The Devil's Interval by Linda Peterson Read Free Book Online Page A

Travis…”
    I put my hand on her arm; I could feel the heat radiating through the red wool. “It’s okay, Isabella.”
    â€œI’ll be quick,” said Travis. “You don’t like the romantic poets much—Byron, Shelley, those guys, hardly a mark on those pages. But you like the religious stuff—George Herbert, John Donne. If I were nineteen and trying to get you into bed, I’d send you Andrew Marvell, but not the usual, ‘To his coy mistress.’”
    â€œTravis…” began Isabella.
    Travis held his hand up to stop her, and then he lowered his hand, palm cupped upward and put it in front of me. I followed his eyes, down to his palm, and he opened it slowly, as if he were setting a firefly free to twinkle away into the air. There on his palm, written in ink, it said, “Clora, come view my soul…”
    â€œWho’s Clora?” asked Isabella impatiently, looking over her shoulder to see if someone was watching this strange scene through the pane in the door.
    Travis turned his palm face down on the table, leaned forward and whispered:
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Clora, come view my soul, and tell
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Whether I have contrived it well .
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Now all its several lodgings lie
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Composed into one gallery;
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  And the great arras-hangings, made
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Of various faces, by are laid;
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  That for all furniture, you’ll find
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Only your picture in my mind .
    Travis sat back and smiled. A prisoner, in a cold sterile room, with big squared shoulders and an even bigger presence. His self-confidence was palpable and seductive. It took an effort to resist. And an even greater effort not to feel invaded by the idea of a man in a cell memorizing a passage for me.
    â€˜The Gallery,’ I said, coolly. “No wonder they call you Lothario. Nice parlor trick to memorize a poem I loved in college. Good thing I’m not nineteen any more.”
    â€œWhy’d you give the book away?” he asked.
    â€œI have a hardbound copy of Marvell now,” I said. “I thought the paperback deserved a new home.”
    Isabella sighed and tapped one carmine nail on her wristwatch. “Time flies, my friends.”
    Travis unfolded his arms and placed his hands flat on the metal table. “Let me get this straight, Isabella. My job today is to convince Mrs. Fiori that I’m innocent so that she’ll help us—before the great State of California succeeds in its goal to put me down like a stray dog. Is that about the size of it?”
    â€œTry not to be a jerk,” said Isabella. “We do want Maggie’s help, and the first step was meeting you. So, here we all are.”
    Silence. Travis leaned forward suddenly, and it took all my self-control not to flinch. “What do you want to know?” he asked abruptly.
    â€œI saw the police photos,” I said. “I’m here because I can’t get them out of my head, and because your lawyer is a pretty powerful lobby on your behalf.”
    â€œAnd now that you’re here? Got a feeling? Got it figured out yet?” Michael’s words about snap judgments based on first impressions went on replay in my head. Somehow, it was reassuring to hear Michael’s voice in this particular moment.
    I shook my head. “No feelings,” I said. “Not yet. Look, whydon’t you just talk to me?”
    And so, he began talking—about the army, about learning to love anything on four wheels, about looking for work when he’d retired from the service.
    â€œTell me why they call you the Limousine Lothario,” I prodded.
    He sighed. “That’s what’s so crazy about being in here. I love women. And here I am in the worst kind of men’s club. And it’s not just about women