C. Lawrence - Silent Screams

"Just be careful-please?"

"Sure, Boss. Sure."

"Okay. Call me soon."

"Right. Will do."

Lee put the phone back in his pocket and looked at Chuck.

"It's Willow-Eddie found him in the boat pond."

"Damn." Chuck smacked his forehead with his closed fist, his face red. "Goddamn it. And was it-?"

"Yeah. He took his time. He took the trouble to carve the next part of the prayer on poor Willow just so we would know it was him."

Chuck's fair complexion reddened even more. "Bastard! He's taunting us."

"Yeah. He's having a good time with all this-and he's beginning to feel invulnerable. But that's what's going to make him screw up eventually."

The key word there, Lee knew, was "eventually." The thought of yet another victim felt like too much to bear right now. They walked in silence for a while, and then Chuck said, "You know, without any forensic evidence, trying to find this guy really is like looking for a needle in a haystack. I mean, no offense, but there's really only so much profiling can give us."

"I know," Lee replied. "I wish we had some hair, fiber, prints-anything."

"Which borough do you think he's going to do next?" Chuck asked

"I wish I could say," Lee answered.

He didn't say what they were both thinking. By that time, it might be too late, and someone else would die.

At some point Lee realized that sex with Kathy was inevitable.

Maybe it was when she laid her hand on his as they sat squeezed next to one another in that crowded Madison Avenue cafe. Or perhaps it was the glance they exchanged at the bagel shop on West Seventy-second Street, as he set the bagel down between them…the plump brown circle of dough, toasted and crisp on the outside, soft and yielding on the inside. Lee felt a rush of warmth to his cheeks as he thought about entering her. Would she too be soft and yielding, under her crisp exterior? Once the thought blossomed in his head, it sent out tendrils, runner vines that spread throughout his brain, crowding out other thoughts.

He found everything about her absurdly charming: the way she curled her index finger around her coffee cup; the way she stood with her weight balanced on one hip, arms crossed over her chest; her habit of running her tongue over her teeth when she was concentrating; the resolute set of those square little shoulders; the languid curve of her upper lip; the way one black curl fell onto her forehead. Kathy Azarian had engaged his heart from the first.

He had no idea if she felt as strongly as he did, and he didn't want to ask, in case the answer was no.

Her invitation to come back to her friend's Upper West Side apartment where she was staying was almost casual, another step in the delicate dance the two of them had been performing ever since they met.

"I'm house-sitting for her for the weekend, and she won't be back until late Sunday."

She smiled, and the dimple on her chin puckered and blossomed.

And so they found themselves, later that afternoon, lying in bed at her friend's apartment, on a green plaid bedspread, the late afternoon light creeping across the opposite wall, forming shadows and patterns that her friend's two gray kittens attacked in little hops and leaps.

When at last his mouth found hers he didn't want to move on, but lingered as her strong little pointed tongue felt the insides of his cheeks. He ran his tongue over her perfectly white teeth, imagining them shining in the darkness of her mouth, waiting for his tongue to discover them. It had always amazed him that this act of intimacy was necessary to continue the species-for one body to actually enter another. Surely there would have been easier, safer ways. Instead, Nature had given them this gift, this miracle of flesh on flesh.

The back of Kathy's neck smelled tart and fresh, like winter flowers-carnations, maybe, or narcissi? Her body was so slight that he was afraid he might crush her, but the space between her hip bones tautened and trembled when he ran his lips over it. Her breasts were small but prominent, and perfectly round, like two cupcakes, her nipples sweet as ripe cherries.

He postponed the moment of entry as long as possible, until his body ached to thrust into her, and he gave in, sinking into her wet, unknowable darkness. She took him inside her, and he could feel her body pulling him in. It seemed as natural a fit as a hand inside a well-worn glove. As he entered her he thought of the deep, soft soil of furrowed farm fields stretching out between the white and green trimmed houses of his childhood.

He looked down at her face. She smiled at him through half-closed eyes, and again the dimple on her chin blossomed. He had wondered what her face would look like in the heat of passion, and now he knew. Her dark skin was flushed, her lips full and open.

He drove deeper inside her. She moaned and dug her nails into his back.

Being inside her was like being at the center of the earth. He had experienced good sex that was simply a physical connection, a mutual satisfying of needs-but this was different. He felt engulfed, surrounded, and he surrendered gratefully, wanting her to suck out all the pain of the last few years.

It was still amazing to him that these beautiful creatures, women, could be touched and smelled and licked and entered.

She breathed harder and harder, until her breath was coming in hoarse gasps and she moaned underneath him. He loved the feeling of power it gave him to make her moan like that, as she writhed and cried, "Oh, oh, oh God," her slim body twisting like a snake beneath him, perspiration collecting on her upper lip, in the hollow of her neck. He wanted to know things no one else knew about her.

The aftermath of his orgasm was like the descent of the winter sunset outside the lace curtains, as daylight slipped slowly into night, separating into a pastel palette of colors too subtle and delicate for the robustness of a summer's evening. He watched the shades of winter twilight, watched as the day seemed relieved to let go and enter the long slide into night. They lay wrapped in the green plaid bedspread as the light outside the window faded, a tangle of arms and legs and cat hair.

He braced himself against the sadness that followed. It surged up inside him, just under his breastbone-soft, wet, and full. It pulled at his throat, closing off his airway, until he cleared it with a deep sigh.

She looked at him, alarmed. In the dim light, her eyes were the color of spruce needles: greenish blue, opaque as storm clouds.

"What's the matter? Are your injuries bothering you?"

"No."

"What was that sigh about, then?"

He wasn't sure how it would sound, to speak of the sadness that always settled upon him after sex. He was afraid she might take it the wrong way.

She rolled over onto her side, her breasts pressed together to create a narrow valley between them. He thought of losing himself in that valley, of sliding in between the heavy softness of those breasts, nestling there forever like a small, furry animal. Her nipples were deep red, almost brown.

"Is it the sadness?" she asked. The question was so unexpected he was caught off guard. She smiled and leaned up on one elbow, her breasts brushing against her arm. "Do you get it too-the sadness that comes afterward?"

He looked away. He had never discussed this with anyone. "Sometimes, I guess."

She reached over and traced a straight line down his forearm with her little finger. It made him shiver. "I've often thought that this might be why the French called orgasm 'a little death.'"

He couldn't think of anything to say. He had always believed his reaction to be peculiar to him alone. Talking about it felt more intimate than sex itself.

She retraced the line on his arm in the other direction. "It's probably a biochemical reaction of some kind. I wouldn't worry about it."