Falling Again (9 page)

“Not my sweet young thing tonight, are you?” she whispered, then giggled.

“I’ll show you sweet young thing, lady,” he said and flipped them both so she was on top of him, straddling his hips. He rummaged under the pillow until he found the condom he’d stashed there in anticipation of just this moment and handed it to her. “Here, we’re going to need this in about two minutes.”

She ripped open the packet and made a move as if to put it on him. But before she had even begun to cover him, she stopped, put the condom aside and slid down his body until she was between his legs. Holding his gaze with hers, she took his penis in her hand and licked her lips. The look she gave him was almost enough to finish him, so lascivious, so erotic, so fucking sexy was it. He didn’t think it could be hotter but when she stopped licking her lips and licked him, the temperature went high enough to burn him. He closed his eyes, all his attention focused on her very busy mouth around his rock hard penis as she licked and sucked him until he didn’t think he could stand it any longer.

Seeming to know when she’d pushed him to the limit of his control, she looked up at him as she felt around for the condom, the wicked smile back again. As soon as she unrolled the rubber over him, he lifted her by the hips so she was over him and slowly lowered her body onto his. Her moan as he entered her was all he needed to thrust deep into her again and again, as she rode him to her second orgasm. With only a few more thrusts, he poured himself into her.

• • •

Hours later, after another round of sex, they lay side by side. She wanted more than anything to stay wrapped in his arms for the night but she knew she couldn’t. “You’re a very special man, Mr. St. Claire.”

“I’m glad you think so, Ms. McCarthy. Because I think you’re one hell of a woman.”

She dropped a quick kiss on his mouth and sat up. “But, special as you are, I have to get home.”

“Wow, I’ve heard of fuck and run, but I’ve never been the victim.”

It was all she could do to keep a straight face. “That’s not what I’m doing, Nick, and you know it. It’s late, I have an early morning breakfast with a source and I can’t go to the meeting dressed in the same clothes I had on when I left the office tonight…last night.”

“Your source would know?”

“My editor, who’s included in the meeting, would. He saw what I changed into before I left to meet you. And I’d never hear the end of it if I showed up in this dress.”

“Must be important for both of you to be there.”

“It is.” She hesitated, not sure how much she wanted to share, but then added, “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow night if you’re still interested.”

“Can’t. I’m headed to the Washington coast tomorrow. I’ll be back sometime early Friday. Are you around on Friday night for dinner or something?”

“I have theater tickets for Friday.”

“Oh.” He frowned.

She was perversely happy to hear the disappointment in his voice. “Want to go with me? My usual theater partner’s out of town.”

Relief replaced the frown. “Absolutely. What’s the play?”

“One of my favorites:
The Importance of Being Earnest
.”

“Thank God. Not a musical. Dinner before?”

“How about downstairs? I’ll meet you here about six.”

“Good.” He sat up, too. “Now, let’s get dressed and I’ll walk you to your car.”

“Big girl here who can find her car by herself.”

“I’m sure you can, but I don’t like to have a woman I care about out on the street alone at this hour. Even in Portland.”

They dressed almost as quickly as they had undressed and went out into the spring night with their arms around each other. She really didn’t pay much attention to what was around her, her mind filled with pleasure at having Nick so close to her.

“Shall I call when I get back?” he asked.

“Please, so I’ll know you didn’t get washed out to sea.” She looked up at him. “I sound perilously close to your sister, don’t I?”

He kissed her lightly on the temple. “Yup, but I hope you have a different reason for wanting me in one piece.”

They had reached the corner of the block where she’d parked. Fiona stepped into the street to cross. From out of nowhere a car came speeding down the dark, narrow street. With cars parked on both sides Fiona didn’t have many places to get out of the way.

Nick grabbed her and pulled her back onto the sidewalk. Holding her close for a long moment afterward, he finally said, “See? I told you I needed to walk you to your car. You could have been hit.”

“It was just some drunk. Where are the cops when you need them?”

“I’ll ask Sam the next time I see him,” Nick said as they continued the walk to her car.

“Fiona, let’s go. We can’t be late. You have everything you need?” Ben Stern was standing over her, the emotion in his normally soft and reasoned voice reflecting his excitement.

“Yup, I’m ready.” She slung her bag over her shoulder and headed toward the door. “How the hell did you convince the attorney to let him talk to us? You’d think a high-priced mouthpiece would keep a client accused of shooting at the mayor from talking to anyone before the trial.”

“I’m not sure his attorney knows. Preston Garland himself called. Wanted to meet at the Starbucks at Pioneer Courthouse Square. Says if he doesn’t see us there at the exact time he mentioned, he’ll go to another paper.”

They arrived at the coffee shop to find only one empty table and no one to interview.

“Damn.” Stern looked at his watch. “We are here at the right time. What the fuck?”

His phone rang. He answered, listened for a few seconds, said, “We got here on time…” but was interrupted. She watched him go to the door and look outside, wave at something—someone—then return to the table. “Okay, we’ll be there.” He ended the call and motioned to Fiona to follow him.

“What’s up?”

“He’s playing spy games. He says to come across the street to Nordstrom’s and he’ll take us to a ‘secure location’ where we can talk.”

“What kind of nut job is he?” she asked as they waited for the light to turn green.

“The kind who will make a great story for the next edition of the paper.”

They crossed Broadway and joined Preston Garland, who wore the same jeans and T-shirt he’d been photographed in after he shot up the City Council chambers. He exhibited a level of over-excitement in his long strides that had Fiona almost running to keep up.

Garland led them a few streets away, zigzagging block by block, crossing streets unnecessarily, to the Park Blocks where he picked out a bench for them. Stern raised an eyebrow at her and she nodded in agreement. A bench in a city park wasn’t exactly the ‘secure location’ she’d been picturing either.

When they’d settled the ground rules—he allowed notes but no recording, would only give them twenty minutes, and wanted to make a statement first before they got to the questions—the interview began. He started with a long, rambling speech about how “we” were losing control of our country to “them” and how the white man had to stand up for his rights and protect white women from “them.”

The speech included significant amounts of disgusting racial epithets, stereotypes and insults, and Garland seemed to be on the verge of taking up the whole twenty minutes when he suddenly ran out of steam and stopped talking.

“I’m not clear on who ‘we’ is. Could you be more specific?” Fiona asked.

“Of course I mean the Aryan peoples who settled this country and made it great.”

“Mr. Garland,” she said, “why does that explain your reason for shooting the mayor?”

“She doesn’t belong there and there was no other way to get rid of her.”

“She was elected…”

“By people who don’t know any better.”

“Are there people in Portland who do know better?”

“Of course there are. A few enlightened men who should be in charge.”

“Mind telling me who?”

He smirked and crossed his arms over his chest. “Why don’t you show me how smart you are by telling me who you think I mean and I’ll let you know if you’re correct.”

Fiona looked at Ben, who nodded. “How about Duke Wellington? Is he one of the people who know better?”

“He certainly could be. He knows what makes the city tick.”

“J. H. Ondsdorph?”

“A fine business man and great patriot.”

“Sherman Bischler?”

“Absolutely. He certainly belongs in any group of leaders. He’s head and shoulders above most of the city’s politicians.”

“I thought you said you’d tell me if I was correct?”

“Perhaps you’re not as smart as you think you are. If you were, you’d know exactly how to read my answers.”

“Do you think Wellington, Ondsdorph, or Bischler are the kind of people who could run the city better?”

“Of course they could. There are people in city government already who could do a better job, who aren’t happy with the way things are going.”

“Staff people or elected officials?”

“People.”

“You’re not being very specific here, Mr. Garland.”

“You’re not asking the right questions, Miss McCarthy.”

“What’s the right question?”

“I’m not stupid enough to fall for your tricks.”

“How about going on record about who’s paying your attorney, then. I hear he’s very expensive.”

“The friends who are supporting me in this endeavor have been generous but prefer to remain anonymous.”

“Paying you for what you did in City Hall?”

“Supporting me in this endeavor.” He looked at his watch. “I see our time has expired. I hope this helps you understand what I did. I’m only sorry I failed at my attempt to remove her from office. The next person will have better luck.” He rose from the park bench and walked away.

“Not exactly what I hoped we’d get,” Stern said.

“No, but we have the ‘next person’ comment to play with and if I talk to a few other folks, maybe in the DA’s office and in City Hall, I think we can still get a decent story out of this.”

“One of the reasons I love having you around, Fiona, is you can always make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”

“Preston Garland is more than just the ear of a pig. He’s the whole porker.”

• • •

Dinner and the theater with Nick on Friday ended with him staying at her house so they could get an early start on the next day, when he’d asked her to join him on a trip to Mt. Hood. At 5
A.M.
they set out to drive up the Columbia River Gorge, accessing Mt. Hood from the north.

It was a perfect day for his photography. A few early rhododendrons were in bloom. An occasional steam plume vented from inside Mt. Hood. Mt. Jefferson was clearly visible to the south against the cloudless blue sky. Nick got shots of Timberline Lodge and its year-round ski facilities; they did some poking around the little town of Government Camp before heading east to look at campgrounds and lakes.

Fiona drove to the parking area she thought she remembered for Lava Lake, a particularly scenic area where she had camped several times with friends when she first lived in Portland. After they’d hiked in for a while, she had to admit she wasn’t sure this was the right place.

“Nothing looks familiar and I sure don’t see any signs of a lake. It was a bit remote but not this far off the beaten track.”

“It’s okay, Fee. I have most of what I want anyway as scouting shots. And the light’s wrong for me to get anything I can use for exhibition photos.”

“Oh, wait, there’s a trail there.” She pointed to her left. “Maybe I found it.”

“This is the last trail, beautiful. I’m running out of bread crumbs.”

She strode ahead, Nick following close behind, but a hundred yards along, the trail curved and as she rounded the corner she stopped suddenly.

“Hey,” he said, “put on your brake lights or I’ll rear-end you.” He patted her bottom. “Although you do have a nice rear end to run into.”

She didn’t acknowledge his pats or his comments. “What the hell is
that?
” she asked, pointing at a large and expensive-looking building in the trees about fifty yards ahead of them. She was sure the owner probably called it a cabin, but it was just a cabin the way the Empire State Building was just an office building.

It was built entirely of logs with a covered porch wrapped around the front and sides of the structure. Oversized rocking chairs and tables, also built of logs, were spaced along the expanse. It had a green metal roof, now dusted with dead fir needles from a winter’s worth of storms, and surprisingly small windows in the front.

“Who the hell owns it, I wonder?” she asked.

“People who build this far into Forest Service land usually don’t feel it necessary to have welcome mats out with their names on them,” Nick observed.

“I suppose you’re right.” She walked closer. “Look how big it is. From the lack of weathering in the logs, it can’t be more than a year or two old.” She turned to Nick, who had stayed behind. “Aren’t you curious? I am.”

“You’re not the kind of reporter who breaks into buildings, are you?”

“No, I’m not, any more than you’re a paparazzi. I just want to look in.” She called, “Hello, anyone home?” as she neared the cabin. There was no answer. “Hello, the house. Is there anyone there?” Still no response.

By then she was at the foot of the steps to the front porch. She took them two at a time, strode across the porch, and knocked on the door.

“What do you plan to say if someone answers?” Nick asked as he joined her.

“Ask where the lake is, of course. But no one’s answering, are they?” She moved to the window beside the door and looked in. “Oh, shit.”

“What?” he asked as he joined her.

“Look at all the white power stuff.” She pointed to dozens of flags and banners ringed around a huge commons room, which appeared to take up much of the main floor of the building. At the rear was a large open-plan kitchen with a restaurant-size stove and refrigerator. Two sets of steps, one on either side of the cabin, led up to a large balcony forming the ceiling for the kitchen and providing a viewing platform for the common room underneath. There were no visible doors to rooms off the balcony and little room for bedrooms behind the kitchen. It looked more like a conference center than a summer home.