Jeffery Deaver - Bloody River Blues

She pulls off the brown dress.

This scares him, seeing the arc of the dress falling onto the chair. He smells fruity perfume.

She is undoing pins from her wispy hair, which tumbles down her neck. The hair is like white light. It ends just above her substantial bra. She smooths her hands along it, from her neck over her breasts down to her waist. She tosses her head. Her hair terrifies Donnie Buffett.

Not saying a word, she leans forward and lets the hair stream over his arm and face. His eyes are locked on to her hair. Terrified but unable to look away. His hand closes on it, he rubs it between his fingers, he weighs a huge handful.

No. Don't do this to me. Please. Don't…

She looks down at him, at the terror on his face.

I want to go to sleep. I want to -

But she is bending forward, a slight smile on her face. He is enveloped in her perfume, strawberry and spice, and she is kissing him, her mouth firm against his. He feels her tongue, just its tip against his lips, then through them. She is kissing him hungrily.

He is trembling.

She backs away.

She is wearing a large silver sparkly bra, garter belt and stockings, and white panties. All white, all lacy and glistening in the low light.

"Look," Donnie Buffett says and he is sweating. "Don't-"

"Shhhh." She bends forward and kisses him again. He feels the pressure of her breasts under the silky cloth.

She knows he feels it and rubs against him as she kisses him. Her tongue slips farther into his mouth. He doesn't know what to do. He kisses her back.

Wondering if he'll feel anything, if he'll feel that, twisty-warm sense, but then no, he doesn't. And then he wants her to go away, wanting that more than he's ever wanted anything in his life.

She backs off again, still smiling. He is terrified and begs her to leave. "The thing is, with this accident… Like

I was saying. You …"

She turns her back to him, ignoring him. He hears her whisper, "Help me."

His arms slump. "I'm sorry …"

"Please," she whispers. "For me? I want it for me"

Somehow this changes everything. He lifts his hands and undoes the hook of her bra and she is backing into him, forcing his hands to encircle her breasts and grip them. Her neck is inches from his mouth. He lowers his mouth to it and is caught in an avalanche of her hair. He tastes it. He smells strawberry. When she rubs against him it is as though they are underwater and their bodies are sliding past each other on the current. He turns her around in his arms and kisses her hard.

She slides off the bed and stands in front of him as she slips her panties down. He sees the blond fuzz. This hair, too, fascinates him; it is so fine you can't really see the hair, it's more a blur of focus where her legs come together. She begins to touch herself, running her hands over her body, taking handfuls of her head hair and spreading them around her flesh.

Then she hops up on the bed again, puts one leg on either side of his head, and bends forward, kissing his chest and stomach as she pushes the blankets aside. He is muttering no no no, but the way it is working out, his mouth being where it is, she can't hear his words anyway and he gives up talking and all he can do is think, hell, let's do it do it do it…

This-a memory, not a fantasy-was prominently in Donnie Buffett's mind when he opened his eyes and saw John Pellam standing in the doorway of his hospital room.

Buffett blinked then he cleared his throat. "Hey, chief. I wasn't expecting you."

"Hello, Donnie." Pellam walked into the room. His boots made a particularly loud noise.

Oh, Christ. He knows.

"Listen, John…" Buffett looked up at the blank TV screen, then at the row of flowers. His face felt suddenly thick and hot, as if filled with steam. Oh, man, here's the guy bought me beer and has treated me like a real person, he's the first one in the whole world after the accident to tell me to go to hell, no kid gloves, no bullshit, and what do I do? I fuck his woman. Oh, man. Oh, man…

"John, listen, I was going to tell you."

Pellam was grinning. This made Buffett feel a thousand times worse.

"It wasn't like I planned it. I know I was ragging you about the casting couch thing but it's not like I said to her, 'Oh, poor me,

I can't get it up.' It wasn't a trick or anything."

That did work, though, come to think of it.

"It's all right, Donnie."

"I'm not saying she came on to me. I'd never say that to avoid taking my own lumps, you know? But she was easy to talk to and I was feeling really bad. She hugged me and… It just sort of happened. I really was going to tell you. Really, man. But last time you were in, you were so, you know, upset about your friend…"

"She isn't for me," Pellam told him.

"No, no, she likes you. I know she does." Wait. Would this make him feel better or worse? "What happened…"

"Donnie, I've got no claim on her."

"I talked you up afterwards." He said this cautiously.

Pellam was sitting down in the chair. "I wouldn't've come by today if I was mad."

Buffett could think of nothing to do but extend his hand. They shook solemnly, and Pellam seemed amused by this formal gesture of apology. "I need some help, Donnie."

"Anything. You name it. My buddies still hassling you? I'll get them off your case, John. Don't worry. I'll call the mayor if I have to."

Pellam looked over the untouched dinner tray. Donnie followed his eyes. He asked, "Break bread?"

"Haven't eaten in a day."

"Help yourself."

It wasn't bread, it was soup, rice, and red Jell-O. Pellam ate the soup, Buffett, the rice. They split the saltines and divided the Jell-O into two bowls.

"You know, don't you," Buffett said, "Jell-O really sucks?"

"Uh-huh." But Pellam seemed hungry. And with milk poured over it the Jell-O was not bad, though Pellam didn't get much milk; he had the fork and Buffett had the spoon.

One cube slipped away from Buffett and he chased it off the tray and onto the sheet and blanket. "Shit." He cocked his middle finger against his thumb and flicked the cube into the wall. It left a pink wound on the wall and splatted on the floor.

The men laughed.

Pellam told Buffett about an old record of his uncle's, a comedy record from the fifties. Who was the guy? Del Close, he thought. It was called How to Speak Hip. There was this routine, he explained, about a man who gets hung up on Jell-O.

He keeps eating these bowls of Jell-O and ordering more. Going from restaurant to restaurant. Everybody's staring at him. What flavor was it? Strawberry, he thought. Or raspberry. "It's to teach you the expression 'hung up on.' You know, like beat talk was a foreign language." Pellam said that he had listened to the record a hundred times when he was a kid. He loved the Jell-O routine.

Buffett smiled politely, waiting for the punch line, but apparently there was none.

"You have to sort of hear it," Pellam said. "And be in the mood."

"No, it was funny," Buffett said quickly. Today, at least, he was Pellam's toady.

But Pellam seemed to have lost his taste for humor-as well as for Jell-O and for conversation. He wiped his face. He nodded to the bedside table and said, "I guess I better do it. Let me see that phone for a minute, would you?"

The U.S. Attorney was in court when the call came in.

The secretary buzzed Nelsons office and asked, "There's a man on three. He says it's important. When will Mr. Peterson be back?"