The Cove

had years ahead of them, years to do all sorts of things. And he'd told her about when he finally allowed his mistresses to have him and what they did to please him.

    She hadn't said anything. He'd struck her for that, with his belt, on her buttocks. He hadn't stopped for a very long time. She remembered screaming, begging, screaming some more, trying to wriggle away from him, but he'd held her down. He hadn't stopped.

    It was five a.m. when Quinlan was jerked out of a deep sleep by her scream, loud, piercing, so filled with pain and helplessness that he couldn't bear it. He was at her side in an instant, pulling her against him, trying to soothe her, saying anything that came to mind, just talking and talking to bring her out of the dreadful nightmare.

    "God, it hurt so much, but he didn't care, he just kept hitting and hitting, holding me down so I couldn't move, couldn't escape. I screamed and screamed, but nobody cared, nobody came, but I know those faces were looking in the window and they loved it. Oh, God, no, make it stop. STOP IT!"

    So it was a nightmare about her time in that sanitarium-at least that's what it sounded like. It sounded sadistic and sexual. What the hell was going on here?

    His hand was busy in her hair, stroking up and down her back, talking to her, talking, talking.

    Her horrible gasping breaths slowed. She hiccupped.

    She leaned back, wiping her hand across her nose. She closed her eyes a moment, then began to tremble.

    "No, Sally, just stop it. I'm here, it's all right. Just relax against me, that's it. Just breathe real slow. Good, that's just fine." He stroked her back, felt the shivering slowly ease. God, what had she dreamed? A memory distorted by the unconscious could be hideous.

    "What did he do to you?" He spoke slowly, softly against her temple. "You can tell me. It'll make it go away faster if you talk about it."

    She whispered against his neck, "He came, at least twice a week, and every time he took off my clothes and looked at me and touched me and told me things he'd done that day, the women he'd taken.

    "People watched through that window in the door, the same people, as if they had season tickets or something. It was horrible, but most of the time I just lay there because my brain wasn't working. But that one time, it hurt so badly, I remember having my thoughts and feelings come together enough to feel the humiliation, so I tried to get away from him, to fight him, but he just kept hitting me and hitting me, first with his hand, then with his belt. It pleased him that he'd made me bleed. He told me maybe sometime in the future, when I'd earned the honor, he'd come into me. I wouldn't have to worry because he wasn't HIV-positive, not that I would anyway because I was fucking crazy. That's what he said, 'You won't remember a thing, will you, Sally, because you're fucking crazy?' "

    Even though Quinlan was so tense he imagined that if someone hit him he would just shatter into myriad pieces, Sally was now leaning limp against him, her breathing low, calmer. He'd been right. Talking about it out loud had eased her, but not him, good Lord, not him.

    Could she have imagined it all? For the longest time he couldn't speak. Finally he said, "Was it your husband who did this to you, Sally?”

    She was asleep, her breath even and slow against his chest. He realized then that he was wearing only shorts. Who the hell cared? He pushed her back and tried to pull away from her. To his pleasure and consternation, she clutched her arms around his back. “No, please, no,'' she said. She sounded asleep.

    He eased down beside her, lying on his back, pressing her face against his shoulder. He hadn't planned on this, he thought, staring up at the dark ceiling. She was breathing deeply, her leg across his belly now, her palm flat on his chest. Any lower with that hand or any lower with her thigh and he would be in big trouble.

    He was already in big trouble. He kissed her forehead, squeezed her more closely against him, and closed his eyes. At least the bastard hadn't raped her. But he'd beat her.

    Surprisingly, he fell asleep.

11

    "YEAH, RIGHT," QUINLAN said to himself as he got to his feet. There were two nice male footprints below Sally's bedroom window at Amabel's house and, more important, deep impressions where the feet of the ladder had dug into the earth.

    There were small torn branches on the ground, ripped away by someone who had moved quickly, dragging that damned