Dust Devil (37 page)

“
I
believe you require this in order for a telephone to work,”
Renzo observed as he reached casually into the inside pocket of his
suit jacket to withdraw the slender cord that attached the telephone
to its outlet in the wall. “And if I were you, I wouldn’t
even
think
about
screaming, Sary. There are one or two things besides a handkerchief
with
which
I would most certainly choose to silence you—and I would find
them extremely pleasant myself, I assure you.” His eyes raked
her licentiously, in case his words had not made his meaning plain.

Sarah
could feel the surge of crimson heat that rushed to stain her cheeks
at that, and she sat down abruptly in her chair, stricken and
panicked. She didn’t know how to deal with this Renzo
Cassavettes who had returned to town, she thought—in his
expensive dark suits, his crisp white shirts and his foulard ties;
this Renzo who was so smooth, so polished, so well-traveled and so
experienced in the ways of the world and women. She simply couldn’t
believe he had any real interest in her anymore, feared that for
reasons of his own, which were as yet unknown to her, he was merely
amusing himself at her expense. And she had already suffered once
that way at his hands.

“
Why
are you doing this to me, Renzo?” she asked quietly.

“
Because
it... pleases me to share your company.”

“
Even
if I don’t wish it?”

“
You
did once.”

“
That
was before... that dreadful day.”

“
I
asked you that night at the Grain Elevator, and you never answered
me. So now, I’m asking you again, Sarah—do you believe I
deliberately shoved Sonny Holbrooke off that rock?”

“
No,
I know it was a terrible accident.’’

“
Then
I don’t understand. Why won’t you go out with me?”

“
I
told you Bubba and I—”

“
You
don’t give a damn about Bubba—not in your
heart,
anyway!
No,
there’s something else, something you’re not telling me,
Sarah. I can feel
it.
I
just can’t quite put my finger on what it is.” His dark
brown eyes glittered
avidly
with
perplexity
and
speculation as he watched the color
slowly
drain
from her face.

Still,
“There’s nothing else,” she insisted, shaking her
head, her heart thudding fiercely at the frightening thought that he
had learned about Alex at last and now, instead of confronting her,
was playing some terrible cat-and-mouse game with her.

“
Very
well. We’ll leave it—whatever it is—for now.”
Renzo spread the tablecloth on the floor, set upon it the single
plate he had filled, the single glass of wine. “Come. Sit down
here beside me,” he demanded softly as he settled himself on
the floor. “You can bring me up to date on J.D.’s
senatorial campaign. I’ll even turn on my tape recorder, so you
can be certain I really
am
planning
to write an article for the
Trib.”
He
laid a voice-activated, pocket tape recorder on the tablecloth as,
not knowing what else to do, Sarah obediently went and sat down
beside him.

To
her surprise, Renzo actually did conduct an interview, ignoring,
however, her statements to the effect that she was only handling
advertising and promotions for the campaign, that he really needed to
speak to J.D. or Taggart Evanston, J.D.’s campaign manager, if
he wanted his questions answered. All the while Renzo talked to her,
he fed her from the lone plate they shared, pressed upon her sips of
wine from the solitary glass. He stroked her lightly—her hair,
her face, her hands—nothing more. Yet she felt as heated and
aroused as though he were making
feverish
love to her, as headily intoxicated as though she had drunk too much
of the wine—although she knew she had consumed hardly any. Her
mind and body reeled from the feelings and sensations that assailed
her, besieged her, filling her with confusion. Her breath came far
too rapidly and shallowly, as though she had run a long way and now
could not get enough air into her lungs.

And
then, when Renzo glanced at his wristwatch and saw that his allotted
hour was up, he calmly packed everything away into the picnic basket
and returned her telephone cord to her. Cupping her chin in his hand,
he tilted her face up to his and brushed her mouth lightly with his
own, saying, “You see? You’ve nothing to fear from me,
Sarah.” Then he opened the miniblinds, unlocked the door and
left her.

Sarah
was so flustered that she didn’t know what to think, what to
make of his behavior. She somehow felt as seduced by him as she had
that summer’s day at the old quarry. Renzo was wrong, she
thought at last. She had everything to fear from him. Knowing that,
she instructed her secretary, Kate Alcott, not to book any more
appointments for Renzo Cassavettes.

Despite
the wide-open window that was surely playing havoc with Field-Yield,
Inc.’s air-conditioning system, Bubba Holbrooke’s office
reeked of marijuana smoke. In the luxurious, burgundy leather
manager’s chair sat Lamar Rollins, his feet propped up on the
large, drawerless, steel-and-smoked-glass desk, the computer to one
side humming. Lamar took another drag on his joint, his eyes closed,
his head moving in time to the rhythm of the hip-hop
music
that drummed from the compact stereo on Bubba’s credenza. Lamar
was supposed to be cleaning the office this evening. But since Uncle
Thaddeus was clear at the other end of the building and it would be a
long while before he managed to shuffle up this way, Lamar had chosen
this opportunity both to grab a smoke and to update the files in his
directory secreted on Field-Yield, Inc.’s computer system. The
sound of the vacuum cleaner would warn him of Uncle Thaddeus’s
approach. At that time, Lamar would hurriedly shut down the computer,
close the window and spray around some of the Glade Potpourri air
freshener he carried on his janitorial cart. As he now rapped along
to Salt ’n’ Peppa’s latest hit, he opened his eyes
to check on the programs be was currently running.

“
Hellooo!
What’s this?” he asked himself, abruptly sitting bolt
upright in the chair, his eyes widening, adrenaline beginning to pump
through his body. For months, he had, through Field-Yield, Inc.’s
computer system, hacked into various other systems around town and
elsewhere, as well as into the fertilizer plant’s own files,
amusing himself by finding out, among other things, how much money
the Holbrookes and everybody else who worked at Field-Yield, Inc.
earned. So Lamar knew he was the lowest-compensated employee on the
entire payroll. He used that information to justify the time he spent
on the computer instead of sweeping up, not to mention the diskettes,
fertilizer and other items he pilfered from the company.

During
his hacking forays, he had discovered a mysterious hidden directory
not dissimilar to his own. Intrigued, he had attempted to break into
it. But like his
own,
it was protected by a password, and so far, nothing he had tried had
worked. Since he had no idea to whom the directory belonged, the
usual clues to the password—people generally chose words or
numbers they could easily remember and that had some significance to
them—weren’t available to him. So Lamar had developed a
deciphering program that utilized the various dictionaries installed
on Field-Yield, Inc.’s system. It appeared that tonight he had
finally found the key that would unlock the cryptic directory.

Quickly,
he opened it, scanning the list of files, a puzzled frown knitting
his brow. The file names were obscure. He didn’t recognize any
of them.

“
Okeydoke.
Let’s just see what y’all babies is.” He
highlighted the first file and started to scan the information that
appeared in chunk after chunk. For a moment, he couldn’t make
heads or tails of what he scrolled through on the screen. Then at
last understanding dawned. “Shit! Oh, shit, man!”

What
he read was so unbelievable, so dangerous to know that Lamar pushed
himself away from the desk so fast that the rolling chair nearly
toppled over backward. He only saved himself from falling by grabbing
on to the edge of the desk. Briefly, he wished he had never seen what
he had just viewed. But he had—and since he had, he might as
well use the terrible information to his advantage. It would be worth
a hell of a lot of money to him from someone to keep his mouth shut
about it, he thought. Trembling then with excitement instead of fear,
he fumbled around for the box of formatted diskettes he had
taken
from one of the storerooms earlier. He tore off the plastic wrapper,
ripped off the lid and jammed the first diskette into the A: drive.
Then, his heart racing, he began to download all the files in the
directory.

There
is a method in man’s wickedness—

It
grows up by degrees.

A
King and No King

—
Francis
Beaumont and John Fletcher

After
that day in her office at Field-Yield, Inc., it seemed that Sarah ran
into Renzo everywhere in town, that she spent much of her time trying
to avoid him and, failing that, to escape from him. He unnerved her.
She continued to refuse to believe he was serious about wanting to go
out with her again, and even if he were, she knew there wasn’t
any future for them together. Because he turned up so often wherever
she happened to be, she thought he must be spying on her, and that
notion made her frantic, even though she knew with certainty that,
realistically, it was only a matter of time before he finally did
learn about Alex, if he didn’t already know. More than once,
she told herself that since that was the case, the sensible course
of
action
would be to make an appointment with Renzo in his own office at
the
Tri-State
Tribune
—
where
he might be less likely to do her some violence—and tell him
about their son.

But
despite Liz’s reassurances that night at the Grain Elevator,
Sarah still harbored a gnawing fear that Renzo would attempt to take
Alex away from her. Renzo didn’t necessarily have to
demonstrate that she was an unfit mother, she thought, disheartened,
only to show he could provide Alex with many more advantages in life
than she could, which was undeniably true. And perhaps a judge would
be swayed not only by that, but also by the fact that Renzo had been
deprived of his son for eleven long years. A sympathetic judge might
rule that Renzo was now entitled to custody of Alex to make up for
that deprivation.