BUT FAY’S political correctness and personal denigration of him did not diminish Darrel’s mood or the new sense of freedom that had somehow rooted itself in his life.

It took Greta Lundstrum to do that. He had begun the affair believing he was in charge, that he was using her as a means to solve a case no one else wanted to touch. But as time progressed, he wondered more and more about his own sexual dependency and if, in fact, he hadn’t developed a genuine affection for Greta. She was an Amazon-in bed, in her business dealings, with men who got in her face. He even wondered if there was not a perverse element in his erotic attachment to her, namely, her masculine qualities, the heated, muscular way in which she made love, the orgasms he could equate only with a volcanic upheaval.

That evening she greeted him at the door in straw sandals, white shorts high up on her thighs, and a nylon shirt whose color changed from copper to magenta.

“You’re early. I haven’t had time to dress,” she said.

“I think you look swell,” he replied. Actually, she looked better than swell. Even though she was a bit overweight, her robust posture and strong features gave her simple clothes a kind of working-class elegance, the uplifted heft of her breasts a tribute to her power.

But the protean nature of Greta’s personae filled him with conflicting thoughts. At the sink, she sliced the rind on a grapefruit, then ripped it loose from the pink meat with her fingers, rinsing her hands under the faucet as she worked, like a country woman cleaning game. Through the kitchen window he watched her fork the steaks off the grill on the patio, her eyes squinting in the smoke, and he knew this was the exact image of the blue-collar woman a man such as himself was supposed to love and build a home with. Maybe this was the life that was still waiting for him, but if so, why did the thought of it make his scalp constrict?

Was it because he was still infatuated with Amber Finley, now known as Amber American Horse? How did Rocky used to put it? There were three ways for a career noncom to ruin himself: He could fall in love with a whore, an officer’s wife, or a rich girl who hated her right-wing father and liked to get arrested at peace demonstrations.

But that was not the source of the tension band that was like an invisible hat cocked on the side of Darrel’s head. He wondered if Greta, the Amazon woman in bed, with her thick forearms and broad hands, could be capable of pressing a pillow down on a man’s face and holding it there while he struggled for breath and his heart exploded in his chest.

“Why you staring at me, handsome?” she said.

“You a survivor, Greta?” he asked.

She set the steaks and a plate of sliced tomatoes on the dining-room table and thought about his question. “Survivor in which way?” she said.

“I’ve been in situations where I was scared enough to do whatever it took to stay alive.”

“My life’s been pretty dull. At least until I met a certain someone,” she said.

“I wouldn’t hold it against you. I mean, if you got jammed up real bad and had to do something against your conscience.”

“You’ve got a wild imagination, Darrel. But I love you just the same.” She pursed her lips and made a kissing sound.

She had never used the word “love” to him before. During dinner he kept trying to read her eyes and sort out the way she always seemed to imply his concerns were unfounded or even irrational. Maybe he’d been a cop too long, he thought.

“Ready for dessert?” she said.

“Yeah, what is it?”

“Go in the bedroom. I’ll be along in a minute.” She carried the dirty dishes into the kitchen, a glimmer in her eye.

“No games tonight,” he said.

“Do what I tell you. You won’t be disappointed,” she said.

A few minutes later she entered the bedroom in a black nightgown, carrying a tray with dishes of vanilla ice cream on it, the ice cream covered with a brandy-laced chocolate sauce. Also on the tray was a narrow box wrapped in satin paper and blue ribbon.

“Happy Birthday,” she said.

“How’d you know it was my birthday?” he asked.

“I have my ways. Open it.”

He sat on the side of the bed and unwrapped the satin paper from a black velvet box. He pushed back the top against the spring.

“That’s an expensive watch, Greta,” he said.

“You’re worth it.”

“Thank you.”

“Eat your ice cream before it melts.”

They made love, with her on top, her breasts hanging close to his face, her energies concentrated and unrelenting, as though she were determined to make this birthday the most memorable in his life. When she finally lifted herself off him, he was exhausted, happy, and totally separated from the dark speculations he’d had about her earlier. He slipped one arm around her, pulling her against him, stroking her hair and skin with his other hand. Then his fingers touched the swollen place under her right arm. It was reddish in color, hard, as though a tangle of wire had been inserted under the skin.

“What’s that?” he said.

“A horsefly bit me there,” she replied.

“Really? Pretty mean horsefly,” he said, his eyes crinkling.

“I’m going to shower. You take a nap,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek.

He didn’t know how long he slept. He dreamed about an island he’d once visited west of Tahiti. Not far from the beach, a pink reef lay just below the waves, and inside it was a cave surrounded by gossamer fans. As he swam toward the entrance, patches of hot blue floated overhead, like clouds of ink in the groundswell, forming shadows on the ocean floor. Then he realized the shapes were not shadows but the hard-packed, leather-hided bodies of sharks.

He sat up in the bed, unsure of where he was. Outside, the landscape was red, the mountains a dark purple against the heavens. Through the wall, he heard Greta talking to someone on the phone. “Don’t call here again, you dumb asshole,” she said. “He’s here now…Well, forget it, you’re not getting any more money…Fuck you. I can make one call and you and that other sack of shit will be taking a long nap under the Thompson Falls landfill.”

Darrel listened to Greta’s words, the ugliness in her voice, and looked wanly at the watch in the velvet box on the nightstand. Then he sighed resolutely, lay back on the pillow, and pretended to be asleep when she entered the room.

“I didn’t wake you up, did I?” she said.

“No, I slept like a stone.”

“You like your watch?”

“It’s grand.”

“I’m glad. I’ve never been happier than when we’re together,” she said. She sat down next to him and took his hand. She traced the scar tissue on his knuckles and the backs of his fingers. “Darrel, I think you’re right about Wyatt Dixon. I think it was Dixon who broke into my house and tore it up. He’s a hateful, vindictive man. The thought of him coming back here scares me.”

“Don’t worry, kiddo. We’ll take care of Dixon,” he said, patting her on the back.

“For sure?” she asked.

“You bet. Don’t let him cross your mind.” He looked at the time on his new watch. “Wow, I’d better get home.”

Later, when he got back to his apartment, he peeled off his clothes, flung them on the floor, and scrubbed himself with a hard-grained soap in the shower. Then he sat in the bottom of the stall for almost an hour, until the hot water tank was empty and his skin was so numb he could not feel the coldness that blazed out of the showerhead.