Bonne Femme

Chapter 20

A Personal Message

Cartier, September 15, 4:15 PM

        A pillowcase reduced Emily Palmer's existence to blurred gray.  She couldn't even lift her hands from the armrests.  She listened as the footfalls diminished and ceased.  After several minutes of dead silence she thought he had gone out through the back.  A loud ‘tick' made her jerk.  A sulfurous odor assaulted her nostrils.  Then he blew cigarette smoke in her face.  The sigh she heard made her recoil in horror.  His face was nearly touching hers.  She struggled violently, but couldn't so much as rock the chair.  Her attempt to scream was only a weak muffled protest through the gag. 

        Mic knelt motionlessly and silent, savoring her helplessness as she bucked and strained against her bonds.  He closed his eyes for a moment to listen:  the creaking of the chair, the rapid breathing, and the choked sobs.  All of it was good, but he wanted to see her eyes.

Not this time.

 

342.

        A movement at the window!  A black cat was on the brick sill outside.  It slid back and forth, brushing first one and then the other side against the glass.  Like a familiar spirit, the preening beast evoked a childhood memory.

        The mewling had drawn him to the big maple behind the house.  A huge black cat crouched and growled menacingly.  Between its paws was a fledgling robin.

        Mic took the cord from his pocket and moved behind the chair.  He lowered a loop carefully.  When it touched the bare skin below her collarbone she flinched.  Slowly he eased it up under the pillowcase, setting off a renewed spate of futile struggling.

        The cat sank its claws possessively as Mic neared.  With baleful eyes it bit almost tenderly into the captive.  The hapless bird fluttered in pain and terror.  The cat lingered, delaying the inevitable while its yellow eyes blazed with wild passion.

Mic tightened the garrote experimentally, eliciting a satisfying fit of thrashing panic.

        Fascinated, he poked at the cat with a stick.  It bit down, and the fluttering increased as the doomed victim tried vainly to break free.

        With closed his eyes he savored the feel of her life in his fingers.  He maintained a steady light tension, just enough to block the blood flow and build up pressure in the blood vessels of the face without cutting off oxygen to her brain.  He eased off before she lost consciousness.

        After she gasped in two deep breaths, he tightened the noose again, applying more force.  Her panic brought the familiar build up, like a roller coaster pushing higher and higher as it approached the peak before hurtling downward.  The sudden descent into mayhem beckoned, but he resisted.  The girl coughed as he eased up and released the breath that he had been holding. 

        He looked down at his "little bird."  Suddenly, he jerked the garrote up viciously, pulling the chair from the floor.  Holding her suspended, he calmly checked his watch.

Twelve minutes to go.

        He lowered her to the floor and released the cord.  He took deep drags on the cigarette as she coughed around the gag.  When her breathing had approached a normal pace, he knelt in front of her.  She craned straining to determine where he was.  It amused him.  He took a last deep drag, removed the cigarette from his lips, and studied the malevolently glowing coal at the end.

 

        After he was through with her, he emptied her purse onto the couch and took the money from the wallet.  A quick look at his watch told him that it was time to go.  At the last second he decided to take the cell phone.  On his way out back, he took one last look at her.  Through the front window he saw a car pull up.  He was still in the back yard when he heard it.

"Emmy!"

343.

4:50 PM

        That the crime had taken place in an unincorporated subdivision meant that the Sheriff's department had sole jurisdiction.  JR stopped on a sheet of plastic just inside the door and looked in.  The living room was as immaculate as a layout for Better Homes and Gardens except for an armchair festooned with duck tape sitting in the middle of the floor.  The head of the processing team looked up briefly to acknowledge him before feeding a pillowcase into an evidence bag.

"Finding anything useful?" he asked.

        "Except for the tape, nothing else appears imported.  The ligature was cut from the blinds over there, the pillowcase he slipped over her head came from the bedroom.  We'll dust and look for trace, but the scene looks pretty sterile.  Our best bet is to get a print from the tape."

"Know how he got in?"

        "Not sure.  She says he was waiting for her when she got home.  No jimmy marks, so she forgot to lock up, he had a key, or he picked the lock.  If the old man hadn't come home she'd be dead.  You should see the marks on her neck."

"How much of the scene is clear?" asked JR.

        "Not much.  This room's been photographed, but nothings been vacuumed and we're not through dusting for latents.  So stay where you are or put on booties."

JR noted the dumped purse.

"That been cataloged?"

        "Yeah, but no one's checked with her to see if anything's missing.  The wallet's empty though."

"Give me your list.  I'm going out to talk to her."

        "We may have something in the kitchen," he said as he handed it over.  "A cigarette butt and scuff-mark where the perp ground it out.  It would be great to get DNA from the cigarette.  A scraping of the scuffmark for chem analysis might be useful if we find shoes with a consistent chemical composition.  It's not much, but it could help in court if we catch him."

        "I'll get right on that," said JR over his shoulder as he went back outside to get the victim's story.

        The tall, thirty-year-old deputy stepped from the van and slid the door closed as he arrived.

 

344.

"She gonna be okay, Gwen?"

The department's rape counselor shrugged.

"Depends on what you mean by ‘okay.'"

"Can I see her yet?"

        "I wish you'd hold off a bit.  Besides, I don't know what she could tell you.  She didn't see anything.  He slipped something over her head as soon as she stepped through the door.  Besides saying he was strong, she couldn't tell me anything---not if he was big, small, white, black.  Maybe she'll remember something later."

"She can't tell us anything about him?"

        "According to her, he didn't say a word.  I know.  He had to say something---make a threat or something.  She says he was quiet---didn't even make enough noise for her to guess his age."

"Lead me through the sequence of the attack."

        "He pulled something over her head as soon as she came in, took her straight to the chair, tied her to it with tape.  By the way, he had already placed the chair in the middle of the room.  After he immobilized her he played at killing with her---those are my words, not hers.  What he did was put a noose around her neck and tightened it enough to make her think he was killing her.  The bruising confirms that.  I'm taking her to the clinic in a minute."

        "The sadistic bastard even held a cigarette to her.  One of her fingernails is as red as a beet.  Poor little girl.  If her daddy hadn't come home in time she'd be dead."

        "After you get her settled, I need your report.  Sooner rather than later I'm gonna have to talk to her."

He pulled the notepad sheet from his breast pocket.

"Before you go have her look at this to see if he took anything from her purse."

        She took it and went inside the van where Emily Palmer sat huddled against her father.  After a few minutes she emerged and handed it back.

"Her cell phone's missing.  She thinks that's all."

 

345.

"Tell them not to cancel service on it."

        "For what it's worth, we've got the crime scene for as long as we want.  Her dad's taking her to his sister's place.  Says he'd burn this place to the ground if he could.  He also says he's going to find the guy."

"I can understand that."

 

5:20 PM

        The way she stood with arms crossed and shooting him that look made him want to take her by the throat.

        "I got held up in traffic," he said, baring his teeth in a smile he couldn't summon the energy to make look sincere.  "Did you get what I wanted?"

"You said to be here at four forty-five.  That was half an hour ago."

"Sorry," he said as he took a bite.

"It's cold, isn't it?"

She stepped closer, the fabric of her blouse touching his chest.

"Maybe you'd like something a little warmer."

Brushing up against me like a whore, he thought.  Trying to play me. 

He ran his hands up her back.

        I pity the poor slob who marries her.  She'll blow up like a pig as soon as she gets a meal ticket.     

"I know what you want," she whispered.

He smiled and crushed her to him.

"That's more like my man," she breathed huskily.

"I got something for you."

"What is it?"

        "Come on.  You'll see when we get there.  We'll take your car and I'll fill it up with gas for you on the way back."

 

346.

Lake County Courthouse, September 16, 2:00 PM

"This is a fishing expedition," said Judge Clarke as he laid aside the petition.

        "Your honor, the suspect had a relationship with strangling victim, Rose Ford," replied the prosecutor.  "And two other women whom he knew were strangled likewise.  The method was the same as that which would have resulted in the death of Emily Palmer had her father not interrupted the perpetrator."

        "You know I can't take all that into consideration in evaluating this.  I'm going to have to narrowly define the warrant.  You can look for the Miss Palmer's cell phone."

        "But, your honor, we need to be able to seize the rest of it.  If we don't there's a good chance that the search will just tip him off and give him an opportunity to destroy vital evidence for other cases against him."

        "Then maybe a search warrant is premature, especially for this . . ."  The judge paused to read the list aloud.  "Bondage and sadomasochistic paraphernalia, violent pornographic materials, diaries, paper and computer files, computer storage devices, photographs, video tapes, women's clothing, jewelry items . . .  Tell me how any of that pertains to the Palmer case?"

 

5:30 PM

Mic smirked as read the warrant.

        "Phone cops, huh?"  He looked past JR toward the street.  "When will the mattress tag officers get here?"

        "I have a few questions for you before we conduct the search, if you don't mind," said JR.

"I got a choice?"

"Not really.  Let's sit down."

JR placed a small tape recorder on the kitchen table and started it rolling.

        "You are suspected in the assault of Emily Palmer yesterday afternoon.  Anything you tell me could be used as evidence against you.  Want a lawyer?"

 

347.

"I got nothing to hide.  Emily who?"

        "So you understand that you have a right to a lawyer and that you don't have to say anything---"

        "Yeah, yeah," said Mic as he reached for a cigarette.  "And you've got a right not breath my secondhand smoke, so you can leave anytime you want."

Mic blew smoke in JR's direction.

After stating the date and place of the questioning, JR began.

"You are William McCulloch Boyd, correct?"

"Yeah."

"Where were you yesterday afternoon?"

"Let's see---out to the lake, I think."

"Can anyone verify that?"

"I doubt it."

"So you were alone?"

"Perceptive.  Been detecting long?"

"So from four to six yesterday afternoon no one can verify where you were?"

        "No.  I was alone.  I guess if I need an alibi for yesterday, I'm out of luck.  I just kicked around out at the lake, picked up some food on the way back here, and then spent the night alone."

"I'm going to ask you to sit on the sofa in there while we search the place."

"No can do.  I got places to go and things to do.  You can't keep me here."

"I'm afraid I can.  Now sit down in there until we're done."

"Well get on with it or it'll take all damned night."

 

348.

"You noticed the warrant mentioned your car too," said JR.

Boyd appeared irritated but unconcerned.

"Just get on with it," he said.

JR stopped the tape recorder.

"Hal, John, go out and search his car.  I'll do the house."

 

        JR scanned the checklist and then walked through a cursory inspection, noting that the apartment looked more like a motel room than a home.  No pictures decorated the walls or dresser tops.  No magazines were scattered about.  Nothing personal warmed the place. The living room contained only the couch on which Mic sat smoking, and a dust covered TV hooked to cable, but with neither VCR nor DVD.

        He had Boyd stand up and then checked under the cushions before running his hands into the crevices beneath.  Turning the sofa on its back, he checked to see if the lining underneath had been pulled loose.  Finding nothing, he checked the TV stand.

        The kitchen wasn't spotless, but nothing appeared out of place:  no dirty dishes, no empty glasses or cups, and an empty trash bin.

        In the bedroom he found butts in an ashtray.  Like the one Mic was smoking, they had beige filters instead of the white filter on the butt from the Palmer house.  The closet contained clothes hung with military precision:  shirts to the left, pants to the right, and all hung at equal intervals.  A pair of leather soled black shoes sat on the closet floor.  He had noticed earlier that the athletic shoes Mic wore had an off-white, not black, tread.  The dresser drawers contained neatly folded clothes, segregated by type and color.  Socks were bundled military style, and aligned as if in anticipation of an imminent inspection.

        Back in the kitchen, he found a half empty six-pack of San Miguel, an unopened quart of milk, and a white paper bag in the refrigerator.  Inside the bag was a partially eaten cheeseburger.  The ticket stapled to it identified it as purchased at Burger Town at 4:29 the previous day.  It was suspiciously convenient, but an alibi nonetheless.

        JR scanned the checklist used as SOP when conducting a search.  Xeroxed from an FBI handout obtained at a workshop two years earlier, it cataloged both obvious and unusual hiding places room by room. 

 

349.

         He began with the kitchen, where the cabinets held nothing of interest and there appeared to be no hidden doors or compartments.  He checked behind and under the refrigerator and stove, examined the light fixtures and outlet covers for signs of a hiding place, and turned over the metal frame table to see if the feet attached to the hollow metal legs had recently been removed.  After carefully checking the baseboards for seams betraying a hidden panel to the interior of the wall, he examined the vinyl flooring and ceiling tiles.  Finding nothing, he went back to the bedroom.

        In the bedroom closet he found a ceiling panel giving entrance to the low attic.  Standing on a chair, he used a flashlight to examine the dark space overhead.  A thick layer of undisturbed dust covering the foil-backed insulation told him that nothing had been hidden there, at least not for several years.   He climbed down and began examining the dressers, removing drawers and checking for things taped to their bottoms or inside the frames.

        Behind the bureau mirror he found something that quickened his pulse, a small faux-leather diary of the type sold in discount stores.  He read through its three filled pages quickly and then put it back where he had found it and went outside where the deputies had finished with the car. 

"Nothing in the car, JR," said Hal as he handed over the clipboard.

"Nothing in there either, boys," he replied.

        Because he was looking for it, he saw just a twitch of surprise in Mic's face, before it settled quickly into a blank expression.

        "You guys can go on home," he said.  "I'll sign you out when I go back to write this up."

        As the patrol car disappeared around the corner, Mic lit a cigarette, flipped the spent match past JR, fixed him with a stare.  Then he smiled.

"I haven't done a thing to you, so why are you doing this?"

"I'm just doing the job."

"No.  You're making this personal.  That's a big mistake."

        "I don't know what you're talking about, but I am curious about your remark that you haven't done anything to me.  Why would you say that?"

 

350.

         "Maybe because you've been out to get me ever since Rose Ford disappeared.  Now you're trying to nail me for this other woman.  I don't even know her.  What is it?  Am I going to be your suspect every time someone attacks a woman in the county?"

        "Like I told you, I'm just doing the job.  If you haven't done anything then you don't have anything to worry about."

        "I guess you're right," said Mic.  "None of us have anything to worry about---me, Ricky, Jill, you . . . or Betty."

         At the sound of his wife's name, JR's hand drifted unconsciously to the butt of his nightstick.  Mic thought it hilarious.

"Simmer down, JR.  It was a joke."

        "Get near my wife, and I promise I'll blow your damned head off!" he said, meaning every word of it.

Mic laughed.

"Well, I'm sure you feel all better now," he said.

 

September 17

        A string of motionless boxcars blocked the way three blocks from the Palmer house.  It took an unusually long train to block Lowell Street, but apparently that's what they had.

        "I've got to be back in two hours," said Richard.  "Jill's third class is out at the north campus.  I don't want her walking that far alone."

        "I'll get you back in time," replied JR as a crescendo of clangs rang out as the switch engine tugged slack from the couplings.

Graffiti covered boxcars began creeping toward the switchyard.

"Hand me that thermos at your feet," he said.

He poured a cup for Richard and a capful for himself.

        "I came across two interesting items in Boyd's apartment.  There was a sack from the drive-in over on Market with a ticket that shows it was bought about the time the attack."

 

351.

"Someone else picked it up."

        "Probably.  I also found a sort of . . . diary.  It had a bunch of vague references to the three of you."

"The three of us?"

        "He makes it sound like there was some kind of weird . . . triangular affair going on."

        "I told you that he and Jill dated for several months last year before she and I got together.  We all hung around at the college together, but there weren't three of us.  There were four.  Marta was with us.  Is that what he was writing about?"

        "Not exactly.  He makes it sound like you and him had something . . . like a bisexual thing going when you were in the Marines together."

"That's laughable," said Richard.

        "It would be except one of the entries implies that you let a . . . a sex thing get out of hand . . . like maybe you accidentally killed a prostitute over in Africa."

        "That's ridiculous!  You can talk to anyone who knew us in Somalia.  I had nothing to do with him over there that wasn't duty related.  I certainly never went whoring with him, not that much of that was going on over there.  We were all so afraid of contracting AIDS that Somalia was probably the most celibate military operation in history."

        "Maybe he was talking about female military personnel?  Don't tell me there was none of that kind fraternization going on?"

"There was, only not for me."

"Do you remember a woman getting killed?"

        "One of us?  No.  And I would have heard.  Everyone would have heard.  The media would have been on it like flies on roadkill."

The last of the boxcars cleared, and JR put the car in gear.

        "The diary also suggests that you may have killed Rose Ford, and that he was worried that you might kill Jill.  My opinion is that he's trying to muddy the waters---and he's doing a damned good job of it.  Without physical evidence connecting him to any of the crimes, discrediting you and confusing people as to the real relationship between you two is a good tactic.  No telling what a jury would make of it."

 

352.

"What do the rest of them think about it?"

        "The diary?  I didn't take it in.  Wasn't on the warrant.  Neither was the bag in the refrigerator," he said with a laugh as they pulled to the curb.  "He brought it in this morning.  I guess I'll have to testify that I saw it in the refrigerator during the search if this goes to trial, but I didn't tell him that."

JR unlocked the door, and they ducked the crime scene tape and went in.

        "His alibi isn't as good as he thinks.  In fact it cuts two ways.  If you assume he cooked it up then it shows premeditation.  And whoever picked it up for him is open to charges of abetting which could be used to drive a wedge between them.  Anyway, that's the prosecutor's business," mumbled JR as they walked to an armchair positioned at a forty-five degree angle near the center of the cold room.

"You see why he put her here?" he asked absently.

He stood behind the chair.

        "The chair faces the door.  It's the first thing you'd see when you came in.  Using a chair fits, doesn't it?  He taped victims to one in West Virginia and in Walker."

"No, JR.  The men weren't his victims.  They were his audience.  This is different."

        "Maybe it was just a variation on his theme---strangling from behind just like the others."

        "It's not right," Richard insisted.  "She was fully clothed, and the others were strangled in the bedroom."

        "Who knows what he did to the others before he killed them?  Maybe he stripped them after they were dead."

        "I don't understand the pillowcase either, JR---unless it's like standing behind them so he won't see their faces.  Maybe he visualizes another face, pretends that they're someone else."

        "Leave that for the shrink to ask while he's waiting for lethal injection," said JR.  "Oh.  He added one other thing this time.  Her dad interrupted him as he was torturing her.  Besides repeatedly strangling her to the point of unconsciousness, he held a cigarette---"

"To one of her fingernails," Richard interrupted.

 

353.

"How did you know that?  It wasn't released to the media.  "

        "He did it during an interrogation in Mogadishu," said Richard, as a possible explanation began to form.

"This is crazy, JR.  But I think he did that to tip me that it was him."

"Why would he deliberately point a finger at himself."

        "He told me once that it didn't matter what people knew if they couldn't prove it.  Now I understand the pillowcase.  It wasn't that he didn't want to see her face.  He didn't want her to see his because he planned to let her live."

        "These guys don't de-escalate," objected JR.  "Besides, you should see the marks on her neck.  He got real close to killing her."

        "But he didn't.  Try this out:  he knows her schedule, so he breaks in waits for her to come home.  He gains control of her without letting her see his face.  Then he ties her here in the chair where he can watch the street.  Then he spends . . . what?  Maybe half an hour tormenting her, acting out strangling her?  But he doesn't kill her because that's not part of the plan this time.  He knows her father's schedule too, so he stretches it out to make it look like he was interrupted before he was through."

        "I think you're giving him too much credit.  The simple explanation is that the old man came home before he expected, or maybe he didn't know that she lived with her father."

        "No I'm not.  This was like a raid.  He scouted it first and then picked his time, and set a timetable.  I think this went down just like he planned."

"I still don't buy it.  These guys are about one thing, and one thing only."

        "A forensic psychologist told me that it was foolish to think they were all alike.  If it was only blood lust that motivated him, he would have stuck to the script.  You'd have found both of them in the bedroom, the old man in this chair, and the daughter on the bed."

"Then why did he do this?"

Chill certainty gripped him.

        "To send a message.  He's saying, ‘It's me, and you can't stop me.'  But he's wrong.  The circle of people who suspect him is getting wider and wider."

"That circle is what bothers me, Richard."

 

354.

"Why?"

"Because you're at the center of it.  It was created by you."

"You suspect me?"

        "Of course not, but a defense lawyer would have a hay day with all this.  Everything connecting him to a victim is related to something you've said or done.  You went to Missouri to dig into the death of that girl and you convinced the West Virginia people to consider him for the Scott homicides.  The topper is that you came to me about Rose Ford, and this story about the cigarette torture.  I'm a friend of your, Richard.  Any decent lawyer would have that out of me before my butt warms the witness chair."

        "It could be painted as you conducting a jealousy inspired vendetta with me misusing my authority to help you do in your rival."

"A jury would never believe that."

        "Well, they wouldn't have to, would they?  All they'd have to do would be to develop a reasonable doubt.  Speaking of which, there's a ready made alternate suspect for them to use in the Palmer case---namely you."

"How am I a suspect?"

"Got an alibi?"

"I was at home with Jill."

        "So it's back to the triangle he wrote about in his diary:  two violent guys obsessed with the same girl.  Actually, it's not all that unbelievable if you think about it.  The accusations you guys are making against each other go back to some really nasty stuff in Somalia.  How's a jury supposed to wade its way through all that to return a guilty verdict?"

"Just tell me that you still believe me, JR."

        "Yeah.  He even helped in that regard.  After the search, he mentioned Betty.  I almost lost it."

"Did he make a threat?"

        "No, but I showed her a picture so she would know what he looks like, and I got my brother's German Shepherd staying in the house with us.  She's a great burglar alarm."

 

355.

A Premonition

2:30 AM, September 18

"What---" he gasped, jolting upright.

Jill sat on the edge of the couch, silhouetted against the window.

"What's wrong?" he asked, trying to still the rapid beating of his heart.

"I cannot sleep."

        In the dark, her voice sounded like that of a frightened child---not at all like her. 

        "I should have never told you about all that stuff JR said.  You've got enough to worry about with that hypothetical stuff about the trial.  You want to stay out here tonight?"

        "I kept hearing things.  I thought someone---he was in the house with us.  I know it is foolish."

"Not at all.  It's like when we were---"

        "Please," she said, interrupting him.  "I am not in the mood for another of your military analogies.  Just come into the bedroom so that I will know where you are and that nothing is happening to you.  Maybe I can sleep then."

"Are you mad at me?"

"I am not angry with you, Richard.  I am angry with the situation."

"The situation I have caused."

        "We both helped cause it," she said, standing up.  "Perhaps if you or I had done things differently he would not be doing this.  Or perhaps he would be doing it to someone else.  Bring your pillow."

        As he arranged his pillow and bedclothes on one side of the bed, she locked the bedroom door and propped a chair beneath the knob.  She took the .45 from the nightstand.

"Keep this tonight," she said.

 

356.

He removed the clip.

        "With that hair trigger, I don't think having a round ready to fire is a good idea," he said.

        After removing the round in the chamber, he reinserted the clip and placed the automatic under his pillow.

        "Besides, if he does try to get in, the sound of a round being chambered might give him second thoughts."

        Settled down and bundled in his blanket like a caterpillar in a cocoon, he had almost drifted into sleep when she spoke.

        "I was angry with you," she said.  "I kept thinking about the Palmer girl and that he wishes to do the same to me.  Then I thought that he would never have even met me if not for you.  I know that you are protecting me, but I should not need protecting.  Why does this have to happen?"

        He wished he could think of new words to reassure her, but nothing came to him. 

"Jill, I'm---"

        "Do not apologize again.  It changes nothing.  Besides, you are no more to blame than I.  Aunt Mirabelle says that one cannot help what happens, but one can help where one is.  I went to the wrong place, Richard."

"To Cartier?"

"No.  To Mic.  I knew better."

"That was my fault," he said.

"You had no influence on me."

        She turned her back to him, adjusting the covers as if to signal an end to the conversation.  After a few minutes of silence, he thought she had fallen asleep.

        "We must find a way to end this," she said suddenly.  "I cannot do this much longer."

        "I think we're well on the way to doing just that.  Everyone's convinced that he's responsible for both the Walker thing and Rose Ford."

 

357.

"Then why does someone not arrest him?" she asked bitterly.

        "Acting prematurely could ruin any chance at prosecution.  When you arrest someone, then you have to charge them.  Without enough evidence to convict, you're just wasting you time putting them on trial."

        "I know how the legal system works," she said.  "But you said he would stop.  You said he would go away if they got interested in him.  It is not happening, Richard.  Now I cannot even run away and be safe.  He will follow me."

        He wanted to hold her.  But was that for her sake or his own?  Suddenly he was more afraid than he had ever been, not of Mic, but of his own weakness.  He had been fooling himself---and her.  He was unequal to the task, and had been from the beginning. 

       "No, he won't," he said.  "I want you to go home.  Tomorrow I'll get the money for you.  You find a good school there.  I promise that I'll send you the money you need to finish your education.  You can count on it."

A long silence followed.

"I cannot go back," she finally said.

"Sure you can.  I want you to."

        "But I do not want to," she said, turning back toward him.  "So we continue doing what we are doing until it ends.  What else is there?"

 

        In the night he woke to find her curled against him.  He thought about putting his arm around her, but didn't.

Jill awoke later and thought about moving back to her side of the bed, but she didn't.

Of course neither of them spoke about it in the morning.