The Shadow Box (32 page)

Doyle had never intended to drop this suit. He'd made
noises to Michael that it wasn't worth pursuing but that
was to keep him away from it. If he'd found what he
hoped to find, he didn't want Michael looking over his
shoulder. But so far he'd come up empty. He had even
dug out that AdChem annual report, the one Jake had in
his pocket, and read it again word by word. If it held
some clue to what they and Hobbs were up to, Doyle had
failed to find it.

Hobbs, on the other hand, doesn't know that. Perhaps,
therefore, it's time to get his attention. How does ten mil
lion dollars sound?

That, he decided, would be the new price tag for defam
ing Michael Fallon as part of an elaborate cover-up of a
longstanding pattern of securities fraud that has recently
been uncovered by our investigators.

What investigators?

None, unless you'd count Arnie, but they don't know
that either.

What fraud?

We don't know but they do. Let them sweat it.

And, as long as we're tossing bombs, let's name Ad
Chem in the complaint. We didn't do so at first because
AdChem had no relevance to an action over wrongful dis
missal and slander. It doesn't now either, not so far as we
can prove, but what the hell.

And
...
if we really want to shake the bastards up,
why not name Armin Rasmussen? If we're wrong, what's
the worst that could happen? They'll say who the hell is
Rasmussen, right?

Yeah, thought Doyle. What the hell.

First thing tomorrow, he would draw up an amended
complaint. File it after lunch, ruin a few dinners. But on
second thought, why wait?
Let's pick up the phone, call their lawyers, let them
know it's coming.

Better idea.

Securities fraud is federal. Call whatzizname . . . Bel
lows. Their hotshot Washington lawyer. Professional cour
tesy, right?

Chapter 2
1

Michael still
knew almost nothing about her, not
even her last name.

He had picked up a few things, of course. He gathered
that she'd crewed once or twice on long expeditions out
of the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute, which was
within walking distance of her slip. Whether she went as
researcher, navigator, diver, or cook, or whether that was
her means of support, he had no idea. Whenever his ques
tions got too specific, or too personal, he would suddenly
find himself alone. Megan's body might still be there but
the rest of her might as well have beamed up to the mother
ship for all that he'd get out of her.   .

But not all personal subjects were off-limits. She men
tioned, for example, that she once did a solo sail around
the world. Seven months. Mostly to be alone with
herself . . . find out who she is
...
listen to herself.
Had a long talk with a dolphin who stayed with her for
three days.

“You can talk to dolphins?”

“Michael . . . get a grip.”

“But you just said . . .”

“Have you ever talked to a dog?”

“U
m
. . . sure.”

“
‘Did that dog wag his tail or did he start quoting Chau
cer? Did he say now that we've broken the ice, let's dis
cuss global warming?”

“Oh.”

“See that? You talk to animals and no one gives it a
thought. I do it and they start genuflecting.”

Oh, and Megan loved to dance.

He wasn't sure why that surprised him but it did. She
was graceful and fluid and she liked to cut loose. For his
part, he loved to go dancing with her because that was
the only time she ever wore a dress and put on serious
makeup and wore jewelry. She was a beautiful woman
when she wanted to be. And at most other times she was
becoming a regular, happy, more or less normal girl.

Woman.

No
...
girl.

At times it was as if she had never grown up. She was
still in the wonder years. She could be chatty, happy, wide-
eyed, and spontaneous. See some kid walking a puppy and
she'll cross a busy street to play with it. She likes pizza
with the most revolting combinations. Anchovies and pine
apple was one. She likes playground swings, maple walnut
ice cream, and any movie with Robin Williams in it. One
day, she got him to climb a tree with her. She promised
she'd respect him in the morning.

It was barely two weeks since that night by his fireplace.
Two weeks filled with a hundred small delights.

The psychic thing seldom came up anymore. The
lis
tening
became less frequent. But he had come to accept
that she really did have some sort of gift. If he misplaced
something, for example, she would chew her lip like she
does and then tell him where to look. Unless she caught him watching her, or decided that he was testing her. In
that case, the thing would stay lost.

Okay, knowing where his car keys are is not so big a
deal. But one time she touched a shirt that he was wearing
and she knew that Bronwyn had bought it for him. And
she knew that a pair of gaudy gold cuff links had belonged
to Uncle Jake. Things like
th
at.

Megan says, ' ‘Michael . . . half the women in the world
can do that. It's called taste. It's called knowing what a
man would buy for himself versus what someone must have given him.”

Well, maybe. But so far she's batting a thousand.

As for the sex thing, the frigidity thing, it was getting
better all the time. He didn't flatter himself that he had
worked some kind of miracle. It was largely a matter of
learning what she was comfortable with and helping her
to feel okay about herself. For example, Megan did not
especially like to make love at bedtime. At bedtime, she
liked to get all warm and snug. By herself. In fact, she
really didn't like to be touched at bedtime and she liked
it even less after she'd fallen asleep. But she would reach
to touch him, just to know he was there. Then she'd smile
and drift off to sleep.

Mornings were another story. In the morning, she liked
having him cuddle up with her, hold her. As long as he
didn't rush it, she liked making love in the morning. But
even then, she would want to take a shower first. She
needed to feel clean for some reason. You would think, if
anything, that she'd want to shower afterward.

She could also be spontaneous about sex, however. Es
pecially during bad weather. They could be out in the
middle of a squall, she'd be soaked to the skin, and sud
denly she'd drop the sails, toss a sea anchor off the stern,
and start peeling off her clothes right out there on deck.
Whether
thi
s was related to her thing about showers, he
didn't know. He was not about to look a gift horse in
the mouth.

He had managed to convince her, he hoped, that there
was nothing in the world wrong with any of this. He was
a morning person himself. And she smelled so great fresh
out of a shower. It was fine. Everything was fine. Except
Pink Floyd. Next time she pulls out that tape it's going
over the side.

The only problem was, and perhaps had always been,
in this gift of hers. Imagine being a woman, having sex
with some guy, and knowing, virtually on contact, things you'd just as soon not know. Who wouldn't freeze up? But
with him, apparently, there wasn't that much left to learn.

He had asked her again about all that death she saw.
She said it might not have been real. Psychics, she told
him, have imaginations too. She was lying. Megan is good
at a lot of things but lying isn't one of them. He pressed
her. She listened for a long moment. She said whatever it
is, whatever it meant, it was fading. It was getting far
ther away.
The relief on her face was no lie.

On the Wednesday before Memorial Day weekend, he
came over on his whaler and they went sailing on Buz
zards Bay. He'd given himself Wednesdays off. They
docked at New Bedford for lunch, polished off a bucket
of steamers.

Sailing back, Fallon at the helm, neither said much.
Megan was playing the spinnaker sheet, trying to keep it filled in light air, and Fallon's mind was on his birthday,
which was coming in two days. Or rather he was trying
not to think about it. He certainly wouldn't mention it to
Megan. She might get him a cake or some damned thing.

Megan seemed preoccupied as well. She glanced back
at him once or twice, then turned away when he looked
up. After a while, she said, “Cole.”