Jeffery Deaver - Solitude Creek

Calista gripped his earlobe between two perfectly shaped teeth. March felt the pressure of the incisors. Felt her studded nose against his smooth cheek. Felt himself deep inside her.

She grunted rhythmically. Maybe he did too.

Calista whispered, ‘You’re so fucking handsome...’

He wished she wouldn’t talk. Besides, he didn’t know what to do with that sentence. Maybe she was hoping for this to be more than a couple-days thing. But he also knew that people said all sorts of things for all sorts of reasons at moments like this and he didn’t sweat it.

Just wished she wouldn’t talk. He wanted to hear. Wanted to see. Wanted to imagine.

Her heels banged against his tailbone, her bright crimson fingernails — the color of arterial blood — assaulted his back.

And he replayed what people often replayed at moments like now: earlier times. The Solitude Creek incident. But then, going way back: Serena, of course. He often returned to Serena, the way a top eventually spins to stillness.

Serena. She helped move him along.

Jessica he thought of too.

And, of course, Todd. Never Serena and Jessica without Todd.

He was moving more quickly now.

Again she was gasping, ‘Yes, yes, yes...’

As she lay under him Calista’s hands now eased up his spine and gripped his shoulders hard. Those GMC-finish nails pressed into his skin. He reciprocated, digging into her pale flesh. Her moaning was partly pain; the rest of the damp gusts from her lungs were from his two hundred plus pounds, little fat. Pounding.

Compressing.

Sort of like the people last night.

‘Oh...’ She stiffened.

He backed off at that. There was a balance between his pleasure and her pain. Tricky. He didn’t really need her to cry at the moment. He had all he needed.

‘Again, if you’re just joining us...’

‘Oh, yeah,’ Calista whispered, and it wasn’t an act. She was gone, lost in the moment.

His left hand slid out from under the bony spine and then was twining the strawberry mane of hair in his blunt fingers, pulling her head back. Her throat — smooth for cutting. Though that wasn’t on the agenda. Still, the image socketed itself into his thoughts. That helped him too.

March gauged rhythm and sped up slightly. Then a rich inhale and those luminous pearls of teeth went against his neck — many women were into the vampire thing, Calista too, apparently. A shudder and she hissed, ‘Yesssss,’ not as an act or a prod for him to finish: it was involuntary. Genuine. He was moderately pleased.

Now, his turn. He gripped her more tightly yet. Chest and breasts, thigh and thigh, sliding unsteadily; the room was hot, the sweat abundant.

‘I’m speaking to Brad Dannon, Monterey County firefighter and first on the scene at the Solitude Creek tragedy last night. Brad is credited with saving at least two victims, who were bleeding severely. Have you talked to them today, Brad?’

‘Yes, ma’am. They’d lost a lot of blood but I was able to keep them going till our wonderful EMS got there. They’re the true heroes. Not me.’

‘You’re very modest, Brad. Now—’

Click.

He realized that the impressive nails of one hand had vanished from his back. She’d found the remote and shut off the TV.

No matter. With a flash of Serena’s beautiful face, combined with Brad’s comment, a lot of blood , he was done.

He gasped and let his full weight sag down upon her. He was thinking: It had been good. Good enough .

It would distract for a while.

Then he was aware of her squirming slightly. Her breath labored.

He thought again: Compressive asphyxia.

And stayed where he was. Ten seconds passed.

Twenty. Then thirty. He could kill her by simply not moving.

‘Uhm,’ she gasped. ‘Could you...’

He felt her chest heaving.

March rolled off. ‘Sorry. You totally tuckered me out.’

Calista caught her breath. She sat up slightly and tugged the sheets across her body. Why, afterward, did women grow modest? He pulled off a pillow case and used it as a towel, then glanced casually at his nails. No blood. He was disappointed.

She turned back to him, faintly smiling, and put her head on the pillow.

March stretched. As always, moments like this, just after, he remained silent, since you could never trust yourself, even someone as controlled as he was. He’d learned that.

She, however, spoke. ‘Andy?’

He preferred the nickname. ‘Antioch’ drew attention. ‘Yes?’

‘That was terrible, what happened.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The stampede or crush. It was on the news. Just a minute ago.’

‘Oh, I wasn’t listening.’

Was this a test? He didn’t know. He’d provided the good answer, though. She put a hand, tipped in red, on his arm. He supposed he shouldn’t even have had the set on — not wise to be too interested in Solitude Creek. But when she’d arrived forty minutes ago, the first thing he’d done was pour some Chardonnay for her and start talking away, so she wouldn’t think to shut off the unfolding news reports.

March stretched again, the luxurious inn’s mattress not rocking a quarter-inch. He thought of the endlessly moving Pacific Ocean, which you could hear, if not see, from the cranked-open window to his left.

‘You work out a lot,’ she said.

‘I do.’ He had to. His line of work. Well, one of his lines of work. March got in at least an hour every day. Exercise was easy for him — he was twenty-nine, naturally strong and well built. And he enjoyed the effort. It was comforting. It was distracting.

With unslit throat and her non-compressed lungs, Calista eased from the sheets and, like an A-list actress, kept her back to the camera as she rose.

‘Don’t look.’

He didn’t look. March tugged off the condom, which he dropped onto the floor, the opposite side of the bed. Out of her view.

Looked at the remote. Decided not to.

He thought she was going to the bathroom but she diverted to the closet, flung it open, looking through his hanging clothes. ‘You have a robe I can borrow? You’re not looking?’

‘No. The bathroom, the hook on the door.’

She got it and returned, enwrapped. ‘Nice.’ Stroking the fine cotton.

The inn was one of the best on the Monterey Peninsula, and this area, he’d learned in the past few days, was a place with many fine inns. The establishment was happy for guests to take its robes home with them as lovely souvenirs of their stay — for the oddly random price of $232.

This, he reflected, defined Cedar Hills. Not an even $250, which would have been outrageous but logical. Not $100, which would be the actual retail price and made more sense.

Two hundred thirty-two pretentious dollars.

Something to do with human nature, he guessed.

Calista Sommers fetched her purse and rummaged, collected from it some of the contents.

He smelled wine, from the glasses nearby. But that had been for her. He sipped his pineapple juice, with ice cubes whose edges had melted to dull.

She tugged aside a curtain. ‘View’s amazing.’

True. Pebble Beach golf course not far away, contortionist pine trees, crimson bird-of-paradise flowers, sculpture, fountains. Deer wandered past, ears twitchy and legs both comical and elegant.

Her mind seemed to wander. Maybe she was thinking of her meeting. Maybe of her ill mother. Calista, a twenty-five-year-old bookkeeper, wasn’t from here. She’d taken two weeks off from work and driven to California from her small town in northern Washington State to look for areas where her mother, in assisted living because of Alzheimer’s, might relocate, a place where the weather was better. She’d tried Marin, Napa, San Francisco and was now checking out the Monterey Bay area. This seemed to be the front-runner.