Darkfall

such a fiercely bright shade of green that they didn't seem real, yet he saw a very real longing in them.

Another kiss. This one was harder than the first, hungrier.

Then she pulled back from him. Took his hand in hers.

They walked out of the kitchen. Into the living room.

The bedroom.

She switched on a small lamp with an amber glass shade. It wasn't bright. The shadows retreated slightly but didn't go away.

She took off her robe. She wasn't wearing anything else.

She looked as if she were made of honey and butter and cream.

She undressed him.

Many minutes later, on the bed, when he finally entered her, he said her name with a small gasp of wonder, and she said his. Those were the first words they had spoken since he had put his hands on her shoulders, out in the kitchen.

They found a soft, silken, satisfying rhythm and gave pleasure to each other on the cool, crisp sheets.

VI

Lavelle sat at the kitchen table, staring at the radio.

Wind shook the old house.

To the unseen presence using the radio as a contact point with this world, Lavelle said, “Should I have his children murdered now, tonight, without further delay?”

“Yessss.”

“But if I kill his children, isn't there a danger that Dawson will be more determined than ever to find me?”

“Kill them.”

“Do you mean killing them might break Dawson?”

“Yessss.”

“Contribute to an emotional or mental collapse?”

“Yessss.”

“Destroy him?”

“Yessss.”

“There is no doubt about that?”

“He lovessss them very muchhhh.”

“And there's no doubt what it would do to him?” Lavelle pressed.

“Kill them.”

“I want to be sure.”

“Kill them. Brutally. It musssst be esssspecccially brutal.”

“I see. The brutality of it is the thing that will make Dawson snap. Is that it?”

“Yessss.”

“I'll do anything to get him out of my way, but I want to be absolutely sure it'll work the way I want it to work.”

“Kill them. Ssssmasssh them. Break their bonessss and tear out their eyessss. Rip out their tonguessss. Gut them assss if they were two pigssssfor butchhhhering.”

VII

Rebecca's bedroom.

Spicules of snow tapped softly on the window.

They lay on their backs, side by side on the bed, holding hands, in the butterscotch-colored light.

Rebecca said, “I didn't think it would happen again.”

“What?”

“This.”

“Oh.”

“I thought last night was an… aberration.”

“Really?”

“I was sure we'd never make love again.”

“But we did.”

“We sure did.”

“God, did we ever!”

She was silent.

He said, “Are you sorry we did?”

“No.”

“You don't think this was the last time, do you?”

“No.”

“Can't be the last. Not as good as we are together.”

“So good together.”

“You can be so soft.”

“And you can be so hard.”

“Crude.”

“But true.”

A pause.

Then she said, “What's happened to us?”

“Isn't that clear?”

“Not entirely.”

“We've fallen for each other.”

“But how could it happen so fast?”

“It wasn't fast.”

“All this time, just cops, just partners—”

“More than partners.”

“-then all of a sudden-wham!”

“It wasn't sudden. I've been falling a long time.”

“Have you?”

“For a couple of months, anyway.

“I didn't realize it.”

“A long, long, slow fall.”

“Why didn't I realize?”

“You realized. Subconsciously.”

“Maybe.”

“What I wonder is why you resisted it so strenuously.”

She didn't reply.

He said, “I thought maybe you found me repellent.”

“I find you irresistible.”

“Then why'd you resist?”

“It scares me.”