The Oxenburg Woman, page 7
“All these people and it just happened to be you who found me. And you say you haven’t even told any of them. Don’t you like your neighbors, Suzanna? Or don’t you know them, after eight years?”
She was driving slowly between the rain-slick steel rails. “See this fence?” she snapped, “It took three years of meetings and committees and arguing to get this fence built. It’s a nice fence. I like it, I voted for it and I could have had it built in about a month. But it takes three years to get anything done by my neighbors.”
She exhaled loudly. “I guarantee that you’d have gone for a nice ride, in an ambulance with the sheriff, if my neighbors had been involved. After they’d let you lie out in the rain for hours while they argued. How does that sound?”
He was shaken by the abundance of house lights. How had he ever stumbled into this hornet’s nest of suburbia? He must have been blind. Or crazy. More likely, he hadn’t come anywhere near this place under his own steam. “It’s a good story,” he said flatly.
The Volvo’s headlights showed him the telephone service box as she pulled the car under the carport. He plucked the keys out of the ignition and opened his door. The box was mounted on the wall of the house sheltered by the carport, directly in front of him. Suzanna’s door opened and closed behind him. “I locked the dog up after my run,” she said from the far side of the car, “but he usually gets out.”
He traced the bottom rim of the utility box until he felt the wire. The minor effort of ripping the wire out of the box left him dizzy. Bracing his left hand against the house, he waited for his vision to clear.
“He’s only a pet,” Suzanna went on. “He won’t hurt you.”
The thought of the dog watching them from the dark stirred the hair at the top of his spine. “Inside,” he said, forcing himself upright and away from the wall. “You first.”
As he took the stairs, he thought about the eighteen hours ahead. Eleven tomorrow morning — no big deal. As long as he could lie down, he could spend the night anywhere, even outside in the rain, if he had to. Not that he’d have to. No, that wouldn’t be necessary. All that was necessary was to keep her quiet for another eighteen hours.
Once inside, she went directly upstairs.
He staggered to the couch in front of the glowing remains of the fire. His head was back, eyes closed when he heard her return. He watched her rebuild the fire, clad once again in white shirt and jeans.
The box of aluminum foil was still on the coffee table with the roll of adhesive. The tape suggested something, a solution to the woman problem. He stared at it, remembering the feel of the bones in her wrist. He judged he had half an hour of consciousness in which to deal with her. That half-hour was his, after that, the night was all hers.
Plenty of tape there for wrists and ankles. And her mouth. Tie her up, shut her up and get some rest. Tempting as it was, he forced himself to consider the downside: the physical damage wrestling with her would probably inflict and the problem of her cooperation tomorrow. He’d need her again in the morning. Whatever she was after, she was curiously slow to act. Whatever she had planned, what leverage did she have? A couple of those hollow points in non-lethal places would change the dynamics. He shifted his attention to the loose folds of her shirt and the possibility that his gun was under it.
She left the fire, leaned over him. Her hand brushed his face. Her touch was gentle, and involuntarily he turned into the warmth. Then he jerked his head away. “Back off,” he growled.
She withdrew her hand but remained close. “I just wanted to see if you were awake. How long do you think you can go on like this? I don’t think you even know what’s under the bandage. It’s big and deep.”
He wondered what new twist she was taking. Did she think he didn’t know he was in bad shape?
“I made a decision to help you yesterday,” she continued. “I like to finish what I start. But I need to know what’s going to happen at midnight. Is someone else, another person like you, coming here tonight?”
When he didn’t respond she sighed. “Please, I believe you’re serious. Just give me this much. I haven’t hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you. Do you want to hurt me?”
“Nobody’s coming. And you’re in control of whether or not you get hurt. Go to bed. And stay there.” His voice betrayed his exhaustion. The silhouette of her body swayed across his vision in the reflection of the fire. She gave him a final look and then turned to the stairs.
He slid sideways on the couch, seeking any kind of comfort, any relief, willing the images to come, to transport him. He was trapped in a cocoon of ice and fire. He eased his shoulders carefully flat and stretched a hand toward the fire. Nothing — no heat, no reduction in the agony, no deliverance.
The couch was too narrow and too short. He considered the floor, the disagreeable bed in the back room and then, effortlessly, visualized the bed upstairs, her bed. Felt again the warmth of her hand on his face. One more flight of stairs and then a real bed, a limitless bed, complete with a warm body. He started on the shirt studs without sitting up.
He rested at the bedroom door, waiting behind the protection of the doorframe. There was no sound from within while he considered the possibility that she had taken the gun to bed. He covered the remaining distance to the bed soundlessly. The wall of glass was dark, thanks to the rainy moonless night but he knew she could hardly miss him once he touched the bed. His left hand touched the bedding, searching for the tension of the bottom sheet before she moved.
He was on the bed, left hand reaching for her, when she spoke. “What do you want?” Her voice was brittle. He could hear her breathing harshly and quickly. Probably no gun.
“I don’t think you have much to worry about, not in my condition,” he said. “I just want to get warm.”
His hand was still searching for her across the ocean of bed. When he found her, it was not an arm as he’d expected but her leg. Arrested by her body heat he pressed the back of his hand against her, then added his fingers, caught by the instant warming effect of skin on skin.
“Don’t,” she said sharply, shifting away.
His fingers followed her passively until he knew she intended to slide completely out of the bed. Then his hand found her arm. “Relax,” he said, “I just want to know where you are.”
She was rigid, muscles tensed under his fingers. He sensed her fear in the controlled stillness of her body, scarcely broken by her breathing. He relaxed his hand, confident she didn’t have the gun, willing her to stay calm.
He was attempting to absorb the warmth of her arm when she slid her free hand under his and pushed his hand off and onto the cold sheet, where she held it firmly.
He groaned aloud as the chill descended. He stared into the dimness of the room, watched the edges of the ceiling turn red. Closing his eyes, he groaned again as the images began to move behind his eyelids. The last thing he noticed before they took him was the relative ease of breathing now that his back was flat against the mattress.
* * * *
The sliding rumble of the closet door woke him. He lay with his eyes closed in the warm aftermath of sleep. He inhaled slowly, savoring the relative ease of the reflex. The bed felt good and his chest felt something approximating good — too good to move, too good to worry.
When he heard the rustle of fabric, he opened his eyes balefully. Suzanna’s upper back filled his gaze. Nice back, curve of spine, faint definition of lower ribs. Interesting tan pattern between her shoulder blades when she lifted all that hair.
She shrugged into a robe that belled from her elbows to her waist. The pale blue silk covered her back and the underarm curve of a breast. Then she dropped the dark mass of curls and his eyes moved past her. When he’d checked the room yesterday, the panel of mirrors where she stood had appeared merely decorative. Now the panels stood open.
Suzanna turned, giving him a clear view into the closet. The contents shocked him awake like a plunge into cold water. He beckoned her with a peremptory crook of his fingers while his eyes devoured the racks of suits and columns of white shirts. Now he understood the oversized shirts she favored. Shirts that buttoned on the wrong side. And this goddamn bed — a woman who slept alone did not require a bed like this.
He was trapped. She’d set him up. He would never have returned here last night if he’d had the slightest hint of a male in the house. His heart was hammering pure adrenaline against the raw tissue of his chest.
He groped through the past twenty-four hours for clues. There were none: no telltale masculine items lying around, no rings on her left hand. She had not impressed him in any way as the helpless type, a woman accustomed to having a man around. He thought about her ease with the fireplace, remembered her coolness with his gun. Sneaky, lying little actress, he cursed her silently.
“Come here,” he commanded in a voice like iron.
He choked back the torrent of accusations until she was within his reach. Then he took a handful of her robe and jerked. She sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed. Her face lost its soft, sleepy expression.
“Whose clothes are those?” he demanded.
She followed his gaze over her shoulder to the open closet. “They’re Richard’s . . . my husband’s.”
He gathered the slippery fabric of the robe into his fist. “Your husband’s? So you live alone, except for the minor detail of a husband. Christ, you do have a short attention span. Where is he?”
She swallowed. The smudges on her throat throbbed with her pulse. “He’s away. A business trip.”
Another evasion. “You have a dangerous and stupid habit of not answering my questions. Husbands usually come home from business trips. Though, in your case, it would be understandable if the poor son of a bitch never did.”
Her eyes widened into the shocked, watchful expression he’d seen each time he’d overruled her yesterday. He passed over it without hesitation and twisted the silk around his fist. “Now, where the fuck is he?”
“Brazil,” she whispered. The hiss of the word stripped the last of the sleep from his mind. Why couldn’t she have stayed quietly in bed and let him sleep? First, a husband, now Brazil. She was worse than the bullet.
“Brazil, huh? What’s the long distance code for Brazil?”
“Fifty-five,” she murmured.
“Anybody can look that up,” he said coldly. “But what I’m really wondering is why you picked Brazil for this little story. Is there a husband who belongs to those clothes? And if he exists, what business does he have in that hole?”
“Consulting. He’s a database statistician.”
“He must be one lousy consultant if he has to go all the way to South America to get work.”
She shook her head. “No. Richard’s really good. He’s a genius.”
“What’s his name?”
“Oxenburg. Richard Oxenburg.”
“Is that your name? Oxenburg?”
“Yes.”
“And just exactly who is he working for in Brazil?”
“The Ministry of Health. He’s a database specialist. He’s helping them analyze their population. Some kind of childhood nutrition program or something so they can set up education and health care — ”
His bark of disbelief interrupted her. “Christ,” he snarled, “don’t give me that shit. You sound like a travel agent. Most kids born in Brazil die before their first birthday. The ones that don’t are lucky if they get one meal a day, and that comes out of garbage cans. There is no goddamn Ministry of Health. They haven’t even managed to get a grip on leprosy. And forget education.” He narrowed his eyes in speculation. “If he’s working on any kind of database, there’s only one possibility — the military. They’re the ones with technology and the money for consultants.”
Her eyes had fallen under his tirade. When he finished, she pushed her hair back and looked at him with resignation. “What do you expect me to say? I’ve never been there.”
He glared at her, “How long has this genius husband of yours been rotting in that godforsaken jungle?”
When she did not answer, he shook her. “How long?”
“A long time,” she replied dully, “a year and a few months.”
“And when will he be back?”
“I don’t know,” she said simply.
“Jesus Christ,” he ground out, exasperated, “The man’s trying to earn a living while you’re working part time and playing with your horse. You’re living in his house and you can’t even remember when he left or when he’s coming home.” The fire in his chest was roaring. He rested his head on the pillow and studied her face, seething with frustration. “Brazil,” he said mockingly, “it’s full of distractions. For men, husbands in particular. I know. I’ve lived there. I’ll bet your husband is racking up a few statistics of his own.”
“Richard is busy,” she said. “He’s working. And as soon as they pay him, he’ll come home.”
“Right,” he said. “To his long-suffering wife. Who can’t quite remember when her husband left or probably even what he looks like.”
“Look around you,” she said evenly. “In what way do I appear to be suffering?”
He let his gaze roam the room. It was an undeniably beautiful room, a beautiful house. “No,” he said ruthlessly. “You’ve got it made. You’re playing house with your dog and your horse. Something to talk to, something warm between your legs. No, I’d say — “
“Stop it!” She blocked his words with her fingers before he could dodge her hand. An instant later, she snatched her hand back. “Just stop. I would have told you about him last night if I’d thought it would be this important to you.”
“Last night I was only interested in getting warm before I froze to death. Nothing about your husband is important except where he is and when he’ll show up here.”
“He’s in Brasilia, working. I don’t know exactly who for or exactly what he’s doing. There’s a problem with them paying him. I don’t know why . . .” Her voice trailed off.
He waited impassively, watching her with disbelief. She had to know more than that. In a moment, she asked tentatively, “What were you doing in Brazil?”
“Playing soccer.” He watched her face for the flicker that would tell him she already knew all about him.
Her gaze swept over him, “You’re too big for soccer.”
“Right. Soccer players all look like Beckham.”
“I wouldn’t know,” she replied, “but you certainly don’t. And whatever you were doing in Brazil, Richard is not.” There was a change in her voice. “I have not forgotten anything about him. I miss him every day but I dread him coming home.”
He was fascinated. Quite the little actress all right. All day yesterday and not one tear, and now this. “Why?” he demanded.
“I sold his Jaguar. The car was very important to him, very special. He’ll never forgive me for selling it. I would do anything to get it back, but it’s too late. There’s nothing I can do.” Her low voice vibrated with emotion.
“The fool should have told you to keep your hands off his car collection. But that’s the bottom line of marriage for women, isn’t it? Getting your name on the property.” His voice was thick with disgust. “The man’s trying to make a living and while he’s away, you’re selling off his property. Anybody who’d marry you should know better than to leave you unsupervised. How long does he have before you cash out everything he owns? How much have those months away cost him so far, Mrs. Oxenburg? What’d you get for that car?”
“I didn’t give it away, if that’s what you mean.” Her voice was her own again. “I got a hundred and forty thousand dollars for it.”
“Is that him downstairs with the E Type?” At her nod, he frowned in immediate rejection. “No way, not for that car.”
“You’ve never seen this car. It’s in the Jaguar registry. It was worth a lot more than a hundred and forty thousand dollars to Richard, to him, it was priceless. Nothing would have made him part with it.”
“This is very touching,” he said coldly, “but you can drop the phony bullshit. What are you whining about? You’ve got the fancy house and a hundred and forty thousand dollars. As you just pointed out to me, you are hardly suffering. He can replace you easily enough in Brazil but as long as you go with the property, he’ll have to come back.”
“Yes,” she said bitterly, “I’ve got the house. I don’t need it but I’ve got it and I’ve got the mortgage that goes with it. The insurance, the taxes, the club dues, all of it. How much do you think it costs to maintain a house like this?”
When he did not respond, she continued with quiet disdain: “You don’t know anything about marriage or houses or what they cost. And I am not going to discuss mine with you.”
“Fine,” he said. “For a minute there, I thought you were trying to bore me to death. I’m not interested in your domestic problems. Is this husband of yours coming here today? Yes or no?”
“No. And if you wanted to know, all you had to do was ask.”
He stared at her blankly. He could barely remember his painful journey up the stairs. He felt the familiar flicker of lost events but he was too tired to care. His concentration was going, and with it, the rage that had held him upright despite the pain. Her face was out of focus.
“Go back to sleep,” she said. “It’s early. I’m not going anywhere.”
“That’s right.” He eased his body down into the lost paradise of the bed. “You’re not.” He used her robe to pull her down beside him. The corners of the room dissolved into red shadows. “Be still.”
* * * *
The next time he awoke, he was alone. His tuxedo was lying across the empty side of the bed. He regarded it with disgust and promised himself the satisfaction of burning it. Soon. Light was pouring through the shades over the huge windows which had held only the dim glow of dawn when she’d wakened him. His brain prodded him to get up and find her immediately but for long minutes he could not dredge up the energy. From some dark corner of his subconscious came the soothing but suicidal conviction that she was downstairs, innocently waiting.
