room.
Lydia’s first book, entitled With a Vengeance, had been about Jed McIntyre and his thirteen murders, her mother included. Tracing McIntyre’s history, detailing his crimes and his motives, had comforted Lydia somehow, had given some order to the chaos of her pain. She was able to understand him, see how the horrible events in his life had made him what he was, though she still felt nauseated by the sound of his name or any name that resembled it.
The book was a narrative account of Jed McIntyre’s crimes, featuring Jeffrey as the main character. Lydia had conducted interviews with the victims’ families; McIntyre’s psychiatrist; Jeffrey’s former partner, Roger Dooley… anyone who would talk to her. Jeffrey compiled his notes for her, along with files, videotaped interviews, transcripts from the trial.
What resulted was a detailed, graphic true story that read like fiction. The book raced to the top of the best- seller lists, and Lydia, a previously little-known writer for the Washington Post, was catapulted into the national spotlight. A fan club of dubious distinction formed. Psychotics, angry victims, criminals, the world’s unsavory began to deluge her with mail. She was forced to change her e-mail accounts and phone numbers frequently because somehow they always managed to get out. Though Lydia’s physical safety had never been threatened, Jeffrey believed it was only a matter of time before some psycho’s attraction turned to obsession. He had encouraged her to secure the Santa Fe house because it was so isolated, but had assumed she would ignore him.
The desert air was cold that night, so when she returned downstairs she made a fire in the living room. Jeffrey had opened a bottle of Clos Pegase chardonnay he’d found in the kitchen. They both lay on their stomachs, facing the fire, resting on fat, cotton-covered down pillows.
“How’s your shoulder?’’ she asked.
“Good as new,’’ he lied. He didn’t like to talk about his pain, didn’t like to seem weak or vulnerable – especially to Lydia. He never wanted her to think he couldn’t be strong for her, with her.
“Yeah?’’
“Yeah.’’
He sat up and faced the fire. He didn’t want to look in her face when he was lying to her. She always knew.
“I’d expect nothing less,’’ she said.
He smiled. “Well, it gets a little stiff.’’
She sat up and moved behind him, began gently massaging his shoulder. “You haven’t said what you think about all of this.’’
“I don’t know what to think. It seems pretty thin. But I believe in you, you know that. We’ll check it out.’’
“Good enough.’’
She didn’t blame him. She realized her ideas must sound crazy to someone like him, so solid, so grounded. She knew he needed hard evidence to be convinced of the truth. She also knew that sometimes the truth left only a scent on the wind.
She rubbed his shoulder carefully with the flat of her hand, feeling the tense muscle relax slightly under her touch.
Jeffrey could feel the heat of her body against his back. Only the gravest discipline kept him from turning around, carrying her to bed, and making love to her until the sun came up. He knew about discipline, about control. He hadn’t survived this long without it.
Jeffrey was an army brat, raised on military bases across the country. Because his family had moved almost every two years and because he was an only child, Jeffrey had learned to rely on himself at an early age. His father was a hard man with no time for tears or tantrums. A high-ranking decorated officer, Jeffrey Mark Sr. was a man of honor. Jeffrey remembered his father with respect but not affection.
When Jeffrey and some of his friends stole his father’s car and were brought home to their parents by local law enforcement, Jeffrey’s father decided to send him away to military school. In spite of the hysterical protests of his mother, Jeffrey left his parents’ home the following fall. He was glad. He wanted to get away from both of them.
At school, the regimen, the high academic standards, and the constant physical exertion relaxed and exhausted him. He excelled there and went on to West Point. But he knew before he graduated that the military life was not for him. He liked the order and the discipline, but he craved risk, danger. He wanted a steady diet of adrenaline.
But lately thrills like those he sought when he was younger were becoming less appealing, especially since he had been shot. The pain in his shoulder as Lydia worked the muscle, her closeness, reminded him of the way he ached for her when they were apart. He was forty, with nothing in his personal life to show for it. He realized that Lydia was the only woman he had ever loved. There had been other women, but his job, his schedule, made relationships hard to maintain. And he had never felt so kindred with anyone. He was alone, except for Lydia. And even with her the way they were now, he felt alone.
“What are you thinking about?’’ she asked, sensing that he was far away.
“Just about how I’ve missed you the last few weeks.’’
“I’ve missed you, too. But you’re here now.’’
But for how long? And then how long until I see you again? I don’t want to hold you down. I want to be your home. I want to be the place where you come to hide. “I’m glad,’’ he said.
“Does your shoulder feel better now?’’ she asked, changing the subject.
“Much. Thanks.’’
She moved away from him, afraid to have her hands on him any longer. She sat in the overstuffed chair by the hearth, folding her legs beneath her. There she was cast in darkness. He couldn’t see her face anymore.
Silence was usually a comfortable place for Lydia and Jeffrey. They meshed, wrapped around each other like wicker. But tonight the air between them was charged, electric with desire and fear.
She reached for a cigarette in the small drawer in the table by the chair. She lit it and took a deep drag.
“I thought you quit,’’ Jeffrey said, disapproval in his voice.
“I can’t quit.’’
“Please. You have a stronger will than anyone I know.’’
“Fine, then, I don’t want to,’’ she said stubbornly.
“I fail to see how you can run as much and as far as you do and still suck that poison into your lungs. It’s physically impossible.’’
“For me, it’s the same drug.’’
“Are you going to explain that?’’
“No.’’
She wasn’t oblivious to what was between them. She knew what he wanted. She wanted the same thing, more than she admitted to herself. But something powerful held her back – a dark fear dwelled in the pit of her stomach that somehow for her, love and death would be inextricably linked.
“So maybe we should pay a visit to Chief Morrow tomorrow, Lyd. What do you think?’’
“Yeah, I guess so. You know he’ll be glad to see me.’’
“Because you’re so charming.’’
“Right.’’
She rose from the chair. He was always surprised by her beauty, amazed by the power of his desire for her. Bathed in the orange light from the fire, she was radiant as she raised her arms above her head and stretched, exposing flat, supple abs as her shirt lifted a bit.
“I’m going to go to bed,’’ she announced.
He nodded toward the pile of clippings and the information Lydia had printed out from the Internet. “I think I’ll sit up for a while, look over those articles.’’
“Good night, Jeffrey.’’
“Good night, Lyd.’’
Eleven
