Programmed for Peril

she babbled in relief. Just the same, Dino listened with apparently sincere interest. She felt a tiny thrill of vanity when his eyes remained unblinking on her face. She recalled his joking come-ons. She sensed he wasn’t like Jerry Morris, the religious, upright cop who wouldn’t make a pass at an engaged woman. No, Dino was cut from different cloth altogether. For a brief moment she told herself she, too, had been fashioned from that pattern. She stopped herself. At one time that might have been true. Now she had changed. She had to remind herself at this grappa-and-cappuccino wee hour that she had become a better person.
    Dino took his turn at leading the conversation. He wanted to know why she didn’t fully face Foster with her complaints about his behavior. Why did she fence and dodge and wave a thin rapier? A sledgehammer was what the job required.
    Garrulous as she had become, she couldn’t explain the inner conflict between her mother’s values and her own. Marylou had taught her women weren’t to oppose; they were to accommodate. She waved the topic away with both wobbly wrists.
    “You look like an Italian when you do that.” He gathered up the cups and plates. With some dismay she realized their social interlude was ending. “So where does the wedding stand?” he asked. “What’s Foster think? Is Carson Thomas going to get his way?”
    She had avoided those musings. Now, with the question put to her, she pinned down her elusive thoughts. “I—think he’s wavering. Maybe he has reason. I don’t know.”
    “Reason not to take you?” Trish found Dino’s dark-eyed gaze penetrating. She felt she ought to look away. There was something insightful behind that intensity. No, that wasn’t it at all.
    It was desire.
    “If Foster is stupid enough to break it off, I want you to think about me.” Dino’s normally husky voice had deepened even further. She had broken eye contact. Now she shook inwardly at the thought of swimming again in those deep brown seas.
    They stood close by the door. Grappa and tumbling emotions made her vulnerable as an ice filigree under tropical sun. If he touches me...
    Each waited for the other to go out. The moment extended itself. They stood within inches of each other. She imagined she felt the heat of his body and the eddying currents of his life energy. As seconds ticked by she wondered... why didn’t he touch her? She knew he wanted to. She wondered if she wanted that.
    When she finally moved, going out ahead of him, she understood what had been happening.
    He wanted her to touch him first.
     

22
     
    “GWINE TO THAT HORSEMEAT MAAAAN!” Champ sang. “Gwine to that horsemeat maaa-aaayun!” Had the ring of an old blues tune, no mistake. And only the Blandmobile interior to hear his eight-bar beauty. He refined the vocal as he drove beyond the edge of the city. His destination: a meat processing factory where, in addition to great groaning machines, dozens of butchers plied their trade. There phone orders were taken for wholesale lots, even from such offal fellows as Champ. They had it all! Beefalo and buffalo, horse and hog, lamb and goat—I kid you not. If man ate it, and the law allowed, they carried it. By phone he could place his order for fifty small steaks cut from haunch of horse. Wrap in packs of ten, please. “Gwine to eat that nag cost me mah pay!” he belted in Janis Joplin imitation. “Gwine to eat ..."
    He was in the very best of moods at the top of a day delightful in its promise of action. Carson’s orders had been explicit; Champ’s energy as always would assure each was followed to the letter. For the first time since he had come to this city he sensed closure in his master’s plan. The arc had been extended, now it curved back around to the starting point. By and by the circle would be unbroken.
    Queen of My Heart would be resurrected.
    Once-whinnying booty stowed in his trunk, he drove down the road to a rest area. Hands in rubber gloves, he opened the packages and various bottles. He dug out the new paintbrush. He busied himself with his chemical palette, Van Gogh at Arles, Monet at Reims. Tidy rewrapping finished the preparation. And now... au chasse!
    He looked at his Rolex. Right on schedule. He angled along roads north of the city, curved down south. The quarry always took Route 163 to Wednesday’s usual destination at an average speed of 47.6 miles an hour, assuming he got half the lights. Chrono and odo toid Champ just about