Robert Walker - Primal Instinct

After she hung up, she gave a few moments' thought to John Thorpe, her next-in-command at the criminology lab at Quantico in Sector IV. He'd recently undergone a difficult bit of surgery, and this on top of a tough divorce that had separated him from his kids. It sounded like J.T. was a man of his word, burying himself in his work. She had a choice now of showering, calling room service for dinner or going through the nine files staring at her from the table across the room. She'd just as soon go to sleep, but her mind wandered back to New York City and Alan Rychman, whom she'd still not forgiven for forsaking her here. He had promised her for months that he'd get away with her to Hawaii and that everything was set, but now that he was angling for commissioner, he had very little say-so about his own schedule or life, it seemed. So they'd argued again. As it looked now, she supposed it was perhaps best that Alan had missed his flight after all, since things were shaping up here as they were. She imagined his rage had he been here, seeing her sucked into the island case. If he were in her company when all this occurred, he'd be as upset with her as she presently was with him.

She toyed with the idea of calling Alan, as he'd have no idea where she was by now. If he did call, he'd be trying to find her in Maui. Maybe he'd left word at the hotel there. She made a quick connection and learned that there'd been no word from Alan after all. Maybe she'd just let him stew. She decided to shower, and was soon under the relaxing spray. Fresh now, she put on a robe and stepped out onto the balcony to watch the brilliant orange, lavender and purple spray of sun and cloud out over the ocean on this gorgeous Hawaiian night settling lazily over the city. It was beautiful and exotic, this place so many thousands upon thousands of miles from Quantico, Virginia, which she'd called home since her days in the FBI academy.

As beautiful as Hawaii was, her heart was heavy. She'd come a hell of a long way just to be alone. She thought again of the moment in San Francisco when she finally got it: the fact that Alan Rychman wasn't going to be meeting her there to fly on to the Hawaiian islands with her after all. His city. New York, had won again, just as on earlier occasions. Still, she was honest enough to agree that her own profession had called her away from him more than once.

Perhaps their relationship had been doomed from the start, as her friend J.T. had said in his less-than-comforting certainty when she'd called to cry long-distance on his shoulder, inviting him to join her and knowing how foolish it sounded the moment the words left her. She just didn't want to be alone so far from home. It wasn't like she was trying to muscle in and take advantage of J.T.'s recent change of status to single and less-than-carefree. Nothing was certain in a world where even J.T.'s supposedly perfect marriage had gone aground on the jagged rocks of divorce. There hadn't been a single clue, so closed-mouthed had he remained about it.

“ Life as medical cops,” she muttered to herself, sipping at some wine she'd found in the dry bar. She had an M.E. after her name, and she was an FBI agent, but it all boiled down to the work of a cop, after all, and it left little in its wake for what others might consider a normal life.

“ A relative term at best,” she reassured herself with another of her father's favored phrases. She recalled him saying these words when, as an army brat, she'd protested his lifestyle as less than normal; so uprooted were they time and again.

“ But when do you get to slow down, enjoy life. Dad?” she'd asked.

“ I do enjoy life, Jess. I love my work.”

“ And what about me and Mama?”

“ I love you guys, too.”

She felt a tear well up at the memory. It was not long after that her father was filled with regret at not having loved her mother enough, at not having spent more time with them both. She had had to reassure him thereafter until his death that he'd been a terrific husband and father, and he had. He had raised her to be independent, to be a self-starter, a hard worker, a self-thinker, and to be obsessive about caring. He had taught her the tactics of the deer hunter, the methods of the hunt and how to deal with the prey once you caught it. He had taught her strength and gentleness in the same lessons.

She wiped away her tears and stared out at the expanse of ocean, getting dreamily caught up in the ebb and flow of the current far below her balcony. Lovers walked among the palm- lined paths in the distance where Waikiki Beach was lit with the torches of a luau just getting underway. The trade winds blustered about the balustrades and rattled the small outdoor furniture, threatening to lift her robe to reveal her nudity beneath, but the feel of the wind against her skin was warm and pleasing as if it were alive and interested in her alone.

“ More than I can say for Alan Rychman.” Her sad little joke was followed by a pout.

She allowed her mind to play with the wind as it poured over and through her, at first not hearing the phone, which was ringing insistently inside her room.

Blowing out a long thread of exasperated air, she stepped back inside, out of the wind and stars to lift the receiver.

“ Have you eaten?” It was Parry.

“ No, I mean, yes… I mean, I was about to order from room service.”

“ I'm downstairs… and if you'd care to have someone to dine with, well… I just thought…”

He sounded like a nervous boy. She cleared her throat. “I'm awfully tired.”

“ Maybe a little wine and some decent opaka-paka will-”

“ Opaka-paka?”

“ Best fish dish in the islands, the way they do it here.”

“ Downstairs, you say,” she considered aloud.

“ At the restaurant.”

She sighed, gave him time to worry and then said, “All right. Give me a moment to dress.”

“ C-casual,” he intoned.

“ Island casual?”

“ And I promise, no shoptalk.”

When she hung up, she wondered if she'd made the right decision, and if he'd stick to his word about no shoptalk, or if he was chomping at the bit to glean as much information as possible from her about the earlier autopsies. Still, she wasted no time in dressing in a light, rainbow-colored, muumuu-style dress she had picked up at a hotel shop in Maui. As she quickly blow-dried her hair, using a little gel to style it comfortably and nicely, allowing the gentle, auburn curls to flow freely to either side, she wondered about his intentions. She also questioned her own. Then again, why shouldn't she enjoy herself here in the world's most lovely resort city; why shouldn't she have a place to wear her new dress; why shouldn't she taste this opaka-paka delicacy? And Alan Rychman and Paul Zanek be damned-for different reasons. And by God, why shouldn't she enjoy the company of another man? She found her cane and took a moment to appraise herself in the full-length mirror before stepping out, glad she'd bought the pullover island wear with the tie about the waist as opposed to the one without. She quickly cautioned herself about Parry, reminding herself that all men were the same the world over, and that despite his good looks, she didn't intend to get romantically involved with any goddamned, workaholic bureau chief, Hawaii or not.

Dinner was delightful, served in an open-air atmosphere on the rim of the Pacific, tracings of lavender and purple aproning the horizon as the sun abandoned sky for sea. Remarkably, Parry remained a man of his word, not once broaching the subject of the double autopsy earlier or the case he was building against a phantom killer stalking Honolulu's Waikiki resort area.

After a delicious dinner of thick, fresh opaka-paka served up with wine, he took her for a walk along Waikiki's busiest strip. Life teemed here on the streets and in the hotels as it did below in the ocean, the schools of people in their weaving groups swimming in relaxed but controlled fashion, going in, out and among the doorways and concrete pillars, the shopping on Kalakaua Avenue going on all night.