and thus not sending out signals. They went through quiescent phases: Becker knew all about that. Their lusts and needs could be slaked for a time and they themselves forgot the awful reality of the appetite and its consequences. It was the on/off nature of their behavior that made them so very hard to find and identify, because when they were off, they were exactly what they pretended to be-indeed, wanted to be: average, normal, harmless men. A sated Hon was dangerous to no one, and the species that was its prey could stroll in front of it unmolested.
At such times the only evidence of their bloody habits was in the refuse of their lairs. Becker decided with reluctance that he might have to go into the house, and as soon as he realized that, he felt the familiar excitement building, deep and visceral, and he knew that it came not from the salesman but from himself.
He was grateful that Cindi was already at home, waiting for him. He did not trust himself to be alone.
Pulling on her jeans, Cindi heard his car pull into the driveway. She had not expected him so soon and she was still wet from the shower. Her climbing outfit lay on the bed where she had tossed it. Throwing the outfit into the back of the closet, closing the closet door, tugging the comforter up on the bed, Cindi told herself to relax. No time for makeup, no time for perfume or lotion. Jeans and a T-shirt and a harassed shower would have to do; she was fairly certain he wouldn’t mind. He did not seem like the type to need a geisha girl.
She forced herself to slow down, to walk to the door, to ignore the chaos and litter in the living room. This was how she lived, take it or leave it. Her heart was pounding as if she were halfway up the rockface without a next move, but she determined to play this just the way she would play the rock. Feign a virtue though you have it not, as her grandmother used to say. Act composed no matter what your stomach says. It fools almost everyone else and sometimes even yourself.
Now Becker, on the other hand, always was composed. Never mind faking it. Even hanging upside down, his head swinging against granite, the man had been in control. She marveled at his calm. He spoke about emotions, he admitted to fear-they had had a lengthy discussion about it after their first climb together-he claimed that he was as nervous and fearful as anyone, but she didn’t believe him. The very fact that he would admit to it seemed to deny its existence. She knew Alan was afraid half the time; she could smell it on him, but he would have died before owning up to it. But then she knew Alan inside out. Bluffers and showoffs were not hard to know. Becker, she suspected, would take a great deal more knowing.
Now he was smiling at her, sitting on the sofa, brushing aside the old newspaper and putting the dried Cup o’Noodles container on the coffee table as if he didn’t even notice them. Cindi fought the urge to pace and sat beside him, dropping the newspaper onto the floor behind the sofa.
“Should I offer you something to drink?” she said.
Becker put a finger to her throat where some water from the shower remained. He held the finger in front of her; a single droplet shivered on his skin.
I am not in this man’s league, she thought.
“You came a little sooner than I expected,” she said.
“I was eager.”
She smiled, suppressing a nervous giggle. If he touched her, she was afraid she would scream. If he didn’t touch her, she knew she would.
“More than eager,” he continued. “I needed to come.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed that,” said Cindi. “You don’t seem like a man who lets his needs dictate to him.”
“You know what spelunkers are? People who crawl into caves for fun. The deeper, the tighter, the more inaccessible the better. I’ve heard of spelunkers who lived in the city who had no access to caves-they explored the city sewer system instead. They needed that feeling, being underground, whatever it is, badly enough to crawl around in the city sewer.”
Cindi nodded, waiting for the point, then wondering if that was the point: making her wait.
“And there are other people, I don’t know what the name for them is, who will crawl into a cave with a drowsy bear and stick a thermometer in its rectum to measure its sleeping temperature.”
“That would be a biologist,” she said.
“That’s not what I mean by biologist. It’s not the hibernating habits of the bear they’re after. It’s the sense of crawling into a place knowing something’s waiting for you there.”
“Why do they do it?”
“Some people just like to crawl into small, dark places. Spelunkers of the soul. Maybe they do it because it’s dangerous, or because it scares them, or because they can do their mischief there, or maybe just to be alone where no one can see what they’re doing. Does it matter?”
“Why do you ask?”
“If you thought a bad man was sitting in the dark in a pitch-black house, would you go into the house?”
“Mr. Becker, you’re beginning to scare the shit out of me.”
“Would you even entertain the idea of going in?”
“It depends what you mean by a ‘bad’ man. If he was the right kind of bad, I might even invite him over to my place.”
The droplet of water was still on Becker’s finger. As he lifted his finger it shook and sparkled like a diamond. He put the drop on his tongue, but casually, as if he had forgotten where he got it and placed no symbolism on it. As if it were an hors d’oeuvre, Cindi thought, and maybe it is.
But he still had not touched her.
“What else do you do that you shouldn’t?” he asked.
“I gamble some.”
“Are you gambling now?”
She studied him for a moment. She did not think he was flirting; he seemed to have something deeper on his mind.
“Men are pretty thin on the ground around here,” she said. “I take some chances.”
“You can’t have any trouble finding men.”
“A good man is hard to find. Not an original thought but sadly true. Also, I’m thirty-one, remember.”
“I’m not a good man.”
“The available material thins out real fast after thirty. By this stage the question is no longer are you single, but why are you single.”
“How did you get this far without getting married?”
“I didn’t. Jerry played polo. Not with his own horses, of course. Other people’s horses, other people’s homes, other people’s money.”
“Other people’s wives?”
“Is it that obvious? Their wives, their sisters, their daughters, their maids. The only good thing about being cheated on that much is that when you find out, you realize it’s not because of you. If he’d had one big affair, maybe I would have whipped myself around, maybe I would have thought it was my fault, I didn’t give him what he needed, that kind of victim-think. But when he views the whole world as parted thighs, you realize the man has a problem with his vision. Not to mention his hormones.”
“It lasted what, three years? Four?”
“You’re no fun.”
“You finally caught him when he was sleeping with your best friend.”
“His brother’s wife. And it went a full five years.”
“I’m not a good man.”
“I heard you the first time,” Cindi said.
Then a silence that Cindi thought would never end. He just stared at her with those milk-chocolate eyes. Normally she could see the humor in them and the sharp intelligence, but now she had no idea what went on behind them. They did not frighten her, but there was no comfort in them at the moment, either.
When he finally moved, it surprised both of them. She was sitting next to him with her legs drawn under her, her shoes on the floor where she had slipped them off. He took her bare foot in his hand and pressed his thumb gently into her sole. Cindi could not suppress the gasp of pleasure.
Becker spent ten minutes on each foot, holding her somewhere between tickling and massage, a pleasure that was just bearable but so intense. When he worked a finger between the toes, Cindi opened her mouth and let her head fall back and gave up.
