But worse than anything, Cathy thought, was that in all their interviews, in all their trips around New England in the Trailblazer to question this person or that, Special Agent Sam Markham had yet to reach for her hand again.
Something was wrong; something was holding him back.
Deep down Cathy understood this-could feel it in a way that she had never felt before-but her conscious, rational side simply could not sort it out, did not know what to do with this knowledge, this newfound perception into a man’s heart-a man who seemed at once so close but yet still so distant from her.
“You’re going to be all right staying alone now?” Markham asked finally.
“Yes. Janet and Dan are leaving for the beach tomorrow. They want me to go with them, of course-and I will visit this summer-but I need to cut the cord and get back on my own. I’ll call them once I get inside and let them know I’ll be staying here tonight. After all, this is my home now.”
“I don’t want you to be afraid of anything, Cathy. We’ll still have people watching you around the clock. I’ll make sure they know you’re back here. And you know you can always call me, too.”
“I know.”
The awkward silence again.
“What is it, Sam?” The question had fallen from Cathy’s lips before she realized she was speaking, and Markham looked taken aback.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s just that, well, I thought-” As she met his gaze, when she saw behind his eyes what she knew to be his feelings for her retreating once again, suddenly Cathy felt foolish-felt like she wanted to cry, like she had to get out of there.
“I’m sorry,” she said, gathering her things. “It’s just me being stupid. Just give me a call when you need me again.”
“Cathy,” Markham said, “Cathy, wait.”
But she had already slammed the door-her heels clicking noisily on the cement walkway as she made her way to the porch. Markham sat frozen, helpless behind the wheel. Then, in a flash of impulse, he was out-caught up to her just as she stepped inside. The bundle of mail fell to the floor; and when Cathy turned to him, when Markham saw the tears in her eyes, he finally gave over to his heart and kissed her.
There, into the evening, they made love amidst a sea of cardboard boxes-all the while oblivious to the muted phone calls that went on Für Elise-ing in Cathy’s handbag.
Chapter 29
If Steve Rogers had known that the two Cranston Police detectives had missed his ex-wife at her East Side condo by only a matter of minutes, had he known that Janet Polk had unintentionally misinformed them that her best friend would be staying with her in Cranston that night, the vain and self-centered theatre professor most certainly would have thought that fate had gotten the best of him once again. His only consolation might have been the pretty redhead who-albeit with selfish motives herself-had inadvertently taken up his cause. Meghan O’Neill-chief of the newly appointed, three-man WNRI investigative team whose sole purpose was to look into leads and develop stories in connection to The Michelangelo Killer-got an unexpected break that evening. Her team had been patiently monitoring the police bands for weeks now with the hopes of hearing one of two words: Michelangelo or Hildebrant. And so, when news came across the wire that the Cranston police were having a hard time locating the latter for questioning in the disappearance of her ex-husband, O’Neill scrambled her three-man crew into the Eye-Team van and headed for the East Side.
“If Hildebrant is home,” she told them, “we’ll shoot the segment there. If not, we’ll move to Cranston and use Rogers ’s house as a backdrop.”
Either way, O’Neill’s team understood: she would be the one to break the story.
The house was dark, and Cathy-lying naked on the sofa in Markham ’s arms-was just drifting off again when the doorbell startled her awake. Markham put his finger to his lips and, reaching for his gun, moved silently out into the hall. The doorbell rang again, but even before the FBI agent reached the peephole, the light filtering through the blinds told Cathy who was standing on her front porch.
Spotlights, she thought, covering herself with a blanket. Another news crew. What do they want now?
“Reporters,” Markham whispered, and signaled for Cathy to stay put. He stood leaning in the archway to the hallway with his back to her-his gun at his side as if he were considering whether or not to ambush them. Cathy smiled-wished he would-and despite the interruption, despite the sudden longing for the sanctuary that had been the Polks’, Cathy could not help but be aroused at the sight of Markham’s muscular physique-the back and shoulders, the buttocks and thighs that looked to her in the milky gloom like nothing less than sculpted marble.
The spotlight went out and Markham again disappeared into the hallway. Cathy heard the sound of a car starting, then speeding off outside. And after a moment, the FBI agent returned with their clothes. He placed Cathy’s handbag and the bundle of dropped mail on top of a cardboard box.
“They’re gone,” he said. “What they could want from you at this point is beyond me.”
“Maybe they wanted to know what kind of lover you are.”
Markham laughed, embarrassed, and the two of them got dressed in the dark-silently, a bit awkwardly, but with the unspoken certainty of a long-awaited love affair just begun. And soon they were in the kitchen, sipping tea at the table in the warm glow of the stove light. Markham held Cathy’s hand, but they spoke to each other only in spurts-funny stories and details about their lives separated by long periods of silence-neither of them really knowing what to say, but nonetheless content simply to be in each other’s presence.
“I should probably get going,” said Markham when he saw the clock on the stove tick past nine o’clock. “Will be in Boston all day tomorrow to brief Burrell and to coordinate our findings with Sullivan’s team and my people back at Quantico.”
“On Saturday?”
“Sucks, huh?”
“You can spend the night here if you like,” she said, the words coming from her like another language-the first time in twelve years that she had invited a man to spend the night at her place. “Is that proper etiquette? You’ll have to forgive me, Sam. I don’t usually do this.”
“Neither do I,” said Markham. And then he did something unexpected. The FBI agent took her hands and kissed them. “I’m sorry about before,” he said. “About closing off from you. I know you noticed. I know you felt it, and it wasn’t fair of me-to pretend like that or to make you feel vulnerable and silly. That’s not me, Cathy. I don’t play games. It’s just that, well, this kind of thing is hard for me-it’s just so new and out of the blue. I’ll tell you about it another time, but know that, despite the circumstances in which I found you, and no matter what happens and how stupid I may act, all this is real-you and me, Cathy, and the way you know I feel about you, it’s real. Just be patient with me, okay?”
Cathy’s heart skipped a beat, and then she kissed him-long and passionately-and when they parted, Markham smiled.
“I could do this all night. But if I were you, I’d call your Auntie Janet. It’s getting late and she’s probably worried sick about you.”
“Shit,” said Cathy, her eyes darting around the kitchen. “I forgot all about her-thinks I’m staying there tonight. My bag. Where’d I put my bag?”
“Relax. I put it in the living room. First cardboard box on the right.”
In a flash, Cathy disappeared out into the darkened hallway and was back with her handbag, her cell phone already at her ear. She plopped her bag and the banded bundle of mail onto the table.
“Five missed calls from her. And looks like two voice mails. She’s got me worried now.”
Markham finished his tea and placed his cup on the table-noticed right away the curious-looking parcel sticking out part way from the Pottery Barn catalog.