Chapter 6

Bonne Femme, 12: 15 AM, June 8

The moon slid intermittently into view from behind the thickening curds of a buttermilk sky, while the old Merc grumbled loudly as if impatient with Richard's cautious pace while threading through the shoals to open water.  A vagrant swell jounced the boat as he pointed it toward the invisible mainland, and slowly took her up to full speed.  Soon the old boat planed off smoothly, reducing the waves to an irregular thrumming against her aluminum bottom.  It seemed a dream.  Jill feared that at any moment she would awake and find herself still on the island.

Each small sound echoed around the bowl of the cove, the effect like that of an ancient amphitheater as they left the lifeless old marina by the erratic illumination of the cloud-veiled moon.  Burdened only by the smaller of her two suitcases, Jill easily matched Richard's pace as he struggled toward the junkyard lugging both the larger suitcase and his barracks bag.

The car appeared undisturbed, but Richard cautiously left Jill hidden in the shadows, and went ahead to reconnoiter.  Everything was just as he had left it the night before, including a small limb he had leaned against the driver's side door to appear as a tell.  Mic was familiar with tell-tales and could have replaced it had he been there, but the possibility was remote since Richard had siphoned gas at the marina rather than chance a trip into town.

He motioned her forward and then popped the trunk.  Accustomed to only fire illumination at night, the trunk light seemed harshly bright.  He stowed the baggage and softly closed the lid.

"What happened to the windshield?" asked Jill, staring at the shatter star on the passenger side as she got in.

"Camouflage," he said.

He drove through the junkyard, out into the open field, and up the hill with the lights off.  The Cougar bumped slowly over the grassy earth, evoking for her flashes of the picnic.  They reached the highway without spying another car and Richard pulled onto the pavement before flipping on his lights.  He drove slowly through a light ground fog swirling in from the lake.  Neither had spoken a word since leaving the junkyard.  The dash clock read three fifteen when they reached the garish orange sodium vapor lights at the city limits.  When he took the road toward the downtown, Jill wondered if he was heading for her apartment or his.  Instead, he stopped in front a building with a red brick arch framing its double doors.  White letters paralleling the semi-circular transom above the entrance said "City Hall."

"Well.  Here you are," he said.

Jill was afraid to reach for the door, certain that he would hit the accelerator and speed away.  Just then, however, two uniformed men came outside, talking as they slowly descended the steps to the sidewalk.  She yanked on the door handle.  Panicking as it refused to open, she turned wide-eyed to see what Richard would do.

"Oh," he said.  "I'll have to get that for you."

He got out and came around to her side.  When he opened her door, the two officers stopped talking long enough to watch Jill exit the car.

"Do you want me to go in with you?" he asked.

"No," she said, hurrying past him while the policemen were still near.

Inside, a tired looking older man glanced up listlessly.  He took one look at her, straightened, and managed a genuine smile.

"What can I do for you, ma'am?"

"I need to speak to someone."

"Anyone in particular?"

Jill thought about the note.

"JR . . . I cannot remember his last name."

"Reeves?" he said with a laugh.  "You need the sheriff's office, ma'am.  This is the police station.  Go down to the courthouse, but I imagine he's still in bed."

When she didn't respond, he continued.

"Or maybe we can help you.  What do you need?"

"I . . . think I need a restraining order."

"You don't need us then.  You need you a lawyer.  Got to go to court for that.  But if you want to file a complaint, I can get someone for you."

Richard leaned on the hood of the car with his hands in his pockets waiting for someone to come for him, and wondering whether he should say anything to Jill if he saw her when they took him inside.  Then she emerged, walked down to the car, and got in without so much as a glance his way.  When he had gotten over his shock, he went around to the driver's side and got in also.

"I did not tell them," she said without looking at him.  "It does not mean that I will not."

"What did you tell them in there?"

"I asked about a restraining order.  They told me I must ask a judge, but that I should file a complaint."

She buckled the seat belt.

"Take me to my apartment."

"I thought you agreed to let me protect you," he said.

"Is it not enough that I have not had you arrested?"

"Yes," he said.  "I assume that is because you believe at least a part of what I've been telling you.  If so, do you think it's wise to---"

"Wise or not, I will do as I decide," she said, cutting him off.  "You no longer control my life."

When they arrived at her apartment, he took the suitcases from the trunk and started to carry them up the walk, but she stopped him.

"Stay here.  I can carry them."

"They're too heavy for you.  Besides I need to go in and make sure everything's okay."

"You are not coming into my home," she said.

"Then you go in and check each room?  Turn on the lights in each one as you do.  When you are certain that no one is in there, come to the door and tell me."

"Then you will leave?"

"I won't bother you.  I promise.  But let me at least carry your stuff up to the door."

"No."

She struggled up the walk to the stoop carrying both suitcases.

"Be sure to check the closets," he called after her.  "And the locks on the doors and windows."

"I will look under the bed too," she said sarcastically.

She fumbled with the lock and went inside without looking back.  Richard leaned on the car again, watching as the lights came on one at a time.  After what he considered too short a time, Jill came to the door again.

"You can go now," she said, closing the door before he could answer.

Jill lay fully clothed atop the bedspread, unable to find the energy to bathe or even change.  Physically and emotionally drained, she longed only for a few hours of worry-free sleep.  A sudden knock nearly sent her heart through her chest.  She shot to her feet, clutching her hands to her breast, as she stared apprehensively through the darkened living room toward the door.  She scrambled for the small suitcase and got out the .45.  A second knock drew her hesitantly out of the bedroom.

"Who is it?" she called in a quavering voice.

"It's me," called Richard.  "I just wanted to make sure everything's okay."

"Go away or I will call the police."

When she didn't hear a response, she tiptoed to the door and looked through the peephole in time to see Richard retreating to the curb.  She heaved a sigh of relief when she saw him drive away.  After double-checking the lock and deadbolt, she went back to the bedroom.  Fatigue weighed down every fiber of her, but her body tingled, demanding action.  There was nothing to do, however, but worry.

He's already stalking me again, she thought as she curled onto her side on the bed.

June 9

Jill awoke at noon and went to the kitchen to put on water for tea.  Then she went to shower, deciding that she would call Marta.  As she bathed she was dismayed to discover that things were no clearer now than during her imprisonment on Bonne Femme.  Things had not returned to normal.  By the time she finished dressing and went to the kitchen to make her tea, she had decided only one thing:  she would never again be alone with Richard.

What am I going to tell Marta? she wondered.

She had made an important decision by not reporting him at the police station.  If she failed to tell Marta today, her decision not to report him would become irrevocable.

And why didn't you report this at once, Miss? she imagined a policeman asking.

Pacing as she sipped her tea, she wandered into the living room.  Drawing back the curtain, she looked out to see if the weather was nice enough to walk to campus.

"No!" she said.

She went to the door, slipped the security chain, threw back the door, and went down the walk.  The passenger side window slid down as she approached Richard's Cougar.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"I told you I'd stay close to make sure you're safe."

"You were here all night?"

"It wasn't too bad---better than sleeping on the cabin floor actually."

His lack of contrition infuriated her.  He obviously was not going to walk out of her life on his own accord.  She would either have to have him arrested or leave Cartier to get away from him.

"You are forcing me to go to the police," she said.

"That's your call, Jill.  I don't have a choice."

The way she glared at him made him think she would slap him.

"Come inside," she said tiredly.  "I do not wish to talk to you in public."

He followed her inside and through the living room to the kitchen.

"Here," she said, pouring him a cup of tea but leaving it on the table.

Richard didn't like hot tea.  He was always trying to make it be coffee.  He took it anyway.

"How can I keep you from sleeping in front of my house?" she asked.

"Change all your locks, install deadbolts, and put in a security system," he said immediately.

She sat down across the table from him.  "I cannot afford that.  And the locks work fine."

"They're ancient.  I could pick any one of them in five minutes."

"You pick locks?" she said.  "Of course you do."

"When I was a kid we thought it was a neat thing to do," he said.

"What kind of child were you?"

"A boy.  You don't have any brothers.  If you did, you'd know that boys like to do things like that.  I can't pick a modern lock, but a lot of people can.  Besides, this old house has loose fitting doors.  I'll bet they rattle sometimes when the wind blows.  The latches can be slipped with a credit card.  That's why you need deadbolts."

He didn't like the way she was staring at him.

"I've had police training, remember?  I don't break into homes; but I can tell people how to make their homes harder to break into.  Of course, unless there's a security system, an experienced criminal can always get in.  All they need to do is to learn your schedule."

"You're doing it again," she said.  "Already you are . . . launching another campaign to frighten me.  Do not deny it."

"You need to be frightened, Jill.  I wouldn't have done the crazy things I've done if I didn't know that.  If you insist on staying here alone, I'll buy the locks and deadbolts.  I'll install them too."

"And you can have duplicate keys made also," she said with a sour smile.  "How stupid do you think I am?"

"Well you invited me into the house with you just now.  So if I was intending to do anything to you, I wouldn't have to wait until I got a key, would I?  Besides, how about all that time we were on Bonne Femme?  Did I ever once do anything inappropriate?"

"Only kidnap me and hold me against my will."

Why am I allowing this to continue? she wondered.

"Okay," he said.  "Here's what we should do.  Go with me when we get the locks.  When I open the packages you take the keys.  That way you'll know that I haven't made duplicates."

"Then will you stop sleeping outside in your car?"

"After I find a closer place," he said.

"Why?"

"So I can get here in a hurry if you call."

The phone rang.

"This is ridiculous!" she said, getting up to answer it.

When she answered it she turned and walked away before speaking.

"I will tell you all about it later," he heard her say.  Perhaps.  Just a moment."

She turned to look at Richard with her hand over the phone.  "Marta wants me to meet her.  She's on her way to the campus.  Can you give me a ride?"

He nodded.

"I will be there in a short time.  No.  I will tell you when I get there."

She turned off the phone.  "I must get ready.  Wait in your car."

"No problem," he said, getting up and starting toward the door.

"Wait, Richard.  This . . . thing we are doing has to be . . . minimized.  Let us only replace the locks.  Please do not move closer."

"Okay, but---"

"And," she cut him off.  "There can be nothing personal between us.  You must understand this."

"I've known that for a long time now."

She shook her head slowly in resignation and wonder.

"So which of us is the bigger fool, Richard?"

Jill recognized the trim figure coming toward them well before Richard did.  Marta's short black hair was held tightly by a combination of small combs and braiding.  She wore a long sleeved, light blue cotton shirt tucked into faded jeans.  A bright smile flared in her bronze face as she hurried forward.

"Marta!" cried Jill as she rushed ahead.

"Jill!  It is so good to see you."

As they embraced, Marta whispered, "You must tell me about your vacation."

"Later," Jill replied.

They separated, still holding hands until Richard caught up.

"So," said Marta, turning her amused gaze upon him.  "It is nice to see you again, Richard."

"Nice to see you too, Marta," he said solemnly.

As he thought about what Jill would tell Marta, he wondered what else he hadn't thought of.

"I already enrolled," said Marta, addressing Jill.  "Do not worry.  There are few students.  You can go right in.  Let us go to the cafeteria and talk.  It has been so long."

"Richard has something to do," said Jill, turning him a look suggesting that he was dismissed.

"Yeah.  I need to see about getting my windshield fixed.  I'll meet you guys in the cafeteria?"

"You may take your time," said Jill.  "Buy those things you were speaking of.  I can walk home.  It is a nice day."

This time he refused to take the hint.

"You can never tell about the weather this time of year.  I'll see you in cafeteria in about an hour."

Marta watched until he was out of earshot, and then turned to Jill expectantly.

"So, what is the story?"

"Between Richard and me?"

"Por supuesto!  I thought he would never leave.  You know, when you send the e-mail that you are going away with him, and then you do not answer my messages, I worry."

"About me?  Why?"

"Yes.  It is not like you.  Then I say, ‘My friend finally sees that the nice one likes her, and maybe she likes him too.  She must like him a lot, because she goes away with him so soon.'"

"Is strange," she continued.  "But is not so strange."

"I've had a difficult time," Jill began uncertainly.  "I was a little confused, I guess.  I quit seeing Mic, and then . . . things happened with Richard so quickly."

"Very quickly," said Marta.  "But I do not judge."

"You do not understand.  We just had to get away.  I needed to think things through . . . to be sure of my feelings.  I asked Richard if he could take me away for awhile, mostly to get away from Mic---you know how he has been bothering me since I quit seeing him."

Even as she said it, Jill rued elaborating the lie.  First she had failed to report Richard to the police, and now she lying to her best friend in order to protect him.  What did she owe him that she should do such a thing?

Marta noticed her agitation.

"What happens between the two of you, mi hermana?" she asked.

"I am not sure, Marta.  I am not sure."

Marta shook her head.

"You are not sure, but you run away with him."

"I did not run away with him," said Jill as they entered the cafeteria.  "It was not like that.  We just decided to get away from . . . everyone---everything for a while."

They went through the line for tea and then found an empty table.

"So, where did you go?"

She remembered the postcard Richard had told her about.  If she were going to lie for his sake, she would at least be consistent.

"I have always wanted to see the desert.  So . . . I know it was impulsive, but . . . I asked him, and . . . we just decided to drive down there . . .  to the southwest.  We had a nice time . . . I mean it was a nice trip."

"So," said Marta, enunciating slowly, almost pedantically, "you are dating this . . . nice guy . . . for just a few days . . .  and you like him . . . so you ask him to take you away for all this time so that . . . you can look at the desert."

When Jill looked down instead of laughing as she expected, Marta's smile faded.

"Something is wrong, Jill.  What is it?"

"Nothing is wrong, just complicated.  You see---"

She stopped in mid-sentence when she saw who was approaching.

"Hi," said Mic, smiling and nodding at each of them in turn.

"Mind if I sit?"  He pulled out a chair without waiting for an answer.  "I saw you and came over to apologize.  Where's Ricky?"

"He will return in a moment," said Jill, wishing she hadn't sent Richard away.

Mic smiled before continuing.

"Well I got something to say to him when he gets here, but I guess I can start by telling you how sorry I am for being rude to you."

Jill stared mutely, wondering what kind of person would think taking a woman by the hair and throat and shouting in her face was merely rude.

"You know, I mean the night we argued and broke up," he said, as if he had to jog her memory.

Jill cleared her throat.

"It is okay.  I accept your apology," she said hoarsely, forcing herself to meet his eyes.

For a beat or two he held eye contact, as if it were a contest.  Then he smiled and looked away a moment.  When he looked back it was with a look of pained sincerity.

"No, it's not okay.  I was drinking a lot back then, and I said some things I didn't mean.  I was real rude to you."

Jill recalled vividly feeling his fingers twisting her hair, as he pinned her to the headrest while squeezing her neck until the interruption of blood flow made her feel that her face would explode.

"Rude?"  she wanted to scream.

"That is fine, Mic," she said weakly instead.  "It is okay, really."

He nodded and smiled as he took out a cigarette and lit up.  Leaning back, he appraised her as if he were admiring a new car.

"So, it's you and Ricky boy, huh?" he asked, derision sneaking into his voice before he regained control.

"He's a good guy.  Better hang on to him," he said, using the cigarette for a pointer.  "I wish I could be more like him, you know.  Always admired the . . . uh . . . sensitivity."

Then he laughed.

"Most of the time anyway."

He paused for her response. 

"He didn't tell you, did he?  That's my buddy, Ricky.  Always could keep a secret.  You see a couple of nights before the two of you left town together, he and I got into a fight."

"He told me," she said.  "Let us not talk about it."

"If he said it was my fault, he was right," he said as if he hadn't heard her.  "I got drunk because I blew it with you.  By the way, I went into detox while you were gone.  It's working out real good.  Anyway, I was really blitzed and decided to have it out with Ricky for stealing my girl.

He paused, trying to gage her reaction.

Jill kept a neutral expression, deciding that his monologue would come to an end sooner if she didn't respond.

"Well," he continued.  "I'm waiting for him outside his place.  Like I said, I'm drunk, but I don't really want to hurt him, so instead of cold-cocking him, I just kind of come up behind him.  He doesn't know it's me . . . thinks someone's trying to strong-arm him I guess."

He paused, hoping for feedback.

"I can't see worth a damn in the dark, and he cold-cocks me.  Next thing I know, I'm laying on the couch in my own place, and my old buddy's got a washcloth full of ice holding it to my head.  But I'm still drunk . . . feeling mean . . . don't appreciate that the guy cared enough about me to bring me home---it's booze, you know.  I start cursing, calling him every name I can think of.  But Old Rick, he just takes it, which makes me even madder."

Mic paused again, clenching his jaw.  Her lack of reaction was beginning to irritate him. 

"I can't remember what I said that set him off, but it must have been bad because Old Rick really lost it."

He brushed back the dark hair to reveal an ugly inch-long scar with three stitch marks.

"Beer bottle," he said.

Jill's quickly indrawn breath pleased him.

"I don't really blame him though," he said magnanimously.  "I kind of remember calling you a name or something.  If I were in his place I'd do the same thing.  Hell!  I might even have killed a guy if he said the wrong thing about you."

"I see," she said noncommittally.

Richard had approached unnoticed.  He grabbed a chair from an adjoining table and interposed between Jill and Mic.

"Are you all right?" he asked her as he sat down.

She nodded.

"Hi, Ricky.  Good to see you again.  I was explaining to the girls here what happened that last time we saw each other.  It was all my fault.  Drinking---you know."

"Yeah, I know all about you," said Richard.

Mic's jaw tightened in annoyance.

"You know, Ricky.  If I had really meant to hurt you, I would have---drunk---or not."

Then he smiled.

"Hey.  I came to apologize.  None of it would have happened if I wasn't drunk, and it was my own fault that you nearly took my head off with that damned beer bottle.  I understand why you don't feel like apologizing, but, after all we've been through together, what say we let bygones be bygones?  Okay?"

Mic extended his hand, and after a short pause, Richard took it.

"All right, Mic."

Richard watched him leave.

"What did he have to say while I was gone?" he asked without taking his eyes from Mic's retreating figure.

"The same as he said to you," said Jill.  "Did you do what he said?"

"Yes," he answered, turning back to face her.  "And he apologizes after that?  I can't imagine it."

"He came to my house when you were gone," said Marta.  "He asked where you were, but he did not believe it when I say I do not know."

"I do not like the way he looked at you, Marta," said Jill.

"I never like it," she said.

The remark took Jill by surprise.

"He examines women," said Marta.  "It is very rude."

Jill sat quietly in the passenger seat, trying to dampen her emotional turmoil and clarify her thinking.  If what Marta said about Mic was true how could she have missed it?  Jill knew that she was smart, and she had always considered herself intuitive.  Yet, both men had apparently duped her.  She had made a series of mistakes, the last of which perhaps was lying to Marta.  Worst of all, she still wanted to believe Richard.  At the same time she didn't want to because if he were right then she was in the utmost danger.

The truth is the truth, she decided.  It does not matter what I wish it to be.  It only matters that I discover it.

"He was acting," she said suddenly.  "And not very well."

"Yes.  He wants you to believe that he's accepted the situation," said Richard.

A chill came over her as she remembered that Richard had employed the same argument to justify her abduction while they were on the island.

"He knows I don't believe him," he continued.  "But he thinks he can make you think that I'm making stuff up."

"How does he know what you have told me?"

"He knows what I've seen."

Mic's behavior had reinforced her fear, but it hadn't confirmed anything that Richard had told her.

"He didn't find you by accident today," he said.

"When will you have the locks changed?" she said, eager to drop the subject.

"This afternoon.  I still wish you would consider---"

"Just change the locks."

"I got deadbolts too.  They can be picked, but you can't slip them with a card."

"Yes, you told me already."

At four-thirty Jill came into the living room where Richard had just finished setting the new entry lock striker plate.

"I don't know what I was thinking," he said.  "I need a hole saw to install the deadbolts and the rental place is already closed for the day."

"But the apartment is more secure now, right?  The new locks are harder to pick open?"

"Yeah, but let me show you something."

He went outside.

"Now lock it," he called.

Jill turned the lock and waited.  A moment later she heard a gentle rasping and then the door swung inward.  He came in waving a credit card.

"See.  I told you.  There's too much play between the door and the jamb."

"Could that not be fixed?" she asked.

"If the door is torn out and reframed.  Your landlord won't want to spring for it."

"The deadbolts will make it secure?"

"Not against someone who can pick a lock."

"Can he pick locks?" she asked.

"I have no idea."

Richard had just passed a subtle test.  Had he affirmed that Mic had the skill to bypass the new locks she would have known he was lying.

"You'll be safe tonight," he said.  "I'll fix the deadbolts and security chains tomorrow."

She knew from the way he said it that he intended to sleep out at the curb again.

"Jill, I was thinking that a good alternative to the security system would be for you to enter my number on your phone.  I'll get a place nearby.  I could probably get here quicker than the police could if you had a security system.  Of course, my place would be a better---a more secure choice.  I have deadbolts on the doors already.  Let's go over there just for the night.  You can stay in the bedroom.  There's a lock on it too."

"Locks can be picked.  You said so yourself."

"Then I'll stay in the car," he said.

"Yes---in front of your own house.  No.  What is done is done.  You have made Marta think that we are lovers, so you might as well sleep here on my couch tonight.  After all, how many nights was there nothing but the tent between us?  I will get a blanket and pillow for you."

When Jill she came back he extended his cell phone.

"Here.  It's charged and I've got lots of minutes---three weeks worth actually," he said.

"You want me to call someone?"

"How long since you spoke with your aunt?  Call if it's not too late over there.  It's on me.  Talk as long as you want."

She started to shake her head.

"Jill, after . . . just let me do this for you.  I know how you miss her."

"Thank you," she said, taking the phone.

"I noticed you cleaned out your refrigerator," he said.  "I'll just take things out to the garbage can for you.

"My houseplants died while I was gone," she said.  "Take them out also."

"I'm sorry about that."

She shrugged, and took the phone into her bedroom, closed the door, and sat on the bed.  As she waited for the call to go through, she saw something protruding from the top drawer of her dresser.  It irritated her that she had been careless again.  She had ruined her favorite camisole shortly after having arrived at Cartier.  With her limited means, nice things were difficult to come by.

When Richard came back for the plants after carrying out the spoiled food, he heard Jill speaking French in an overly loud voice.  Either her aunt was nearly deaf or Jill had snagged a bad connection.  The small back yard had no flowerbeds, but a large lilac looked like a good repository for the withered plants and their soil.  He stacked the empty pots out of the way on the back porch and went back inside.

"Richard," she called.

"Yes," he said, going to the bedroom to see what she wanted.

"What is this?" she asked pointedly, holding a wrinkled nightie in her hands. 

"A nightgown?"

"Very humorous.  It has my perfume on it, and I never do that," she said accusingly.

"Well I didn't do it."

"You went through my things!"

"I didn't go through the drawer that was in.  I opened it, but as soon as I saw what was in there . . . well, I didn't think they were . . . appropriate for . . . camping on the island.  And I certainly didn't spray perfume on anything."

"You have been . . . playing with my things," she said.  "It is perverse.  I want you to leave."

"I wouldn't invade your privacy like that," he said.  "I couldn't."

"You couldn't?  Look what you have done to me!"

It was clear to him that Mic had been in her room.  Sooner or later she would realize that.  Assuming that he had done it instead of Mic was logical since he had taken things from the dresser.  It pained him that she still harbored suspicions.

"Jill, I know you'll never think of me as anything better than a well-intentioned fool, but I'll settle for that right now."

"What do you want from me?  Just tell me."

"No.  Not like this."

"There will be no . . . intimacy between us.  There cannot be."

"You have to know that it's not like that."

"Why?  Because you did not force me while we were on the island?" she shouted.

"Let's not go on.  What I wanted doesn't matter anymore.  I know that, so let's just drop it."

"No.  We will finish this because I want it over.  Tell me what you want.  Or are you ashamed to say it?"

"You want me to make a fool of myself.  Is that it?"

"Why not?  You made a fool of me."

"Okay.  Here it is.  As stupid as it sounds, all I ever wanted from you is that you would look at me the way my mother used to look at my dad."

His naïve admission was met by stony silence.

"Sex is more likely," she said.

"Well, whatever you think of me, I care about you too much to indulge in some cheap, vicarious . . . thing like amusing myself with lingerie."

His argument was so inept that it had to be sincere, but it irritated her that she had further complicated things by forcing him to voice his feelings.  Of course he was in love with her, but now she could no longer pretend that she didn't know it.

"If you say you did not do it, I believe you," she said.  "We will not speak of it again."

"And thank you for letting me use your phone," she added.

"You're sure someone went through your things?"

She shot him a withering look.

"Then we know who it was," he said.

She took the negligee to the kitchen and dropped it into the new garbage can.

"Wait here," she said as she brushed past him.  "I do not wish to keep anything that is in that drawer."

Although her voice was steady he saw that she was struggling to control her emotions.

"I'm sorry, Jill."

"It is okay," she said, clearing her throat.

Shame burned her face.  It was like discovering she had been seen naked by a peeping tom.  She had done nothing wrong, but that didn't matter to her.  She would never feel safe in the house again no matter how many locks were on the doors or how sophisticated a security system was installed.  Going back to France meant giving up her dream and disappointing her aunt, so it wasn't an option.  Moving in with Marta could endanger her also.  She couldn't change apartments because she had signed a lease.  That left her only one option.

Why not?  I've lived with him for a month already.

When she announced that she wanted to go to his house, she didn't tell him if it was to be only for the night or for an extended period, mainly because she hadn't decided. 

Richard lived in an old section of town well away from campus in a small mid-century red brick bungalow with a porch-covered entrance fronted by a tiny raised lawn.

"Is this your family's home?" asked Jill as they walked up the steps.

She was dealing with the tension between them by acting as if it didn't exist.

"No.  Mom sold the home place when she moved to Florida," he said, falling in with her pretense.

The air greeting them was warm and stale.  Jill took in the living room with a frown.  A sofa sat facing a TV resting on a dining room chair in lieu of a stand or table.  No pictures adorned the walls.  Textbooks were balanced on the arm of the sofa and one sat atop the television.

"When did you move in?" she asked.

"Right after I got back to Cartier.  I've been meaning to get some things to kind of fill up the space, but what with the carpentry work, I haven't gotten around to it."

"You are a carpenter?"

"No, just a handyman if anything.  The old man I rent from gave me a break on the rent in exchange for replacing the windows and doors.  I got that done just before . . . right at the end of the last semester.  I worked for a general contractor during high school . . . learned framing, basic plumbing, and electric," he said.  "I rewired the place and put in new stuff in the bathroom.  Don't tell anyone but it's not code because I'm not licensed."

The situation had changed between them, and each was searching for a comfortable way to come to terms with it.  Jill was staying, at least temporarily, of her own will.  Richard was glad, but feared that she would change her mind.  He was more than chagrined at having told her that he loved her.  Remembering his words and her response, he felt like a fool.  All Jill knew was that she only felt safe when he was near.  At times she still suspected that he had skillfully manipulated her into feeling that way.  Then again, he seemed far too inept to have orchestrated things to make them turn out the way they had.  Once she had considered herself capable of making such judgments about people.  No longer.

She went to the bathroom and flipped the switch.

Matching white sink, tub, and commode all sported shiny new chrome fixtures.  A newly laid but disturbingly mauve tile floor was partially obscured by a frayed and faded oval hook rug.  An off-white bath towel hung crookedly over the top of the partially opened shower enclosure affixed to the tub.  Everything looked shabby but clean.

"Plumbing and wiring in the city has to be done by licensed professionals," he said, apparently forgetting that he had already told her.  "But Mr. Clarkson can't afford it, so we help each other out.  Don't worry though.  The place won't burn down around you or flood you out."

"Why do you not have more furniture?" she asked as they went back to the living room.

He shrugged.

"It isn't a home, Jill.  It's just where I sleep."

Although she wondered at the absence of family pictures, Jill didn't ask.  In fact, she was glad not to be immersed in a world steeped in his personal life.  Then she thought uneasily that perhaps he didn't have a personal life other than obsessing on her.  The truth was that after Somalia Richard had been unable to work up enthusiasm for anything in the "real world" except working with his hands and studying criminology.  Before he had become obsessed with Jill, his life was old-work carpentry, reading, and trying not to think about himself.

He turned on the television.

"The remote is on the sofa.  I'll strip the bed and put on new sheets and stuff."

"Thank you," she said although there was nothing she wanted to watch.

Richard went into the bedroom and took the thermal blanket from the bed, folded it carelessly and took it to the living room where he deposited it on the floor by the empty couch.  He heard the water running and went to the kitchen.  The refrigerator door was open and Jill was peering inside.  A plastic jug containing coagulated milk, a stick of butter darkened with age and disuse, half a loaf of rye bread with the twist tie off, and a six pack of beer with one can missing comprised the entire contents.

"I don't eat much here either," he said as he carried dirty sheets to the washer in the back room.

"Oh," said Jill slightly embarrassed at being caught snooping.  "I was hoping you had some bottled water.  The chlorine in the tap water is unpleasant."

"I'll go get you some if you want," he said.

"No.  I may not be here that long.  I must wash my face," she said avoiding his eyes.  "I am tired.  I think I shall go to bed early."

"Okay.  Mind if I turn the air on?"

"It is your house."

Richard did a bachelor's version of laundry, listening for her sounds and worrying about what she had decided to do.  Perhaps one of the world's least intuitive people, he nevertheless realized that Jill was more uncomfortable now than when they had shared the cabin.  With rare insight (for him) he understood that she had adapted to the frightening situation in an isolated and alien environment of Bonne Femme.  Here, she was in the same frightening situation, but in a thoroughly familiar and commonplace one.  That made it more real.

"There's a lock on the bedroom door," he called out.

"Yes," she said, coming from the bathroom.  "Even I can pick one of those.  All that is needed is a matchstick."

"Let me show you something then," he said bringing in a chair from the kitchen.

"This really works.  It's not just for the movies," he said as he demonstrated how to prop it under the knob.

"You'd have to collapse the chair to break through the door."

"If I were worried about you I would not be here, Richard."

He opened the door and set the chair inside.

"Well use it if you begin to feel insecure tonight."

"I still have your gun," she reminded him.

Jill lay awake, not for fear of Richard, but because of the scene with Mic at the cafeteria.  It was clear that Mic and Richard were now enemies.  The thought that she was in the middle of a conflict between men who had been trained to kill and who had killed made sleep impossible.  Both Mic's apology and Richard's acceptance of it had been a charade.  Had they done that solely for her benefit?  And if so, why?  Were they still competing for her?

Jill turned on her side, seeking a more comfortable position.

Richard has to be exaggerating the danger.  Mic doesn't intend to kill me.  He can't!  That doesn't happen to real people, she told herself.  I've done nothing to make him angry.  People break up all the time.  Besides, it is obvious that from the beginning that he never really cared for me.  Revenge could be his motive as Richard says.  If so then moving in with Richard makes things worse.

She turned again, seeing again the angry scar on Mic's forehead where Richard had hit him with a bottle.

I am caught between two vicious men. 

The awful tap water had caused her to abstain from drinking.  Now she was extremely thirsty.  Clad in flannel pajamas, she went barefooted to the kitchen.  She tiptoed though the dark and carefully turned the knob, trying to make no noise because she didn't want to talk to Richard anymore this night.  On the way back, she noticed that he had shifted onto his back.  As she reached the bedroom he spoke, startling her.

"Is everything okay?"

"Yes.  I was just thirsty."

"Goodnight then."

"Goodnight," she replied.

The conventional exchange was chilling in a way.  It made her wonder what she knew and what she did not.  Everything in her life had been turned upside down.  It seemed that everything was guesswork.

Richard says that he is no longer a soldier because of the boy soldier he killed.

I wonder why Mic is no longer a soldier.

June 10

She awoke to the sound of the shower running.

It is his place.  I do not belong here, she said to herself.

After locking the door she slipped off her pajama top and pulled on a sweatshirt.  A knock on the bedroom door startled her.

"Jill, the bathroom's free," he said.  "I'm going for coffee.  Want me to bring you back something?"

She had seen coffee next to the coffee maker in the kitchen.  Perhaps he was making the trip to give her privacy as she washed and dressed.

"No.  But take a little time.  Read a paper or something," she said.

What she had said didn't sound polite, so she added, "Afterwards can you wait for breakfast so that I may go too?"

"Sure.  I'll set the deadbolt when I leave, but you slip on the security chain as soon as I'm out.  How about I stay gone about half an hour?"

"Forty-five minutes would be better."

"Got it," he said.

As she pulled off the sweatshirt, Jill saw her hair in the bathroom mirror and grimaced.  Despite Richard's rainwater, a month in the wild had not been kind to it.  It looked and felt healthy, but disheveled.  Although not given to vanity, she never felt ready to face the world with bad hair.  Despite the cost, she decided to have it cut and styled.  Since she wouldn't have time to dry it before Richard returned, she wrapped it in a towel before stepping into the shower.

She had time only for a quick prep, foregoing everything but a light application of lipstick.  Instead of answering when she heard a knock at the door, she raced across the room on tiptoes and looked carefully through the window.  Richard's car was parked on the street.

"Richard?" she called, not removing the security chain until she heard him answer.

"Good," he said when she opened the door.  "You're being careful."

"Yes, I've learned that at least," she said as she stepped out.

"Where do you want to go for breakfast?" he asked as he inserted his key to lock the deadbolt.

"Someplace economical," she said.  "I'm buying."

"No, I'll pay for it," he said, assuming that would settle the matter.

"If I cannot pay then I will not go," said Jill as they went down to the car.

"Okay," he said.  "But only today.  The way things are---"

"Let us not talk about it now," she said, cutting him off.  "I have a favor to ask.  Can you take me to the salon to have my hair done."

"No problem.  I'll rent the tools to set your deadbolts while you're there."

"Do not rent them yet.  I may not go back."

He let that pass without comment lest he find a way to screw things up again.

Richard bought the local paper outside the McDonald's.  After negotiating the line, they took their breakfast sandwiches and coffee to a table near the sparsely populated play area.  At eight in the morning, most of the sit down patrons were elderly.

"Thank you for trying to protect me, Richard," said Jill without looking at him.

Her remark dismayed him.  Surely she didn't think it was over.

"Okay," he said carefully.  "Where does that leave us?"

"It leaves me in control.  I have decided to accept your offer for the time being, but you must not tell me what to do or where to go."

"Okay."

"And I will go back to my apartment when I wish."

He nodded.

"And I have been thinking.  Maybe I will decide that we should totally . . . disengage.  If that is what I decide then you must promise not to try to stop me or talk me out of it."

He was alarmed, but realized that she was in no mood for argument.

"I know about him now," she said.  "He is angry and violent, but you yourself told me that he is angry because he thinks you took me from him.  And you have been violent with him also.  If we are no longer together, does this not remove the thing that makes him so angry?"

"I'm not going to argue with you," he said carefully.  "But I'm going to tell you what I see.  Mic won't be satisfied until he hurts both of us, and---"

"And I think that if we end the charade that we are romantically involved he will no longer have a reason to harm us."

She picked up her purse.

"The salon is now open.  Can you take me there please?"

It was warm enough that Richard put the windows down while reading the paper outside the hairdresser's.  The pennant races were just heating up, the Presidential campaign had gotten an unbelievably early start, and in Cartier the interminable squabbling of the town council and mayor seemed to be in full bloom.  The editorials were nothing but tedious declamation.  He folded the paper without reordering the pages and tossed it into the passenger side floor in mild disgust.

He looked at his watch, then at the sky, and then at the passing traffic in the rearview mirror.  Finally his eyes drifted to the picture of a young woman on the second page of the discarded newspaper.  The girl seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place her.  He judged her to be nineteen or twenty when the picture (a professional pose?) was taken.  Cute, rather than pretty, she had the sort of slightly rounded facial features that suggested future serial dieting.

He retrieved the paper for a closer look.

STILL NO CLUES ON MISSING WOMAN

Authorities report that there are still no clues as to the whereabouts of Annette Roseanne Ford, missing since last month.  Fellow employees say they last saw Miss Ford, a waitress at Johnson's Riverfront Cafe in Holcomb, after work on the night of May 19.  She was subsequently reported missing by her sister, Bethany Lowe of Murdoch.  Anyone with information concerning Miss Ford is asked to contact the Breton County Sheriff's Department.

Richard studied the picture.

The woman in Tonto's!  Rose?

A peck at the window startled him.  It was Jill.  He leaned across the passenger seat to open the balky door for her.

"Look at this," he said, handing her the paper as she slid in.

She read the short article, and then looked carefully at the picture.

"Do you know her?"

"I saw her in May.  She was with Mic that day I went to talk to him for you.  He treated her like crap, talked about the way she looked as if she wasn't there.  He humiliated her, and made her take it by holding her there by the nape of the neck."

The timing made her suspicious until he mentioned Mic grabbing the girl's neck.  Jill didn't remember telling him that Mic had done the same thing to her.

No.  I'm sure I did not, she thought.

"You are certain that this is the same woman?"

"I think so.  He called her ‘Rose.'  I'm going to talk to JR about this.  If it is her maybe he already knows that Mic was involved with her.  If he doesn't he needs to know."

"Because if she is dead then you think Mic killed her," she said.  "Could it all really be true?  I hoped you were . . . mistaken."

"Mistaken as in deluded or lying?"

"You have no right to be angry with me," she said.  "But let us go talk to you friend, JR."

"I can go by myself."

"No.  I want to go with you."

JR was familiar with the case, having done the initial missing person's investigation, and he was eager to hear what Richard had to say.  He was off duty after pulling a night shift so he asked them to drive out to his house.  He met them at the door in stocking feet, jeans, and a T-shirt that emphasized the extra pounds above his belt.  He looked past Richard as they shook hands.

"JR, this is Jill Belbenoit," said Richard.  "Jill, JR Reeves."

"I am pleased to meet you," she said.

"The pleasure's all mine ma'am," said JR before turning back to Richard.  "So how's my favorite jar head?"

"Not prospering as much as you are if that belt line is any indicator.  Married life must suit you."

"Can't blame this on Betty," he said slapping his waist.  "She's a wonderful girl, but not blessed with excessive culinary ability.  I got me a case of Dunlap's disease."

Jill's frown delighted him.

"You see what happened is my belly done lapped over my belt.  Sorry, ma'am.  I'm addicted to that nonsense.  Come on in."

He held the screen door to show them in.

"Can I get you something to drink?  Got Coke in the fridge, and there's a little coffee left that's not too old."

"I'll take some coffee," said Richard.

"Nothing for me, thank you," said Jill.

They sat at the kitchen table.

"Okay.  You said you might have something to tell me about the missing Ford woman."  JR turned to Jill.  "Or are you the one who has the information?"

"No.  I am just a . . . a friend---of Richard's.  I did not know the woman."

"JR," said Richard.  "Remember that guy you got me the information on?  Well I happen to know that he was seeing your missing woman back in May?"

"Why didn't you tell me before now?"

"I was out of town when she went missing.  The first I knew about it was when I saw it in the paper today."

"Okay.  Why didn't you just tell me that when you phoned?"

"I thought it best to tell you face to face."

JR looked at Jill briefly before turning his attention back to Richard.

"Why?"

"Because there's more to it than him just seeing her.  Nothing concrete . . . it's more how he treated her than anything else.  From what I saw, the relationship was abusive."

"He beat her?"

"Well, what I saw was more emotional abuse than that . . . maybe a little physical intimidation.  He said some humiliating things about her and restrained her when she tried to leave."

JR nodded noncommittally.  "That's all?"

"That's it, I guess."

"So all we really have is this connection to William Boyd.  No one's mentioned that.  Fact is, no one seems to know much about the woman, not even her sister."

JR pushed his note pad around the Formica table top absently, his brow knitted.

"I'll have to talk to this guy.  How long have you known him?"

"Since Somalia.  Make it about five years."

"He doesn't seem to have ties to the area, so what's he doing here, Richard?"

"Going to college.  He said something about computer marketing."

JR folded up the notebook and recapped his pen.  He looked out the door into the sunlit back yard, took a sip of his soda, and then set the can down carefully on the plastic surface of the table.  Turning his pale eyes at each of them in turn, he addressed Richard.

"But something else is going on here," he said.  "When you asked me to do a background check on him back in May, you specifically mentioned disappearances.  Then you leave town and this woman goes missing.  Now you're back with a story about him abusing her.  Do you know more than you're telling me?"

"I told you everything I know, JR.  Honest."

"No you didn't.  You didn't tell me how you got so tangled up with this guy."

He turned to Jill.  "But I take it you're the girl he's been worried about."

Jill looked sharply at Richard.

"I told him back in May that I was afraid Mic might do something to you," he said.

"Mr. Reeves," she said.  "I used to date Mic.  Now I am with Richard."

JR smiled humorlessly.

"Your friend here thinks Mr. Boyd killed that woman, Miss Belbenoit.  Do you think he's right?"

"I know that he is a violent man," she said carefully.  "But that is all I know."

"Neither of you have real knowledge of anything then?"

"JR," said Richard.  "I saw him do things in Somalia, but nothing punishable outside of a war crimes trial---which will never happen."

"So tell me the whole story---the facts, not your suppositions.  And also fill in the blanks as far as the three of you are concerned.  I need to understand that."

Richard told him about Somalia in general terms, limiting himself to what he had actually seen Mic do, but omitting his speculations.  Then he told him how Mic had threatened Jill, and about his veiled reference to something he had done when he "just a kid."  Jill remained silent during his recitation.  JR listened with unblinking eyes.

"I'm going to go have a talk with your friend," he said.

"He's not my friend," said Richard.

"No, I don't imagine so.  He's going to connect my questioning to the two of you."

"That can't be helped, but can you keep me up to speed on what you find out?"

"You're a civilian, Richard."

"Come on, JR!  We need a heads up on how it's going."

"I'll do what I can."

"Good enough."

"Yeah.  Well, could you go on out to the car and let me talk to Miss Belbenoit alone?"

Richard was taken aback for a moment, but then nodded.

"So tell me about Richard, Boyd, and you," said JR when they were alone.

"I do not know what happened," she said.  "But Mic attacked him."

"Back in May?"

"Yes, but I did not witness it."

"So you don't really know what happened.  Did Boyd ever assault you?"

"I do not know that what he did to me is assault under American law."

"Michigan law," corrected JR.  "Tell me what he did."

"He didn't strike me, but he held me by my hair and . . . gripped me by the . . . the front of my neck."

"He tried to strangle you?"

"I thought he was going to, but . . . no, he didn't.  He didn't squeeze that hard.  And then he released me."

Although she managed to finish without her voice cracking, her eyes welled with tears.

"So that's what the fight was about?"

"No.  I did not tell Richard."

"Why not?"

"Because at that time I still thought that Mic and he were close friends.  It was only later that I asked Richard to convince him that he should accept that I didn't wish to be involved with him any longer.  At the time I just refused to see him, but he wouldn't leave me alone."

"But you didn't file a complaint.  Wouldn't that have been the logical thing to do when he first manhandled you?"

"Mr. Reeves, I was alone with him by my choice.  I was dating him.  No one saw it, and it left no bruises.  It would be my word against his, no?"

JR appraised her silently a moment and then nodded.

"Okay.  Tell me what you're trying to do in this situation," he said.

"Situation?  What do you mean?"

"The two of them fighting over you---that's what's going on, isn't it?  How do you feel about that?"

"It makes me ill," she said.  "I want it to end."

"You're not trying to wind Richard up and turn him loose on Boyd to get back at him for what he did?"

Jill clenched her jaw angrily.

"If I were a man, I would beat him up myself, but I would not do what you are saying."

"Why not?  How else can a woman defend herself?"

"By being smart enough to avoid a recurrence," she said evenly.  "I did not start this, and I am not taking advantage of your friend.  What you imply is insulting."

Jill pursed her lips in consternation.

"But of course.  That is what it looks like, does it not?  Believe as you wish, Mr. Reeves.  We are telling the truth."

"Stuff like that seems to have a lot of different truths depending on what angle you look at it, Miss Belbenoit.  It ought not go any further."

"And you are warning me not to . . . provoke Richard?  Believe me, that is the last thing I want."

"Well good.  But there's one other thing I wanted to ask you about.  What do you think happened to the Ford woman?"

"I have no idea.  I do not know her or the situation."

JR relaxed his manner and smiled reassuringly at her.

"Don't take anything I just said personally, Jill.  I can call you ‘Jill,' can't I?"

She nodded.

"Richard's a friend.  I don't want to see anything else happen to him."

A chill of apprehension hit her.

"What do you mean?  What has happened to him?"

JR shook his head dismissively.

"Maybe nothing.  He's just not quite the same since he got back.  Then again, maybe he's just not a kid anymore.  That's what we were before he went into the Marines and I went to college."

"He made me angry, especially at first," Jill said on the way back.  "Why was he so rude?"

"Provoking is an interrogation technique," Richard explained.  "Concealing stuff takes effort.  Emotion and reason are like oil and water.  When you're angry or scared it's harder to keep your lies consistent."

"Does he believe what you said?"

"Enough to check Mic out.  Otherwise I'd say he's about where you are on that."

She turned at his casual remark.

"Tell me ‘where I am on that,'" she challenged.

"You accept some of it, but you think that I'm exaggerating and you suspect I'm imagining some of it."

Jill nodded confirmation and stared out the window.  "He says that you have changed since going to Somalia."

He nodded without taking his eyes from the road.

"Richard, what will Mic do when he discovers that you told Mr. Reeves about him?"

Strike back, he thought.  "Maybe he'll leave town," he said.

They swung by her apartment for more clothes and then he took her to Marta's, extracting a promise to call if anything alarming happened during the night.  Instead of undressing and going to bed when he got home, Richard placed his wallet, keys, and cell phone on the floor by the couch, kicked off his shoes, wrapped himself in the blanket fully-clothed, and settled in on the couch.  As far as he was concerned the bedroom and the bed now belonged to Jill.

The phone jerked him awake at ten-thirty.

"Yeah?" he said, anticipating Jill's voice. 

"Richard.  This is JR.  I haven't taken a statement from Boyd yet.  I'll do that tomorrow.  I called to tell you something, but keep it confidential---nothing you couldn't get yourself with a little work, but I thought I'd save you the time.  Just don't let anyone know I used department resources to get it for you."

"Got it," he said.

"Okay.  More background for you:  William McCulloch Boyd, born eleven, fourteen, seventy-three in Cassville, Missouri.  Graduated ninety-one.  Marines directly out of high school, but not before getting six months probation for aggravated assault.  Both charge and the sentence dropped after only two weeks---I shouldn't have been able to find that out, but the records weren't expunged for some reason.  General discharge in ninety-five.  No arrests since, not even a speeding ticket."

"He told me that he just didn't reenlist.  General discharge, huh?"

"Yeah.  So?"

"Leave on good terms, and they give you an honorable discharge.  General means you screwed up and they don't want you anymore."

"Sort of damning with faint praise, huh?"

"No praise about it.  Any record of where he's been between his discharge and now?"

"Let me see---yeah.  Filed federal income tax from Glenville, West Virginia last year, San Diego the year before."

Richard ran through it as he sought sleep:  a dropped assault charge, a general discharge, and then moves from the west coast to the east and back to the Midwest---interesting, but not really disturbing on the face of it.  San Diego was too large for a generalized search to produce anything useful, but researching small towns like the one in West Virginia and Mic's hometown in Missouri might turn up something.

June 11

Richard hit the rental store at seven o'clock just as the doors opened, rented the tools he would need to set the deadbolts, and then went to Hardee's for breakfast, intending to read the paper while he gave Jill and Marta time to wake up.  Jill called to explain what she wanted to do while he was ordering.  He listened while fishing for change.

"Okay.  I've got the tools already, so I'll be right over to pick you up," he said.

He ate on the way to Marta's.

The women were waiting outside and started down to the curb as soon as they saw him.  He leaned across to open the door.

"Are you sure you do not mind?" asked Jill as she got in.

"Just as long as you don't wreck it," he joked.  "Morning, Marta."

"Good morning, Richard."

"Just make sure to stay together," he said.

"We are just going to the mall," said Jill.  "Marta wants to visit the clothing stores.  I do not know when we will return."

"Thank you, Richard," said Marta.  "Can I bring something for you for lunch?"

"A burger would great," he said.

When they got to Jill's apartment he handed her the keys.

"Come up with me for just a second," he said softly.

She gave him a puzzled frown, but nodded.

When they were inside he sliced open the deadbolt blister pack.

"I don't want to have your keys.  Take the deadbolt keys too."

"It is okay for you to keep one," she said.

"No.  I don't want you to even wonder.  I need as much of your trust as I can get if we're going to do it this way."

"I trust you," she said.  "But I am not comfortable with the appearance.  I would rather not have people think that we are living together."

"I respect that.  We can make it work this way.  Who knows, maybe he'll decide to leave now."

"I want things to be normal, Richard.  I want it so badly."

When he went to plug in his extension cord, he found that he couldn't because the old house's wiring had been done decades before, and had only two-prong outlets.  He needed a fifty-cent adapter, but the nearest hardware store was at the mall.  Wanting to get the job done before they got back, he took wire cutters from his toolbox and snipped the ground prong from his extension cord.  While setting the locks he wondered what Jill had meant by "normal."  He was neither sure that he had heard her correctly, nor, if he had, that it meant what he hoped it did.

"Let us eat here," said Marta.  "I will pay."

The Frisco Mill was a cubbyhole cafe specializing in gourmet coffees, assorted breads, soups, salads, sandwiches, and exorbitant prices.  Jill set down her share of Marta's packages.

"We should put your packages in the trunk first.  I think I parked right out there," she said, nodding toward the exit.

They emerged into bright sunlight, the morning fog having burned off.  As they approached the Cougar, Jill felt through her purse for the keys.  After putting things into the trunk, Jill turned and gasped in surprise.  Mic had approached unnoticed while they had bent to arrange the packages in the trunk.

"Nice day at the mall, isn't it?" he said, looking around.  "Not many people here today.  Look.  The parking lot is almost deserted."

"I do not wish to talk," said Jill.

He grabbed her wrist as she tried to get by.  "Is that anyway to treat an old friend?"

"Let me go," she said with clenched teeth.

"Maybe I'm not ready to let you go.  Maybe you're not ready for that either.  Remember how good we were together before Ricky got between us?  He should have never done that," he said, squeezing her wrist painfully.

Taking shallow breaths, she forced herself to maintain eye contact.  When he reached out to touch her hair, she tried to wrench free.

"Release me or I will report you to the police," she warned.

His lazy smile never wavered, but he dropped her arm as a young couple approached, an athletic young man in a sleeveless gray sweatshirt and a slender girl in a white halter-top and low-rider jeans.  As they neared Mic blatantly ogled the girl's breasts.

"What you think you're doing?" challenged her brawny escort.

"Just what she wants me to do, Kid," said Mic.  "Live with it."

As the young man came forward, Jill noted his bulging biceps and that he stood a head taller than Mic.  She didn't want to see a fight, but thought that if Mic provoked one he would certainly be sorry.

"She's practically falling out of that top, Boy.  You expect me not to look?"

"You shut your mouth!" the kid growled, shoving Mic against the car.

One big hand pinned Mic's shoulder to the Cougar.  The kid balanced himself in a threatening pose, his right shoulder back as if he were about to throw a punch.

"Now you get out of here or I'll take you apart."  Over his shoulder he said, "Get in the car, Lorrie."

"She like it when you do stuff like this to her?" asked Mic softly.

"What did you say?"

"Hey, I don't blame you.  I'd like to get rough with her myself."

The boy hauled Mic forward and threw a punch.  Mic moved inside the arc and half slipped the punch, catching only a glancing blow.  He laughed without trying to break out of the grasp.  He slipped the next punch completely.  The enraged boy loosed his grip and swung again, and Mic avoided his huge fist without seeming to move more than a fraction of an inch.

"Out of breath already?  Man, you got no more stamina than that, no wonder she's flashing it.  She's looking for a real man."

Bellowing rage, the kid rushed him.  Mic stopped him in mid-charge with a fist to the solar plexus.  As the boy gasped for breath Mic landed a combination of short, solid left hooks and overhand rights.  It was all cool efficiency and merciless brutality.  The boy fell to his knees, but Mic grabbed him by the hair to hold him upright.  He braced himself and then planted four hard jabs directly into the boys face.  Blood squirted and cartilage cracked audibly.  The girl screamed.

With a satisfied sigh Mic loosed his grasp and let the boy fall forward.  His face hit the pavement with a sickening sound.

Sobbing, the girl rushed forward and knelt over her unconscious boyfriend.

"I wish he hadn't made me do that," said Mic, massaging the knuckles of his right hand.

Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.  He wiped at it, looked at his hand, and then licked at it.

"Some people just insist on learning the hard way, Jill."

He let his eyes travel up and down her.

"Ditch the sweatshirt.  It doesn't do a thing for you," he said with a wink before sauntering away.

When Jill was sure that Mic was really leaving, she turned her attention to his victim.  During the fight she had watched in stunned fascination, and now she chastised herself for not having done something to stop it.  The sobbing girl cradled her companion's head in her lap.  She brushed the hair back from his eyes.

"Is he okay?" asked Jill, thinking immediately that it was an absurd question.

The girl turned her tear-streaked face to Jill.  A blood smear glistened on her bare right shoulder.

Her lips quivered inaudibly.  "Why?" she asked.

Jill could only shake her head mutely.

The boy groaned and tried to sit.  Loosed from her shock, Jill knelt to examine him.

"Let me look at your eyes," she said, taking his bloody head in her hands.

His left eye was already swollen and beginning to discolor with an internal hemorrhage, but the pupils seemed equally dilated.

"I think there is no concussion," she told the girl.  "But take him to a doctor."

"I'm okay," mumbled the boy, rising unsteadily, blood spattering in rapid drops to the pavement.

Clearly in pain, the young man only wanted to flee his embarrassment.  Following the masculine imperative to deny pain and injury, he struggled to his car with his girlfriend's help.  He, of course, insisted on driving.

"I will never understand men," said Jill as she watched him speed away.

"Machismo," said Marta with a shrug.  "It just is the way they are, hermana."

Richard knew immediately that something had happened.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Mic was at the mall," said Jill.  "He beat a boy for no reason at all.  I thought he would kill him."

"Who started the fight?"

"Mic," she said quickly.  "We were out at the car when it happened."

"Maybe the guy will file charges."

"He is too ashamed, I think."

"Wait.  He was talking to you?  Tell me exactly what happened."

Between the two of them the girls got the whole story out, revealing details that both dismayed and disappointed him.

"You see what he's done?" he said.  "He goaded the guy into attacking him, and now he can use you two as witnesses that he only acted in self defense."

"I would not say that!" objected Jill.  "He beat him so viciously . . . he just kept hitting him and hitting him.  I can still hear that awful sound."

"Who initiated physical contact?" asked Richard.

"The boy shoved him against your car because he was . . . saying lewd things about his girlfriend---and all the time he was---how do you say it---undressing her with his eyes."

"Words don't excuse violence, although they could be mitigating.  What exactly did he say?"

"That she was asking for men to stare at her because of the way she was dressed."

"Would a normal man want to look at her?"

Jill grimaced at the question.

"She wore a halter top and jeans, and she had the figure for it.  Of course he would look, but that is no excuse to be insulting."

"What happened after he pushed Mic against the car?"

"Mic said something to provoke him."

"What?"

"I could not hear, but it must have been very bad because the boy became very angry.  That is when he tried to hit Mic."

"So he also threw the first punch.  How many times did he swing before Mic hit him?"

"More than once.  Three or four times I think---is that right?" she asked turning to Marta.

"Yes," said Marta, nodding rapidly.

"Then Mic . . .  it was horrible, Richard.  He hit him and hit him.  He fell to his knees but still it did not stop."  She closed her eyes and shuddered.  "I heard this sound like something breaking.  And then he shoved him to the pavement.  His face hit.  Oh.  It was awful."

"Did he kick him, slam his head on the concrete or anything like that?"

She shook her head, a far away glaze covering her eyes as she saw it again.

"No.  But earlier he held him up so that he could continued hitting him in the face."

"No prosecutor in his right mind would charge him with assault."

"But he deliberately provoked the fight so that he could beat him in front of us."

"Of course he did, but no one can prove it."

After dropping Marta at her house, they went for groceries before returning to Jill's apartment.  He parked at the curb and took one of the two bags up.  Jill could have handled both easily, but she didn't object this time.

"Did he do that just to scare me," she asked as she tried first one of the new keys and then the other to unlatch the deadbolt.

"Probably," he said.

Richard thought about it.  Mic had staged the whole thing on the spur of the moment.  He had quickly thought out the whole scenario and then improvised brilliantly.

"Jill, you see how dangerous he is now.  I'm not talking about how violent he is or how proficient---I mean the way he recognized an opportunity and took advantage of it without hesitation."

She paled.

"You no longer have to frighten me, Richard," she said.  "He did that sufficiently."

"Just don't underestimate him."

"I have seen him angry, but not like that.  He was elated today."

Richard wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her, but if that were ever to happen, she would have to make the move, not he.

"He was elated," he said.  "But mostly he was showing off for you."

"If he thought it would impress me, he was wrong."

"He didn't do it to gain your admiration," he said gently.  "He did it to make you feel vulnerable."

It was exactly how she felt.  Now, she couldn't imagine Richard being able to prevail against the relentless viciousness she had witnessed in the parking lot.

"Jill," he said as if divining her thoughts.  "He can't do to me what he did to that boy today.  Trust me on that."

She turned away, shaking her head and carried the groceries to the kitchen.

"What's wrong?" he asked softly.

"Do not fight him.  Even if he provokes you, you must walk away.  Promise me this."

"I won't let him bait me."

"If he says something about me you must ignore it."

"No.  But I won't let it come to a fight unless he attacks me physically."

"If your offer is still open then maybe I will stay your house," she said even as she continued to put groceries into the refrigerator.

"I do not want to do this," she said tearfully, as she began to take them out again.  "I cannot be alone now.  I would stay with Marta, but that would endanger her also.  I wish to stay with you . . . until this is over."

Although he hated to see her in such distress, he was relieved.

"Okay," he said.  "But tell me if I do anything to make you feel uncomfortable."

"Comfort no longer matters," she said dismissively.  "I only want to feel secure again.  Perhaps this is good.  Yes.  We will protect each other.  He will do nothing to me if you are present, and you will perhaps do nothing foolish if I am present."

Mic dressed his knuckles with peroxide.  His hands hurt, but it was a good hurt because it reminded him of the feeling of cartilage crunching in the boy's nose and skin splitting over the sharp bones of his eye sockets.  He chuckled, remembering the surprised look on the kid's face when he realized what was happening.

"It just went on and on, didn't it, kid?" he said aloud.

He went to the bedroom for the book and two different pens.  After reviewing what he had written previously, he sat down at the kitchen table, twisted open a bottle of San Miguel, and began crafting more sentences, striving to make them sound spontaneous.  He had just started when there was a knock at the door.  Mic put the diary away and went to answer it, finding a uniformed officer at his door.

"Are you William Boyd?" asked the man.

"Yeah.  What's this about?" he asked, thinking that the college puke had filed assault charges.

"I'm with the Breton County Sheriff's Department," said JR, showing him his identification and badge.  "We're looking into a missing persons case, Annette Roseanne Ford.  I understand you know her?"

"Not very well," he said, suddenly realizing that he owed the visit to Richard.

"Can I come in?"

Mic rocked back on his heels, arms crossed.

"I don't have to let you in," he said.  "But what the hell."

He stood aside.

"You know, until you mentioned it, I couldn't remember her last name.  I assume you're talking about Rose Ford.  I never heard that funky first name.  Annette, you say?  And you say she's missing?"

JR took out his notepad and slid a pair of reading glasses onto his sunburned nose. 

"You didn't know then?  It was all over the local news."

"News is depressing.  I don't pay attention."

"I hear that the two of you had a regular relationship."

"No.  She came on to me, so I bought her a drink.  I thought maybe we'd get it on, but it never came off.  After about a week, I got tired of it.  Look, man.  She was just this woman I met at the bar, and, to tell you the truth, she kind of paled in comparison with this French chick I just broke up with.  Now she was hot.  Rose What's-her-name didn't stack up."

"Okay, so you kept company with Miss Ford, for ‘about a week.'  When was that?"

"Maybe a month ago."

"Did you ever take her anywhere?"

"Like a date?  No.  The only time we even talked was in Tonto's.  Ask the barkeep if we ever left together."

"I'll do that.  Did Miss Ford ever say anything to you that might give us an idea of where to find her?"

"Like what?"

"Like a friend she might visit, a place she liked, plans she had."

"She didn't confide in me much---just kind of flashed her stuff, you know."

"She didn't mention anything that might help us find her?"

"What can I tell you?  After a week, we were still strangers.  She wanted me, and she was okay---a little past her prime, but okay, you know.  It never worked out."

Mic smiled thinly.

"Hell of a way to talk about someone who's dead, but the truth's the truth."

JR removed his glasses, wiped them with a handkerchief, and placed them back on his nose.

"Why do you assume that she's dead?"

"Because she was coming on to strangers in bars, and now you can't find her.  She ran into the wrong guy, but then again, maybe she was asking for it."

"You're one of those strangers that she ran into while she asking for it, as you put it."

"I didn't mean she deserved it," said Mic.  "What I mean is that a woman ought to have better sense than to pick up strangers in a bar.  That's how she was asking for it.  I'm telling you, she ran into the wrong guy."

Boyd's body language bothered JR.  Discovering that they are suspects in a homicide tended to make people nervous.  Boyd was way too cool.  He flipped the notebook closed, and slipped it into his shirt pocket.

"Thank you Mr. Boyd.  I think that's it for right now.  If you think of anything that can help us, could you call the sheriff's office?"

"Sure thing.  I hope she turns up.  She was kind of pathetic, but . . . if she's dead, she didn't deserve that."

He lingered in the doorway until the deputy drove away.

"Nice move, Ricky?" he said.  "But I ain't that easy to get rid of."

A half hour later, Mic closed the cheap diary in which he had been writing and slid it to the center of the kitchen table.  He lit a cigarette and then held the crumpled sheet of rough drafts to the lighter.  As the flame licked toward his fingertips, he thought about Richard and Jill leaving Cartier unexpectedly.  The prospect of searching the entire southwest for them had not been appealing, but he would have done it.  Sooner or later they'd have used up their cash and started leaving an electronic trail.  He dropped the paper and ash into the ashtray.

The idiot brought her back.  It's just like hunting rabbits.  Jump one and set the dogs on it, and then you just wait until it circles back right into a gut shot.

He tried to picture Rose, but her face wouldn't stay focused.  It morphed into Jane What's-her-name's, and then to the trashy blonde in West Virginia.

All the same.  Interchangeable parts.

The Chagall and Matisse prints stacked atop her eclectic blend of furniture, made him realize that he wasn't just transferring belongings to a different house.

"I'm taking you from your home to a dump," he said.

The clumsy but perceptive remark bled away some of her resentment.

"One must make adjustments," she said.  "You are not forcing me this time.  It is my choice."

Clothes, blankets, pillows, and linens provided padding for the computer, TV, lamps, china, and glassware.  After unloading it they went back for her living room assemblage, which she had purchased secondhand to augment the meagerly furnished apartment.  Before they left, Jill insisted on sweeping the entire place and cleaning the refrigerator.

She had him stop at the landlords to drop off the keys.  As they spoke on the stoop the elderly lady looked toward the truck and shook her head almost imperceptibly.  Jill opened her purse and took out her keys, apparently explaining about the new locks.  The old lady nodded and then looked back at Richard again.  Finally, the women embraced and then Jill came down to the truck.

"What did you tell her?" he asked while she buckled her seat belt.

"A small lie," said Jill.

"About me?"

"About the new locks.  I said that I thought I heard something one night, but that it was probably just my imagination.  I said that my .  .  . that you changed the locks for me."

"Did you discuss your lease?"

"Yes.  It runs through January.  She says that she will terminate it when she has another lessee."

"So she's holding you to it?"

"Of course.  She needs the income and it is what we agreed."

"Don't you have any faults?" he asked.

"Apparently I am pathetically naïve," she said.

He laughed, but saw immediately that she hadn't meant it as a joke.

"About me or him?" he asked.

"I do not wish to dwell on it."

A moment later she said, "Stop there.  I need household supplies, or do you have the things I will need."

"Like what?"

"Your floors need a thorough cleaning.  Do you even have a mop?"

"No," he said as he pulled into the lot.

"Then I will buy one," she said.

"No.  It's my place and if we need a mop then---"

Jill cut him off firmly.  "But it is my idea.  I will do my share."

"Your share?"

"Yes.  You said that I would be living in your house, not living with you.  So, I will pay my share, and that means half the rent also."

"Jill, you don't need to do that."

"Yes, I do.  You wish to protect me?  Fine.  But do not try to control me."

When she got out, he started to follow her inside.

"Stay here please.  I do not want someone to steal my things."

Besides the mop, Jill came back with essentials that single men seldom think of:  window cleaner, soft scrub for pots and pans, washing machine additives, and floor cleaners.

"Where do you want this?" he called from the front room.

Jill poked her head through the bedroom doorway, still holding an armload of clothes on hangers.  He held the computer monitor.  She frowned as she surveyed the room.

"Try that table by the window.  I see a phone jack there.  I will contact the server people."

The atmosphere was chilly.  Obviously she needed the emotional space, so he decided to forego any attempt to share tasks.  While she put away her clothes and divided the closet and dresser space in the bedroom, he set up the computer.  Then he carried a box of utensils up from the truck and took them to the kitchen.  As he ran a glass of water from the tap, he heard her come in behind him.

"Just put those things in with yours wherever you think is logical," she said.

"All I have in here is a can opener and couple of frying pans.  Why don't you arrange the kitchen to suit yourself?"

"Because it is your house."

"I know, but . . . well, these are your things, and . . . you're being forced to move from your home, and . . . "

"Just leave them then.  I'll put them away later."

"Look, I want you to just rearrange the place to suit yourself.  Please.  It'll make me feel better."

His awkwardness made her uncomfortable.

"Have you ever had a roommate?" she asked.

"About sixty for a while," he said with a smile.

"Yes, but have you ever shared your home?  I mean . . . if you . . . well, it is none of my business and has no bearing on . . . on our arrangement.  What I am saying is that, if you have not, there are many adjustments such as . . . different preferences, schedules, things like that."

"Have you?" he asked.

She busied herself aimlessly moving things around the kitchen, avoiding eye contact while she spoke.

"Actually, no . . . but I am okay with it."

"Jill, I won't forget that you are only staying here out of necessity and because of extraordinary circumstances."

"Very extraordinary."  She nodded as if deep in thought.  "But you cannot do that---I mean say something like . . . qualifying a superlative and . . . I am babbling."

"Hey," he said without approaching her.  "Let me tell you about extraordinary circumstances.  I saw plenty of them in the Marines.  You get used to them after a while, and if nothing happens, they become routine and things get more comfortable.  I'm going to make sure that nothing happens.  That is all I will do."

"Yes," she said.  "As long as nothing happens we will be fine I think."

Thunder rolled, causing him to look outside.

"I'd better go roll up the windows on the truck," he said as he grabbed the keys and headed out.

When he came back inside, he heard her in the bedroom.  He went to the kitchen and fixed sandwiches and instant iced tea, and then went to the bedroom where he found her trying to put one of the suitcases on a high shelf in the closet.

"Here, let me get that for you."

He grunted as he took it from her and heaved it up to the shelf.

"No wonder you were having trouble with this thing.  What's in it?"

"Winter clothes.  There is nowhere to put them.  I left a chifferobe at the apartment.  Can we go get it, or do you wish to wait until tomorrow?"

"I only rented the truck for today and it's due back in about an hour.  I've made sandwiches.  Can you eat in the truck?"

"Of course."

She put off calling Marta until Richard was in the shower.

"I should have told you," she said while trying to explain.  "We're engaged.  My Aunt Mirabelle would not approve . . . because it was so hasty, but we . . . we are committed to each other and so . . . that is why."

Jill rolled eyes at her clumsy words.

"I am happy for you," Marta finally said.  "When will you be married?"

"We have not decided.  I mean there are no definite plans . . . as to the date."

"I see.  Why did you not tell me what was happening with you?"

"It just . . . happened so quickly."

"Yes, very quickly---but I am happy for you."

Later she began to worry that Marta would ask Richard about the engagement.

Lies are too complicated, she told herself.