She snaked her legs outside his, first the right and then the left, and wrapped them around his waist. He was right. No matter how much she lifted, how fast she ran, how hard she rowed, she could never match him in upper body strength, not without a good dose of steroids or human growth hormones. Below the waist, however, it was a different story. She squeezed her thighs together, thinking about the 200 pounds she pressed when doing her adductor work. Jonathan weighed 175, 180 tops. Unlike a weight machine, he could exert force of his own.
'I've still got you pinned,' he gloated, enjoying her python act.
Tess, as much to her amazement as his, bit him on the wrist, breaking the skin. Shocked, he pulled his right hand away, which gave her the chance to roll on top of him.
'Still got that body?' she asked.
He nodded, liking this new game, the danger in it, the right amount of danger. She pulled his jeans down and lowered herself on him. She was in the position he had held a few minutes before-her legs straddling him, her hands pressing his shoulders into the bed. She held him there, making love to him, interested only in her pleasure. If Kitty was listening that night, she heard Tess's cries long before Jonathan's.
When they finished, Tess sent Jonathan to the kitchen to scavenge for provisions. As soon as he was gone, she hid the diskette in her desk, which locked. She supposed it was a bad sign be so skeptical of someone who had just left her bed. Then again, she knew him awfully well.
'All I found was white burgundy and Swiss chocolate,' he said upon his return.
'What more do you want?'
They munched distractedly, wrapped in private thoughts. Tess was longing to read Abramowitz's disk and hoped Jonathan would leave after he finished eating. But Jonathan, now that sex was past, seemed gloomy and depressed. She steeled herself for a late night, in which she would be expected to make lots of supportive, murmuring noises. To her surprise she had run out of them.
He sighed elaborately, her cue to start. 'OK, what's wrong?'
'I'm having more problems than I thought with that story. I haven't been able to fit all the pieces together.'
'What's it about, anyway? You wouldn't tell me anything last time-except that it was going to shake Baltimore to its foundations.' She laughed a little cruelly.
'It wasn't an exaggeration. This story's huge. But my source is getting cold feet. He's a real twisted fucker, Tess.'
'Nice way to talk about a source.'
'Hey, it's not just me. Everyone calls him that. It's practically his nickname. But he had a great story to tell. Now he wants money for telling it, and the
'How credible is he?'
'He's on Death Row for a crime he admits he committed, so he doesn't have much to gain. Except a little flurry of attention before he dies. Remember I told you I thought Thanos's execution changed the dynamic on Death Row? Well, it's not quite the way I imagined it. A lot of these guys don't want to play Avis to Thanos's Hertz. Nobody remembers number two. So this guy comes forward with a story about a crime someone else committed but got away with because he was rich and connected.'
'Someone local? How rich, how connected?'
'He won't tell me. He gave me all these tantalizing hints, but when I went to see him yesterday, he suddenly pops up with this request for $25,000.'
'What's a guy on Death Row going to do with $25,000?'
'I don't know. Give it to his mom, maybe, except he hates his mom. He just likes playing with people. The money is about leverage.' He sighed again. 'He is one twisted fucker.'
'Death Row, huh? But it doesn't have anything to do with Abramowitz? I guess that's possible-only three of the thirteen guys there were his clients.'
Jonathan grinned. 'OK, I misled you a little bit last time. Actually, though, it doesn't have anything to do with who killed Abramowitz. But this guy got in touch with me because he saw my stories on that case. I'm afraid, Tess, you're going to have to come to terms with the fact your buddy probably did it.'
'I think Tyner's going to have a lot to work with.'
'Tyner could recover the use of his legs during the trial, tell the jury it's because the defendant is really Jesus Christ, and it still might not be enough to get Paxton off. The only thing you've got going for you is the innate hostility Baltimore juries harbor for the state's attorney's office.' He grabbed her wrist, his voice suddenly husky. 'Then again, maybe you could slap the jury around a little bit. You've got a future as a dominatrix.'
But Tess, exhausted and drained, just lay back and let Jonathan lead the way.
Afterward, as Jonathan started to doze off, Tess whispered in his ear: 'You're not keeping me from the boat house tomorrow. The alarm goes off at five-thirty. You can leave with me or stay here.'
'Sick, very sick, this compulsion of yours,' he murmured. 'But I guess I'll go with you. Make sure I get up, OK? If I'm home by seven I can make bed check. Daphne likes to call early in the morning.' In seconds he was snoring, as Tess lay awake, realizing she had never heard his girlfriend's name before.
In late September, when the city was still under daylight saving time, mornings were quite dark. Traces of last night's fog lingered as Jonathan and Tess left through the back door and walked down the alley toward Bond Street and their cars.
The air was heavy and humid, like a wet fur blanket. Jonathan, in a fit of politeness, tried to hold Tess's hand. But she couldn't bear to feel someone else's flesh on such a damp morning, and she shook her hand loose from his grip.
They were almost to the street when, behind them, a car's engine came to life, racing madly. Tess turned to look for headlights, but there weren't any, just the sound of an engine revving. In silhouette it looked like one of those humpbacked old taxis, a Checker or a Marathon, but its motor sounded ferocious and souped-up. For a split second the car seemed to hesitate, like a bull readying its charge, then came straight at them.
Jonathan and Tess also hesitated.
Jonathan reacted first, bursting into action like someone breaking through the surface of a pool after a long swim underwater. He pushed Tess, hard, to the south side of the alley, stumbling to one knee as he did. His shove sent her a good ten feet, and Tess rolled into the bookstore's rough brick wall, skinning her knees and bruising her shoulder, scraping flesh from her palms. She flattened herself against the wall, covering her head with her arms as if it were an air raid drill. Then she struggled back to her feet, trying to get her bearings.
She saw Jonathan first. His jeans were ripped from where he had fallen, but he was up and running. He made it to Bond Street and was a few feet from a row of parked cars when the old taxi hit him. It seemed to rear back and take aim before it struck, catching him at hip level.
Like most reporters Tess had seen only the aftermath of accidents. In movies, people who get hit by cars fly effortlessly, lightly, like rag dolls. If they're heroes, they get up again. Jonathan was a more leaden target. Instead of flying through the air in a graceful arc, he looked like a sack of potatoes being thrown off a truck. He landed hard on the hood of some doctor's BMW, denting it. Tess waited for him to get up, assumed he would get up. He was a hero, he had saved her life.
The humpbacked car sped away, heading north on Bond Street. Tess stood in the alley, her back still flat against Kitty's store, her fingers trying to find a handhold on the brick. Her palms were skinned and bleeding, but she kept digging at the brick. A car alarm wailed, probably the BMW on which Jonathan rested. Lights came on, and people began running outside, pulling bathrobes around their skimpy, hot-weather sleeping outfits. Every house on the block seemed to empty. The car alarm wailed. People kept coming.
