Beyond Eden (19 page)

She had to get away.

Taylor heard the front door slam, and without a thought, he raced naked into the living room. She was gone. Jesus, could someone have come in and snatched her? No, not possible. He called after her, but, realizing he didn't have a stitch of clothing on, he knew he couldn't run after her.

Why had she run out?

He stood there dripping water, wondering what the problem was. It was weird. She was weird. He sighed, turned back into his bedroom, and quickly dressed. She was alone, no one to protect her, if the enforcers who hounded Demos wanted to go after her.

Lindsay told the taxi driver to drop her off at Gayle's apartment over on the West Side, just opposite Lincoln Center. Gayle lived in a condo on the thirty-sixth floor. Lindsay dashed through the immense lobby to the bank of six elevators. She punched the buttons and collapsed back against the wall. She was safe. But, as it turned out, Gayle wasn't home.

Lindsay leaned against the corridor wall next to her apartment door, her eyes closed. What to do?

She couldn't very well stand here forever. The security was too good in this building. She'd soon be reported by a neighbor. Slowly, slinging her bag back onto her shoulder, she went back down to the lobby. She'd wait there. If she stayed out in the open, looking harmless, they wouldn't kick her out. If Taylor came looking for her—Oh, no, no.

She was approached by a security guard two hours later. Their patience had run out.

She left, catching a taxi to return to her apartment. In the back of the taxi she remembered for the first time since her flight from Taylor's apartment that she was under threat. She'd been running around like a fool, unthinking, dangerously unthinking. She realized, laughing a bit hysterically, that she had no place else to go, except maybe to an impersonal hotel. She had no other close friends. Even Demos and Glen she'd kept away from when it came to social get-togethers. She'd kept a whole bunch of folk at bay, all those people who'd tried to be nice to her over the years. They were acquaintances, nothing more, because she'd distrusted them, all of them, women included. All except Gayle because Gayle had known her before Paris.

Head down, she exited her elevator. She felt numb and very, very tired. She very nearly walked squarely into him.

His hands closed around her shoulders and her head jerked up. She nearly screamed but his hand was over her mouth.

“Shut up, damn you!”

She tried to jerk away from him. He was strong, she'd known he would be. He wasn't going to let her go. He would drag her into her apartment and—

Taylor saw the terror in her eyes. Not terror of a possible enforcer, he realized with a shock, but terror of him. He said very calmly, “I have to urinate. I've been standing here like a fool for the past two hours waiting for you to bring your butt home. Would you please open the door?”

She stared up at him. He didn't look at all interested in ripping off her clothes. What he looked was vastly annoyed. With her. “You have to urinate?”

“Yes. You're the only game around, Eden. I couldn't very well see myself asking your neighbor to use her bathroom. Open the door.”

“Oh.” She giggled. Her terror—God, she'd been paralyzed with terror and all he wanted was to go to the bathroom.

She opened the door and stood aside, pointing straight ahead. “Just beyond the bedroom.” Taylor gave her another long, very irritated look, then went to her bathroom.

She was standing in the same spot when he came out.

He stopped a good three feet away from her. “Talk to me.”

She stared at him instead.

“I'm also tired of standing. Come along and sit down. Talk to me.”

“I'm hungry.”

“I won't eat another damned yogurt.”

“Chinese?”

“Are you going to duck out on me again?”

“No.”

“All right.” Taylor sighed. This was weird, the entire situation. “Let's go to Chow Fang's, down in Chinatown.”

“I like spicy Chinese.”

“It's very spicy.”

To Lindsay's surprise and relief, Taylor didn't demand to know why she'd run out on him. She'd fully expected it, an attack, a show of anger, a man's anger, all of it, maybe cold sarcasm like her father's, but he didn't say anything, not even a mention of how she'd endangered herself.

He ushered her into a Szechuan restaurant, old and needing a paint job, with dusty red lanterns hanging from a low ceiling. It was set in the midst of
Chinatown and known, Taylor told her, for authentic and tasty dishes.

Lindsay ordered green-onion pancakes with peanut sauce.

“My favorite,” Taylor said, and doubled the order.

He spoke to her of the owner of the restaurant, a Mr. Chang, who'd come over in the early 1970's from Taiwan. He spoke of Mr. Chang's family, discussing each of the six children in great detail, until Lindsay finally said, “Stop it! You're making that up!”

“It took you long enough. I was running out of descriptions. Another kid and he would have had to be a juvenile delinquent. Chinese Mafia maybe.”

She studied his face. No clues there. Open, kind. But as he'd said earlier, who really knew another person? She picked up a fortune cookie, vastly uncomfortable. She unfurled the narrow strip of paper and read: “You need a new environment. Wallpaper your bedroom.”

She laughed and handed it to Taylor. “Keep it,” he advised, cracked open his own fortune cookie. There were two slips of paper. The first said: “A woman who seeks to be equal with men lacks ambition.”

Taylor grinned and handed it to her. Her eyes lit up and she crowed. “Aha! You see, ancient Chinese wisdom still applies today. I see they believe you need a double dose. What's the other one?”

He opened it and froze. “You have finally met the one love of your life. Tread carefully. You don't want to lose her.”

He frowned. What utter nonsense. Bullshit. After the way Valerie had yelled at him, calling him a bastard and a liar? No way. He stilled. Oh, no, not this strange creature sitting opposite him, her eyes on his fortune, waiting for him to hand it to her. Her anticipation was endearing and he shied away from it. This
was the woman who'd run out of his apartment with no thought to her own safety. With no reason for flight that he could see. Oh, no, that was crazy. Then he laughed. A damned silly fortune cookie. Produced in a factory in New Jersey by Italians, no doubt.

“What is it? You will take a trip around the world? Confucius says something?”

He merely smiled, shook his head, folded the paper, and stuck it in his wallet.

When they came out onto the street, the night was clear and cool. Chinatown had its own smells and sounds, and tonight, both were pleasant. “I love New York when it's like this,” Lindsay said, breathing in deeply. “It feels so good in your lungs.”

Taylor was busily looking around. Nothing suspicious. Not a single nose seemingly interested in their business. When he turned back to her, she was still wrapped in the wonders of the night. He smiled at her, then hailed a cab.

“I'm seeing you home. I'll see that you're safe. I'll see that you're well locked in. I'll come by tomorrow whenever you're ready to go out.”

“Okay.”

“You'll be there? You won't do anything stupid? You won't go out without me?”

“No.”

“Good.”

She turned on the seat to face him. “Look, it isn't what you think. You don't understand, really, but—”

“Just forget it. I wouldn't care to finish that thought either.”

She fell silent.

“You won't open your door to anybody you don't know, all right?”

She nodded, but remained silent.

He checked through her apartment. Every bit of
comfortable clutter was still in its place. Her bedroom was small and square, but light, with white-painted rattan headboard, dresser, chair, and several white carpets over polished oak parquet floors. He smiled at the panty hose and underwear strewn over a chair. One high-top running shoe was sitting on top of a pale-blue comforter, its mate tipped on its side on the floor beside the bed, a sock half stuck in it still. He remembered the small bathroom well enough. Taylor returned to her, instructing her like a child about her locks, of which she had four and already knew everything.

“Do you have an answering machine? Good. Don't answer the phone, screen the calls first, be sure you know who it is before you pick up and speak yourself.”

When he left, finally, giving her one long look that she couldn't decipher, she leaned against the front door and closed her eyes.

What had his second fortune cookie said?

 

Lindsay wanted to run. It was seven in the morning on a bright sunny Saturday and she was bored and antsy and she'd tried to get Demos twice already but he wasn't there. Neither was Glen, evidently. Cowards, both of them. And Taylor wasn't here, nor had she heard from him.

She wandered through her small apartment, absently drinking tea and chewing on an unbuttered slice of wheat toast.

Why the devil hadn't she thought to get his phone number? Well, he'd forgotten as well. No one had called.

She kept looking toward the front door with all its myriad locks securely in place.

When the doorbell rang at precisely eight o'clock,
she nearly dropped her teacup. She was fiddling with the locks, and when the last chain fell, she jerked open the door.

“I've been up for hours! Where have you been?”

“Good morning to you too. Why the hell didn't you ask who it was? I could have been your friendly neighborhood rapist. I could have been Demos' own personal devil.”

He saw she simply hadn't thought about that. She was suddenly trembling, and he saw it, and he was sorry to have reminded her. But, dammit, she shouldn't forget. Her teacup rattled.

“Come on, I didn't mean to scare you, but you've got to be more careful.” He started to put out his hands to grasp her shoulders, then didn't. No, she'd likely pull away from him as fast as she could.

“No, I'm not really scared. It's just that I'd forgotten about the other. I've just been waiting and waiting, and your ring just startled me, that's all. I want to go run and I didn't know your number and I'd promised you that I wouldn't leave the apartment. Is it safe for us to run?”

He would have preferred not to run, not out in the open like that, making them easy targets, but he saw the excitement in her eyes, so clear to him, and he grinned down at her from a distance of only three inches. “Safe enough, I think. We'll just take a few extra precautions. And I came prepared.” He lifted a black canvas bag. “I've got lots of goodies in here, since I didn't know what you normally do on a Saturday morning.” He paused a moment, a black eyebrow raised. “Can I change in your bedroom without you running away?”

“Yes.”

“Good. How about a cup of very strong coffee?”

“Bacon? Eggs? Toast?”

He said easily, “No, not if I'm going running with you, but thanks for the gracious offer.”

“Go change,” she said. “All right, I'm sorry for being rude.”

They took a taxi to Central Park South and spent the next hour running at an easy pace. He'd found out she always ran the other end of the park, around the reservoir, and told her that predictability was something to avoid from now on. They'd start from here and stay on the southern end of the park. Taylor's shoulder holster was strapped down tight beneath a loose sweat-top. He wondered if she could see the bulge. He found its weight soothing. He kept to the inside of her, closest to any hidden spots where someone might be lying in wait. He was pleased at her endurance. He didn't have to particularly slow himself down. It wasn't a vigorous workout for him, but on the other hand, it wasn't a piece of cake either. He'd seen no one suspicious lurking around. He recognized several questionable characters from his days as a cop, but didn't worry about them. One of them, an old buzzard with no teeth, even waved at him, grinning widely.

She was wearing iridescent orange shorts, a loose green top, ratty running shoes, and a bright pink headband. She was sweating, her hair matted to her head, all the thick deep waves pulled back in a severe ponytail. Her face was clean of makeup. She was heaving, and there was a long sweat stain from her throat down between her breasts.

And all of a sudden he realized he wanted to kiss her, all over, everywhere, not miss a single patch, which would take a good amount of sweet time because her legs were longer than a man's dreams. He pulled back, tossing her a towel.

She grabbed the towel and wiped her face as she said, “You're barely sweating, you pig.”

“I'm a man,” he said, and to his astonishment, she stilled, withdrawing as she had the day before. He chose to ignore it, adding easily, “Like I said, I'm a man, not some sort of girly girl who can barely do a ten-yard dash. Besides, I thought the myth was that females didn't sweat, they glowed or something like that. I just might have to turn you in.”

She came back, softly, slowly, but finally she was there again, the wariness, the stillness, quashed for the moment. But always there, always hovering near. What the hell was wrong with her? Maybe it was this threat business, nothing more. Yeah, maybe that was it. But he didn't think so.

No, it was him as a man that scared her.

Taylor / Eden

 

Lindsay always shopped at the Challed grocery market on the corner. Taylor had her write out a list for him. They'd taken enough risks today.

“It's a habit,” he said. “Habits we break, all of them. We either go together, which isn't smart, or I go alone.”

She gave him a list and he whistled as he added cookies, wine, beer, chips, and cold cuts to the grocery cart. He felt like hardening a few arteries. Maybe he could even talk her into eating a Frito.

She ate a sandwich with no mayo, no butter, and one slice of nearly fat-free honey ham and a glass of Diet Coke. He felt like a junk-food pig, his plate loaded with chips and two salami-and-ham sandwiches, mustard oozing over the sides, a cold Amstel close to his hand.

“You want to see that movie tonight—
Black Prince
?”

She was delighted and again he marveled at the simple joyousness his suggestion brought her. He wanted to tell her it was just a movie, nothing more, but her obvious pleasure kept him silent.

Having been a cop, Taylor found the movie
unbelievable, downright silly in places, but nevertheless he enjoyed himself. Eden was finally relaxing with him. They came out, he looking about methodically at the crowd of people pressing near them, at people's hands mainly, and she talking a blue streak about the male lead and how he couldn't be blamed for believing his brother had betrayed him to the drug lords, how he had really been working undercover for the DEA.

Yeah, right, Taylor thought. He made appropriate noises, keeping her close, keeping her to the inside, his place always slightly ahead of hers. If she was aware of his actions, she gave no sign of it.

It took a while to get a taxi and it made him nervous. It would have been brighter not to have brought her out tonight. But no one followed, he was certain, and he breathed easier. When they got to her apartment, Taylor checked every room thoroughly, gave her both his cell phone number and his apartment phone number, and said as he was turning to leave, “Thanks for a fun evening, Eden. I enjoyed it, job or not. Remember everything I told you.”

After he'd gone, after she had herself double-checked all her locks, Lindsay made herself a cup of tea and adjourned to her living room. She nestled in among her cushions on the sofa. She wasn't at all tired. In fact, she felt wired, restless, bedeviled by a fit of nerves, as her grandmother was wont to say. She picked up a historical romance but couldn't get herself settled into the novel. She prowled a bit, frowning at herself. Some ten minutes later, as she was showering for bed, she realized what was wrong. It wasn't the threat; it was Taylor. She could see him so clearly, right now, in her mind, smiling at her. She liked him. She'd been
sorry to see him leave tonight. She hadn't wanted him to go. A man, and she actually liked him. More than that, she trusted him. At least she trusted him to keep her safe.

On Sunday night, after a day spent watching professional football games on TV, Taylor left, repeating his same instructions, his same admonitions. Lindsay showered and put on her nightgown, then straightened the devastation in her living room, listening with only half an ear to the ten-o'clock news. She dropped the bowl that had held a gallon of popcorn during the second half of the game between the 49ers and the Giants. She whirled around and stared at the TV. The director of the commercial shot on Friday morning in Central Park, George Hudson, age thirty-six, had been badly beaten and locked in the trunk of his car in a long-term parking lot near the Lincoln Tunnel. He was alive but in guarded condition at St. Vincent's Hospital. He suffered broken ribs, injuries to his spleen and liver. His face had been severely beaten. He had a concussion. Police were, for the moment, calling it a vicious mugging or a gang attack, although they couldn't explain why muggers or a gang would leave over two hundred dollars in Hudson's wallet. Drug dealing was speculated upon. But that sounded farfetched. There were as yet no clues, no suspects. Hudson had been able to tell police just moments ago that he'd been attacked in the parking lot some three hours earlier by two masked assailants. He knew nothing more. They hadn't said anything, just beaten him senseless.

The moment the newscaster moved on, Lindsay's phone rang. She lurched up to answer it, then remembered. She waited, her hand out, for the answering machine to kick in. It did, and she heard
Taylor's voice. She picked up the phone immediately. Before she could say a word, he said very calmly, his voice pitched low, “I know. I just saw it. Stay put. I'll be there in ten minutes. Don't move, Eden.”

He arrived in eight minutes. Taylor looked at her white face and very slowly put out his arms. Very slowly he drew her against him. “It's all right. It's all right. You're safe.”

The phone rang shrilly.

Taylor motioned her to a chair, noticing for the first time that she was wearing a voluminous white nightgown that covered her from throat to toes, and answered the phone himself. It was Demos and he was terrified and babbling.

“My God! Is that you, Taylor? Did you hear? Oh, my God! You can't say anything, Taylor, you can't. You got that? Keep your mouth shut. Oh, my God.”

Taylor let the man's shock and fear run itself out. He said finally, “I have to talk to the cops, Demos. I have no choice, surely you realize that. I would suggest you pay off these thugs and keep clean after this.”

“Yes, yes, I swear I will, but don't tell the cops, you can't!”

Taylor stared at the phone. “Why not?”

“You fool, they'll kill me, that's why not! If you tell the cops, they'll be on my doorstep in no time at all. What the hell would I tell them? Give them names and addresses? Are you out of your fucking skull? God, the moment I spit out one single name, I'm history! I'm dead meat. These guys don't know I hired you, Taylor—and they still don't, because they weren't ever after Eden. They believe it's just me who knows. You can't call the cops!”

Taylor sighed. Demos was right. He didn't want the man killed, no matter how much of an ass he was. “Do you promise me you'll pay them off?”

“Sweet Jesus, yes, yes!”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes!”

“And you'll break your own neck before you ever get yourself into a mess like this again?”

There was a brief hesitation. “I mean it, Demos. Damn your eyes, I don't want Eden in any more danger. If they threatened you, that would be different, but not Eden, not any more innocent people, you got that?”

“Yeah, I got it. I swear, Taylor, I swear. You can trust me.”

Very doubtful, Taylor thought. “Good. Don't forget, Demos, that I know. If ever you screw up again, I'll go to the cops and your hide will be on the line. Another thing, if George Hudson dies, it's a new ball game. No covering up. I have to go to the cops then.”

“He won't die. Don't tell the cops. I'll do anything, I swear.”

“Yeah, right.” Taylor hung up, turned slowly, and said to Lindsay, “It's over. Demos has promised to pay his debt.”

“That's good,” she said, her voice as blank as a sheet of paper.

“I hope Hudson hangs on.”

“I do too. I'll visit him tomorrow. Make sure he'll be okay.”

He smiled at her. She was getting her balance back. “Good idea. You know something? I still think you need protection. Anyone who prowls in front of the TV biting her nails over an intercepted pass and howling whenever a penalty is called, definitely
needs a guard. What it comes down to is this: I want to see you again. A date this time, not a job. How about it, Eden?”

She'd met him two days before. It seemed much longer. He was smiling but she saw the tension in him. He really wanted to see her again. It surprised her and pleased her and made her only mildly wary.

“Yes,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes. “Yes, I'd like that.”

 

The following Tuesday, the temperature plummeted to the mid-twenties. It had rained during the night and stopped early Tuesday morning, leaving frozen streets and sidewalks. Traffic was a god-awful mess, taxi drivers screaming and cursing, tempers short and foul, and pedestrians extra careful when crossing the streets even with the light. Lindsay was bundled up to her eyebrows. She was walking toward the library on the Columbia campus to search out articles for Gayle on the dangers of gymnastics for preadolescent children. “The most recent articles only,” Gayle had said. She listed out the articles she'd downloaded off the Internet so she wouldn't duplicate them, and she needed more. “You're wonderful, Lindsay. I love you and I owe you. Call it my Christmas present. Now you don't have to spend a dime on me.”

It was so bloody cold that Lindsay had quickly forgotten how wonderful she was. She looked up, but the library still seemed a goodly distance away. She thought of George Hudson and the horror she'd felt when she'd visited him the day before. His face was a battered mess, his nose broken, stitches on his jaw and over his left eye. The bruises made him look a nightmare. He'd been very surprised to see her, but pleased in his way. He was
going to live and he would heal. He just didn't understand why anyone would beat him up. It was a mystery. She felt such guilt she'd left as soon as politely possible. She stopped off and ordered flowers sent to him.

Finally, the Columbia library loomed up, its pale brick facade looking as cold and damp and uninviting as it ever had when she'd been an undergraduate.

She took the deep steps two at a time, stopping when she heard a man's voice. “Lindsay! Lindsay Foxe! Wait a minute. Stop!”

She wasn't about to stop. Once she was inside, she unwrapped the scarf around her neck and lower face, not wanting to turn but knowing he would come after her, knowing as she stood there that she'd have to look at him, face him.

There was Dr. Gruska, breathing heavily, his tweeds covered with a Burberry coat, coming toward her.

She forced herself to remain perfectly still. Students were all around. It was warm. She was safe.

He hadn't changed. Of course it had been only four years, but still, she'd expected him to be sporting more white in his hair, more wrinkles on his neck. He looked just the same, only now he must be in his mid-fifties. Old enough to be her father.

“Lindsay,” he said, smiling, stopping in front of her. He held out his hands to her but she didn't move. He dropped them. He rushed into hurried, intense speech. “I have tried to find you but you don't have a listed number. I've tried so hard. I even saw your friend Gayle Werth some time ago and she gave me your phone number, but she got it wrong.”
The stupid bitch
hung in the air, unspoken but well understood by Lindsay. “I was just
about ready to try one of those people locator services on the Internet.”

He stood there, now in front of her, looking for the world like a hopeful aging puppy. He pulled the expensive fox fur hat from his head and stripped off his expensive leather gloves.

“How are you, Dr. Gruska?”

“Oh, things go along here, but there are changes, horrible changes. Now that my profession has debunked Freud, philistine unenlightened fools that they are, I find I must accommodate myself to approaches of which I do not approve. Can you imagine—it is expected now that a psychologist deal not with the root causes of an illness but only with the aberrant symptoms! The idiots call it eclectic therapy or survival therapy or reality therapy to make it sound legitimate. It's absurd, and then there's all this drug nonsense to control people but not understand them. I am considering private practice since my colleagues are so shallow, but what I have always preferred is dealing with bright students. They, I have always found, grasp the truth of things, and Freud is unvarnished truth.”

Jerk.

“How unfortunate for you, Dr. Gruska. I trust your father is well?” Old Dr. Gruska, from what Lindsay had heard about him, was reminiscent of the robber barons of the last century. He was still chairman of the board of the Northwestern New York Bank and ruled all with his iron hand, including his only son, Dr. Gruska the Younger. His “ doctor” handle had been conferred in the late seventies by Northwestern University. On that day he had become Dr. Gruska the Elder to all and sundry.

“Oh, yes, my dear father, Dr. Gruska, is in top form. He's nearly eighty, you know, but a man of
great stamina and fortitude. I still cherish his guidance. If Dr. Gruska knew you, he would send his love, I know. I've spoken of you so often to him. Please, let me buy you a cup of coffee. It's so cold today and I didn't want to come in, but I'm so glad I did. Come, Lindsay, I want to speak to you, I must speak to you. There is so much for us to discuss, for me to share with you.”

She forced herself to look at him with clear unafraid eyes. She remembered her father and her heels. She'd won then. No intimidation. Never again. And she said, smiling slightly, “No, thank you, Dr. Gruska. I'm in a rush right now. It was nice to see you again.”

“No! Wait, you must give me your address, your phone number!”

There were at least six Columbia students within three feet of them. Lindsay shook her head. “I don't think so, Dr. Gruska. Why would you want my phone number anyway?” She wished immediately that she hadn't asked, for his show of uncertainty was replaced by a confidence that startled her with its arrogance. “So,” he said slowly, stroking his jaw, “you are still afraid of men, I see.”

She felt the deep corrosive fear. She held herself steady, still smiling at him. “It's none of your business, Dr. Gruska.”

He leaned toward her, touching her arm. “Oh, but it is, Miss Foxe. I see now that you're a model, that you're known only as Eden. My dear father, Dr. Gruska, finds you immensely attractive. As I said, I've told him all about you. I've enjoyed seeing all the photos of you as well, but I know what they hide. They change you and you are willing to be changed, to be concealed, to be viewed as another woman, one who is not real. Even your
name, Eden—ah, the beginning, the innocence, the purity—it is not you, but just another device to hide you from the world, from yourself. You must let me—” He broke off, as if realizing his words weren't achieving the effect he wished, for her face was pale and set. Oddly, there was rage in her eyes, not fear. He continued, his voice gentle now, “I do not mean to distress you. It has been a very long time since your brother-in-law—well, since that traumatic time in Paris. So very long ago. If only you would let me help you. I can, you know, professionally as a doctor, and as a friend, a friend who is also a man who would take care of you, protect you, understand you.”