“Christ, you’re beautiful…”
Helen didn’t know how to respond to the comment. Was he saying it merely for the sake of formality? Maybe he means it. Maybe he really thinks I’m beautiful. But—
What now?
She sought some other diversion because, well, she felt awkward just standing here in the middle of her dark living room being gropily kissed by a man she barely knew.
I know—
A few moments later cool water rained down on them; they were in the shower, their clothes, garment by garment, leading a trail to the bathroom. It was still dark, though, which she liked. Only a single candle lit the bathroom as they continued to embrace. The water at least partially sobered her up, refining her senses. She couldn’t really see his body; Nick was just a wet shape in there with her, an attendant shadow.
Neither of them spoke; all she could perceive was the detailed hiss of the water and the sensation of his hands sudsing her body, beguiling her. This was a shocking luxury, standing there in the small torrent and being so intimately investigated. Then he pulled her head back by her hair, licked her ear. Helen felt her body betray her. The contrast of cool water and warm lather made her nipples stand up, right away, and now his hands were smoothing suds over her breasts. The slow, radiating pleasure infuriated her in a way. He turned her, pressed her breasts together, and offered them to the water.
She felt the trail of suds course down her legs. More and more, Helen felt thinly wired, like a rosined bowstring fit to snap. Nick’s hands slid down her hips. An exciting impulse brought her up on her tiptoes. The hands continued to inch lower, toward her…
««—»»
Afterward, she felt delightfully worn out. She lay in bed as if dropped there. The sheets were damp; they hadn’t even bothered drying off after the shower. Nick’s attentions had surprised her, a see-saw of divided sensuality: gentle and affectionate one moment, primitive and rough the next. Everything he’d done had burned her fuse down a little further until the detonation had occurred. Quite a detonation indeed. Yes, her climax had felt like a bomb going off. And now—
He stood at the bedside, in the dark. After all that had ensued, she’d never really seen his body. Just glimpses in candlelight, and vague outlines.
The sound of clothes being put on now, the clink of a belt buckle.
He’s leaving, she realized, and that was good. She didn’t feel used at all—if anything, she’d used him. But for him to stay the night with her, to sleep with her…
That would’ve felt too strange.
“Can I see you again?” he asked, the first words he’d spoken since he’d told her she was beautiful.
Her thoughts snagged. “No, I-I don’t think that would be a good idea,” she said too quickly.
“Another guy, huh?”
Her mouth opened, closed. Not anymore, she thought. But it would hurt his feelings to say so. He’d actually been very considerate, he’d even had condoms. Instead she lied, “Yeah, something like that. I’m sorry, Nick. It’s nothing personal. I mean, it was… It was a good time. I just feel kind of weird about all this.”
“Sure,” he said.
“Don’t be mad.”
“Naw. Don’t worry about it,” he said as easily as he said anything. “But I’ll call you some time, you know, down the road, in case you change your mind. I won’t bust out into tears like some rubberneck if you tell me to bug off.”
Helen had to laugh. “Goodnight, Nick. I really did have a good time.”
“Yeah, me too.” Then his form leaned over in the dimming candlelight, kissed her a final time, and he was gone.
««—»»
Later, she gazed out the window. Madison seemed dead at four a.m., and that was roughly how she felt. Her previous tipsiness, and the revitalization from the shower and love-making, was now corroding to a state of hangover. She couldn’t imagine what Dr. Sallee would say about this; she doubted she’d even tell him. You need help, she scorned herself. Picking up a cop in bar? Then going to bed with him? The guy was a perfect stranger. And— Christ! My car’s still at the bar! She’d have to take a cab to pick it up in the morning. And with her luck it would be up on cinderblocks, stripped. And all for what? A quick roll in the hay, to use Nick’s sophisticated locution.
Well, at least he had condoms, she thought in some cheap consolation.
She rubbed her locket in the open V of her robe, still peering out her window into frigid night. Was it guilt? Did she feel guilty about going to bed with a man she just met? Helen didn’t think so, though she felt certain Dr. Sallee would disagree. He’d probably say something like: A retrograde anxiety complex, Helen. At the core of your subconscious, via a lifetime of preconceived ideals and learned experience, you feel overwhelmed with guilt. Even though your relationship with Tom is over, you feel dirty, deceitful. You feel as though you’ve cheated on him.
To hell with Tom. Cheating on him? What a joke. He cheated on me a dozen times—with men. Why should I feel guilty?
The answer, actually, was simple. She felt guilty because this was not like her by any means. Picking up men in bars? Anonymous, even emotionless sex? It wasn’t Helen’s style. If anything, she’d done it for distraction, and maybe even—in some symbolic way—to feel that she could still be attractive and desirable to men, almost as if she needed to prove something to herself. Worst part was, though, now that she’d gone and done it, she didn’t even care. She’d responded, she’d even climaxed, and she didn’t care…
The bed still smelled like his cologne when she heaped the covers over herself. I’m never drinking again, came a dim thought behind the headache. I’m so stupid! It would be morning soon—technically it already was—and she’d have to drag herself up and into work. To reface vague evidence and Olsher’s sudden lack of confidence. And Dahmer.
He’s out there, right now. And Campbell’s probably with him, helping him, staking out locations for him, driving him, maybe even picking up the new victims for him. That would make sense, wouldn’t it? Most people knew what Dahmer looked like—especially now with his picture in every paper and tabloid. Unless Dahmer had disguised himself, he couldn’t walk the street.
More support for her conviction that Campbell was the operative. The obsessee assistant, the apprentice who’d manufactured Dahmer’s “death,” orchestrated Dahmer’s escape, provided Dahmer with refuge, transportation, and the tools of his trade of murder.
Dahmer, she thought, pining for sleep. But there was no safety even in sleep, was there? Dahmer ruled her life by day, and now he even marauded her sleep.
She turned angrily in bed, and noticed only then the blinking red light on her answering machine. She didn’t even want to play it, didn’t care who had left the message.
Tom? she wondered half-awake. Again, to hell with him. And why would he call anyway? Or—
Damn it. Probably Beck. Maybe she’s got the tox screen done on Rosser’s blood…