"I think they do."
He leaned toward her, and she felt the heat coming off his body and knew his pulse was racing. He might be preparing to strike. She almost tensed in anticipation of a fight, but if she did, he would sense it.
"I think," Hickle said slowly, his voice dropping to a whisper!
"everybody lies all the time. We all put on an act. We hide from view." "Including you?" she asked.
"Yes."
"And me?"
"I think so, Abby."
"So you don't trust me." She put no judgment in the words.
"I'd like to, I really would."
"But you don't."
"Should I?"
"Of course you should. I'm trying to be your friend."
"What else are you?"
"Nothing else."
She saw the intensity building in his gaze.
"Who are you, really?" he whispered.
Her purse was on the coffee table, but to reach it she would have to spring forward, and with Hickle pressed against her, she wasn't sure she could.
"I'm your friend, Raymond." She knew he wasn't buying it.
"Just your friend." If he had any kind of weapon, she was dead.
"My friend."
"Yes." "I hope so," he said, leaning nearer, closing the distance between them, and he kissed her.
It was the briefest kiss, a gentle meeting of the lips, and Abby knew? it was unplanned, an act of impulse.
She did not resist or respond. Hickle was the one who pulled back in a violent recoil that upset the plate in his lap.
"Sorry," he mumbled.
"I shouldn't have-didn't mean to-" Abby didn't know whether to feel relieved or embarrassed, but she was suddenly sure he posed no immediate threat.
"It's okay, Raymond," she said soothingly.
"Forget about it. It's okay."
He looked away, his face flushed scarlet, and then he saw the multicolored stain painted on the sofa by his spilled chicken and pork.
"Uh oh," Abby said, following his gaze.
"Looks like it's wet cleanup time."
"I'll take care of it."
"We'll do it together. Wait here." She busied herself in the kitchen, wetting paper towels under a stream of tap water. When she returned to the sofa, she saw Hickle standing near the coffee table, nervously shifting his weight like a boy who had to go to the bathroom.
Whatever his intentions had been in coming here, kissing her had not been on the agenda.
He took the towels from her and blotted up the mess.
"I'm sorry," he said again.
"Don't worry about it. The furniture's not even mine. Besides, it looks like you got rid of the stain."
"I think so." Hickle put down the towels and began edging toward the door.
"Guess I'd better be going. It's late."
"Only nine." Suddenly she didn't want him to go.
He'd reached out to her in his clumsy way. She wanted to explore the new path he'd opened for her.
"I'm kind of tired." He put his hand on the doorknob.
She tried stalling.
"There's some leftovers for you to take."
"You keep them. It'll make a good lunch." He fumbled the door open and stepped into the hall.
"Raymond, if you ever want to talk to me… about anything… drop by, okay?"
He didn't look back.
"I'll keep that in mind.
Thanks."
Then the door was shut and she was alone. Abby wished he hadn't fled.
There had been a chance for a dialogue, a breakthrough. It was an opportunity that might not present itself again.
Hickle stood unmoving in the hallway for a long time, thinking of one thing only.
He had kissed her. Kissed her mouth.
He hadn't meant to. Nor had he meant to ask most of the questions he'd asked. He'd simply been unable to stop himself. It was as if he'd been carried along on a current of energy that flowed between Abby and himself, with no willpower of his own, no self-control.
He let himself into his apartment, then paced the living room. After a while it occurred to him that he was hungry. He'd managed to eat only a few bites with Abby so near to him on the couch. In the kitchen he fried up some beans and ate them out of a bowl, washing them down with Coca-Cola. Eating calmed him.
He had made a fool of himself, but she hadn't seemed to mind. She had smiled kindly and offered to be there if he needed to talk. She had said she was his friend. He wished he could believe her. But the words from last night's e-mail message still scrolled through his memory: Her job is to get close to men like yourself, learn their secrets, and report what she finds.
He finished his meal, wandered into the bedroom, and sat on his bed, shoulders slumping. He still didn't know if Abby was his friend or his betrayer. But he could find out. It was easy now, as easy as the press of a button.
Hickle reached into his pants pocket and took out the item he had snatched from Abby's purse.
There had been other things in the purse, things he'd barely had time to notice in his brief, frantic rummaging.
A lightweight revolver-suspicious but not conclusive; in LA many women armed themselves. A wallet containing a driver's license that bore the name Abby Gallagher and an address in Riverside-it meant nothing; ID could be faked. A pair of small tools, their purpose unidentifiable.
The last item he'd found had been the one he wanted. He had slipped it into his pocket and backed away from the coffee table just before she emerged from the kitchen with the wet towels. He held it now in the palm of his hand.
A microcassette recorder with a tape inside, partially used. He touched Rewind, and the tape began to run back.
If she was keeping secrets, he would find them on the tape. Her ruminations and reminders, her notes to herself. All he had to do was listen.
The tape kept rewinding. It made a low hiss as it turned.
He wondered if he wanted to play it. Maybe he would be better off not knowing. If he could accept Abby as what she claimed to be, if he could put away all doubt and suspicion, wouldn't he be happier?
He weighed the tape recorder in his hand, as if weighing the choice it represented. Then his finger pressed the button marked Play.
From the small speaker came Abby's voice, faint as a whisper. Hickle stretched out on the bed, the tape recorder inches from his ear, and listened.
"Where is this going to lead?"
V V Howard Barwood paused in the act of pulling on his pants. He looked at Amanda, naked in bed.
"I told you," he said, "I intend for us to be together."
"When?"
"When Kris is out of the picture."
"I'm a cynical big-city gal, Howie. And I'm starting to wonder if that's ever going to happen."
"It'll happen." He tugged his pants up around his waist and fastened the buckle. He hated it when she called him Howie.
The bedside lamp was the only light in the room. It was fitted with a three-way reading bulb, but the two higher wattages had burned out, and only the lowest setting was still functional. The bulb cast a wan, sallow glow over half the bedroom, leaving the far corners in shadow.
"You know," Amanda went on as if he hadn't spoken, "I'm starting to sense a certain proclivity toward procrastination on your part. You've had months to tell her."
"There are other considerations."
"Such as?"
"The timing of certain financial transactions." It seemed safe to tell her that much.
"Sounds very mysterious," Amanda purred, "and disturbingly nonspecific."
"Let's just say we're not going to be poor."
"Was that ever an issue?"
"Poor is a relative term. Poor by my standards might be rich by somebody else's. We'll have all we need."
"And what will Kris have?"
Howard turned away.
"You don't have to worry about Kris."
He found his shirt and shrugged it on. He felt better when he was not bare-chested. As a younger man he had been proud of his muscular torso, but now his pecs were sagging and his abdomen had loosened as his waistline expanded. He was out of shape. He didn't like to look in the mirror anymore. Or maybe there were other reasons why he preferred not to look at himself.