Over the next few days Tess bent under her caseload. Eight- and ten-hour days stretched to twelve and fourteen. She postponed her usual Friday-night dinner with her grandfather, something she would never have done for a date, only for a patient.
The press hounded her, along with a few of her less sensitive associates, such as Frank Fuller. The fact that she was working with the police added just enough mystique to have him hanging around her office at five. Tess began to stay at her desk until six.
She had no new information, only a nagging sense of worry. It wouldn't be long before there was another victim. The more she felt she understood the mind of the killer, the surer she was of that.
But it was Joey Higgins who kept her awake and restless into early Saturday morning, when the streets outside were dark and empty and her eyes were burning from overuse. She slipped off her glasses, sat back and rubbed them.
Why couldn't she get through to him? Why wasn't she making a dent? The session that evening with Joey, his mother, and stepfather had been a disaster. There had been no temper tantrums, no shouting, no accusations. She would have preferred that. There would have been emotion in that.
The boy simply sat there, giving his monosyllabic nonanswers. His father hadn't called. Tess had seen the fury in the mother's eyes, but only blank acceptance in the son's. Joey continued to insist, in his low-key, unshakable way, that he was spending a weekend- Thanksgiving weekend-with his father.
He was going to be let down. Tess pressed her fingers against her eyes until the burning subsided to a dull ache. And when he was let down this time, it could be one time too many.
Joey Higgins was a prime candidate for drink, drugs, or destruction. The Monroes would only see so much, only allow her to go so far. At the mention of hospital care, Tess had been cut off. Joey just needed time, he just needed family structure, he just needed... Help, Tess thought. Desperately. She was no longer convinced that a weekly session with her was going to lead to any kind of a breakthrough.
The stepfather, she thought-she might make him see. She might be able to make him understand the necessity of protecting Joey against himself. The next step, she decided, was to get Monroe into her office privately.
Nothing more could be done tonight. She leaned forward to close the file, glancing out the window as she did. On the empty streets a single figure caught her eye. This part of Georgetown, with its tidy edgings of flowers along the sidewalks in front of aging brownstones, didn't lend itself to street people or vagrants. But the man looked as though he had stood there a long time. In the cold, alone. Looking up... Looking up at her window, Tess realized, and drew back automatically.
Silly, she told herself, but reached over to switch off her desk lamp. No one would have a reason to stand on a street corner and stare at her window. Still, with the lights off she got up and went to the edge of the window, drawing the curtain slightly.
He was there, just there. Not moving, but looking. She shuddered with the foolish idea that he was looking right at her, though she was three stories up in a dark room.
One of her patients? she wondered. But she was always so careful to keep her home address private. A reporter. Some of the fear eased with the thought. It was probably a reporter hoping for a new angle on the story. At two A.M.? she asked herself, and let the curtain drop.
It was nothing, she assured herself. She'd imagined he was looking at her window. It was dark, and she was tired. It was just someone waiting for a ride or-
Not in this neighborhood. She started to reach for the curtain again, but couldn't quite bring herself to draw it aside.
He was going to strike again soon. Hadn't that been the thought haunting her? Frightening her? He had pain, pressure, and a mission. Blondes, in their late twenties, small to medium build.
She put a hand to her own throat.
Stop it. Dropping it again, she touched the hem of the curtain. A bit of paranoia was easy to deal with. No one was after her except a sex-crazed psychoanalyst and a few hungry reporters. She wasn't out on the street, but locked in her own home. She was tired, overworked, and imagining things. It was time to call it a night, time to pour a glass of cool white wine, turn on the stereo, and sink into a hot tub filled with bubbles.
But her hand shook a little as she drew the curtain aside.
The street was empty.
As Tess let the curtain fall, she wondered why that didn't ease her mind.
She'd looked out at him. He'd known, somehow; he'd known the moment her eyes had focused on him as he stood on the street below. What had she seen? Her salvation?
Almost sobbing against the headache, he let himself into his apartment. The corridor was dark. No one ever watched him come or go. Neither was he worried that she'd seen his face. It had been too dark and too distant for that. But had she seen the pain?
Why had he gone there? He stripped off his coat and let it lie in a heap. The next day he would hang it neatly and tidy the rest of the apartment, as was his habit, but tonight he could hardly think over the pain.
God always tested the righteous.
He found a bottle of Excedrin and chewed two pills, welcoming the dry, bitter taste. His stomach was rolling with a nausea that came every night now and lingered through the mornings. He was dousing himself with over-the-counter drugs just to keep functioning.
Why had he gone there?
Perhaps he was going mad. Perhaps it was all madness. He held out his hand and watched the tremor. If he didn't control himself, they would all know. In the aluminum range hood that he kept clean of grease and grime, as he'd been taught, he saw his distorted reflection. The priest's collar was white beneath his haggard face. If they saw him now, they would all know. Perhaps that would be best. Then he could rest, rest and forget.
Pain sliced through the base of his skull.
No, he couldn't rest, he couldn't forget. Laura needed him to complete his mission so that she could finally find the light. Hadn't she asked, begged for him to ask God for forgiveness?
Judgment had been quick and harsh for Laura. He'd cursed God, lost his faith, but he'd never forgotten. Now, all these years later, the Voice had come, showing him the way to her salvation. Perhaps she had to die again and again through another lost one, but it was quick, and each time there was absolution. Soon it would be over, for all of them.
Going into the bedroom, he lit the candles. The light flickered on the framed picture of the woman he'd lost, and the women he'd killed. Clipped neatly and lying beneath a black rosary was the newspaper picture of Dr. Teresa Court.
He prayed in Latin, as he'd been taught.
Ben bought her an all-day sucker, swirled with red and yellow. Tess accepted it at the door, gave it a thorough study, then shook her head.
"You know how to keep a woman off balance, Detective. Most men go for chocolate."
"Too ordinary. Besides, I figured you'd probably be used to the
Swiss kind, and I-" He broke off, aware that he was going to start rambling if she kept smiling at him over the round hunk of candy. "You look different."
"I do? How?"
"Your hairs down." He wanted to touch it but knew he wasn't ready. "And you're not wearing a suit."
Tess looked down at her wool slacks and oversized sweater. "I don't usually wear suits to a horror-movie double feature."
"You don't look like a psychiatrist anymore."
"Yes, I do. I just don't look like your conception of one." Now he did touch her hair, just a little. She liked the way he did it, in a gesture that was both friendly and cautious.
"You've never looked like my conception of one."
Wanting a moment to align her own thoughts, she set the sucker down on the table beside a Dresden platter, then went to the closet for a jacket. "And what is your conception?"
"Someone pale, thin, and bald." Hmmm.
The jacket was suede, and soft as butter. He held it for her as she slipped her arms in. "You don't smell like a psychiatrist either."
She smiled over her shoulder. "What does a psychiatrist smell like? Or do I want to know?"
"Like peppermint, and English Leather aftershave."
She turned to face him. "That's very specific."
"Yeah. Your hair's caught."
He dipped his hand under the collar of her jacket and freed it. He took a step forward, almost without thinking, and had her against the closet door. Her face tilted up, and there was a wariness in her eyes he'd noticed before. She wore little makeup, the sleek, polished look that was so much a part of her image replaced by a warm accessibility a smart man would recognize as dangerous. He knew what he wanted, and was comfortable with the swift rush of desire. The degree of it was another matter. When you wanted too much, too quickly, he thought, it was best to take things slow.
His mouth was close to hers. His hand was still on her hair. "You like butter on your popcorn?"
Tess didn't know whether to laugh or curse. Deciding to do neither, she told herself she was relaxed. "Tons of it."
"Good. Then I don't have to spring for two boxes. It's cold outside," he added, leaning away from her. "You'll need gloves."
He drew out his own scarred black leather ones before he opened the door.
"I'd forgotten just how frightening those movies were." It was dark when Tess settled back in his car, sated with pizza and cheap red wine. The air was biting, stinging her cheeks with the first brush of winter before she slid into Ben's car. Neither the cold nor the media was keeping Washington indoors. The Saturday-night stream of traffic rolled by, on its way to clubs, supper, and parties.
"I've always appreciated the way the cop gets the girl in the House of Wax."
"All Vincent needed was a good analyst," she said mildly as Ben adjusted the radio.
"Sure, and he'd have dumped you in the vat, coated you with wax, and turned you into..." He turned his head for a narrowed-eyed study. "Helen of Troy, I think."
"Not bad." She pursed her lips. "Of course, some psychiatrists might say you chose that, subconsciously linking yourself with Paris."
"As a cop, I wouldn't romanticize kidnapping."
"Pity." She let her eyes half close, not even aware of how easy it was for her to relax with him. The heater hummed in accompaniment to the moody music from the car radio. She remembered the lyrics and sang them in her head.
"Tired?"
"No, comfortable." As soon as the words were out, she straightened. "I'll probably have a few nightmares. Horror movies are a wonderful escape valve for real tensions. I guarantee no one in that theater was thinking about their next insurance payment or acid rain."
He let out a breezy chuckle as he drove out of the parking lot. "You know, Doc, some people might look at it as simple entertain-ment. It didn't seem like you were thinking escape valve when you dug holes in my arm when our heroine was running through the fog."
"It must have been the woman on the other side of you."
"I was sitting on the aisle."
"She had a long reach. You missed the turn to my apartment."
"I didn't miss it. I didn't take it. You said you weren't tired."
"I'm not." She wasn't sure she'd ever felt more awake, more alive. The song seemed to be playing just under her skin, promising romance and exquisite heartache. She'd always thought the first was somehow incomplete without the second. "Are we going somewhere?"
"A little place I know where the music's good and they don't water down the liquor."
She ran her tongue over her teeth. "I'd like that." She was in the mood for music, something bluesy maybe, with the ache of a tenor sax. "I suppose in a professional capacity you're well acquainted with the local bars."
"I've got a working knowledge." He punched in his car lighter. "You're not the bar type."
Interested, she faced him. His profile was in shadows, struck intermittently by streetlights. It was funny how sometimes he looked safe, solid, the kind of man a woman might run to if it were dark. Then the light struck his face another way, and the planes and angles were highlighted. A woman might run from him. She shook off the thought. She'd made a policy not to analyze men she dated. Too often you learned more than you wanted to know.
"Is there a type?"
"Yeah." And he knew them all. "You're not it. Hotel lounge. Champagne cocktails at the Mayflower or the Hotel Washington."
"Now who's doing psychological profiles, Detective?"
"You've got to be able to type people in my business, Doc." He pulled up and maneuvered into a space between a Honda three-wheeler and a Chevette hatchback. Before he turned off the key, he wondered if he was making a mistake.
"What's this?"
"This." He pulled out the keys but left them jingling in his hand. "Is where I live."
She looked out the window at a four-story apartment building with faded red brick and green awnings. "Oh."
"I don't have any champagne."
Her decision. She understood him well enough to understand that. But she understood little else about him. The car was warm and quiet. Safe. Inside, she didn't know what to expect. She knew herself well enough to understand how seldom she took risks. Maybe it was time.
"You have scotch?" She turned back to see his smile.
"Yeah."
"That'll do."
The air snapped cold the moment she stepped from the car. Winter wasn't going to wait for the calendar, she thought, then shuddered, thinking of another calendar, one with the Madonna and Child on the cover. The little twist of fear had her looking up and down the street. A block away a truck let out a blast of exhaust.
"Come on." Ben stood in a pool of light from a streetlamp; the light bounced from the planes of his face. "You're cold."
"Yes." She shivered again when his arm went around her shoulders.
He led her inside. There were about a dozen mail slots against one wall. The pale green carpet was clean but almost threadbare. There was no lobby, no security guard at a desk, only a dim set of stairs.
"It's certainly a quiet building," she said as they climbed to the second floor.
"Everybody here pretty much minds their own business."
There was a faint scent of cooking in the hall when he stopped to unlock his door. The light overhead winked weakly.
His apartment was tidier than she'd expected. It was more than just a general preconception of a man living alone, Tess realized. Ben seemed too relaxed and casual in other areas to bother clearing dust or old magazines. Then she decided she was wrong. The room might be clean, but it did reflect his style.
The sofa was the dominant piece of furniture. Low and far from new, it was plumped with throw pillows. A Dagwood couch, Tess thought. One that simply begged you to relax and take a nap. There were posters rather than paintings. Toulouse-Lautrec's cancan dancers, a single woman's leg standing in a four inch heel, skimmed at the thigh with white lace. There was a Dieffenbachia thriving away in a plastic margarine bowl. And books. One wall was nearly filled with them. Delighted, she pulled out a worn hardbacked copy of East of Eden. As Ben's hands went to her shoulders, she opened the flyleaf.
"To Ben." She read the spiky, feminine handwriting. "Kiss, kiss. Bambi." Putting her tongue in her cheek, she closed it. "Bambi?"
"Used bookstore." He removed her jacket. "Fascinating places. Never can tell what you'll pick up."
"Did you pick up the book or Bambi?"
"Never mind." He took the copy from her and stuck it back on the shelf.
"Do you know, one gets an immediate mental image from certain names?"
"Yeah. Scotch, straight up, right?"
"Right." A streak of gray whizzed by and landed on a red pillow. "A cat too?" Amused, Tess strolled over to stroke it. "What's his name?"
"Her. She proved that by having kittens in the bathtub last year." The cat rolled over so Tess could scratch her belly. "I call her D.C."
"As in Washington?"
"As in Dumb Cat."
"It's a wonder she doesn't have a complex." Running her hands over the rounded belly again, Tess wondered if she should warn him he'd be getting another litter of gifts in a month or so.
"She runs into walls. On purpose."
"I could refer you to an excellent pet psychologist."
He laughed, but wasn't entirely sure she was joking. "I'd better get those drinks."
When he went into the kitchen, she rose to look at his view from the window. The streets weren't as quiet as her neighborhood. Traffic moved by at a steady clip, droning and grunting along. He wouldn't take himself far from the action, she thought, and remembered she hadn't paid any attention to what direction he'd taken. She could be anywhere in the city. She expected unease, and instead felt a sense of freedom.
"I promised you music."
She turned and looked at him. The simple dun-colored sweater and faded jeans he wore suited him. She'd thought once that he understood himself very well. Now it would be foolish to deny that she wanted to understand him.
"Yes, you did."
He handed her a glass and thought about how different she was, and how different she looked from any other woman he'd brought here. That quiet class of hers demanded that a man swallow his lust and take the whole person. Wondering if he was ready to, he set down his own glass and flipped through his records.
When he set one on the turntable, Tess heard the brassy heat of jazz. "Leon Redbone," she said.
He shook his head as he turned toward her. "You keep surprising me."
"My grandfather's one of his biggest fans." Sipping her drink, she walked over to pick up the album cover. "It seems the two of you have quite a lot in common."
"Me and the senator?" Ben laughed before he sipped his vodka. "I'll bet."
"I'm serious. You'll have to meet him."
Meeting a woman's family was something he associated with wedding rings and orange blossoms. He'd always avoided it. "Why don't we-" The phone rang and he swore, setting down his glass. "I'd ignore it, but I'm on call."
"You don't have to explain those things to a doctor."
"Yeah." He picked up the phone beside the couch. "Paris. Oh, yeah. Hi."
It didn't take a trained psychiatrist to understand there was a woman on the other end. Tess smiled into her drink and went back to the view.
"No, I've been tied up. Look, sugar-" The minute the word was out, he winced. Tess kept her back to him. "I'm on a case, you know? No, I didn't forget about... I didn't forget. Listen, I'll have to get back to you when things lighten up. I don't know, weeks, maybe months. You really ought to try that marine. Sure. See ya." He hung up, cleared his throat, and reached for his drink again. "Wrong number."
It was so easy to laugh. She turned, leaned against the windowsill, and gave in to it. "Oh, really?"
"Enjoyed that, didn't you?"
"Immensely."
"If I'd known you'd get such a kick out of it, I'd have invited her up."
"Ah, the male ego." With one hand crossed over her body, she lifted the drink again. She was still laughing at him. The humor didn't fade when he walked over and took the drink from her hand. The warm, approachable look was back. He felt the pull of it, the danger of it, the need for it.
"I'm glad you're here."
"So am I."
"You know, Doc..." He let his fingers play through her hair. The gesture was as friendly as before, but not as cautious. "There's one thing we haven't done together."
She withdrew at that. He sensed it though she hadn't moved away. He continued to toy with her hair as he drew her closer. His breath brushed over her lips.
"Dance," he murmured, and laid his cheek against hers. Whether her sigh was of pleasure or relief, he didn't know, but she was nearly relaxed against him. "There's something I've noticed about you."
"What?"
"You feel good." His lips moved over her ear as they swayed, hardly moving from one spot. "Real good." Ben-
"Relax." He made long slow strokes up her back and down again. "Another thing I've noticed is that you don't relax much."
His body was hard against hers, his lips warm against her temple. "At the moment, it isn't easy."
"Good." He liked the way her hair smelled, fresh and rich without the overlay of scented shampoos, gels, and sprays. From the easy way her body blended with his, he knew she wore nothing but skin under the sweater. He imagined away the layer of material and let the heat rise.
"You know, Doc, I haven't been sleeping well."
Her eyes were nearly closed, but it wasn't because of relaxation. "You've got a lot on your mind with this case."
"Yeah. But there's something else that's been on my mind."
"What?"
"You." He drew her back a little. Eyes open and on hers, he teased her mouth. "I can't stop thinking about you. I think I have a problem."
"I... my caseload's pretty heavy right now."
"Private sessions." As he'd wanted to all evening, he slipped his hands under her sweater and let her skin warm him. "Starting tonight."
She felt the ridge of callus below his fingers rub up her spine. "I don't think-" But he stopped her with a kiss, a long, slow melding of lips that had his own heart racing. There was a hesitation in her that licked at his desire. She'd been a challenge from the beginning, and maybe a mistake. He was beyond caring.
"Stay with me, Tess."
"Ben." She drew out of his arms, wanting the distance, and the control. "I think we're rushing this."
"I've wanted you from the start." It wasn't his style to admit it, but this wasn't the usual game.
She dragged a hand through her hair. She thought of the inscription in the book, the phone call. "I don't take sex lightly, I can't."
"I'm not taking you lightly. I wish I could. It's probably a mistake." He looked at her again, fragile, delicate, elegant. It would be, could be, no fling, no easy romp in the sack with no morning repercussions. "I don't give a damn, Tess." Determined, but somehow less sure of himself, he took a step closer to frame her face in his hands. "I don't want to go another night without you." He bent to kiss her. "Stay."
He lit candles in the bedroom. The music had stopped, and it was so quiet she thought she could almost hear the echo of it. She was trembling, and no amount of lecturing herself on being an adult and making her own choices would stop it. Nerves shivered through her. Needs twisted with them until they were one and the same. He came to her and gathered her close.
"You're shaking."
"I feel like a schoolgirl."
"It helps." He buried his face in her hair. "I'm scared to death."
"Are you?" There was a smile on her lips as she put her hands to his face and drew him back.
"I feel, I don't know, like some kid in the backseat of his father's Chevy about to tackle his first bra snaps." He put his hands to her wrists a moment, to hold himself back from touching her. "There's never been anyone like you. I keep worrying that I'll make the wrong move."
Nothing he could have said would have reassured her more. She drew his face down to hers. Their lips met, just a nibble, just a test that threatened to grow to a hungry bite. "So far so good," she murmured. "Make love with me, Ben. I've always wanted you to."
He kept his eyes on hers as he drew up the bulky sweater. Then her hair was pooled over naked shoulders. There was moonlight and candlelight on her skin. He traced his own shadows over it.
She was never sure of herself on this level with a man. There was hesitation as she began to draw his sweater off. Beneath it his torso was lean and firm. A St. Christopher's medal dangled above his breastbone. Tess ran her finger over it and smiled.
"It's just for luck," he told her.
Saying nothing, she pressed her lips to his shoulder. "You've a scar here."
"It's old." He unfastened the snap of her slacks.
Her thumb moved over it. "A bullet," she realized. There was a dull horror in her voice.
"It's old," he repeated, and drew her onto the bed. She lay beneath him, her hair flared out on the dark spread, her eyes heavy, lips parted. "I've wanted you here. I can't tell you how much or how often."
She reached up and touched her fingertips to his face. Along his jawline was the beginnings of his beard. Beneath, just above where his pulse beat, the skin was smooth. "You can show me."
When he grinned, she discovered she was relaxed and waiting for him.
His experience might have been greater, but his need wasn't. Hers had been under tight control and was ripe and hungry now that it was set free. They rolled over the bed, damp and naked, forgetting the civilized, the ordinary.
The spread rumpled and tangled beneath them. He swore at it, then pulled her free and on top of him. Her breasts were small and pale. He cupped one then both in his hands. He heard her murmur of pleasure as he watched her eyes close with it. Then she was pulling him to her, and her mouth was like a fever.
His intention to treat her as a lady, with care and gentleness, was abandoned when her arms and legs wrapped around him. Here, she wasn't the cool and classy Dr. Court, but a woman as passionate and demanding as any man could want. Her skin was soft, fragile to the touch, but slicked with desire. He skimmed his tongue over it, thirsting for her.
She arched against him, letting needs, fantasies, passions have their way. Here and now were all that mattered. What was outside was removed, distant. He was real, and vital, and important. The rest of the world could wait.
Candlelight flickered, gutted, and went out.
Hours later, he awoke, cold. The spread was bundled at the foot of the bed. Tess was curled in a ball beside him, naked, her hair curtaining her face. He rose and pulled the covers over her. Even the moonlight was gone now. For a while he just stood over the bed, looking down at her as she slept. The cat padded into the room as Ben walked quietly out.