Night Tides Read online

  But her resistance lasted all of thirty seconds. Now in her mind it was earlier in the encounter, before the surrender and conquest. He was sucking her nipples, his teeth closing around them and tugging, his tongue flicking over the tips. His hands, big and rough, ran possessively over her skin, and she moaned in her fantasy as she begged for him to take her, pleaded with him, arched her back and raised her hips to allow him to reach her.

  She was moaning in reality now, almost pitifully, her fingers once again probing in place of what she so desperately wanted. Her other hand slid under her nightshirt to cup her breast, her own small palm a poor substitute for the broader hand she imagined. He wouldn’t be tentative, he’d crush her soft flesh, knead it, pinch and caress it. He would own every part of her.

  Whining low in her throat, she flopped onto her back and tossed her head on her pillow. There could be no release, she knew, and that infuriated her the most. Only the lakes could bring her to ecstasy. For a moment she wondered if they were somehow behind this, using their magic or mind-control powers on her to magnify her natural attraction to this unnatural level. But for what purpose? She could go down to the lake and ask, but she doubted her legs could carry her across the room right now, let alone down the street to the park.

  She rolled onto her stomach, again hugged her pillow, and pressed her hips down into the mattress. She imagined Ethan on top of her this way, one hand pinning the back of her neck, the other guiding himself into her from behind. She hated that position with a man, hated the subservience of it, but now she could think only of his hardness splitting her in two. She bucked her hips helplessly as the fantasy, more real than some actual encounters she’d had, slowly drove her mad.

  IN HIS BEDROOM, Ethan also lay wide awake and stared at the pink glow from the security light outside. It illuminated a rectangular section of his ceiling and cast its faint light over everything in his bedroom. He had his fingers linked behind his neck and took slow, deep breaths. Even though it was a cliché, he truly did try thinking about baseball. It didn’t help.

  He couldn’t recall being so rock-hard since he’d been a teenage virgin. Since his return from Iraq he’d been prone to arousal at the most inopportune times, only to have his libido fail him when he needed it most. Now his erection poked from the fly of his boxers, and he could even feel the slight breeze from the air conditioner on it. For the first time he understood those warnings on TV commercials for Viagra and Cialis: Four hours of this and he’d be rushing to the emergency room too. Yet he knew that it would fade at once as the unwanted memory of what he’d seen returned, as vivid and awful as ever.

  Still, at the moment his imagination worked overtime to conjure the image of Rachel astride him, her knees on either side of his chest. She would slide her hips toward his face, and he would eagerly set about licking, kissing, and nibbling her offered intimacy. That, at least, he could still do. He wondered if, like Julie, she’d be clean-shaven; in his fantasy she wasn’t, and the gentle curls, softened by his kisses and her own juices, would press against his face, filling him with her scent and taste.

  He imagined lifting her, rolling her gently onto her back, trailing musk-scented kisses down her belly until he returned to her wettest place. He would look up the length of her body as he used his tongue on her, licking her with light, slow strokes. Through the valley between her breasts he would see her face, lips swollen with desire, and he could almost hear the sounds she’d make. He stroked himself and moaned.

  RACHEL WALKED INTO the bathroom, her calf muscles shaking. Tainter, disturbed by her mood, softly yowled his concern. She envied the cat his neutered placidity.

  She winced against the light, pulled off her nightshirt, and splashed cold water on her face. In the mirror the signs of her discomfort were plain. The red flush across her shoulders had spread to the tops of her breasts, and her expression was fixed in a kind of faint, perpetual desperation. She opened the shower curtain, turned on the cold water, slipped her panties down, and stepped into the spray. She shouted as the stinging droplets pounded her skin.

  The icy water cleared some of the overheated fog from her brain. She was not going to give in to this and let her stupid hormones dictate to her in the middle of the night. She would not get dressed and go all the way down to the lake just to exorcise this man’s image, even though she knew she was primed for an orgasm that would rattle her teeth. She wanted to know she could wait it out, that she was stronger than her hormones’ demands. She could handle this alone.

  Or not. She could always call someone. Just another physical presence, a body to rub against and explore, might ease some of the tension. Men were always giving her their numbers, often written on the bottom of their credit-card receipts. Some of them were even nice guys. Sure, it was the middle of the night, but she doubted if a man got a call from a willing woman he’d hesitate.

  She took deep, calming breaths and let the icy water pummel her aching flesh. “No,” she said aloud. She would endure it. It was just sex, after all. People lived without it all the time. And somehow she knew that any man other than Ethan Walker would just add to her frustration.

  ETHAN’S HAND WAS a blur in the darkness. Then he stopped, gasped, and resumed stroking with slow, firm movements. A moment later he ejaculated copiously onto his bare stomach and let out a soft, deep sigh of relief.

  He’d imagined Rachel astride him, accepting him into her wet, open body with her own loud cry of release. He could almost see her silhouetted against the ceiling, back arched so that her breasts jutted out.

  He ran his other hand through his hair. He had no moral problem with masturbation; hell, lately it had been his only outlet. But somehow this felt different. No porn was involved, no fantasy of some untouchable young starlet du jour. The woman who’d inspired this voluminous release was very touchable and easily found. Of course, she also despised the sight of him, which made him feel both foolish and, oddly, sad. Would he ever be able to have normal, clean, healthy sex with a woman?

  After a few moments he went to the bathroom to wash up. He smiled wryly at the red blotches across his neck and shoulders. He washed his belly, then his hands, and fell back across the bed with a loud sigh of relief. He was asleep in moments. But even though his physical need was momentarily sated, Rachel now filled his dreams. They weren’t dreams about sex, though. In them, he lay in her arms and felt safe enough to release the things lurking deep behind the wall he’d built in his own heart. He dreamed of the compassion and tenderness he somehow knew, even though he’d spent less than fifteen minutes in her presence, he’d find with her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CARRIE KIMMEL, age nineteen, of Belson Street in Madison, is five feet three inches tall, weighs 125 pounds, and has brown hair,” Jimmy read aloud. The flyer showed two photos of the girl, one a high school graduation shot, the other a more recent candid taken at a party. In both she smiled, although in the latter her eyes were red and heavy-lidded and she clutched a plastic beer cup. “She was last seen in her apartment-building laundry room around midnight on June twenty-third. If you have any information, contact the police, etcetera.” He turned to Rachel, who was also a little red-eyed. “Put ’em in the window and the bathrooms?”

  Rachel nodded, stifling a yawn. She had finally drifted off at about four, and her alarm woke her at four-thirty. She was edgy, tense, and semiconscious. Now, at the tail end of the breakfast rush, she seriously contemplated going upstairs for a nap. She couldn’t imagine making it through lunch this weary. “Next to the others,” she said, indicating the two similar flyers already displayed along the front glass.

  “Thanks for putting them up, Rachel,” said Alice, a student feminist and weekend regular. She had short, mannish hair, the face of a cherub, and a bundle of identical flyers under her arm.

  “Did you know her?” Rachel asked.

  Alice shook her head. “No.”

  “My God, how many more will there be?” Mrs. Boswell said. She’d finished her breakfast a
n hour ago, but as always she liked to sip her tea and observe the other patrons. Her straw gardening hat rested on the empty stool beside her. Rachel had inherited her from Trudy and accepted her as part of the decor.

  “Madison used to be a safe place,” said Casey, a graduate student studying sculpture. He tossed his long bangs, cultivated like a fringe of ornamental grass, from his eyes. “Safest downtown in the country once. That’s why I wanted to come to school here.”

  “It’s still safe for you,” Alice said, her voice tense with practiced outrage. “You’re a man.”

  Before the usual gender conflict could develop, Professor Dunning said, “Isn’t that a little odd? I mean, I’m no expert, but don’t they usually go after boys and young men?”

  “‘They’?” Helena repeated.

  “Serial killers. Wisconsin’s second-largest export after cheese. Remember Ed Gein?”

  “And Jeffrey Dahmer,” Jimmy called from the kitchen.

  “How about David Spanbauer in Winneconne?” Casey said.

  “No, he was into girls,” Alice said. “I did a research-paper on him.”

  “Well, what about that guy in La Crosse?” Casey said. “He keeps throwing drunk young men into the Mississippi.”

  “Drunks don’t need any help falling in the river,” Helena said.

  “I read about that one,” uniformed patrol cop Alonzo Hyland said. “The FBI says there’s no connection between the deaths and they were all alcohol-related accidents.”

  “The FBI said John Lennon was a threat to national security too,” Mrs. Boswell said.

  “I think it’s weird that so far no one’s found any of these girls’ bodies,” Jimmy said from the kitchen entrance. “Do you think he’s butchering them and eating them, like Dahmer?”

  The patrons who still had breakfast in front of them exclaimed various forms of outrage. Professor Dunning added, “Jimmy, people are trying to eat here.”

  “Okay, okay, sorry,” Jimmy said. He skulked back to the griddle and stirred the potatoes just before they began to burn. “I’m a concerned citizen, you know. I mean, I have friends who are girls.”

  “Has anyone seen that truck around?” Helena asked.

  “What truck?” Casey said.

  “The one they talked about on The Lady of the Lakes. A red Ford, I think.”

  “I see a dozen red Ford trucks every day,” Hyland said. “By the time we tracked them all down, the killer would be dead of old age.”

  Rachel shook her head. “Really, people, you put way too much stock in that blog thing. It’s the Internet. You can write anything you want, whether it’s true or not.”

  “But she’s usually right,” Alonzo admitted. “I hear even the chief checks it twice a day. And I know of at least one domestic-violence conviction that came directly from a tip she wrote on it.”

  Rachel knew of that conviction too. It had been a simple thing to spot the black eye on the woman’s face as she put the local paper into the rack, while her glowering husband waited in their newspaper-stuffed station wagon. It looked like a prescient tip because, by the time the police acted, he’d beaten her even more severely, which both she and he claimed was the first time he’d ever hit her. But it was just unobtrusive observation, something at which Rachel excelled. No lake spirits required.

  “How do you even know it’s a ‘she’?” Rachel said. “Or even one person?”

  “She writes like a woman,” Helena said with certainty. “You’ve read it, haven’t you?”

  “Me? You know I don’t even have a computer.”

  Exclamations of disbelief and amazement rang out. “No, I’m serious,” Rachel insisted.

  “She is,” Helena agreed with exaggerated sadness.

  “But you put wireless in the building,” Dunning pointed out, indicating the modems on the ceiling.

  “I did that for the customers,” Rachel said. Would-be poet Elton Charles looked up from his laptop at a corner table and raised his coffee cup in salute. She added, “Me, I prefer good old-fashioned newspapers. Even one like this rag.” She gestured at the Wisconsin Capital Journal, left abandoned on the counter.

  The bell over the door announced a new customer. A tall blond woman dressed in a skirt and light summer blouse entered. A single line of pearls circled her neck, providing an odd, matronly touch to her otherwise toned, just-touching-thirty appearance. She took in the long diner counter, the smattering of tables, and the elaborate graffiti on the walls.

  “Just sit anywhere,” Helena called. “I’ll be right with you. The menu’s beside the napkins. Would you like some coffee?”

  “Yes, please,” the woman said. She took a seat at the end of the counter. Carefully, she placed her shoulder bag on the floor, reached inside, and pulled out a pen and a distinctive small notebook.

  “Excuse me,” the newcomer said loudly. When everyone turned her way she continued, “I’m Julie Schutes, of the Capital Journal. I wonder if I might get some comments from you regarding the recent disappearances of young women in this area. The local, street-level response, if you will.” She looked up expectantly, pen poised.

  Everyone else turned as a group to see Rachel’s reaction.

  Speak of the devil. Rachel scrutinized Julie. The journalist had big blue eyes and dramatic blond hair that swept back from her face, emphasizing her strong Nordic features. The skirt revealed tanned, enviable legs. Rachel already hated her on these general principles, but she also recognized the name. “Julie Schutes,” she repeated. “I think I’ve read your work. Didn’t you write that series on the dangers of pornography about six months ago?”

  Julie smiled the way people do when they’re recognized for an accomplishment. “Why, yes, I did,” she said with a polite nod. “And you are…?”

  “I thought so,” Rachel continued, ignoring the question. In her sleep-deprived state, her temper was far too close to the surface. “That would be the one with the huge color photo of the big-busted girl in the barely there bikini standing in the middle of State Street with the crowd of smiling frat boys around her?”

  Julie’s smile remained, but all the juice left it. “I didn’t pick the photo or do the layout, I’m afraid.”

  “I remember that,” Professor Dunning said. “That was crass and insulting, even for the Cap Jo.”

  “I’d call it a lot worse,” Alice said, glad for a legitimate opportunity to display her righteous indignation. “I’d call it a goddamned insult to all your female readers.”

  “Thank you for sharing your comments,” Julie continued, still forcing the smile. “We strive to do the best we can, but with deadlines, sometimes things just—”

  “You never see crap like that on The Lady of the Lakes,” Casey pointed out. “Maybe you guys should try to be more like it.”

  Julie put the pen aside. Her color had returned with a vengeance; now she blushed with both shame and anger. Her voice remained calm, though. “Yes, well, blogging has its place, but it will never replace newspapers, because we have the time and resources to report on events more accurately.”

  For just a moment there was dead silence except for the air conditioner’s hum and the sound of something sizzling on the grill. Then everyone burst out laughing.

  Julie’s smile resolutely refused to diminish. She calmly put her notebook back in her bag and placed a business card on the counter. “I’m available if any of you would like to comment privately. I’m sorry for disturbing everyone’s breakfast.” Then she left.

  Helena sighed and put down the coffee she’d poured. “That’ll get us another good write-up in the restaurant guide,” she said dryly.

  “If I depended on the Cap Jo’s opinion, I’d have closed down three years ago,” Rachel said. That was when the Capital Journal’s anonymous restaurant critic had published a scathing review of Rachel’s diner, describing the fare as cholesterol and fat shaped into vaguely food-shaped lumps.

  She reached for the business card and accidentally knocked it to the floor; when
she bent to retrieve it, she banged her knee on the corner of the counter and snapped, “Dammit!” She went into the kitchen and stomped around the tight space until the sting went away.

  Jimmy looked up from the grill. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Rachel almost snarled.

  “Whoa, just asking,” Jimmy said, and returned to his cooking. “Man, this is a day when I just flat-out shouldn’t talk.”

  The toaster, directly beside Rachel, suddenly ejected four pieces and startled her. Embarrassed and furious, she grabbed one slice of toast and threw it into the garbage.

  Helena stared at her from the kitchen entrance. “The nerve of that impertinent toast.”

  Rachel said nothing. Jimmy reached past her to retrieve the rest of the toast as if he expected her to wrench his head off.

  “I didn’t know you hated the Cap Jo quite that much,” Helena continued. “What’s wrong?”

  Rachel sighed and ran a hand through her hair. What was wrong was that she was still just as frustratingly horny as she’d been all night, and there was no way to resolve it until she could skinny-dip in the lake after dark, more than twelve hours away. Until then, every inch of her body was feather-sensitive, and every look from a male customer—even old Professor Dunning—convinced her that they knew about her condition. But only one man dominated her thoughts, and each time the bell over the door jingled she looked expectantly toward it, though she knew there was no way he’d ever show up again. Even with her offer relayed through Marty, she doubted he would appear. He had pride. And even if he didn’t, surely her pride would restrain her. Wouldn’t it? “Nothing,” she answered, eyes down.

  “Ah, this must be a definition of nothing with which I was previously unfamiliar,” Helena said dryly before returning to her customers.

  Rachel took a deep breath, then put her hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. “I’m sorry for snapping at you, Jimmy.”