“Okay, just lie there and try to keep still.” Taylor called Dr. Metcalf, one of the New York City coroners. He had no intention of telling Eden that all the guy’s patients were always dead.
He got hold of Metcalf after a five-minute wait.
“Damn, Taylor, I was in the middle of an autopsy.”
Taylor told him the problem and asked his advice. He got it, thanked Metcalf, and hung up the phone.
“Okay, here’s what we do. First I trundle down to the market and pharmacy. Don’t move.”
Thirty minutes later, Lindsay looked at him with some surprise. The saltine cracker appeared to be happy in her belly, the weak tea as well.
“You get a cracker every hour and a bit of tea. Then we’ll see.”
“Thank you,” she said, and closed her eyes. “This is so embarrassing. Please go away. I can take care of myself.”
He said something very crude about her self-reliance, and her eyes flew open.
“But you shouldn’t have to take care of me, that’s crazy. You don’t even know me and—”
“Just shut up. I’m staying. I’m sleeping here, next to you, and if you have any problems, then I’ll handle them. Now, you’re to take two of these pills, then go to sleep. Can I use your toothbrush?”
14
She was asleep when Taylor came back into the bedroom. He quietly undressed, taking off his shirt, shoes, and socks and laying them neatly over the back of one of her rattan chairs, next to a pair of panty hose and a bra. He usually slept nude; but not here, not with Eden. He wasn’t about to strip down to his skin and scare the daylights out of her.
He made sure there were crackers within reach, as well as nonaspirin, and Nugarin, a drug to help stop her vomiting.
He eased into bed beside her and pulled another blanket over her. He settled himself with a sheet. The apartment was quiet and warm. Her breathing was even and deep. He gently took her hand in his and lay there on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He could hear the soft ticking of her bedside clock and muted traffic from the window.
He awoke with a start at three o’clock. She wasn’t there. He lurched up in bed; then he heard her. She was vomiting in the bathroom.
Jesus, he hadn’t heard a thing. He discounted the fact he hadn’t slept well in Chicago as he ran into the bathroom. He helped her stand up, gain her balance, then wiped her face with a warm damp cloth. “You want to rinse out your mouth?”
She did but it made her stomach cramp. She dropped to her knees again by the toilet and the cramp stopped suddenly. “Oh, Lord,” she said, and let him help her back to bed. She rolled onto her side, her knees drawn up with another cramp.
The cramp eased and she lay panting, looking up at him. Surprisingly, she smiled. Not much of a smile, but a good effort. “This is awful. You shouldn’t see anyone like this. It’s enough to put you off people forever.”
“You’d have to be an ax murderer to put me off. No more cramping?”
“No. Not yet anyway.”
He fed her another cracker, took her temperature, and was reassured at the low 101 degrees.
“A sip of tea? No, well, I don’t blame you. You want to try to sleep some more?”
“Could we just talk?”
“Sure.”
They lay side by side in the dark, holding hands.
“You start,” she said, and Taylor obliged, hearing the weakness in her voice.
“Did I ever tell you that I’m a Francophile?”
“A what?”
“I love France, always have. I think I must have lived a past life there, maybe as a worker in a vineyard or something. Anyway, I rent a Harley and cruise around wherever the spirit takes me. I was there for two weeks in September, covering every square foot of Brittany, after most of the tourists had gone home. It was beautiful and warm and…”
He realized that something had changed. She was quiet, no problem there, but her hand felt stiff and cold. She’d withdrawn from him.
“Eden? What’s wrong? Your stomach cramping again? You need to throw up?”
“No. Oh, God, it’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
“I hate France.”
“Good Lord, why?”
“I was there once, a long time ago, and it was horrible.” It was easier than she thought, to say the words aloud. It was dark, she realized, she was protected in that darkness, she couldn’t see his face, couldn’t see his reaction to the words that had just spilled out of her mouth.
“What happened?”
Silence. Painful silence. Complete withdrawal.
He said after a while, easily, mildly, “When were you there?”
“Nine years ago.”
“Not really all a coincidence, since I’m there every year. I was there nine years ago as well. When during the year?”
“In the spring. In April.”
“I remember it was beautiful, glorious then. But I mainly remember that trip because I was in Paris at the end of it and got myself banged up in an accident. Didn’t do me or my Harley any good. Hospital, broken arm, concussion, the whole bit. Were you in some sort of accident?”
He was aware that this was dangerous territory, even prohibited territory, but he kept on. He’d spoken quietly, soothingly, and now he waited, hoping she would answer him, hoping she’d give him more information, hoping for anything.
“Yes, sort of. I’m tired now. Good night.”
“Good night, sweetheart.”
Her hand relaxed in his again, her flesh becoming warm and soft. A start was a start even though he had no idea if the start would lead anywhere.
The next morning he awoke before she did. He didn’t move, just lay there thinking that she was here beside him, that he still held her hand, that he wanted her here beside him forever. Slowly, very slowly, he turned on his side to face her. Gently he eased his hand beneath her back and turned her to face him. She muttered something but didn’t awaken. He pulled her into his arms, then turned again to lie on his back, Eden pressed against his chest.
He smiled. This was more like it. He wished they didn’t have any clothes on. He would like to feel her naked against him. Instead, her cheek was against his undershirt.
Another start.
He fell back to sleep.
Lindsay awoke slowly. She didn’t move because she was focused inward, on her body and what its mood was. No cramping, no nausea, no headache. Then she realized she was nearly lying on top of Taylor, her head pressed against his shoulder, one thigh sprawled over his.
His head was turned toward her, his chin resting against her hair. She felt his warm breath. She felt too the warmth of his body. She knew instant and overwhelming terror.
She slid away from him, running clumsily toward the bathroom. Let him think she was sick. Yes, that was it. Let him think she was sick rather than crazy. She shut and locked the bathroom door.
She heard him in her bedroom, stumbling over a chair. He knocked on the door, calling her name. No, not her name, that made-up name that she was beginning to hate because Dr. Gruska had been right. It was a shield, a
