V Is for Vengeance

territory, not the other way around. Why don’t you just leave them in peace?”
    “So now you’re an environmentalist?”
    “Don’t be snide. It’s unbecoming.”
    “Well, you don’t have to sound so fucking righteous. I mean, give me a break.”
    “Don’t push it off on me.”
    “Fine. I’m just telling you the Hellers were offended you made such a scene.”
    She leaned her head back against the seat. “Who cares about them?”
    “What do you care about?”
    “I’ve lost track.”

    They made love that night, which was strange, given the strain between them. She initiated the sex, fueled by fury and despair. The reality of Channing with Thelma was like a dark aphrodisiac. If the woman was competition, then let her compete with this. She straddled him, pounding away as though riding him until the pleasure peaked between them, harsh and raw. He flipped her over on her back, dragging her to the edge of the bed and lifting her hips while he drove into her again, his legs braced. There was a barely suppressed violence in the encounter, something savage in the way they went at each other, and if what she felt wasn’t love, at least it was a feeling of some kind, intense and immediate.
    Afterward, they lay together, winded, and when he turned his head and looked at her, she knew he was present. In his face, she could see the Channing she’d loved once upon a time, the Channing who’d loved her even while her heart was broken and she was half dead, emotion drained out of her, leaving only dust. She felt tears welling and she turned over onto her side so he couldn’t see her face. She might have regained her composure if he hadn’t seemed so kind. He said, “Are you okay?”
    She shook her head. She turned onto her back and covered her eyes, feeling the tears seep into her hair. There was no holding back. She felt herself dissolve, and she wept as she had as a child when pain and disappointment were at their sharpest. She wept as she had as an adult when she’d been dealt a blow so bitter there was no coming back. She allowed him to comfort her, which she hadn’t done in months. She remembered how sweet he’d been and how patient. “Oh, god. It all seems so hopeless,” she said. She tucked the sheet under her arms and pulled herself up into a sitting position, her arms wrapped around her knees.
    “Not so. Not hopeless at all.”
    He stroked her hair, which was tangled and wet from tears and from the sweat of their lovemaking.
    She reached over to snatch a tissue from the bed table and blew her nose. “Don’t look at me. I’m hideous. My face is all swollen and my eyes feel like ping-pong balls.”
    His smile was lazy in the half-light shining in from the street. “Where have you been? I’ve missed you.”
    “I know I’ve been distant, but sometimes I can’t help myself. It’s just so much easier to zone out and shut down.”
    “But you always come back to me. I look up and there you are,” he said. “Come here.” He opened his arms and she stretched out beside him, tucked into the crook of his shoulder. He was a spare man, narrow through the chest, and his skin felt two degrees cooler than hers. He smelled of sex and sweat and something sweet.
    She spoke into the hollow of his throat. “What about you, Channing? Where have you been?”
    “No place important. Go to sleep.”

19

    Saturday morning, 6:00 A.M., I was back at my post. I’d managed four hours of sleep, after which I showered, dressed, and headed to the upper east side of town. En route, I stopped at McDonald’s and picked up a large coffee, an orange juice, and an Egg McMuffin. Before long, the coffee and OJ would send me in search of a public restroom, but I had to risk it for the moment. In times past, during surveillance work, I’ve used a tennis ball can for urinary emergencies. This was unsatisfactory. For women, strategy is problematic when it comes to body functions. Aim and positioning are more art than science, and I’d been wondering, of late, if a Rubbermaid food container wouldn’t be superior. Wide mouth, with an airtight lid. I was still running the pros and cons on the notion.
    When I pulled around the corner onto Juniper Lane, I parked on the same side of the street as the Prestwicks’ mock Tudor house. I stationed myself fifty feet away from the driveway, which kept me just outside their visual range. Or such was my hope. It was still dark out and as I settled in to wait, I saw headlights swing