Part 32 (1/2)

”You might as well swallow industrial waste. You'll mess up your”-he mimicked Kathryn-”genetic potential.”

Some half-forgotten thought started to seep into my mind, formless, like the morning's mist. I tried to reel it in, but the harder I concentrated the faster it dissolved.

”-Owens better keep his skivvies up. I'm going to be on his a.s.s like flies on a Tootsie Roll.”

”What sort of gospel do you suppose he preaches?”

”Sounds like some combination of ecological Armageddon and self-improvement through Wheaties.”

When he pulled up at the pier the sky was beginning to clear over the marsh. Streaks of yellow lit the horizon.

”Kathryn knows something,” I said.

”Don't we all.”

”You can be a real pain in the a.s.s, Ryan.”

”Thank you for noticing. What makes you think she's holding out?”

”She said babies.”

”So?”

”Babies.”

I saw thought working in his eyes. Then, ”Son of a b.i.t.c.h.”

”We never told her Heidi was carrying twins.”

Forty minutes later I heard a knock at the port-side entrance. I was wearing the Hornets T-s.h.i.+rt Katy had left, no panties, and a towel fas.h.i.+oned into a pretty slick turban. I peered through the blinds.

Ryan stood on the dock holding two six-packs and a pizza the size of a manhole cover. He'd abandoned his jacket and tie, and rolled his s.h.i.+rtsleeves to just below the elbows.

s.h.i.+t.

I released the slats and pulled back. I could turn off the light and refuse to answer. I could ignore him. I could tell him to go away.

I peeked out again and found myself looking directly into Ryan's eyes.

”I know you're in there, Brennan. I'm a detective, remember?”

He dangled a six-pack in front of me. ”Diet c.o.ke.”

d.a.m.n.

I didn't dislike Ryan. In fact, I enjoyed his company more than that of most people. More than I cared to admit. I liked his commitment to what he did, and the compa.s.sion he showed to victims and their families. I liked his intelligence and wit. And I liked the story of Ryan, the college kid gone wild, beaten up by a biker c.o.kehead, then converted to the other side. Tough kid turned tough cop. It had a kind of poetic symmetry.

And I definitely liked the way he looked, but my better judgment told me not to get involved.

Oh h.e.l.l. It beat noodles and synthetic cheese.

I dropped to my stateroom, grabbed a pair of cutoffs, and ran a brush through my hair.

I raised the blinds and slid back the screen to allow him in. He handed down the drinks and pizza, then turned and climbed aboard backward.

”I have my own c.o.ke,” I said, closing the screen.

”One can never have too much c.o.ke.”

I pointed to the galley and he set the pizza on the table, detached a beer for himself and a Diet c.o.ke for me, then placed the other cans in the refrigerator. I got out plates, napkins, and a large knife while he opened the pizza box.

”You think that's more nouris.h.i.+ng than pasta?”

”It's a veggie supreme.”

”What's that?” I pointed to a brown chunk.

”Side order of bacon. I wanted all the food groups.”

”Let's take it into the salon,” I suggested.

We spread the food on the coffee table and settled on the couch. The smell of marsh and wet wood floated in and mingled with the aroma of tomato sauce and basil. We ate and talked about the murders, and weighed the likelihood that the victims in St-Jovite had a connection to Dom Owens.

Eventually, we drifted to more personal topics. I described the Beaufort of my childhood, and shared memories of my summers at the beach. I talked about Katy, and about my estrangement from Pete. Ryan told stories of his early years in Nova Scotia, and disclosed his feelings about a recent breakup.

The conversation was easy and natural, and I revealed more about myself than I would ever have imagined. In the silences we listened to the water and the rustling of the spartina gra.s.s in the marsh. I forgot about violence and death and did something I hadn't done in a very long time. I relaxed.

”I can't believe I'm talking so much,” I said, as I began to gather plates and napkins.

Ryan reached for the empty cans. ”Let me help.”

Our arms brushed and I felt heat race across my skin. Wordlessly, we gathered the dinner mess and brought it to the kitchen.

When we returned to the couch Ryan stood over me a moment, then sat close, placed both hands on my shoulders, and turned my body away from him. As I was about to object he began ma.s.saging the muscles at the base of my neck, across my shoulders, and down my arms to just above the elbows. His hands slid down my back, then worked their way upward, each thumb moving in small circles along the edge of a shoulder blade. When he reached my hairline his fingers made the same rotating motions in the hollows below my skull.

My eyes closed.

”Mmmmm.”

”You're very tense.”

This was too good to ruin with talk.

Ryan's hands dropped to the small of my back, and his thumbs kneaded the muscles paralleling my spine, pressing higher inch by inch. My breathing slowed and I felt myself melt.