you think might be of interest:”
“Leave it to me, Megan Nolan. You will not be disappointed:”
~8~
PARIS, JANUARY 3, 2004
“What were you doing in the tobacconist’s shop?”
“I went to see the gypsy fortune-teller next door:”
“I see. Why?”
“She was a friend of Megan’s.”
Nolan and Catherine were in the living room of Catherine’s apartment on Rue St. Paul in Paris” upscale Marais District. On a plush sofa, Pat sat naked from the waist up, his left arm wrapped at the bicep in gauze pads and hospital tape. Catherine had just finished washing and bandaging his superficial but very bloody wound. On the elegant coffee table between them sat a snifter of cognac and two codeine-based pain pills she had left over from her previous life when her husband was alive and she was struck blind every couple of months by migraine headaches.
Two oversized armchairs faced the sofa. Catherine sat in one and Pat’s flannel shirt and dark blue sweater—both with clean-as-a-whistle bullet holes surrounded by coagulated blood—lay on the other. These he reached over and plucked up, and then slowly fumbled into while Catherine watched. The beauty and obvious strength of his arms and chest, and even his abdomen, was enhanced rather than diminished by the awkwardness of his movements, evoking in the policewoman a strange feeling of despair. She studied the large American’s chiseled face, his eyes giving away nothing, as he finished off his cognac in one long sip and returned the empty glass to the table. His hands, she realized—burnished like loved and well-used tools—were more revealing of his character. Though she did not have the legend, she was sure they were the road map to his soul. At one time she had believed that the quest to access the soul was the journey that all human beings were on. But that was before she had killed her husband by wishing him dead. How odd that a pair of human hands, hands possibly belonging to a man who was acting in aid of a terrorist cell, would remind her that her despair was turning to self-pity.
“What are those pills?” Pat asked.
“Codeine, for your pain:”
“I won’t need them:”
“What did the gypsy tell you, Monsieur Nolan?”
“Pat:”
“Pat:”
“Why did you leave that dead guy in the park? You’re an officer of the law.”
“I saw the one speak to you. What did he say?”
“Who were you following, them or me?”
Catherine watched as Pat rose abruptly, pulled off his sweater, threw it onto the sofa, and walked over to one of the three tall windows that took up most of the nearest living room wall. Opening it halfway, he stood still for a second or two, breathing, seeming to look at his reflection in the darkened window. Catherine felt the cool winter air as it wafted into the room in her direction.
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