The island of Bermuda was the perfect place for them after all. Was this not the island of which Shakespeare wrote in The Tempest-the isle full of noises and rapture, with the great magician Prospero and the tangle of love lives within that play? Karen and Benyon appeared to be enraptured by the place, in thrall as though Prospero were still in control, weaving a delicious and intoxicating spell around them.
Three nights before they were due to be shipped back to the UK for that long and exhausting time which it would take to clean her out, as the interrogators would phrase it, Karen realized that they had forgotten wine to drink with the dinner she was cooking.
Benyon left the charming little pink villa and walked down to King's Square, glimpsing the full-sized replica of the ship Deliverance, built on the island to carry an already shipwrecked group of colonists on to America, standing on Ordnance Island as a piece of living history with the statue of Sir George Somers, ill-fated leader of that expedition, arms raised as if he embraced this magic place. He bought a bottle of Karen's favorite wine and slowly walked back. In all he had been away for less than half an hour, but knew that something was wrong as soon as he saw the villa.
A car stood by the gate leading to the small patch of garden in front of the house, and he recognized one of the watchers, the man's name popping into his head straightaway-Pete Cannon. He had not seen the man for a decade, but knew him instantly, just as he knew something dreadful had occurred.
Inside, standing in the small living room, "Cheezy" Fowles, head of the watchers' unit, stood by the table with another of his men whom Benyon did not recognize.
"What…?" he began.
"We lost her." Fowles, ramrod straight and very angry.
"Lost her? But…"
"But me no buts, Mr. Benyon. My people latched on to a couple of likely lads two days ago. I had one man at the back of the house. Now he's dead and she was away before you were ten yards down the street."
"But I don't…"
"I've got the island swarming with people, plus the local gendarmes, though I think it was done so quickly and professionally that she may even be far away by now. There are plenty of yachts and small boats off the coast, and we can't cover all of them."
"You mean she's been abducted?"
Slowly Fowles shook his head. "I think not. It would seem that she went of her own accord."
In the midst of the shock an old joke flashed through Benyon's head-"My wife's in the Caribbean." " Jamaica?" "No, she went of her own accord."
"Left you a little billet-doux and a package." He gestured to the table.
The package was neatly wrapped with the kind of paper you buy for wedding presents: all white with golden bells and horseshoes. Against it was a pink envelope.
Benyon hesitated for a moment, hovering between the envelope and the parcel. Finally he opened the parcel. Inside was a white box, around seven inches long and a couple of inches high. He raised the lid and lifted the contents from a crunch of thin tissue. It was an almost pornographic little statue.
It was fashioned out of that metal so popular as expensive tourist statues: dark and pitted by what appeared to be verdigris. The figures, arched together in the sexual act, were sticklike, elongated and wastingly thin in the style of Giacometti.
There was a card with the gift, which simply read-We are surely together for eternity now, my darling-Karen.
With a sense of terrible breathlessness, as though some soot-black shadow had crossed over him, Benyon slowly slit the envelope and unfolded the one sheet of pink paper. Karen had written-
I am sorry, my darling Charles, I do care for you. At least that was not a lie, but from the beginning I have worked for KGB. Poor Viktor has been working for the Americans for many years. KGB instructed me to get very close to him, and when I told you the tale, so did you. It is an irony that he was passing the same chicken feed to the Americans, as I was passing to you. In all it looked and sounded authentic because it simply told you what you wanted to hear. What none of us knew then was that Viktor is HIV positive. Now he has full-blown AIDS and I am heading toward it rapidly. You will follow and we will eventually be together. I shall be well cared for until the end, for KGB looks after its own. I hope the same applies in your organization.
Much love until death brings us together again.
Karen.
He heard the silent scream deep within him, knew he was a dead man, heard some words from The Tempest-"But I would fain die a dry death"-heard his father saying that true love sometimes killed, and lastly, as the truth swept over him, heard the old words-"The loving you get ain't worth the loving you get."
The Stalker by FAYE KELLERMAN
It was hard for her to fathom how it all went so sour, because in the beginning the love had been sweet. The roses and candy that had been sent for no occasion, the phone calls at midnight just to say "I love you," the amorous notes left in her mailbox or on the desk at work, his stationery always scented with expensive cologne. The many romantic things that he had done during their courtship were now a thousand years old.
Somewhere buried beneath rage and hatred lay the honied memories. Julian telling her how beautiful and alluring she was, how he loved her lithe body, her soft hazel eyes and silken, chocolate-kissed hair. Bragging to his friends about her rapier wit or whispering in her ear about how her lovemaking had made him weak kneed. The last compliment had always been good for giggles or the playful slap on his chest. How she had blushed whenever he had raised his brows, had given her his famous wolfish leer.
The evening of his proposal had been the pinnacle of their fairy-tale romance, starting off with the Rolls-Royce complete with a uniformed driver. The chauffeur had offered her his arm, escorting her into the back of the white Corniche.
The most fabulous night in her life. And even today, steeped in righteous bitterness and bottomless hostility, she would admit that this sentiment still rang true.
There had been the front-row tickets at the theater. The play, Fall of the House of Usher, had been sold out for months. How he had gotten the seats had only added to Julian's aura of mystery and intrigue. Following the drama had been the exclusive backstage party where she had met the leading actors and actresses. They were all renowned stars and she had actually talked to them. Well, truth be told, mostly she had gushed and they had murmured polite thank-yous. But just being there, being part of the crowd…
She had thought herself in a dream. And the dream had continued. After the play had come the elegant candlelight dinner in the city's most expensive restaurant. Julian had preordered the menu-a peek of what was to come. But, that evening, she had mistaken his controlling nature for elan and confidence. He had arranged everything, starting with the appetizers-beluga caviar accompanied by blinis and crisp, cold vodka. Next came a puree of warmed beets served with a dollop of sour cream and a sprinkle of chives. Then a salad of wild greens, followed by a lemon sorbet to clear the palate. All the courses enhanced with the appropriate wines.
She always remembered the feast clearly. So real. If she thought about it long enough, she'd wind up salivating.
The delectable beef Wellington dressed with pungent, freshly ground horseradish, accompanied by boiled red potatoes and julienne carrots and celery. And the desserts! The most sumptuous pastry cart. To complete the evening's meal-a deep, full-bodied sherry aged over fifty years.
They had eaten and eaten, and afterward their stomachs had bulged to dangerous proportions. So he had suggested a ride to the lake. They had walked the banks in bare feet, small wavelets spilling liquid silver over their toes and onto the shore. How beautiful he had looked that night, his fine, sandy hair slightly disheveled by a rippling breeze, gentle blue eyes full of longing and love. At the perfect moment, he had wrapped his arms around her waist. Strong, muscular arms in perfect proportion with his hard, well-worked body. During the kiss, he had slipped the diamond on her finger.