Chicago Assault (8 page)

“Then we'll do it together,” said Hawker. He reached out and took her hand. “You'll need a place to live, Megan. I want you to stay with me. And when this is over—”

Gently, she pulled her hand away. “Don't,” she whispered. “Don't even think of the future, James.” She looked at him, her eyes wide and earnest. “I welcome the invitation to stay at your apartment. But you must promise me something.”

“Sure, Megan—”

“You must promise that we will live there as … as teammates. Or friends, if you feel me worthy of your friendship. But never as lovers, James. You must not hurt either of us by thinking of me as your future lover.”

For a moment, Hawker didn't know what to say. It was as if she had read his mind. “We hardly know each other,” he started, “and I wouldn't think of expecting—”

“Never, James,” she insisted. “You must never think of me that way.” She reached over and began to massage the back of his neck again. “And please don't think it's because I can't care for you, for I already do. And I think I could come to care for you more than you could ever know.”

“But why, Megan?”

She touched her finger to his lips. “Please, James. Just promise me.”

Hawker turned off Lake Shore Drive into the parking lot of the late Saul Beckerman's apartment building. He said nothing. He pulled in behind his Stingray and left the Mercedes running. He got out, closed the door, and leaned into the window.

“You'll find a key to my apartment in the mailbox, Megan. There's food in the refrigerator and clean sheets on the bed. My landlady's name is Mrs. Hudson. She's Scottish, and you'll love her. In the morning, she can help you get fixed up with fresh clothes and whatever else you might need.”

Before he turned away, Hawker kissed her tenderly on the forehead. He could see that her eyes were moist. “Whatever problems you have, Megan, we can work out together,” he said. “But I can't promise what you ask. I'd only be lying to you. And to myself.”

“Then tell yourself the lie,” she whispered. “Because what you want can never be.…”

eight

There was a note on the windshield of Hawker's Stingray. He read the note, then checked his watch.

It was 5:20
A
.
M
.

The morning delivery trucks were already gearing down the empty streets, preparing for a new day.

He read the note again. It was from Felicia Beckerman.

James, please stop by the apartment. Please. I don't care what time it is. It's impossible to sleep, and I dearly need to be with someone. We can have a drink.

Hawker tried to think of all the excuses he could give her later. Tell her he'd never gotten the note; maybe it had blown off his windshield. Tell her he had had a friend pick up his car. Or tell her the truth: that he was suddenly disgusted with women in particular, and life in general.

It's not every night you hear the dying screams of a boyhood friend.

And it's not every night that you are scorned by a beautiful woman before your attentions are even offered.

We can have a drink
.

Hawker crumpled the note and banged it off the wall of the apartment building.

He could use a drink.

The front doors of the building were locked, so Hawker pushed the little button over Saul Beckerman's brass nameplate.

He was surprised at how quickly the lock immediately buzzed open. Felicia hadn't been lying when she said she couldn't sleep.

She was standing in the doorway, waiting for him. She wore a long, filmy, turquoise nightgown. Her dark hair had been combed down over her shoulders. In the dim light of the hallway, her Italian complexion appeared even darker, her lips fuller, the silhouette of her heavy breasts and the shadow of hips more mysterious.

“I'm so glad you came,” she whispered, kissing him lightly on the cheek.

“You said no matter how late—and it's almost daylight, you know.”

She took his arm and led him to the couch where the negress and the businessman had been performing. She sat close beside him, as if cold or frightened.

“I know exactly what time it is,” she said, her voice as weary as her eyes looked. “I knew at one o'clock and at two o'clock, and every minute and every hour afterward.”

“I thought the doctor was going to give you something.”

She laughed sadly. “After a night like tonight, it would have taken a club to put me out.” She was silent for a moment, then touched Hawker's arm. “It was awfully kind of you to come, James.”

Hawker stood quickly and crossed the room to the bar. “I'm not feeling very kindly, Felicia. In fact, I'm feeling just the opposite. Drink?”

He poured a shot of brandy for her, then measured half a glass of Scotch for himself. He reconsidered for a moment, then filled his glass the rest of the way. He drank it down in three burning gulps, then poured himself another.

He heard Felicia get off the couch, heard her cross the room, and felt her touch the back of his neck. He wondered how there could be so much difference in the touch of two women.

Megan's touch was like electricity, cool and clean, a shock to the heart.

Felicia's hands were warm and wanting but filled with loneliness, like the drawings of winter trees in her bedroom.

“You
are
upset, aren't you?” she whispered.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes. I guess I am.”

“Is it because of Saul? Because you had to kill those men?”

Hawker turned and placed the glass of brandy in her hand. “Yes,” he lied. “That's the reason.”

Her dark eyes burned into his as she put the brandy to her lips. “I've been sitting here hating myself all night, James.”

“Hating yourself? Why?”

“Because … because I'm glad Saul is gone. Not murdered the way he was. He wasn't a good man, but he was a kind man. And I wouldn't wish anything so horrible on him. But I'm glad in a sick, sick way, because it has freed me. And I've been hating myself because I know how wrong it is to feel the way I do.”

Hawker gulped his second drink and poured himself a third. “What do you want me to tell you, Felicia? That it's okay? That what you feel now is normal and natural, and that you shouldn't feel guilty about it? Do you want me to play the kindly man-friend with the soft shoulder again? Well, damn it, Felicia, I'm not in the mood. And what you're feeling
isn't
natural, for Christ's sake. Your husband has been murdered, woman. And you should have the goddamn decency to at least
act
like you're sorry.”

His words smacked into her like a hammer. He watched every word hit its mark, banging away inside the delicate head. She seemed to draw into herself, trembling.

“I'm sorry,” Hawker said quickly.

She pulled away from him. “No,” she said. “No. You're right. It's true. I
am
awful. God, what a beast I am!”

She buried her face in her hands, her whole body convulsing. Hawker took her by the shoulders and turned her gently to him. He led her to the couch and sat down, holding her.

The sobs seemed to originate at the very roots of her being. The horror and sadness and guilt came pouring out.

Hawker almost envied her. For the first time in a very, very long while, he, too, felt like crying.

He held her, saying nothing. Every time he thought the tears had finally subsided, her face crinkled anew, and a fresh wave of anguish swept through her.

But, inevitably, it ended, and she leaned against him as limp as a rag doll. Hawker pushed her gently away and returned with a box of tissues. She scrubbed at her eyes and blew her nose. “God,” she whispered. “What a display.”

“I'm sorry, Felicia. I was damn cruel.”

“Oh, James, you weren't cruel. You were just being honest. And the truth is exactly what I needed. It broke the emotional doors down. A good cry, that's what I needed. Your honesty did what Saul's death or the doctor's drugs couldn't do.” She took a deep, fresh breath and blew her nose again.

“I guess I'll be going then.”

She grabbed his arm as he stood. “You helped me, James. I'd like to help you.”

Hawker's expression was wooden. “I'm not sure that's possible,” he said.

Felicia stood and wrapped her arms around him, her face on his chest. Hawker noticed that she was trembling, trembling as if she were freezing. She whispered, “Sometimes life can be so … so shitty, it would be nice to be able to just disappear for a while. Not forever. Just an hour. Or a day. Someplace to escape to where no one or no memory could find you.”

Hawker stroked her soft hair. “Yeah,” he said. “That would be nice.”

“On a night like tonight?” she asked.

“Especially tonight.” He pulled her tighter. “God, woman, your skin is like ice.”

Her eyes were as wide and wet as a fawn's. “It's because I'm lonely, James. And I want to escape. With you. Tonight.”

She stepped back, and in one motion stripped the nightgown over her head and dropped it on the floor. Her nipples were full and brown on her heavy breasts. The undulation of her ribs veed into a narrow waist and the black slash of pubic hair. “Tonight, let's pretend there is no one else and nothing else but you and me in the world. Please.”

Hawker pulled her close to him, his mind scanning for the right words of refusal.

They swayed together, back and forth, in a slow, soundless dance, and soon he stopped fighting for words.

Her hands moved tenderly on Hawker's body. She found the buttons on his shirt, and soon her breasts were like hot coals against his bare chest.

“You're so tense,” she whispered, massaging the back of his neck. “I'm going to help you relax, James.”

Hawker said nothing as his hands slid over her cool hips.

Her lips had found his ear, and her tongue was warm and smooth. “We're going to escape together,” she whispered. “I'll do anything you want me to do, James, absolutely anything for your pleasure. Tonight we're people without names and without memories.”

Her hot tongue dampened Hawker's lips, then traced its way down his chest to his abdomen. Felicia's hands slid down Hawker's ribs as she dropped to her knees. He heard the clank of his brass buckle coming undone, and then she pulled his pants down, finding him and holding him in her small hand.

“I've been wanting to see you like this, James,” she murmured as she rubbed her cheek against him, kittenlike. “I know it's wicked of me, but I just don't care anymore.”

She kissed the inside of his thighs as she massaged his testicles. And then she opened her mouth and slid her lips over him, taking him deep inside her, the suction of it seeming to pull at his very soul.

Hawker found the soft weight of her breast with his right hand, toying with the projectile shape of her nipple as his left hand tangled her hair and formed a fist.

She took him softly at first but then became increasingly demanding, attacking him in her passion; the two of them finding the ageless, sliding rhythm of the mind's one escape beyond death.

Felicia stopped for a moment, and her words came in staccato gasps, as if she herself were approaching climax just through giving. Her fingers were buried deeply into Hawker's tight buttocks as she whispered, “You're so strong, James, so quiet; you hold too much inside, don't you?”

Hawker came very close to smiling. “Keep that up for a few minutes more, and you'll find out just how right you are.”

Her eyes were like a cat's. “Then I will,” she purred. “And when the time comes, don't warn me. I want all of you. As much as you have to give.…”

nine

Hawker awoke with a start and checked his Seiko diver's watch.

It was 9:14
A
.
M
.

He had been asleep for just over an hour.

Felicia slept beside him in the massive round bed. The sheet was pulled up only to her stomach, and her breasts were rounded and flattened by their own weight. Her black hair was spread like a fan over the pillow, and her face looked prettier and younger in repose.

Hawker realized that it was the first time he had ever seen her that she looked at peace with herself.

Holding himself on one elbow, he leaned over and kissed the dry lips. In her sleep, she whispered, “More, please … more …”

Smiling, Hawker arose and found his clothes. He dressed quickly and found paper and pen.

He wrote:

Back to the world, Felicia.

He didn't sign it.

Outside, Chicago was loud with the business of making business. Hawker drove carefully, keeping pace with the lunatic traffic. He pulled over at a sidewalk Cubano restaurant and purchased a
café con leche
from a very small man with a very big cigar.

The coffee was rich and sweet, and he sipped it as he drove.

At the old sandblasted graystone where he lived, Hawker parked and trotted up the steps. For the first time, he thought about Megan Parnell.

Jimmy O'Neil's Mercedes was nowhere to be seen, and Hawker was glad that she had been shrewd enough to hide it in the little garage.

There was no doubting her intelligence. Or her toughness. Why couldn't the IRA have found the same qualities in some hatchet-faced, bovine woman—or better yet, man?

Why did they have to send this woman? This woman whose haunting beauty and fiery blue eyes left Hawker to search the validity of his own immediate wanting.

What in the hell was it about her?

He knew that if he had to sit down and draw his ideal woman, it would be Megan Parnell. The way she smiled; the wry glint in her eyes; the musical rhythm of her words.

After his divorce, Hawker had vowed never to get emotionally involved with a woman again.

And, aside from a few minor transgressions, he had kept the promise. To Hawker, women were to be used and then left behind.