Today, in the dark tangy-wood-scented bedroom, Ambler pinned her to the stark oak bed and pressed into her-hard, hard. Almost cruelly. He wasn't sure why. He knew he had a reputation for being a cruel man in business and at other times, but he would never think of being cruel to anyone he loved. But as he felt himself coming closer to the moment, he wanted to hurt his mistress. He wanted her to admit she was in pain but that she didn't want him to stop.

"Does it hurt, love?"

"Yeah," she whispered, her mouth saying the hot word against his skin, a centimeter from his ear.

She gasped twice, then whispered something he couldn't hear, then she said, "Don't stop. No, don't stop. I like it." The words were lyrical grunts. He smelled the aroma of her perfume and sweat.

"You like it…"

"Don't stop."

"… to hurt?"

"Oh, Wex…"

Afterwards they lay together. Unlike when Ambler had made love with his wife he and his lover often began to talk immediately, right after they had caught their breath.

Today, though, he kissed her forehead, whispered, "Darling," and then they lay with their own thoughts for five minutes, half dozing.

"He's still here, I heard," Ambler said casually.

"Who?"

"That man from the movie company."

"I heard."

"What do you suppose he wants?"

"Taking time off after his accident, I suppose."

Ambler asked, "They aren't going to make the movie here, after all?"

"Why don't you like him?"

Why do you say I don't like him? But Ambler didn't say that. He said, "Look what happened. With the drugs and everything."

"Wasn't his fault."

"Movie people."

"Are just like everybody else," she countered.

"You're glad he's staying, aren't you?"

"Wex, what's this all about?"

"Drugs and-"

She said, "You take it on your shoulders to be the moral protector of the town and you scare all these people into thinking that the big bad world is going to gobble them up alive."

That made him nervous. He considered. No, there was no way she could know about what Mark had done. She wouldn't be here if she suspected that. He said, "You give me more credit than I deserve."

"You bully people."

"As if I could bully the whole town of Cleary." After a moment, he said, "Did you talk to him about a job?"

"No."

"Would you?"

"I considered it. I thought-"

He scoffed. "You thought you'd be Lana Turner."

"I'm wasted here. My life is wasted. I should…"

"You should what?" he asked, edging back toward desperation.

"Nothing."

"You're life's not wasted at all."

"I feel like I'm just drifting."

"How can you say that? You've made my life something wonderful."

The lines fell like a lead sinker. She squeezed his shoulder but he was glad for the darkness. His face burned with embarrassment.

He asked, "Have you ever thought about moving?"

A pause. "I've thought about it."

"You'd just leave, without talking to me about it?"

"Don't put words in my mouth. I didn't say that. I've got a lot of possibilities."

"Some of them involve me, some of them don't. I see."

"Wex." There was a bony edge to her voice. Ambler didn't believe he'd heard this sound before.

He wondered if they were going to have their first serious argument. That would be very bad-in light of what he was planning to tell her.

She continued, "Don't disrupt things. Between us, I mean."

"Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong. What do you mean?"

This was sounding like the conversations he used to have with his wife. Before he fell out of love with her.

He backed off. "You just seem… I don't know."

She said, "We were just having a discussion. Don't take it personally."

"You're the one who seems to be picking a fight."

"I am not."

After a moment he felt her stiffen and draw away from him. Only millimeters-but it was enough so that he refused to do what he instinctively wanted to and touch her leg in a chaste way, seeking forgiveness for his vague crimes.

The day wasn't going as he'd planned. Not at all. He wished they hadn't made love. It tilted the balance of power against him. Men and women. Never changes.

He felt a shudder of pain and anger course through him.

There was silence for a long moment. He debated then wiped his sweating palm on the sheet. "Can I ask you something?"

She didn't answer.

Ambler said, "We've been seeing each other now for, what? Six months?"

She said a neutral, "About that."

"I was thinking… I'm not good at this." (The same way he hadn't been very good at asking her out the first time, he recalled.)

She softened. He knew that she had a weakness for chivalrous, struggling men. "What are you trying to say, Wex?"

At least the terrible edge was gone from her voice.

His mind went blank, then he blurted: "I think we should get married."

He wanted to be light about it. He wanted to joke. Like middle-aged couples on sitcoms. Snappy comebacks. Rejoinders. Mugging for the camera. He couldn't think of a single thing else to say.

And from her: Utter silence. As if she'd even stopped breathing.

It couldn't have been that she'd never considered this before, could it? Was he so far off base that he'd completely misjudged? His heart pounded. He actually heard it.

Her hand touched his arm. "We said we'd never think about it."

"That was before." He looked futilely for some appropriate milestone in their relationship-the twenty-fifth time they'd had sex? The twelfth candle-lit dinner together? The sixtieth time they'd laughed at a private joke?

She sat up and reached for the night table. The light snapped on. It was a low bulb, which she'd asked him to put in the lamp. He knew she hated bright lights.

Meg Torrens pulled the comforter around her shoulders and said, "Oh, Wex."

And in his name, spoken through a loving, gentle smile, he heard the word No as clearly as if she'd shouted it.

TO SLEEP IN A SHALLOW GRAVE

BIG MOUNTAIN STUDIOS

EXT. ROAD TO BOLT'S CROSSING, NEAR FOREST-DAY

ECU: JANICE'S FACE. It is not aged so much as weathered. You can see in it the hampered beauty of a woman at forty. An earth mother. She was at Woodstock. She cried at Woodstock and got stoned there. The long hair falls across her face, subdividing it into patches of ruddy skin. She brushes it aside. The wind pushes it back.

MEDIUM ANGLE: SHEP. He's leaning against his motorcycle. The lights should be gelled magenta to put an aura on the chrome, harmonizing with the sunset that's approaching behind them. He's torn. He's told her he's leaving, and he wants to go. But also wants desperately to find something about her that will keep him from leaving. Is it pity? Or is it something more genuine, more mutual? He doesn't know.

Pellam sat in his hot camper-though he was really in Bolt's Crossing, not Cleary, New York.

Which was where he needed to be at the moment.

In Bolt's Crossing, there was no stinking hulk of a car, punctuated with scorched tufts of upholstery shooting outward like patches of hair.

In Bolt's Crossing, the only people lying still in funeral parlors weren't dead at all and in four scenes would be prowling around in flashbacks, lusting and ornery and laughing.

In Bolt's Crossing, people like Marty never died.

CUT TO:

MEDIUM ANGLES, CROSSCUTTING between Janice and Shep.

JANICE

I took a chance you might be here.

SHEP

(Avoiding her eyes)

Brakes gave me some trouble. Thought I should fix them before I left.