have fallen
out of his billfold as he’d left the garage—and carefully smoothed
it flat with his fingertips.
Hey, Germ.
He closed his eyes, imagining her again in
her hospital bed, so weary and weak, she’d seemed made of glass to
him, fragile and fading.
Hey, Bess, he’d replied, because as a
kid, he’d lisped; Bess had been as close an approximation as
he’d been able to get to Beth and the moniker had stuck,
even all of those years since his last speech therapy session.
“What is she, like a homecoming queen?”
Santoro asked from the doorway behind him. He hadn’t meant to leave
the door standing open, hadn’t realized that he had until she
spoke.
“She was Miss Alaska,” he said, opening his
eyes, looking down into Beth’s radiant smile. “Eight years
ago.”
“Wow.” Santoro spoke with an awkward edge to
her voice, as if she recognized she had officially become
intrusive, but couldn’t find a graceful way to excuse herself from
the situation. “You mean she competed in Miss America?”
“No. She got sick right after this picture
was taken. She couldn’t go.”
“Oh.” She laughed. “I thought that got you
brownie points or something with the judges.”
“She died.”
“Oh.” Her laughter cut short. “I’m
sorry.”
“Why?” He glanced at her, found her staring
at him, her dark eyes round, her brows lifted. “You didn’t kill
her.”
Santoro blinked, the softness in her face
abruptly hardening again. “No,” she said. “But that’s what people
say, you know, when they find out someone’s dead. It’s called being
nice.” Spinning smartly on her heel, she marched off. “You should
try it sometime.”
****
Suzette’s meatloaf turned out to be as good
as her fried chicken. The same could be said for the sex that
immediately followed. She didn’t stir as he eased his way out of
the bed some time later and redressed. The gin and tonic she’d
downed with her cigarette had only been a nightcap to top off the
countless shots of tequila she’d had in place of any food for
supper. His hangover from the night before had remained too fresh
in his mind for Andrew to have joined her, but this hadn’t deterred
Suzette in the least. And like the night before, she’d eventually
passed out, obliviously unconscious.
As he made his way to the front door, he
glanced toward the living room, half-expecting to see Alice sitting
in the shadows at the coffee table again, computing the square root
of pi. He was almost disappointed when he didn’t.
He carried his boots in his hand as he ducked
out of the apartment, not wanting to clomp too loudly across the
hardwood floor and disturb Alice or Suzette. Sitting on the top
step leading down to the main floor, he shoved his feet back into
the shoes, and cocked his head, listening to sounds of laughter
floating up to reach him.
He went downstairs and saw the lights on in
the rec room. The laughter emanated from here, along with the faint
sounds of music. Someone had fired up the jukebox.
Shit. The last thing he needed was for
the soldiers to catch him sneaking out of the Moore residence.
Failure to comply with these instructions
will result in your being arrested and charged with felony trespass
on government property. He could hear Prendick’s stern voice in
his mind.
Shit.
He thought about going back upstairs to the
apartment and laying low until the soldiers left. They were only
allowed an hour of free time in the evenings, two at most, so he
figured they wouldn’t be much longer in the rec room.
But then I’ll be risking getting caught if
Moore comes home early. Which would be worse, he wondered—being
busted by the good doctor, with whom he’d stand a snowball’s chance
in hell of staying out of jail? Or the soldiers, who at least might
be sympathetic to him, understanding that he’d been getting laid,
for Christ’s sake, not pilfering government secrets?
“Shit,” he muttered, moving forward, trying
to stick to the
out of his billfold as he’d left the garage—and carefully smoothed
it flat with his fingertips.
Hey, Germ.
He closed his eyes, imagining her again in
her hospital bed, so weary and weak, she’d seemed made of glass to
him, fragile and fading.
Hey, Bess, he’d replied, because as a
kid, he’d lisped; Bess had been as close an approximation as
he’d been able to get to Beth and the moniker had stuck,
even all of those years since his last speech therapy session.
“What is she, like a homecoming queen?”
Santoro asked from the doorway behind him. He hadn’t meant to leave
the door standing open, hadn’t realized that he had until she
spoke.
“She was Miss Alaska,” he said, opening his
eyes, looking down into Beth’s radiant smile. “Eight years
ago.”
“Wow.” Santoro spoke with an awkward edge to
her voice, as if she recognized she had officially become
intrusive, but couldn’t find a graceful way to excuse herself from
the situation. “You mean she competed in Miss America?”
“No. She got sick right after this picture
was taken. She couldn’t go.”
“Oh.” She laughed. “I thought that got you
brownie points or something with the judges.”
“She died.”
“Oh.” Her laughter cut short. “I’m
sorry.”
“Why?” He glanced at her, found her staring
at him, her dark eyes round, her brows lifted. “You didn’t kill
her.”
Santoro blinked, the softness in her face
abruptly hardening again. “No,” she said. “But that’s what people
say, you know, when they find out someone’s dead. It’s called being
nice.” Spinning smartly on her heel, she marched off. “You should
try it sometime.”
****
Suzette’s meatloaf turned out to be as good
as her fried chicken. The same could be said for the sex that
immediately followed. She didn’t stir as he eased his way out of
the bed some time later and redressed. The gin and tonic she’d
downed with her cigarette had only been a nightcap to top off the
countless shots of tequila she’d had in place of any food for
supper. His hangover from the night before had remained too fresh
in his mind for Andrew to have joined her, but this hadn’t deterred
Suzette in the least. And like the night before, she’d eventually
passed out, obliviously unconscious.
As he made his way to the front door, he
glanced toward the living room, half-expecting to see Alice sitting
in the shadows at the coffee table again, computing the square root
of pi. He was almost disappointed when he didn’t.
He carried his boots in his hand as he ducked
out of the apartment, not wanting to clomp too loudly across the
hardwood floor and disturb Alice or Suzette. Sitting on the top
step leading down to the main floor, he shoved his feet back into
the shoes, and cocked his head, listening to sounds of laughter
floating up to reach him.
He went downstairs and saw the lights on in
the rec room. The laughter emanated from here, along with the faint
sounds of music. Someone had fired up the jukebox.
Shit. The last thing he needed was for
the soldiers to catch him sneaking out of the Moore residence.
Failure to comply with these instructions
will result in your being arrested and charged with felony trespass
on government property. He could hear Prendick’s stern voice in
his mind.
Shit.
He thought about going back upstairs to the
apartment and laying low until the soldiers left. They were only
allowed an hour of free time in the evenings, two at most, so he
figured they wouldn’t be much longer in the rec room.
But then I’ll be risking getting caught if
Moore comes home early. Which would be worse, he wondered—being
busted by the good doctor, with whom he’d stand a snowball’s chance
in hell of staying out of jail? Or the soldiers, who at least might
be sympathetic to him, understanding that he’d been getting laid,
for Christ’s sake, not pilfering government secrets?
“Shit,” he muttered, moving forward, trying
to stick to the
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