39
They had dinner at Sunset. Sat outside and watched the moon’s reflection glide over the water of East End Bay. They had oysters and then grilled fish, with a chilled bottle of good white wine. Neither one of them wanted coffee or dessert, but they had an after-dinner drink, thin cordial glasses of a vin santo.
Justin walked Deena home after dinner. They strolled along Main Street, which was busy with the midsummer tourist crowd desperate to pack in as many evenings of carefree fun before Labor Day. They reached the front of her house, went inside, up the stairs into her apartment. They paid the baby-sitter, looked in on Kendall, who was asleep, then they went into Deena’s room and they made love. There was no conversation; he just reached for her and she responded. It started simply enough, with a kiss, but then her nails ran down his back and she bit his lip until he yelped in pain. He grabbed her hair and kissed her hard. They undressed each other, yanking their clothes off in jerky, spasmodic movements, and fell on the bed. They made love for a long time, and they both knew there was something desperate, almost violent in the way they were kissing and touching and writhing and moaning. When they were done, they were both sweating and breathing hard, both of them stunned at the emotion and the release they had just experienced.
It took Justin a long time before he could speak but finally, his chest still heaving, he said, “So what happens now?”
Deena wiped the sweat off her forehead. She got up from the bed, grabbed a blue silk robe off the hook on the back of her bedroom door. She wrapped the robe around her, sat back on the bed, one leg tucked under her. She reached over and put her hand on his arm. “My whole life, the last few years of it anyway, has been spent trying to achieve some kind of spiritual balance. That’s what I believe in, Jay. Balance and peace. Your life—”
“I know. Not too spiritual or balanced. And not too peaceful.”
“It all just scares me so much. And it’s not just me. Okay, I know it all exists, all the ugliness you choose to see. But I don’t want to have to face it. I’m sure you think that’s hypocritical or cowardly, but I don’t want to face it. And Kendall, maybe she can get through the rest of her life without having to see some of these things. Maybe her life can be different.”
“But not if I’m around it can’t.”
“No.”
He nodded, turned, and started to move away. She reached out for him, hooked his arm with her hand, pulled him back closer to her.
“I know what you think. You think it’s what happened with Newberg. The violence. But it’s not just that. It’s more than that. It’s all of it.”
“It’s what my wife used to say. Alicia. She used to have that same look in her eyes that you have.”
“What look?”
“I used to point it out to her and she’d say I was crazy. She said the only look she had was one of love.”
“And what did you say it was?”
“Oh, it was love. But it was something else, too. It was fear.”
“I’m not afraid of you, Jay.”
“No. Neither was she. It’s a different kind of fear. It’s a fear of life. Of my life. Of what I’d bring into our life.” He smiled at her, leaned over, and kissed her lightly on the lips. “You want to tell me that the only look in your eyes is one of love.”
“No,” Deena said sadly. “I can’t do that. But there is love there, too.”
“So what do we do?” he said.
“I don’t know,” she told him. “Maybe we just go on and see what happens. See which is stronger, the love or the fear.”
He thought about that for a while, then he nodded, smiled a brief flicker of a smile. They made love again, this time slowly and gently, and she fell asleep in his arms.
At two o’clock in the morning, he untangled himself, slipped out of her bed, and got dressed. He leaned down, kissed her lightly on the cheek. She stirred in her sleep and gave a satisfied sigh. He turned, left her bedroom and then her apartment, headed down the silent, deserted street, back to his small Victorian house half a mile away.
When he opened the door, stepped into his living room, and felt the solitude envelop him, Justin Westwood waited for the familiar roar of music to take over as it had done so often over the years. He expected something sad or harsh or cynical to fill him up. But no music came just now. He was restless, he realized, thought about having a couple of scotches, but that didn’t seem right somehow. He stood in the darkness of the living room, not bothering to turn on the lights, and he closed his eyes for a moment, remembering how easy it was for him, not so very long ago, to disappear within his own head and shut the world out.
But after a few seconds, his eyes opened. The world was quite visible, if cast in late-night shadows.
Justin turned on the light. He walked to his built-in bookshelf. He removed three books from the middle of the shelf, reached behind them. His hand came out holding a floppy disk for a computer. The disk was protected in a thin paper sleeve. Justin stared at the disk in his hand for quite a while, then he went to his laptop and inserted the disk into the A drive. Justin studied the formula on his screen, read the notes and history well into the night. It was dawn when he was done and he clicked on Close. A box came up on the screen asking him if he wanted to save the document. He clicked on No, and watched as the words disappeared.
Justin removed the disk, put it back in the thin paper covering, walked over to a wastebasket at the other side of the room. He held the disk over the basket, picked up a book of matches lying next to a candle on his windowsill. Justin lit a match, held it up to the disk, and set it on fire. He held it between his thumb and forefinger until he couldn’t hold it anymore, then he let it drop into the wastebasket. He watched as the disk began to melt and curl and disappear.
Justin realized that he had an early and busy day tomorrow. He’d be back at the East End Harbor police station and there was a lot of work to do. He was suddenly overcome with exhaustion; he knew he should try to get a couple of hours’ sleep.
Justin decided that before he went to the station in the morning, he might go see Mrs. Dbinsky on Harrison Street. After the raucous weekend, she’d probably be complaining about the traffic again. About all the trucks that had driven past her house in the last two days. He liked the idea of heading her off at the pass, not even waiting for her to call.
But first he’d get into bed and try to sleep.
Even if only for an hour, he’d have a peaceful, quiet, dreamless sleep.
About the Author
Russell Andrews is a pseudonym for Peter Gethers. Under the Andrews name, he has written two international bestselling thrillers. In real life, he is a screenwriter, novelist, publisher, and author of three bestselling nonfiction books. They both manage to live under the same roof, dividing time between homes in New York City, Sag Harbor, and Sicily.