David Ellis - Eye of the Beholder

“We hooping tomorrow?” I ask Jerry. Our regular game, every Wednesday at lunch.

He shrugs. “Not sure about that, boss. I’m a little worried about it.”

“Worried? Your wife didn’t give you permission?”

“Worried,” he says, “because my future here might be in jeopardy if I keep taking you to school like last week. I think your jockstrap is still on the court.”

“Lazarus.” I finish my water and smack my lips in satisfaction. “If you could post up half as well as you sling bullshit, you might get a shot off once in a while.” I wave him off. “Now, go practice law. Or practice your outside jumper. Something that doesn’t involve you being in my office.”

“See you in-five minutes,” he says.

Yeah, shit, I have to go to that meeting. At this point in my career, it’s ninety-five percent oversight on this work. The lawyers under me are more than capable. I guide them with strategy, but this stuff isn’t rocket science. I’m there for the profile stuff-major hearings and the very rare instance that we go to trial, but the only thing that involves me personally much anymore is the criminal stuff.

I do a quick run through the mail. Much of it is obviously junk mail or requests for money from charitable foundations. I set the charity mail to one side, because we have a committee that decides where we direct our money. We have committees for everything.

But then there is another letter with a handwritten address-looks generally like the same penmanship, same thick ink pen. Local postmark again. I turn the envelope upside down and let the letter fall out. For some reason, I open it carefully, touching only the corner of the paper:

I will inevitably lose life. Ultimately, sorrow echoes the heavens. Ever sensing. Ever calling out. Never does vindication ever really surrender easily. The immediate messenger endures the opposition, but understanding requires new and loving betrayal and new yearning.

My laugh is uncomfortable. There is no doubt this is the same handwriting as the last one. Creepy, this guy. I guess it’s the anniversary of Burgos. Is that what this is about? Sorrow echoes the heavens? Understanding requires new and loving betrayal and new yearning? Who the hell is this guy?

I pull out the other letter, which I’ve kept, for comparison:

If new evil emerges, do heathens ever link past actions? God’s answer is near.

Yep. Same precise handwriting. Same freakish, pseudoreligious spiritual drivel. It rings familiar, too, but I can’t place it.

My intercom buzzes. “Yeah, Betty?”

“Mr. Bentley for you.”

“Sure.” She rings the call through and I answer. It’s Harland’s assistant-or one of them, he has three-asking if I can meet him tonight. I say yes and get the details, without asking why Harland couldn’t call me himself.

As I hang up the phone, I notice the blinking message light on my phone. The first message is from that reporter, Evelyn Pendry, reiterating that she’d like to speak with me. When I play the second message, my breathing halts. It is the voice of my one and only, speaking in a hushed tone, with the sounds of the office in the background.

“I thought we could have that conversation.” Shelly, in a soft, workplace voice . “The usual place and time?”

THE KEY, see, is to get along, go along, live in their world, pretend that all you see is what they see. Walk up to a hot dog vendor and order, just like anyone else, Polish with relish, bottle of water, put your face up to the sun like you enjoy it.

Here he is. Coming through the revolving door, no briefcase, bouncing down the stairs with a purpose, the great Paul Riley, the man given credit for stopping Terry.

Leo tosses the hot dog into a trash can, takes a swig from the water bottle, tosses that, too, follows Riley on foot, moving from a warm, sunny spot into the shadows of the high-rises. He looks up to the rooftops, but it’s not like they’d show themselves.

The walk isn’t far. Riley goes four blocks, two north and two east, and turns in to the Dunstworth Hotel, one of the ornate, old city hotels. Leo stops short, careful not to walk in immediately.

Where’s he going?

Leo doesn’t know. No point in following Riley while he’s inside, anyway, nothing Leo can do, should be safe, no reason to worry, wait it out, won’t be long.

The pain hits his stomach hard. He brings a hand to his belly. It’s all he can do not to double over with the pain. The hot dog didn’t help, but when he’s tired he has to eat more and he’s plenty tired. Electrified but exhausted.

A minute later, a cab pulls up to the hotel. Leo does a double take, but, yes, it’s her. The same one in the photos he has.

Her name is Shelly Trotter.

SHELLY STANDS across from me in the elevator, our backs against opposite walls. Between us is an elderly, well-dressed couple, just two more of the Dunstworth Hotel’s wealthy clientele. I catch her eye but we play it cool, like we don’t even know each other. My body is in chaos, my spirit motoring on adrenaline. Suddenly, my headache is history.

She goes first, walks to the suite, and inserts the key card. She holds the door, but I stand there as she walks in and turns to face me. The clench of her jaw could be mistaken for hunger, a primal urge, but I sense ambivalence as well, even conflict.

She begins to unbutton her blouse. I step forward, but suddenly my wingtips are frozen to the carpet. I look over the posh surroundings, take in the smell of her along with the antiseptic scent of a freshly cleaned suite.

“What are we doing here?” I ask.

She shakes her head slowly, continuing to undress, her blouse parting, revealing her pale, freckly skin, a lavender silk bra. She doesn’t know, either.

Maybe that’s all I wanted to see, even the slightest crack in the armor. I move toward her as she backs up, kicking off her heels. Her pants drop to the carpet. She lets me finish the job, unclasping her bra, lowering my mouth below her neckline, as I lay her on the bed. Her skin tastes like salt and smells like fruit. I run my tongue over her rib cage, stick it in her belly button, provoking a reaction from her. I work through the anguish strangling my heart, knowing I want this more than she.

We are tentative, each of us, feeling around the boundaries of something intimate. It’s a bumpy roller-coast ride until she feels me inside her, reacting with a small moan. I look into her eyes and she looks away. Her body goes motionless, letting me take the lead. I run a finger down her face. She closes her eyes, but I can’t read the expression. I bring my mouth to hers, tasting her lip gloss, but her lips don’t part.

This, I know, is wrong, I’m offering but she’s not accepting, but I don’t stop. I grip her hair tightly and increase the pace, closing my eyes like her, escaping into something distant and angry, and holding my breath at the end.

I withdraw immediately and hike up my pants, walking past Shelly toward the window overlooking the street. The sidewalks are filled with people, escaping for lunch to enjoy the weather.

“That was nice,” she says. “I…”

I button my shirt and stare at the faint reflection of my face on the window. I sense her coming up behind me, then her hand on my shoulder, her chin nestling between my shoulder blades.

She doesn’t finish the thought and I don’t help her. The uncompleted sentence basically sums up our relationship.

“It wasn’t nice,” I say. “It felt like a gift.”

Her fingers draw over my back slowly. “I want this to work.”

I close my eyes and tip my head against the window. My heart is ricocheting against my chest and my knees threaten to give out. “But?” I say.