Michael Connelly - The Poet

I drank from my coffee cup but it was empty. I looked at her and continued.

"Anyway, everybody was asking what happened, you know, and I couldn't… I couldn't talk. And he-Sean-said we had both been out on the ice and then when Sarah came out it cracked and she fell through. It was a lie and I don't know if my parents ever believed it. I don't think they did. But he did it for me. It was like he was willing to share the guilt with me, make it easier by half."

I stared into my empty cup. Rachel said nothing.

"You might've made it big as a shrink. That's a story I've never told anyone."

"Well, I think telling it might've just been something you felt you owed your brother. Maybe a way of thanking him."

The waiter placed a check on our table and thanked us. I opened my wallet and put a credit card down on top of it. I can think of a better way to thank him, I thought.

After we stepped off the elevator I became nearly paralyzed with fear. I couldn't bring myself to act on my desire. We moved to her door first. She pulled the card key from her pocket and looked up at me. I hesitated, said nothing.

"Well," she said after a long moment. "I guess we start early tomorrow. Do you eat breakfast?"

"Just coffee, usually."

"Okay, well, I'll call you and maybe if there's time we can grab a cup."

I nodded, too overrun with the embarrassment of my failure and cowardice to say anything.

"Good night, Jack."

" 'Night," I managed to say before walking off down the hall.

I sat on the edge of the bed watching CNN for a half hour, hoping to see the report she had mentioned or anything to take my mind off the disastrous end of the night. Why is it, I wondered, that it is the ones who mean so much that are the hardest to reach out to? Some deep instinct told me that the moment in the hall had been the time, the right moment. And I had ignored it. I had run from it. And now I feared that my failure would haunt me forever. Because that instinct might never come back.

I don't think I heard the first knock. Because the one that raised me from my dark reverie was very loud and surely not the first effort. It had the urgency of a third or fourth knock. Jarred by the intrusion, I quickly turned off the TV and went to the door, opening it without looking through the peephole. It was her.

"Rachel."

"Hi."

"Hi."

"I, uh, thought I'd give you a chance to redeem yourself. That is, if you wanted to."

I looked at her and a dozen responses went through my mind, all engineered to neatly put the ball back in her court and make her make the move. But the instinct came back and I knew what she wanted and what I needed to do.

I stepped toward her and put an arm behind her back and kissed her. Then I pulled her into the room and closed the door.

"Thank you," I whispered.

Almost nothing was said after that. She hit the light switch, then led me to the bed. She put her arms around my neck and pulled me down into a long, deep kiss. We fumbled with each other's clothes and then decided wordlessly to just take off our own. It was faster.

"Do you have something?" she whispered. "You know, to use?"

Crestfallen by the consequences of my inaction earlier, I shook my head no and was about to offer to go to the drugstore, a trip that I knew would destroy the moment.

"I think I might," she said.

She pulled her purse onto the bed and I heard the zipper of an interior pocket opening. She then pressed the plastic condom package into my palm.

"Always keep one for emergencies," she said with a smile in her voice.

We made love after that. Slowly, smiling in the shadows of the room. I think of it now as a wonderful moment, perhaps the most erotic and passionate hour of my life. In reality, though, when I strip the gauze from the memory, I know it was a nervous hour with both of us seemingly too eager and willing to please the other and perhaps thereby robbing ourselves of some of the true enjoyment of the moment. My sense of Rachel was that she was craving the intimacy of the act, not as much the sensual pleasure as the closeness with another human being. It was that way for me as well, but I also found a deep carnal desire for her body. She had wide and dark areolas on small breasts, a lovely rounded stomach with soft hair below it. As we found each other's rhythm her face flushed and became warm. She was beautiful and I told her so. But this seemed only to embarrass her and she pulled me down into an embrace so that I could not see her face. My face in her hair, I smelled the scent of apples.

Afterward, she rolled onto her stomach and I lightly rubbed her back.

"I want to be with you after this," I said.

She didn't answer but that was okay. I knew that what we had just shared was genuine. She slowly pulled herself up into a sitting position.

"What is it?"

"I can't stay. I want to but I can't. I should be in my own room in the morning in case Bob calls. He'll want to talk before the meeting with the locals and he said he'd call."

Disappointed, I wordlessly watched her dress. She moved about in the darkness skillfully, knowing her way. When she was finished, she bent down and lightly kissed me on the lips.

"Go to sleep."

"I will. You, too."

But after she was gone I couldn't sleep. I felt too good. I felt reaffirmed and filled with an unexplainable joy. Every day you fight death with life and what is more vital in life than the physical act of love? My brother and all that had happened seemed far away.

I rolled to the side of the bed and picked up the phone. Full of myself, I wanted to tell her these thoughts. But after eight rings she didn't pick up and the operator answered.

"Are you sure that was Rachel Walling's room?"

"Yes, sir. Three twenty-one. Would you like to leave a message?"

"No, thanks."

I sat up and turned on the light. I turned on the television with the remote and flipped back and forth for a few minutes, not really watching. I tried her number again and still no answer.

Getting dressed, I told myself I wanted a Coke. I took change off the bureau and my key and went down the hall to the alcove where the vending machines were. On my way back I stopped by 321 and listened at the door. I heard nothing. I lightly knocked and waited, knocked again. She didn't answer.

At my door I fumbled to use the key and turn the knob while holding the can of Coke. Finally, I put the can down on the rug and was opening the door when I heard footsteps and turned to see a man coming down the hallway toward me. The hall lights were dimmed because of the hour and the bright lights from the elevator alcove cast the approaching man in silhouette. He was a large man and in his hand I saw he carried something. A bag maybe. He was ten feet away.

"Hiya, sport."

Thorson. His voice, though recognizable, spooked me and I think he saw it in my face. I heard him chuckle as he passed by me.

"Pleasant dreams."

I said nothing. I picked up the can and moved into my room slowly, continuing to watch Thorson move down the hall. He passed by 321 without hesitation and stopped at a room further down the hallway. As he was opening it with a key he looked back down the hall at me. Our eyes locked for a moment, then I slipped wordlessly into my room.

Gladden wished he had asked Darlene where the remote control was before he had killed her. It annoyed him to have to get up to switch channels. Every one of the Los Angeles television channels had picked up on the Times story. He'd had to sit right in front of the box, though, and manually change the channel to try to catch all the reports. He had seen what Detective Thomas looked like. He had been interviewed by all of the channels.

He lay on the couch, now too excited to sleep. He wanted to change the channel to CNN but didn't want to get up again. He was on some cable channel on the nether reaches of the list. A woman with a French accent was preparing crêpes filled with yogurt. Gladden didn't know whether it was a dessert or a breakfast but it was making him hungry and he considered opening another can of ravioli. He decided against it. He knew he had to conserve his supplies. Still four days to go.