Chapter 15

I shut my eyes as the light played across the floor toward the bed. It lingered on us for a moment and then flicked away. I heard the intruder walk toward the dresser and then toward the bed. He was uninterested in us, though. He stopped beside us and reached down. I could hear the change in my pants jingle as he picked them up.

If he wanted my wallet, I thought, he was more than welcome to it. I had maybe thirty-three dollars in there along with the usual credit cards. It was hardly enough to make it worth his while to commit robbery. When he found that that's all he was getting he was going to be royally pissed. He was willing to take that chance, though. I heard him drop the pants and then make his way back out to the living room. He opened the door to the hallway and left.

"Shawn," I whispered.

"Mmmmm," she murmured.

"Shawn. Wake up."

"Why, lover?"

"Cause I've just been robbed."

That did the trick.

"You what?"

"There was a guy," I said. "I think he stole my wallet."

"Why didn't you yell?" she asked.

"And then what? Most people aren't afraid of guys with wheelchairs," I pointed out. "Or of naked women. Come on. I've gotta call the police."

By the time the officers arrived, we were both dressed. Shawn had opted for a pair of my jeans and an old shirt, but she still looked hot enough that both policemen gave her long looks of appraisal. Then they both gave me long looks of amazement. One of them took our statements — my statement, since Shawn had slept through the whole thing — while the other looked around the apartment.

"No sign of a break-in," he reported back after his survey. "He must have picked the lock."

"That wouldn't get him through the deadbolt and the chain," I pointed out.

The policemen traded glances.

"There's nowhere else for him to get in, sir," the first one said. "Perhaps you neglected to fasten them."

"I always fasten them," I said.

Maybe you were a little, um..."

"Distracted," his partner added.

"Yeah. Maybe you were a little distracted tonight. Did you notice him throwing the deadbolt and the chain, ma'am?"

I could tell from Shawn's expression that she was not pleased. I thought she probably resented being ogled like that. It turned out, though, that she was more upset at the officers' treatment of me.

"No, officer," she said, her voice breathy. "I was far too distracted myself by his sensuous lips and soft caresses."

They both frowned. They finished up within 15 minutes and promised to send me a copy of their report.

"Are you okay?" Shawn asked after they had left and I had locked us in.

"Sure. Although it's going to be a while 'til I can sleep. Would you like some tea?"

We were interrupted by a knock at the door. It was one of the policemen. Standard procedure required them to look through the trash cans on their way out of the building and there, on the first floor, they had found my wallet.

"Was there anything else in your pants, sir?" he asked.

I thought for a moment and then quickly wheeled myself into the bedroom. My cell phone was missing. The officer suggested that I notify my carrier and told me that, in light of his discovery, it was unlikely that the "case" would be investigated much further.

We thanked him for his hard work and I finished making tea. It was only two-thirty and we decided to try to return to sleep. Or at least to bed. Once we were settled, though, I sat bolt upright in bed.

"Shit!"

"What now?" Shawn asked.

"My cell phone. It's got her number in it."

"Whose number?"

"My source. I gotta call her."

"Your source? For the dove-hunting stuff?"

"Yeah."

"Can't you just call her tomorrow?"

"No."

I flicked on the light and pulled myself into my chair one more time. I rummaged through my desk and found the phone book.

"Hello?"

"Suzanne, this is Rick Handley."

"Who?"

"The reporter. From the Messenger. Remember?"

"What time is it? Fuck! It's not even three."

"Suzanne." I made my voice as hard and cutting as I could. "You need to listen. Someone just broke into my house for and stole my cell phone. I think they took it because it has the number of your cell phone in it. I know it's not your cell phone, but these people won't take long tracking it down to you."

The line was silent when I stopped talking.

"Are you still there?"

"Yes," she said, her voice small and weak. "Oh, God. What should I do?"

"I'm going to call you a taxi. He'll call you and get your address. When he gets there, he'll bring you here. I'm going to give you my credit card and a calling card. I want you to go somewhere — don't tell me where. Wait a week. Then call me at the paper. Leave a number where I can reach you on my voicemail."

"I can't just —"

"You can. Just call in sick. Suzanne, I'm sorry. These people mean business. You know that better than I do, right?"

I hug up and called Sam Weathers. He was equally sleepy but he finally agreed to comply. An hour later his taxi pulled up outside my house with Suzanne and a small boy inside of it. I handed Sam the thirty-three dollars from my wallet and told him I'd give him whatever else it cost later. I assured Suzanne that everything would be fine.

By then it was almost four o'clock. Shawn had retreated to bed shortly after the phone call. I crawled in next to her and was rewarded with a sleepy kiss on the shoulder. I didn't sleep at all, of course.

My first session of light whip training on Sunday night was an unmitigated disaster. The hardest part was controlling the growth of the whip. If you didn't let it grow, it would fall off. Use it or lose it, so to speak. But that meant that your whip was constantly changing. You had to make constant adjustments in order to effectively use it. And I still hadn't mastered the regular whip.

Fortunately, the first part of the day was great. It wasn't that Shawn and I spent the whole day making love. In fact, she left after we had a leisurely Sunday breakfast. But I did spend the day in that post-coital bliss that lets you find the hidden pleasures in everything else you do, from reading the paper to cooking dinner. At one point while I was watching the ballgame on Sunday evening, I found myself laughing aloud for no reason whatsoever.

When Shawn slipped into her seat next to me at Monday morning's press conference, I slid my hand underneath the desk and gave her hand a squeeze. She rewarded me with a brilliant smile and together we got ready to listen to Pete Simpson. The media was angry. Today's story demonstrated that Pete had lied to us before, in this very room. We were used to being misled; that was part of the job, both his and ours. But lying crossed a line. We were out for blood.

And we were denied. Krissy Mackley appearance in Pete's place sucked all the anger out of the room. Her announcement that Pete had delivered his resignation to the Governor on Thursday evening sucked all the air right after it. The resignation, effective Friday, had allowed Pete to accept a position with Amalgamated Coal. The Governor had appointed Krissy to take his place.

As her first matter of official business as the new press secretary, Krissy apologized to the media for the statements that had been issued by the Governor's press office. Then she turned to me and delivered a personal apology on behalf of the Governor for any derogatory terms that he may have uttered in his misguided effort to protect the reputations of any women who may have accompanied Amalgamated's executives on his recent trip to Texas.

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What Feats He Did That Day

Marsh Alien

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