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14
That evening, David drove to the Naval Observatory, where Tory met him outside. It was dark already, and most of the employees had gone home. Under the trees, with the fog creeping between his ankles just like the other night, he nearly hugged her as she came out to meet him, but remembered they were in uniform and it was against regulations. Tory seemed to have the same impulse, for she brushed dangerously close to him, bundled in her long coat and scarf, purse strap over one shoulder and garrison cap rakishly down over her forehead. She looked darkly around. “You came.”
“You’re surprised.”
“I’m—grateful.”
“It was like this last night.”
“Spooky.” She shivered. “Poor Ib.”
“Where do you want to start?”
“I called his wife, Hala, and got a list of places Ib liked to hang out. She was so grateful that I called.”
He regarded the skyline that burned like a million candles on a funeral mound. He scratched his head. “Tory, that’s a huge haystack. And one NCO is a small needle.”
“We’ll just check a few places, okay?”
“Let’s go,” David said. “I’ll drive, you look.”
“I’ll buy you gas.”
“Don’t be silly.”
David drove through the sparse evening traffic. Heavy police patrols were everywhere, and pedestrians few. The emptiness of the streets added an eerie quality. CON2 was in session, and the city blocks at and around the Atlantic Hotel and Convention Center looked like fortresses of light, burning at all hours in the meeting rooms visible from far away. The three towers looked as if they were on fire inside. From road block to road block, David drove as Tory directed him from one Ib-hangout to the next—a computer store on K Street. A bookstore on Vermont Avenue. A library branch always open late, over in Foggy Bottom. A Palestinian market in Alexandria. He’d wait at the curb while she ran inside to speak with the management. He’d watch her animated conversation as she described Ib—the manager would nod yes—and then she’d spread her arms asking where Ib was and the manager would head-shake. Tory would run back to the car ready for the next place.
After two hours of this they came to a street that looked as though, if there were a literal end of the earth beyond which you could fall off, it would be within walking distance. They sat under a street lamp while he watched her think hard and dab a few tears. He waited for her to give up. The trees on either side of the street looked dark and ominous, despite streetlights reflecting in puddles. The jagged brick walls of a ruined building nearby looked threatening. Its sagging doorway offered a trip to nowhere, maybe off the edge of the world into some black abyss in which a few stars suffocated. A light wind stirred in the autumn leaves, and the air smelled faintly smoky.
“Well,” she said.
“Well,” he echoed.
“We can’t sit here all night or we’ll get mugged.”
“I’m starting to worry a little bit about that,” he said. “Even though we are both armed and dangerous.”
“All right,” she said sighing. “I had to try. Obviously the civilian police have the manpower and the resources—”
“Don’t berate yourself.” He started the car. “Why don’t you go home and change and then meet me at my place. I’ll have some dinner ready.”
“That’s the best idea yet. Are you sure you’re up to it?”
“I’m sure.” He drove back to the observatory so she could get her car.
Later that evening at his apartment, David showed Tory to the reclining chair surrounded by his shelved books, while he finished dinner. She wore a dark-blue sweatsuit with ‘U.S. Army Olympics’ in white letters along one leg.
He had the french door open, leading to the patio. A cool, damp wind blew in, smelling of hedges and late flowers. The kitchen windows dripped with perspiration from pasta water bubbling in a pot, not to mention chicken cacciatore simmering in a piquant sauce, and garlic bread baking in the hot oven. “Dinner in five minutes,” he said.
“Smells wonderful.”
“Didn’t realize you were in the Olympics.”
“I wasn’t. Well, I almost was. I didn’t quite make the team back at Fort Jackson. That’s where Maxie and I met.”
“What event?” He peered into the livingroom.
“Track. Cross-country.”
She looked tired, her head back, eyes closed and shadowed; her stocking feet elevated on cushions. “I may have a lead. Or another problem, depending on one’s viewpoint.”
David set the steaming dishes on the table, then returned to the living room, dabbing his forehead with a cloth. “Talking in your sleep?”
“I’m wide awake.” Her eyes opened and she sat upright. “It occurred to me in the shower at home. Ib Shoob and Tabitha Summers were pretty good friends. She was this very senior GS-17 civilian computer expert. They’d bicker, because they are both brilliant. Tabitha suddenly retired about two months ago. I was new then, and didn’t know, but everyone else thought it odd. She really liked her work.”
“Coincidence,” David suggested. “He wasn’t sitting on this for two months.”
“What if he was?”
“We could call her right now.”
“That’s an idea.” She fumbled with her com, and David waited. Her face brightened. “Tabitha? Tory Breen. How are you doing?” Tory listened. “Yes, right. Actually, I wondered if you knew that Ib was kidnapped the other night. I’ve been out of my mind with worry. Have you heard from him?” Her face betrayed disappointment as she listened. “If he tries to contact you, will you let me know?—yes, that’s right—same office—yes, I’ll let you know the minute I hear anything—what’s that?—no, I tried looking, and you get frantic and all, but once you’re out there looking, you realize it’s hopeless; you just have to rely on the authorities because they have all the resources—yes, okay, keep in touch, bye!”
Tory rang off and shook her head bleakly.
“I’m sure the police are doing all they can.” David reached out. She accepted his hand and he pulled her upright. She had a firm, dry grip, the back of her hand warm and smooth. She walked in long and graceful strides.
He pulled a chair back and she sat at the kitchen table, visibly pleased at his gentlemanly gesture. “It’s so cozy here,” she said with a genuine lilt of surprise as she eyed the wine rack, the shelf of cookbooks, the pots hanging from the ceiling to save space. He said: “I’ve been batching it for over a year now. I may have been a fast food, socks all over the floor guy once, but a good man learns well.”
“Been married?”
“Afraid so. You?”
The haunted look fled past. “Ah—yes and no.” She grinned and raised her glass. “Here’s to a good man.”
He touched his glass to hers. “To a good woman.”
“Sometimes.”
“You seem pretty good to me.”
Soft pop dinner music blended with the steady hum of the oven exhaust fan under its enamel hood and made a self-contained world, almost as in a submarine. The ceiling lamp hung low over the heavy oak dining furniture, casting an island glow. A few sips of blood-red Italian wine, and David saw color in her cheeks, a glow in her eyes. The specter of Ib Shoob’s disappearance hung somewhere beyond the lamplight, in the shadows, part of a world they were trying to forget for an hour or two. After dinner they sat in the living room on the shag rug. David set out a pitcher in which he diluted the red wine with sparkling water, throwing in a lemon slice. He cut up a few oranges and joined her before a small, crackling fire. She cried a little bit and David gently stroked her hair. It felt thick and warm to the touch; and smelled faintly of chestnuts or sandalwood.
Tory used her napkin to wipe tears away. “I’m sorry. Yes, I know that.” Her face seemed to linger in the atmosphere when all else had gone hazy. He found himself being drawn in by her hungry eyes, her lightly parted lips. He slowly embraced her and kissed her on the cheeks. Holding her firmly, feeling her hands on his shoulder blades pulling him toward her, he sought her tongue with his. For an instant, their eyes fluttered open in mutual surprise. Then he saw her eyes close in dreamy acceptance. He asked the question he’d been wondering how to ask: “Is there anyone in your life?”
She shook her head and murmured “nuh-uh,” with her eyes still closed. He lowered her gently on her back and lay beside her. She felt good against his limbs, against his side, her cheek against his cheek. A soft rain pattered outside, competing with the crackling in the fireplace. He felt her hand exploring his back, his neck, her feminine fingertips ruffling the hair and skin at the base of his skull giving him goosebumps.
She stopped suddenly, stiffened with some realization, paused—and then continued again, relenting in some battle within herself.
“What’s the matter?”
She was silent.
“Dinner okay?”
“Everything is perfect. You are perfect.”
He enjoyed feeling her curves through her clothes without touching anywhere tabu on a first date. He tugged her gently with one hand, and she resisted. Then she rolled closer to him, laid her head on his chest, and placed one hand, palm down, where she could feel his heart beating. He heard the pace of her breath quicken gradually as their body heat mingled and their closeness aroused her.
Gradually, comfort overcame arousal, and they fell asleep holding each other.
The living room clock struck eleven when he suddenly awoke to find her sitting up beside him. She looked surprised and sleepy. Her arms were raised, hands lifting thick garlands of dark amber hair, hairpin pinched between her lips. “I have to go.”
“I’ll walk you.”
“That’s sweet of you.”
“Dangerous out there.”
“You’ll protect me.” It was a tease, but she ran her fingernails fondly around his ear. He got goosebumps again.
After they bundled up, and he locked the door, they walked the four blocks between his place and hers. They held hands on and off, but both were independent spirits comfortable to orbit near each other without crashing into one another’s affairs. Still, David felt himself remembering the wonderful pleasures—so unexpected in their timing—of falling in love. She was subdued and elegant—while Maxie was the blonde version, the light wine, a spumante, Tory was the dark version, the cabernet sauvignon. He kept glancing at her, and liking what he saw: dark sensuous eyes, slight smile, quirky poise when she said something witty or sarcastic or teasing or sad. Droplets pattered from trees on lawns, but the rain had stopped. A light fog stalked their heels. She slipped her arm through his. They arrived at her condo entrance and stopped. For a moment they were both awkward, away from the earlier spell, still strangers to one another. The disappearance of Ib Shoob, and his ominous discovery, hung in the atmosphere around them. He knew she would lie awake late tonight, worrying about Ib. She looked intently into his eyes with that dark, haunted look again. She placed her fists against his chest in frozen pummeling. “So much to sort out, David. So much that can’t be said. I wish it were easier.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Let’s just say that I have a phobia about trusting. In time, when you—” She fell silent.
“When I what?” She was doing it again—pushing him away while she pulled him close. After the madness of being married to Kristy, this woman wasn’t even a contender for getting his frustrations up. He couldn’t think of anything to say.
“I’m not perfect. Almost definitely not right for you. You’ll make up your mind soon enough.”
“Okay. One question. You haven’t had a sex change or anything?”
She burst out in laughter. “Oh God no, nothing like that.” Her laughter turned wistful. “It’s nothing like that, sweetheart. There, see? I called you that.” She took his cheeks in both hands and leaned close to kiss him—briefly, just a brush of their lips—and let go.
Before he could protest, she lightly placed her fingertip on his lips to silence him. Her eyes looked large and dark. “Let’s enjoy this for a while without asking too many questions. Then, in time, we’ll ask the questions and think about the answers. Okay? Keep it light? Worry about Ib for now?” She gave him a quick kiss, no more than a flutter of lips against his, and, a minute later, a wave of the hand from the other side of the pool on the other side of the steel bars separating them as she strode upstairs and he turned to go home, alone in the night.
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