Yet Cilla had another talent, one Hudson sometimes forgot. When it concerned her, she knew what he was thinking almost at the same time he did. The bathroom door opened; she was wearing a nightgown, one he hadn’t seen, undoubtedly for summer it was so airy and light. And she paused for just a moment with the light behind silhouetting her body, obviously diaphanous. Long, slender legs with smoothly rippling muscles. Slim, almost boyish hips encased what he knew was a taut flat stomach. His eyes had made it to her waist, when the garment slipped to the floor and she stood naked in the doorway. He lay very still, suddenly unable to catch his breath. She could do this to him as could no one else, even Sylvia. Long, dark hair caressed her shoulders over impossibly firm, porcelain breasts. She shivered, and he knew posing like this was scary for her, never done or even contemplated for the first twenty-five years and eight months of her life. But it was also exciting, and when he reached out for her she pulled him to his feet and wrapped herself around him, allowing the vulnerable feeling of her nakedness and him fully- clothed to possess her. Their lips finally parted, and he pushed her from him so he could again see all of her. She smiled hesitantly and self-consciously dipped her chin toward her shoulder with a barely visible shaking of her head. He kissed her neck, cupping her breasts in his tanned hands. Then, with a sudden movement, scooped her into his arms and brought her to the bed. She was as aroused as was he, but where another might have pulled at his clothes to hurry things along, she lay back on the pillow and waited, an impish smile at his fumbling, pulling jockey shorts down over a suddenly awkward profile.
Intimate touching was still frightening; her breath came in tiny pants at the feel of his hardness on her thigh and she trembled as his hands ran over her body. By the time the closing scene began she was shaking all over. Part ecstasy and part the terrifying sensation of being run on a sword, forced a sound between a scream and a gasp from her lips.
Swallow Hill Road was oblivious to the climax of nature’s oldest drama.
It was just after eight when Hudson found Wally Carver at his door.
“You’re out early.”
“I’m a senile old fool, Hudson.”
“Too far gone to hold a coffee cup?”
Carver plopped himself at the kitchen table without taking off his heavy overcoat. “I do not know what possessed me. Black.”
Hudson poured him coffee and himself tea and sat down opposite Carver. He waited.
“Do you remember a man named Preston Sturgis?”
“Three or four years ago. You got him through bankruptcy.”
“He tried to get his money back overnight. In drugs, I don’t know how far in. Showed up at my door a couple of weeks ago wanting me to hide him.”
“Go on.”
“Well, I did.”
“Where?”
“In the cabin across the river. I’ve had it fixed up from last year. Heat, electricity and running water. Still no palace, but it can get through winter.”
“So…?”
“He’s gone. Went down to bring him some food this morning. Yes, I’ve been supplying him. Place was empty. No car. I’d told him if he wanted my help not to leave. I didn’t want him wandering around town getting shot at.”
“Would it come to that?”
“They blew up his apartment on Beacon Street.”
Hudson said gently, “Let’s go take a look.”
The cabin had to be approached by a quarter mile driveway from Route 302. The snow covered woods road wound around and under trees. If there hadn’t been tire marks, it would have taken more than casual observation to tell what was road and what was just another space between hemlocks.
“No car.”
The door was unlocked, and there was no one in the cabin. Outside, boot holes in the snow led down to the Saco River. There were several sets, as though one person had made the trip several times, or a number once. The stream was edged with ice, but showed no signs anyone had tried to cross it, or walk along its bank.
“Could he be just out for coffee?”
“Clothes are gone.”
Hudson opened the small refrigerator. There was a solitary milk carton. “Whew.
Might as well live in a cave as here with my angst.
Try to turn things around. Going back to Mass.
Thanks for your help.
Preston
“Angst,” said Wally.
“Apprehension, insecurity. He probably had all that.”
“Yes. But an odd word for Preston.”
“A note at the bottom of the milk so you’d find it? Others might not?” Hudson gazed about the cabin. “Let’s go back to my place.”
Neither spoke a word until they were taking off coats at the Rogers’ house. “Good riddance. The man was…” He was stopped by the look on Hudson’s face.
“Sit down, Wally. There’s more to this. Our house was invaded by a couple of thugs a while ago. John Krestinski feels there’s a good chance they’re part of a drug ring.”
“Jesus.” He stared at Hudson. “You said `invaded’. You mean robbery? You were there at the time? Why didn’t I hear about it?”
“I came home in the middle of it. It looked like they wanted to take Cilla with them.”
“Kidnap her?”
Hudson nodded. “We had no idea why. But now…”
“You think it has to do with Sturgis?”
“Drug people are after him.”
Carver pursed his lips. “Hudson, I’ve made an error in judgment. I should have left Sturgis in the snow.”
“I think John should know about this.” Hudson brought the kitchen phone to the table and dialed. Krestinski was in the building, they’d page him. Hudson pictured the FBI offices in City Hall Plaza; his friend wouldn’t be happy to hear more problems from him so soon. He came on the line.
“John, does the name Preston Sturgis mean anything to you?”
“Should it?” The FBI man sounded tired.
“Maybe not. He’s someone in drugs.”
“Hold on.” He was back in over a minute, the exhaustion gone from his voice. “What’s happened?”
“He was a client of Wally Carver’s a few years ago when he went through bankruptcy. He appeared at Wally’s door a couple of weeks ago, saying both his car and his Boston apartment had been bombed and asking Wally to hide him. Wally did…”
“Like a damn fool,” muttered Carver to a table lamp.
“…without telling anyone. This morning he’s gone; left a note saying he was going back to Massachusetts. Is he wanted?”
