This had certainly been the case with Caterina Mercedes, the poet thought, groggily getting up and searching for something to wear to work this morning. While Micellina had been easy to lead, Caterina had been a holdout. It had taken a great deal more persuasion to convince her that it was in her best interest to have a private moment with the poet. When she finally acquiesced, it proved almost as hard to get her to meet with him a second time. She had serious reservations about seeing him privately, and she had serious doubts as to his intentions, almost up to the end. But the poet's dexterity with words, both spoken and written, finally won her over. In the end, Caterina, like Micellina, felt a joyous and heartfelt obligation to carry out the poet's plan-to write her into eternity. They had both, in the end, willingly gone over, first believing they would achieve a kind of immortality among their peers for displaying the poems on their backs, but in the end knowing that he had a greater immortality in store for them.
Then came Anton Pierre, a beautiful young man, not unlike the two women who had preceded him in physical beauty and mental purity.
The poet stepped from the modest apartment, located the elevator, and with his valise in hand soon stood on the avenue fronting his building. A penniless man with a squirt bottle in hand asked if he could hail a cab for the poet. He nodded, indicating that yes, he would like the beggar to help him, but to remain at a safe distance. As he waited for the cab, he felt a wave of revulsion wash over him at the sight of the derelict. When a cab pulled over, he threw a five-dollar bill at the homeless man and rushed to enter the cab, glad to be speeding off.
It wasn't every day he took a cab to work, but it looked like rain again, and he'd left his umbrella in the stand, the one with the Victorian hounds that stared out at the poet, hounds whose eyes burned with a fire to match the poet's own.
FOUR
We must not make a scarecrow of the law, Setting it up to fear the birds of prey.
Dr. Jessica Coran stepped from the soupy Virginia fog that enveloped Quantico Naval Air Station to greet Dr. Kim Desinor. Taking her by the hand, Jessica said, “The boys at the hangar have a new toy to play with, a Soviet-built MiG tactical helicopter. It's not exactly new to us, nothing like a big mystery, but they're incredible machines. I think I've convinced them to transport us to Philadelphia in it instead of in that boring departmental Cessna Citation.”
“That boring Cessna is just fine with me, Jess.”
“But you want to know you're flying, don't you?”
“Flying's one thing, hovering Peter Pan fashion in something like a spinning top is quite another.”
“No, it's more like a magic carpet ride or a floating platform. Come on, you'll love it. I think they've got clearance.”
“Why do we have a Soviet helicopter?” Kim asked.
“Part of the struggle to fight boredom, the struggle to stomp out ignorance, all of it. We swapped ours for theirs. Happens all the time. They have our technology, we have theirs, everyone's happy, and no need for the spy business.”
“With the Russians? We do this with the Russians?”
“KGB, Russian military, sure. Look at this machine, will you?” Kim glared at the thing like an angry cat.
Jessica, ignoring this, said, “I've only had the privilege of flying in her once before. She's decked out with lounge seats and a Bureau VIP bar-at a cost government watchdogs must never know about.”
“So, I see you've already met the pilot and crew, as usual. Are you staking a claim?” Kim knew of Jessica's love for flying, one of her many passions. In fact, Jessica had earned her pilot's license some years back.
“Staking a claim? I'm spoken for, remember? Richard Sharpe. You're not still sore about New Orleans, are you?” Jessica recalled how on first meeting Kim, she had behaved badly. Not in the best frame of mind, knowing she was being stalked by an escaped convicted bloodsucking killer who had fixated on her, her nerves shot, Jessica had drunk too much on the flight, and she had flirted with the pilot. She recalled how wrong that first meeting with Kim had gone, and how patient Kim had been with her, showing her great understanding and giving her the benefit of the doubt several times.
“All I know is that every time you fly off someplace, you cozy up to the pilot or you wind up at the controls of the plane.”
“Come on. I wasn't at the controls for more than ten minutes.”
“Or you land yourself a new bureau-chief boyfriend, or a boyfriend who happens to be Scotland Yard. I'm so impressed!” She did a mock curtsy right there on the airstrip.
“You make me sound like a loose woman on the prowl!”
Kim laughed. “Not at all. Liberated, a role model for others all over the globe who have succumbed to the stereotype of barefoot and pregnant and in the kitchen.”
“Please, give it a rest, Kim. What about your love life? You still seeing Alex Sincebaugh, or has he uprooted himself and returned to New Orleans?”
“He's holding on in Baltimore, but he hates his situation. I'm not sure how long he's going to fight it.”
“You can take the boy outta the bayou, but you can't-”
“I see him most weekends and holidays. Some truth in that old saying 'Absence makes the heart grow fonder.' “
“That's crap and you know it; only works for a while before the charm of the distance between you wears off. I know from experience.”
“The alternative, cohabiting, is just as impossible, if not more so.”
“What's a girl to do?”
Boarding the wide-bodied helicopter, Jessica patted her inside suit pocket to be certain she hadn't forgotten her special scalpel; her father had given it to her the day she'd told him she meant to go to medical school. Nowadays, she never left home without it. In fact, she felt downright superstitious about having it near at hand.
Jessica and Kim looked at each other in the modified, VIP interior of the monster chopper. While they worked together at profiling sessions in the same building and in the same unit, each saw surprisingly little of the other. “Pity the bar's not open,” Kim lamented.
“And what would you do with an open bar this ungodly time of morning?”
“Not the bar, the bartender, dear. You like pilots, I have a weakness for bartenders.”
Jessica laughed. It felt good after the tension of the day before. “Here, have some coffee.” Rolls and coffee lay on the table between them. “Eriq's so thoughtful.”
After they sat down, Jessica watched Kim gulp back stomach bile instead of the rich coffee as the churning blades suddenly roared to life. An attendant young enough to be Jessica's daughter quickly secured the coffeepot and soon they felt themselves slowly rise above the airstrip. With a sudden, violent jerk, the helicopter veered to the left and sped diagonally upward.
“What the hell's that pilot doing?” Kim shouted over the thrum of the MiG.
“His job!” Jessica smirked.
Next the chopper pilot poured on the speed, plastering them to their seats. “Like a carnival ride,” Jessica shouted.
Kim felt every cell in her body tug outward. “I feel like a piece of cargo being tossed around in the hold!” This despite the seat belt she wore. “What did you tell the pilot, Jess? You didn't tell him that you wanted a wild ride, did you? You did, didn't you! Tell me you didn't!”
Jessica's smiled and her eyes lit up. “Doncha love it?”
In a moment the helicopter leveled out. The noise of the rotors took on a new pitch, the sound a whisper by comparison. Next the helicopter took on a new feel-that of a bird in flight, smooth and controlled.