Sandy's head was spinning and Beth was talking at light speed. Could she be a crankhead or something?
"I eat takeout a lot. Look, uh, Beth, are you all right?
"All right?" she said, laughing. "I'm miles better than all right. I don't think I've been so all right in years!" She dashed to the couch and picked up a handful of yellow sheets from his legal pad, the one he'd left the note on. "Look at this! Notes, Sandy! It's just so pouring out of me!"
"Notes about what?"
"About what? What else? Last night. I woke up and found your note and remembered what you'd said this morning and suddenly it was like wow! Insight! I am 50 psyched!"
"What'd I say?"
She grinned. "Oh, so you like Ray Charles too."
"Huh?"
"Never mind. You said maybe you were able to handle what happened because you had to write about it. That the writing forced you to confront your reactions, that putting it all down on paper was some sort of exorcism. Remember?"
"Yeah." He vaguely recalled saying something like that. "Sort of."
"So that's what I've been doing! For months now I've been going crazy trying to decide what to do for my thesis film, and when I woke up this afternoon I remembered what you said and there it was, staring me right in the face!"
"Your film?"
"Yes! It's going to be about what happened on the train last night. Not literally, of course, but metaphorically about having your mortality so shoved right in your face. And you know what? Ever since I started writing down these notes, I'm not afraid anymore."
She tossed the yellow sheets back toward the couch. They never made it. They fluttered instead like dying birds and fell to the carpet.
She threw her head back and shouted. "I'm saved!"
They drank the wine and talked as she cooked the spaghetti and spiced up the Ragu in some wonderful way. And they talked while they ate. Beth was twenty-four, from Atlanta, with an English degree from Baylor. Her folks were the sort who valued stability, she told him, and weren't all that crazy about her going for a film degree; it wasn't a career that guaranteed a steady income and benefits—like teaching, for instance.
And all the while Sandy ached for her but couldn't say so, couldn't make the first move.
Finally the wine and the food were gone. Sandy cleared the table with Beth. They were both standing at the sink when she turned to him.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure. Anything."
"Have you got something against sex?"
Sandy blinked in shock, tried to say no, but found himself stuck in a Porky Pig stutter. "M-m-m-m-me? No. Why would you say that?"
"Because I'm here and I'm as willing as I'll ever be and you haven't made a move. Not a single move."
That fear of rejection shit again, Sandy thought. Damn me! How do I get out of this?
"Well, look," he said. "I mean, after you gave me such a brush-off last night I thought maybe you might be, you know, playing for the other team."
He hadn't thought that at all, but it was a good cover.
Her grin split her face. "Me? A lez? Oh, God, that's such a riot!"
"It is?" It was the best he could come up with on such short notice.
"You were just a stranger on a train then." She nudged him. "And hey, how about that—I was reading a Hitchcock book no less. But now…"
Beth slipped her arms around Sandy's neck again and pulled his face down to hers.
"Now you're a guy who saved my life, or at least was willing to take a bullet for me, and then you calmed me down when I was so freaking out, and then you inspired my student film. Where the hell have you been all my life, Sandy Palmer?"
"Waiting for you," Sandy said.
And then her lips were sealed over his and she was hooking her right leg around him and tugging at the buttons of his shirt.
She wants me! he thought, his heart soaring. Wants me as much as I want her.
What a difference a day makes.
9
Kate was waiting outside on the front step as Jack neared the Arsley. She wasn't alone. In the fading light he could make out a tall, thin, stoop-shouldered man in a suit.
Who's this? he wondered.
He'd figured the easiest way to get to Pelham Parkway and back was to drive, so he'd offered his services. But he'd expected only Kate as a passenger.
Felt a smile start at the sight of her, and was struck again by what a good-looking woman she was. Dressed simply and casually in a fitted white shirt and black slacks, she still managed to project taste and style. Guy with her looked to be about her age, but on the homely side. Jack hoped this wasn't the "someone special" she'd mentioned last night. She could do a lot better.
He pulled his two-year-old black Crown Victoria into the curb before the pair. Kate leaned in the passenger window.
"Jack, this is Dr. Fielding, Jeanette's oncologist. He wants to come along."
Swell, Jack thought sourly.
Didn't know what Kate was getting him into, and a third party might tie his hands. She'd told him about Jeanette Vega, a dear friend from college recovering from brain tumor therapy with no one to care for her. And she'd told him about this Holdstock guy popping into Jeanette's unannounced with a key; that plus his apparent influence over Jeanette earned him a high creep quotient. Hopefully tonight's excursion would run smoothly, but Jack found cults generally creepy. Too unpredictable. Jonestown and those Hale-Bopp weirdos were prime examples.
But he smiled and said, "Sure. Why not?"
The doc slipped into the back seat and Jack noticed his dark hair, over-gelled and frozen into long shiny black rows left by his comb. He stretched a bony, long-fingered hand toward Jack. "Jim Fielding."
"Jack," he said, shaking Fielding's hand. "An oncologist who makes house calls. Am I witnessing an historic event?" He turned to Kate who was belting herself in next to him. "Hope you didn't use any illegal means of coercion."
"As opposed to legal means of coercion?" Kate said. "No, Dr. Fielding insisted on coming along."
"Really."
"I'm concerned about Jeanette's bizarre behavior," Fielding said, "particularly the possibility that she might be developing a seizure disorder. She's fortunate a trained observer like Dr. Iverson was there as a witness."
Dr. Iverson? Jack wondered, then realized he was talking about Kate.
"I'd like to do a little first-hand observation myself. And if Jeanette won't come to me, then I'll go to her."
Sounds like a good guy, Jack thought.
Kate patted the seat between them. "Big car. Reminds me of Dad's."
"He's got a Marquis, same car but sold by Mercury. It's the state car of Florida."
"I wouldn't have thought you were a big-car type, Jack."
"I'm not."
"You rented this just for tonight? Jack, you should have told—"
"No, it's mine. Sort of."
"Sort of how?"
"Just… sort of." Should he explain how he'd paid for the car but it was registered under someone else's name? Nah. "Don't worry about it."
"I'm not worried about it—just you."
"It's okay."
Cars were an ongoing problem for Jack. With no officially recognized identity, he couldn't own one in the conventional manner. At least as a city dweller he had little call for one, but on those rare occasions when the need arose he wanted immediate access. Used to keep an old Buick registered under Gia's name but that arrangement had led to a dicey situation where Jack had been linked to the car and the car had been traced back to Gia.
Wasn't about to let that to happen again. He made a point of learning from his mistakes and so he'd hunted around for another way to have access to wheels that couldn't be traced to him. Came up with a beaut: find a guy equipped to field whatever a disgruntled target of Jack's work might toss his way, then clone his car.