Bad Desire by Gary; Devon Read Free Book Online Page B

wet condensation between her fingers.
    When the evening was over, the two of them would come out to the car. His wife would walk ahead of him; Mr. Slater would open the door for her on the passenger side and come around to the driver’s door. And … then what? What could she do?
    Something should be waiting for him.
    Quickly, Sheila lifted the fine, gold chain from around her throat. She pulled it through the press of her fingers until she came to the clasp, which she undid with her fingernails. What would he think? Would he wonder whose it was? She carefully draped the unfastened necklace over his door handle. No, he would realize immediately who had put it there. He had given it to her, once, and now he would give it back to her again.
    Turning and glancing at what she had done, Sheila ran across the asphalt with a feeling of elation. The knotted towel came loose and fell; she swooped down and snatched it up, suddenly in a hurry to join the others in the smoky green depths of the pool.
    Against the dark flank of Slater’s Cadillac, the thread of gold dangled in the moonlight, sparkling, catching and giving off slivers of brilliance, like the loveliest, the most delicate, the tenderest bait.

4
    Henry Slater kept to his regular half-day routine on Saturday morning, stopping at the Beachcomber Cafe for a breakfast roll and coffee and arriving at the office shortly before nine. He knew that on this day nothing could seem even slightly out of the ordinary. He told himself he had nothing to fear, but fear continued to gnaw at him when it was least expected. All his senses were heightened and on the alert. Tonight, he thought. Tonight, it’s over.
    The glass door flashed around him as he strode into the secretarial lair, deserted this morning except for Abigail Giddings, his executive assistant, who was speaking on the telephone. Hard-working and efficient, she was a middle-aged woman who had been with him for the last eight years. Without lifting an eyelash, she held up a thin stack of messages as he headed toward the side door of his office.
    The sixth-floor mayoral suite was like a pied-à-terre, spacious and austere; entering it always gave him a tremendous sense of power and well being. Windows ran floor to ceiling along two of the walls; his large desk was situated in the crossfire of natural light. From almost any angle, the view of the Pacific was immeasurable. This morning, looking out at the endless gray strata of ocean and sky, he felt as if he had arrived at the end of the world and this office was his home, his last good anchor. He shuffled through the messages, discarding most of them, slipped out of his suit jacket and hung it in the closet. Don’t look at the time, he told himself. Just don’t do it.
    After he had forced himself to sit behind his desk, the morning began to go quickly. He took two calls, back-to-back, and then summarily answered with a note or a call the few remaining messages he’d kept. Abigail brought in the morning mail and pulled the files he asked for. She handed him his fourth cup of coffee from the kitchenette, then corrected her notes while he outlined in final draft the strategic details of his upcoming city council presentation. But Slater was no more aware of her and the world surrounding them than he had to be.
    Everything seemed distorted and unreal. It was as though a great bell of glass had descended around him, and life reached him through its warp. All of his actions were conscious and mannered, focused outward, but his mind wandered inexorably back to the thought that an unknown murderer was waiting somewhere out in the streets. Only he knew of the malignancy about to visit their lives. Never before had Slater experienced such a commingling of dread and expectation. Tonight, he thought. After tonight, I’ll be all right.
    At a quarter to twelve, Abigail came to his office doorway to say she was on her way out. “Don’t forget your