Slob

But staring down into the chasm couldn't accomplish much beyond giving one a migraine.

He had made sex with his lover. He couldn't think of it as making love because it didn't deserve that appellation. Once he'd heard two hillbilly types back home who had a memorable predilection for crudity of speech talking about getting laid. One of them turned to the other and mouthed the ultimate redneck phrase for fornication, a turn of phrase so gross that it had seared itself into Eichord's brain.

'Ah shore 'nuff dumped a fuck inner,' he'd said.

Jack shuddered as he thought to himself that was precisely what he'd done and nothing more. A kind of physical catharsis unrelated to love beyond the sense of desire. It was only a momentary cleansing and restorative to the nervous system. The kind of sex one had after death in the family. A defense mechanism. A release. A life- affirming knee-jerk response to pressure.

My God in Heaven, this woman could do it to him. Edie could take him and turn him around no matter where his mind was. He could be immersed in the bloodiest carnage of the Kasikoff homicides, his brain working overtime as he fought to tie into the wavelengths of this strange and horrible killer, strained to feel the nuances of the city's pulsebeats, concentrated on the subtle rhythms of the dark world that was his professional environment.

And inside the shadows of this world, deep inside where nothing human lived, the thought of her could light up his innards like a shaft of the purest, golden light. She was goodness to him. And her sweet and unexpected sexy ways could set him afire in the most unusual settings, and at unpredictable moments.

She stood with her back to him, stirring herbs into something, her hair as she turned swirling just as it had that day Chicago Lifestyles had taken the picture and he flashed on the experience of seeing the real and the photographed Edie simultaneously, the picture having been thumbtacked to a paper on their cork bulletin board, the photo trimmed and pasted with about a pound of mucilage to a neatly crayoned frame with the caption MOMMY AND JACK. Lee Anne's work, meticulously and lovingly rendered.

But it was a picture that had caused him to nearly go insane with rage when he saw it and the story that had gone with it. He'd said nothing to Edie about it, but he wondered if she suspected how he'd reacted when he saw the story. He wanted to guard Edie and Lee Anne. Shelter them, and keep this thing they had private. A clever woman reporter for Lifestyles had put two and two together and run the photo into a semileering piece about the supersleuth and the widow of the victim. There'd been a brief exchange with a woman named Vicki Duff whose name appeared as the byline. She had said he was overheated, he recalled.

'You're going to think I'm getting overheated when you find out what is legal to print and what is not. You're going to find yourself in a caldron of some extremely hot water, and you're not going to like it.' He was getting even more torqued as he heard her wise tone of voice.

'So you're implying that I broke the law by running that piece?'

'I'll let you know what I want to say to you in clear, understandable English. I think this is the height of irresponsibility for a journalist to run that sort of an unthinking, carelessly researched, insensitive piece of tabloid gossip in the middle of an investigation of this seriousness.'

'It wasn't carelessly researched and you know it. You're a public figure, Jack, and you might as well get used to it. The First Amendment gives me the right.'

'The First Amendment doesn't give you the right to put someone in a life-threatening situation by exposing them to unnecessary media attention just to sell papers. And not only is it irresponsible as hell, it may even be actionable. You have a right to put a fist in the air, but if it hits my nose, Vicki, that's battery. You also can't use the First Amendment as a shield for malicious gossip-mongering, defamatory misrepresentations of relationships done to hypo circulation, or— '

'If you've been slandered, you have the same recourse as any other citizen under the law, you can—'

'I know what I can do, and you know what you can do. I can see how very interested you are in being a conscientious reporter. But I want you to know you're skating on some thin and extremely hazardous ice. The bottom line is that— '

'I'm sorry, I don't have the time to listen to this, Jack. If you think I've misspoken in print, I'm sorry, but I didn't do anything other than report what I saw. Thanks for calling, and have a good day.'

And the line was buzzing in his ear. What was done was done. He shut it all out as he looked at her silky, lustrous hair. Downtown that day the wind had caught her lovely hair and swirled the tendrils around her face and he'd felt such an unabashed and deep pride that it had filled him like wine, making him drunk with her availability and sweetness and caring. He had never quite become accustomed to the fact that she was his. And as Edie stood there on those long, slim legs of hers, still in high heels, cooking, her back to him, those sleek legs—the backs of those beautiful knees so tantalizing below the short skirt (thank the Lord those were coming back in fashion again) and the little apron tied so demurely around her tiny waist—it was over-powering and wonderfully exciting. He wanted her again now as he sat there drinking her in, and he thought of this lady as so very beautiful indeed.

She turned and looked at him, saw him watching her in that way he had, with what she had called his smoldering eyes, so darkly attractive and serious and sexy, and she read his mind.

'Not before supper,' she teased, 'you'll have to wait and get your dessert at the end of the meal just like the rest of us.'

'Scandinavian peoples sometimes eat their dessert before the meal.'

'Well, we're not in Scandanavia at the moment.'

'Always quibbling about something.'

'Ummmm.' Some of the tendrils had worked loose again and it was getting to him. He stood up and walked over, moving up close behind her, snuggling up against this woman he cared so much for now, and encircled her small waist from behind, holding her against him.

She smelled so great, like—what was the fragrance? A combination of musk, fresh bread, and the sexiest perfume imaginable. He nuzzled against her neck and pressed himself into her.

'Oh, Jack.'

'Dessert, you say.'

'Ummmmm.'

'You're something else; you know that?'

'Jack.' She wasn't having any more of it right now. Something on her mind. And he watched her eyes harden with a question as she turned.

'Yeah. What?'

'The man.'

'Huh?'

'The man.'

'What man?'

'You know—who—who he is and everything.'

'Umm. More or less.'

'Do you, uh, have a picture of him?'

'Ung.' He nodded halfheartedly.

'Do you think—' She let the question hang there in the air. The kitchen and the dining room, just a small open space with table and chairs, were empty of Lee. He was suddenly aware that she was over at her friend's house, and he thought it was odd that when Edie had asked about the picture of the killer he'd thought instinctively of Lee Anne, wanting her isolated from this.

'What?' he said.

'Could I see it?' she asked in a tiny, very soft voice.

'Oh. Well . . . yeah. I—uh . . . I guess you-uh, are you sure that's a good idea, babe?'

'I want to see, what he looks like,' she whispered in her quietest voice. If he hadn't been watching her lips move, even as close as they were standing he wouldn't have been sure what she said.

'Okay,' he replied. He just kept standing there beside her, not moving, reluctant to let the mood disintegrate. Reluctant to show her the man. The thing had taken her husband and Lee's father away from them. This monster of a man. It seemed somehow a dirty, immoral act to show her his image.

'If—you think it's okay. I'd like to see it.'

'Sure,' he said. But he didn't at all. There was nothing okay about it. But he went over to his attache case and popped the latches and took out a slim manila folder and opened it to the thing she wanted to see.

'Oh' was the sound he thought she made. A pair of coal-black, diamond-hard pig eyes stared out from the