Prayer for the Dead (18 page)

“We’ll know more facts,” Becker said.

“As opposed to what, guesses?”

“Feelings, intuitions.”

“Feelings? She thinks he’s a creep.”

“She thinks so now. What else could she say after she discovered the bodies? It makes her look like a fool to have had anything to do with him. I want to know what she felt about him then, before, when she was sleeping with him.”

“Good God, Becker. You want to know what he was like in bed? Is that it?”

“Something like that.”

“You can’t learn anything by that. I mean, you can’t judge a person by his bedroom skill, if that’s what you want to call it.”

“You stick to fingerprints and blood samples,” Becker said. “We’ve got all we’re going to get out of that. We know who he is already. I need to know why he is.”

“We have psychologists to give us a personality profile.”

Hatcher hated it when Becker grinned at him; he always felt he was being mocked.

“I supply them with their raw data,” Becker said.

Becker put the car in gear and drove away. Hatcher watched him go, knowing how close he had come to losing him. Hatcher hoped he still had the nerves for it.

Helen knew all about this man before he even spoke to her.

“It’s in your eyes,” she told Becker. “You have very kind eyes.”

“Do I?”

“They’re the mirror to your soul, you know.”

“Window,” said Becker. “The eyes are the window to the soul. I think that’s how it goes.”

“You know what I’m talking about, then,” Helen said. “I knew you would.”

“It’s not a theory I put much store in,” Becker said. “Soulful looks are pretty easy to fake.”

“But you’re not faking, are you? No. You see. I knew that. As soon as I opened my door and saw you standing there, I knew. I’m very good at that. I can take one look at someone and tell what they’re really like. It’s just a power I have.”

Becker restrained himself from asking her where her power was when she sized up Dyce. It seemed an unnecessary cruelty.

“What else do you see?” he asked. Becker wondered at the lack of information Hatcher had gotten out of Helen. She was primed and ready to talk. indeed he could see she was desperate to do so, the kind of woman who probably collared strangers in her need to unload her feelings. Hatcher would not have the skill or sense to play along with her and let her get there in her own time. She didn’t need a list of questions to get her going; all she needed was an ear and a stillness that could pass for compassion.

“Strength,” said Helen. “You’re strong, aren’t you, very strong, but sensitive, too. Women must just love you.”

Becker grinned boyishly.

“But you’re shy, too, aren’t you?” she continued. “I can see that, yes you are, you’re shy. Do you know how I know? Because I’m shy, too, although you wouldn’t think so to hear me rattling on sometimes.”

“Dyce was shy, too, wasn’t he?” Becker asked.

“Oh, my, yes. Shy—and private? My goodness. I never knew anything about him, really, not really. Only what I knew by my intuition, you see. He never
told
me anything.”

“That must have been very hard for you. You cared for him so much, but he just wouldn’t open up”

“Did I say I cared for him so much? We were friends.”

“I know you cared for him,” said Becker, smiling. “You’re not the kind of woman who would sleep with a man she didn’t truly care for.”

“Well, no, I’m not, I certainly am not, you’re right.”

“Although sometimes your emotions just get the best of you. I know what that’s like.”

“Do you?” Helen stopped pacing and sat next to Becker on the love seat. Her knee touched his thigh as she turned toward him. “I thought you would.”

“I’m not made of ice.” Becker looked her squarely in the eyes, holding her gaze. “Neither are you.”

Helen exhaled quickly, as if she’d been punched. She was melting. She hoped he couldn’t see it, but he was so perfect, so much the man she needed right now, someone strong, someone who could understand.

“Sometimes these things are too strong,” she said, casting her eyes down. “Sometimes they just overwhelm you.”

“And no one’s to blame for that,” said Becker.

“But I didn’t say I slept with Roger.”

“You didn’t say you didn’t,” said Becker.

She laughed and wagged a finger at him, allowing her knee to press firmly against his leg. She was being flirtatious, she knew that, perhaps even naughty, but sometimes a woman had to take a chance. He was
so
right for her.

“Oh, I have to watch you,” she said. “You’re the sneaky kind.” She laid her arm on the back of the sofa so that it nearly made contact with his back. She wondered if he noticed. Some men would notice immediately, and others, like Roger, would be oblivious. It was hard to tell with this one. He was so
contained.
But so cute—and she knew he liked her. The other agents had not seemed to like her; she didn’t know why. They had acted as if her relationship with Roger was something dirty, something she should be
blamed
for, for heaven’s sake. She certainly hadn’t told
them
anything they didn’t need to know.

“You’re a very attractive young woman,” Becker said.

She swatted his shoulder lightly, remonstrating with him for such a bold remark.

“You know that,” Becker said, tilting his head. “You probably hear it all the time.”

“You,”
she said, pushing his shoulder with one finger this time. She left the finger there,

“It’s only natural that if a pretty woman and a healthy man get together …” He let it trail off, grinning at her. There was nothing lewd about the grin, she decided. He just liked to tease. She liked it, too.

Helen smiled back at him, then demurely looked away. She wondered if he could feel her finger on his shoulder.

“And Dyce was young and virile. Only natural.”

“You mustn’t judge every man by yourself,” she said.

“Oooo-oooh,” said Becker. “Something a little unnatural? Tell me.”

“I can’t tell you
that.
What are you thinking of?” But she wanted to tell him very much. She had wanted to tell someone ever since it happened, but she could hardly bare her soul to the people at work. She would never hear the last of it.

“Did he dress up?” Becker asked. He was chuckling, enjoying the idea. He wasn’t censorious at all; he could understand, even savor the oddness. It was kind of fun if you had some distance on it.

“Worse than that,” she said.

“Whips and chains? Boots?”

“You’ll never guess.”

“I’ll bet I can. I’ve heard of everything.”

“You haven’t heard of this one,” said Helen. “I don’t think this has ever been done before.”

“In the bathroom. In a tree. Hanging from the rafters.”

“From the
rafters?”

“It’s been done,” he said. “You’d be surprised.”

“I’d certainly be surprised by that.”

“He bent over the sink and had you throw oranges at him.”

Helen laughed and put her hand on his thigh for a moment before removing it.

“People don’t do that,” she said.

“I swear to you. I’ll bet Roger didn’t come up with anything new. Fun, maybe, but not new.”

“I don’t know about fun,” she said.

“Well, fun for him, anyway.”

“Fun is not a word I’d use for Roger,” she said. “He didn’t seem to enjoy it so much as—oh, I can’t tell you.”

“Not fun exactly. I’ll bet it was more of a serious thing with him.”

“How did you know that?”

She leaned forward again as if amazed at his brilliance and touched his thigh once more. Helen did not know what was making her so bold, except that if he left now she didn’t think she would ever see him again.

“I didn’t know Roger, but from what I’ve heard, I’d have to guess it wasn’t as if he really liked sex for its own sake. More like it was a kind of ritual. Something like that.”

This time she really was amazed. It was as if he could see right into her mind. Could he see into her heart as well?

“That’s true,” she said. “I never thought of it quite that way, but that’s true, it was like a ritual. Or a ceremony.”

“I’ll bet he wore something special,” Becker said.

“Talcum powder,” she said, surprised at herself.

“Talcum powder?”

“And I mean that’s
all.”

With a giggle she got to her feet and waggled her fingers in front of him. Becker took her hand and she led him to the bathroom.

“Come on, I’ll show you,” she said, clasping his palm tightly. When she described Dyce’s appearance, nude and covered in white powder, she clung to Becker’s hand the whole time, squeezing for emphasis and finally, when speaking of her fear and astonishment, putting both of their still-clasped hands on her chest.

“I just didn’t know what to do,” she said, collapsing her head helplessly against him, leaning there for a second, then turning her head up to his, like a cat waiting to be stroked. She was pressing the back of his hand firmly into her breast.

“What should I have done?” she asked.

“Sometimes you just have to go along with things,” Becker said.

“I knew you would understand.”

“Did he do it again, or just that once?”

“It was the only way he really could do it,” she said. “Is it wicked of me to tell you that?”

Becker looked into her eyes and brushed his free hand against her cheek. For a moment he thought she was going to swoon.

“You should tell me everything you need to,” said Becker.

“I thought there was something wrong with me. Wasn’t I attractive enough by myself? Do you think there’s anything wrong with me?”

She moved his hand up and down so that it rubbed against her nipple, which was hard under the blouse. This was not the recommended investigation technique, he thought, suppressing a laugh.

She had her head tilted back, her mouth partly open, her eyes half closed. Becker wondered if she had learned her methods from 1940's movies.

“If there’s anything wrong with you, I haven’t found it yet,” he said.

“There’s one other thing I could tell you, but you’ll hate me if I do.”

“Nothing you could say would make me do that,” said Becker.

“Oh, I shouldn’t.”

Becker tipped her chin up with his finger and looked in her eyes. I’ve seen the same movies, he thought.

“Yes, you should,” he said.

“When I saw him standing here, all covered in white like a ghost he was—you know.”

“What?”

“You know.” She rolled her eyes to avoid contact with his, acutely embarrassed—or her feigned version of embarrassment, Becker thought.

“I don’t know. You have to tell me, Helen. What was he?”

She closed her eyes. “He was as hard as I’ve ever seen a man,” she said. Becker felt her hand slipping between his legs. “Until now,” she added.

Becker carefully bent his knees and lifted her into his arms, hoping his back wouldn’t go out on him and then realizing it would be a good way out of this, if it did.

She sighed as he carried her to her bedroom and gasped with false surprise as he eased her down on the bed. But then he pulled away from her and stood.

“I can’t,” he said.

She stopped brushing a profusion of pillows off the bed and looked at him in confusion.

“I’m on a case. You know what that means.” He bit his lip in a display of sorrowful regret, then sighed. “Much as I’d like to.”

Helen thought of saying that it wouldn’t take long, but feared he might misinterpret the remark. She could see he was already upset and it would be cruel of her to make it any more difficult for him.

“Oh. A case. Of course.”

“Regulations,” he said.

He clenched his fists and shuddered in frustration, then shrugged, his face a study in sorrow and resignation.

Helen could not help but admire his dedication. “You wouldn’t want me if it meant betraying my duty,” he said.

“I understand,” she said.

Becker kissed her forehead and eased toward the door.

“Will I see you again?” she asked.

“Call me,” Becker said. “Anytime. Anytime.” He grinned at her. “I think we need to investigate this matter further.”

“Oh, Agent … ?”

“Hatcher,” he said. “Agent Neal Hatcher. Just call.”

Helen knew the agent would be back. She had sensed his longing and the urgency with which he had wanted her. It had been very hard for him to leave, and in a way she respected his sense of integrity. Yes, she did, she admired him for it … but she knew he would have to come back, and when she heard his tentative knock on the door she could not resist smiling triumphantly. He had had just time enough to walk to his car, think about the heaven that was waiting for him with her, and return. There were some powers that transcended duty, and she had sensed correctly that Agent Hatcher was more susceptible to them than most men, despite his protestations of obligation.

She waited for him to knock again, not wishing to appear too eager. It came quietly, almost as a scratch. Timid, like a schoolboy, not certain of the reception he would get. It made her feel even more powerful. She would not toy with him any longer. She would welcome him with all her warmth, and his timidity would melt and he would be as strong and vigorous a lover as she knew he could be.

Helen opened the door with just a hint of a knowing smile on her lips. Dyce grabbed her by the throat and propelled her backward, squeezing hard on her neck so she could not cry out. She hit her legs against the bed and tumbled down and Dyce was on her, his weight pinning her down, his fingers pressing into the flesh of her windpipe.

With his free hand Dyce scrambled across the floor, wincing with the pain in his injured arm, searching for one of the pillows that Helen had not yet replaced in anticipation of the agent’s return. He came up with the red and white checked cat with the whiskers and stuffed it into Helen’s mouth.

He sat on her chest, holding her down, and pressed his knees against her arms. She tried to roll her head from side to side, desperately seeking relief from the suffocation on her throat and in her mouth, but he put his free hand on her forehead and pushed her head down onto the bed.