Chapter 21

Hagar's men interviewed Grace and me, spending about an hour with each of us, and then they interviewed Mary, but not for an hour. They interviewed her over two evenings for a total of six hours. Mary had asked the investigators if I could sit in with her during her interview. Their answer was an unqualified no, and after the interview, she told me she understood why.

"They took me through that night in San Francisco, Brent," Mary said. "Made me relive every second of it. It was horrible. If you had been with me, I could not have opened myself as completely as I did for them."

I hadn't hired Hagar to traumatize Mary, but when I threatened to stop the investigation, she became very upset with me. "No!" she shouted. "It was horrible, but the investigators forced me to remember things, little things, details I didn't tell the police in San Francisco, and they explained why they asked the questions they asked, why they forced me to remember every little detail. Then we talked about Jules, and they helped me remember some things I didn't tell the FBI about Jules, and I thought I'd told the FBI everything. It was devastating, Brent, but the thoroughness of the interview and the details they pulled from my mind like dentists with pliers made a believer out of me. I think you hired the right men to look into that bombing."

Three days after Mary's last interview, my liaison with Hagar called me.

"You will be picked up at your studio at eleven o'clock tonight. Have your lady friend with you," he said and hung up.

A man Mary and I didn't know drove us to the safe house where I'd met Hagar. He wasn't there. I don't even know if my liaison was there because I'd never met him, either. In the safe house, two men neither of us had ever seen introduced themselves using first names only. The big one used Pete as a name, and the shorter one called himself Jack. During the drive to the safe house, we were told to use Ken and Debbie as our names.

Pete and Jack were gracious. They offered us something to drink, which we declined. The four of us sat at the kitchen table. Pete laid a closed manila folder on the table in front of him.

He smiled at Mary. "First, let me apologize to you, Debbie. Our interviewers put you through hell. Please be assured that if there had been any other way, we would not have been so callous."

"I understand," she said.

"And out of your hell, we've come up with an investigative approach that we believe will prove fruitful." He opened the manila folder and removed an 8x10 photograph. He turned the photo so it faced the right direction for her to see it and set it on the table in front of her. "Do you recognize this man?"

She gasped. "He's one of the men who murdered my parents, one of the men who raped me!"

I laid my hand on hers to comfort her. I could feel her pulse. It was beating alarmingly fast.

"He was also one of the victims in the bombing," Pete said.

"What?" I exclaimed, completely shocked.

Pete turned to me. "Ken, we believe the FBI investigation failed because they didn't connect the murder of Debbie's parents to the bombing. Debbie, did you tell the FBI about your night of hell in San Francisco?"

"Yes. Bre... ah, Ken thought there was an outside chance that they might be connected, so I made a point about telling them."

"Did they ask you to describe the men who assaulted you?"

"No. They asked for the name of the San Francisco police officer in charge of the investigation. I gave them Detective Saunders' name, and I assumed that they'd contact him. I described those men to Detective Saunders."

Jack said, "They probably did contact him, and he probably forwarded a copy of his files on the crime, but reading the descriptions of the men who assaulted you isn't as effective as hearing the descriptions directly from you. In fact, the tattoo you mentioned on one of your assailants is what led us to this man." He tapped the photograph on the table with his finger. "His name, by the way, was Karl Hans."

"I didn't tell Detective Saunders about the tattoo. I didn't remember it until your men took me through that night second by second," Mary said.

"What will you do with this information?" I asked.

Pete smiled. "We're going to do what real law enforcement officers don't do. We're going to do a lot of assuming and make some leaps of faith. If our assumptions prove wrong, or we leap into dark pits with nowhere to go, we'll do some more assuming, climb out of the pit and leap in another direction. Our approach is a shortcut that more often than not results in quick solutions. On the down side, sometimes we skip over important clues, which forces us to go back to square one and start over again."

Jack said, "Debbie, we think the information your brother learned that he wasn't supposed to know came from this man." He tapped the photo. "That's the first assumption. The leap of faith attached to the first assumption is that this man and your brother were the actual targets of the bomb."

"Our next assumption," Pete said, "is that the bomber somehow found out about the meeting and planted the IED, or improvised explosive device, ahead of time, detonating it when Hans met with your brother, which effectively eliminated both threats simultaneously. With no evidence at all except the fact that Hans was involved in both incidents, we're leaping to the conclusion that the bombing was tied to your parents' murders, but we don't believe either your mother or you were targets. You and your mother, like the victims besides Hans and your brother in the lounge bombing, were collateral damage."

Jack said, "Which means that your father had to be the target. That said, we're assuming that your father knew something about a man or organization that made your father a serious threat to that man or organization, and because your father frequently traveled to the Orient for his business, we must look into his activities and contacts in the Orient. To that end, we'll need another interview with you."

"What about Milton Tucker?" I asked. "Could he be involved?"

"Yes. He's being checked out as we speak," Jack said.

They set up an appointment for the next interview with Mary.

Jack said, "We'll pick you up and drive you here for the interview." He turned to me. "Tom says that you should consider this your first bi-weekly briefing."

Pete stood up. "I'll drive you back to your studio."

When Mary and I were alone in the studio, I said, "If Tucker hired the men who killed your parents and molested you, you are in mortal danger, Mary."

She hugged herself to calm her nerves, but said, "True, but if Tucker is the sociopath we're trying to identify, I'm in no more danger now than I was when Stark filed my lawsuit. The person who hired those men to kill my parents and then detonated the bomb in that lounge is utterly ruthless, Brent. I don't see Tucker in that role. If he was that ruthless, I'd be dead by now."

"You make a good argument, but still I'd feel better if you and Little Bundle moved into my house until Tucker is eliminated as a suspect, which shouldn't be more than a day or two the way Hagar and his band of merry men operate."

Mary snickered. "That's for sure. They're something else, aren't they? It's scary, baby, but I've got to tell you, I feel better knowing that someone competent is finally working hard for us to identity the madman who ripped both of our lives apart."

"Yeah, me, too. It's getting late. Let's go pick up Little..."

"No, I'll stay with you tonight, but Little Bundle is fine where she is until morning. Joy and I will move into your house tomorrow after sunrise tai chi."

I don't remember my dreams very often, or perhaps I only dream infrequently, but I woke up with a dream fresh in my mind. I'd spent the night in a cemetery, and the dream was attached to Jane Wilson, not Brent Carson. The cemetery was in New Orleans where Jane was buried in an aboveground crypt, a standard practice there. With the water table so high, caskets buried underground would float to the surface and bob around like buoys marking the channels in the Gulf.

As Jane's ghost, I wandered from one crypt topped with a carved stone cross to another crypt with angels sculpted in relief to yet another even more elaborate resting place that included Doric columns. At each crypt I spoke with the dead, telling them of the wonders of the 21^st Century, from kitchen gadgets like espresso machines to a powerful telescope in orbit that studied our galaxy and universe without the earth's atmosphere cluttering the view. The dead expressed doubt, not amazement, I remembered as I gazed into the bathroom mirror. That they doubted Jane pleased me. I don't know why. I was shaving the fuzz off my face.

"A kitten could do that job as well as a razor," Mary said with mischievous gleams in her eyes. "Use whipped cream instead of soap and let the kitty lick your beard away."

"Woman, are you making fun of my attempt to be more manly than I am?"

She giggled, which did nice things to her breasts. I noticed because, like me, she was naked.

"Indeed, I am," she said. "How often do you shave?"

"Once a week, whether I need to or not. Josh Randall had a heavy beard, which required two shaves a day, but he only shaved in the morning and often skipped a day completely. His wife complained incessantly about his scratchy stubble, but deep down where it counted, his rugged masculinity thrilled her."

"Your lack of facial hair does not diminish your masculinity in my eyes, Brent. I don't know if you've noticed, but I think you've been going through a growth spurt."

"I've noticed. It would be difficult for me to not notice. I knew my trousers had either shrunk or I'd grown taller, so I checked. I'm proud to announce that I've reached my father's height of six-two."

She fondled my dangling testicles and flaccid penis. With another giggle, she said, "I was referring to your dick, not your height."

"That I haven't noticed. Is it thicker or longer?"

Her feminine wrist turned, stroking the lengthening shaft. "Longer definitely, but I think it's a little thicker, too."

"Why definitely longer but only tentatively thicker?" I rinsed the soap off my face and dried it with a hand towel. Her tender, experienced touch had given me a full erection.

"My measurement device is calibrated for length, but the calibration for thickness is subjective." She laughed. "For thickness, one size fits all."

I slapped on some aftershave lotion. "Does that mean that my length is no longer perfect for you?"

"Uh-uh. It's perfecter."

"That's not a word."

"Should be." She hopped and sat on the sink counter, leaning back against the mirror as she pulled her feet up to the counter's edge. "Let's measure."

I stepped between her legs and rolled the head of my stiff cock around her vulva. She was wet, so I pushed and slowly sank into her.

"I'll be dipped," I said. "No pun intended, but I think I just hit your bottom."

"Uh-huh, definitely longer. Umm, this feels good."

"It does," I said as I started to make long, smooth strokes. Her feet left the counter edge when she wrapped her legs around me.

"Perfecter," she said as her eyes rolled back in her head. "Suck my nipples, please. I stopped letting Little Bundle dry nurse, and I miss it."

I buried my face in her breasts. Her fingers reached between us and found her clitoris.

"Perfecter and perfecter," she said.

A minute later, I switched breasts, and after both nipples felt hard but still malleable like lead, I leaned back so I could make full strokes again. The mirror wrapped about two feet on both sides of the counter, and I could watch us fuck.

"You're beautiful, Mary Stewart, but you are never more beautiful than when you're fucking."

"Fucking you," she huffed quietly. She was looking to her left to watch us, a different view than I was enjoying. "Fucking you. Fucking you."

I figured she was talking to herself.

Her eyes met mine. Undulating hips met my inward thrusts. Fingers flashed back and forth, stroking her clitoris twice to each of my thrusts. She looked to her right. "Fucking you. Fucking you." Whispers.

Her eyes returned to mine again, and then they rolled back in her head.

"Coming," she whispered. "I'm coming. Come with me. Come in me. Shove that long, thick cock deep inside me and fill me with your come."

She spoke softly, but still her voice expressed urgency. I started to clench as I thrust, and the clenching, the 180° view, combined with my lover's urgent demands pulled semen up through my shaft to splash at that bottom I was bumping.

She gasped; I groaned. We climaxed together, and I stayed with her after the exquisite sensations of my orgasm let go and allowed me to watch her flushed body from three mirrored angles as pulses of pleasure transported her to that place of rapturous sensations.

There is nothing more beautiful than a woman in orgasm.

When she relaxed and smiled at me, I kissed her.

"Definitely longer," she whispered.

I don't know why, but my mind wandered back to my weird cemetery dream. Would Jane Wilson's ghost float from crypt to crypt in my next dream to talk with the dead about the various sizes and shapes of male erections?

Later that morning, I said to Mary, "When I die, I want to be cremated."

She gave me a look that indicated she believed my sudden shift in our conversation might be pointing to the onset of schizophrenia.

When Grace came home for sunrise tai chi without James, I gave her a questioning look. She'd spent the night with him.

"His special cell phone rang early this morning," Grace said. "He's gone for a while."

She slumped onto a patio chair. I sat next to her and took her hand in mine.

"I hate it, Brent. That damned phone rings, and poof! He's gone. I don't know where. I don't know when he'll return, or worse, if he'll return. I can't call him to find out if he's all right, and he doesn't call me. I hate it!"

I turned her hand and kissed her palm. Her fingers were trembling.

"How much do you hate it?" Mary asked.

"Not enough to tell him to take a hike. When... if he comes back to me, I'll move into his arms and hold him close. I love him, dammit. Sometimes I wish I didn't. And I'm holding back. He doesn't have all of me, and each time he leaves, when he returns, I give him less of me than he had before. He knows this. He knows I'm pulling away from him. I can see it in his eyes — the hurt, I mean. I'm hurting him, but I can't stop it. Hurting him is the last thing I want to do, but I must protect myself because..." The tears welling in her eyes overflowed and streaked her cheeks. "Because someday he won't come back. If that happens and I've given him all that I am, I won't survive the grief. I'm holding back to survive, and that feels so selfish of me."

"Surviving isn't being selfish, Grace," I said.

"Sure it is," Agnes said. "But there's nothing wrong with being selfish to survive. Make sure you protect yourself, sweetie."

Grace brushed the tears from her cheeks and rose to her feet. "Let's dance in slow motion and search for our centers. I suspect tai chi is the best cure for what ails me this morning."

Later during breakfast, I said, "Let's go to Lake Powell this weekend."

"The water will be too cold for swimming, Brent," Grace said.

"Then we won't swim," I said.

"Wet suits would keep us warm," Mary said. "Still, I wouldn't want to do any wake boarding in freezing water. Exploring canyons on the jet skis would be fun, though."

"The fishing will be different," I said. "No stripper boils. The cold water at the surface will drive the bait fish down to thirty feet or deeper." I didn't bring up the fact that I'd lost my fishing mentor. I'd need to let my fingers do some Internet surfing to find out what the fishing was like at Lake Powell in early November. "Agnes, do you enjoy boating?"

She grinned broadly. "Yep."

I looked at Grace. "I'd like to invite our architect. If he's going to design our dream house, he'll need to know us better than the two brief meetings he's had with us would allow." We'd had the initial meeting at his house, and he'd met us to walk the property.

My sister stuck her tongue out at me, which cracked me up. "Subtlety isn't your strong suit, buster," Grace said while I laughed.

I tried to look contrite and failed.

"Okay, give him a call," Grace said and shook her head, trying to look exasperated with me. Subtlety might not be my strong suit, but my sister wasn't fooling me, either. She was interested in our architect for more reasons than his designing ability.

I stood up and reached for the phone. "Oops, I don't have his number out here." He'd given me a business card, which I'd filed in Dad's office. I called his home number from the office. When I told him the purpose of my call, he accepted the invitation enthusiastically.

William Evanston didn't join us at Lake Powell to play. He'd taken my suggestion that he should get to know us better seriously, and his conversations with each of us turned into interviews about our wants and needs relative to the dream house. He brought a roll of tracing paper with him, and he sketched while he talked with each of us. Then he'd roll out another length of paper and place it over the sketch to refine the concept or layout of the specific space we were discussing at any given time. In that manner, he covered almost every aspect of the house and outbuildings before we returned to Scottsdale Sunday night.

Bill didn't join us to play, but my sister was of a different mind, and late Saturday morning, she dropped a wet suit in his lap. The wet suit she was wearing molded her svelte body into a work of art that lengthened my dick, and Bill would've had to be dead and cold in a stone crypt to be unaffected by the beautiful woman standing in front of him with her legs slightly spread for balance.

"Put on that wet suit, buster," Grace said. "You and I are going to do some canyon exploring on a jet ski."

Ten minutes later, Bill was hanging on my sister's waist as a jet ski roared away from Sweet Rose toward red-rock cliffs.

"The hot chocolate is ready," Agnes yelled from below.

"I'll take the wheel," Mary said.

"No, let's drop anchor, and you can join Agnes and me below out of the wind." The day was clear, but a brisk wind was blowing from the north. I'd noticed Mary was shivering a little.

A few minutes later, I sat at the table with Agnes and sipped hot chocolate as I watched Mary change into warmer clothes. She hadn't closed the privacy screen all the way, and watching her change lengthened my dick again.

Agnes's gravelly laugh made me look at her. "Which woman excites you the most?" she asked.

I grinned but said nothing.

"I guess silence is the appropriate answer," she said.

Mary joined us. She wore light-blue designer sweats. "That's better," she said. "It's too cold for a bikini."

"Humph," Agnes huffed. "If I could wear a bikini and look good in it like you and Grace, I might make a bikini my normal state of dress." She gave me a teasing look. "Or a wet suit," she added.