Chapter 30

December Twenty-first

With a small murmur of contentment, Mark settled back into the big, fluffy pillows on the king sized bed and did his best to arrange the comforter around his chest without disturbing Jenny. She gave him a small smile before returning her attention to the crossword puzzle she was working on.

Settling a pair of reading glasses on the tip of his nose, Mark started leafing through the latest issue of Newsweek. The first article purported to give a psychological profile for the Cain killer. With a snort of disgust, Mark skipped past it. He knew who the Cain killer or, more correctly, killers, were: Dana had told him as she was driving him home after all the hoopla the night he had been abducted.

At first he had been enraged, and had seriously considered reporting Tom and Mia's actions to the Chief. Limiting their diet to animals had been the primary condition that the Chief had set when he had allowed them to remain free. The more Dana had talked, however, the more his anger had faded. Especially when she told him of the shape that they had been in, and that the change in diet had been her idea. In the end, Mark had kept the information to himself. Despite Tom's recent actions, the man remained his friend.

He was still having a hard time dealing with the consequences of that decision: each time a new Cain killing was mentioned in the paper, guilt nearly overwhelmed him. He hadn't been able to bring himself to talk to his friends since that night.

He was startled when Jenny suddenly asked, "Birthplace of Europa. Four letters. Second one is probably a 'y.'"

After a moment's thought, he replied, "Try Tyre, t-y-r-e."

"You're so smart," Jenny said teasingly as she wrote it in.

"Benefits of a classical education," he replied with a wink.

The second article in the magazine discussed the sudden epidemic of tardiness, AWOL's, and the abandonment of spouses and children among the nation's police forces. The tardiness had become so blatant that many of the individuals even failed to show up for their disciplinary hearings. Nevertheless, most kept their jobs because so many other police officers were dropping off the grid that many departments were having horrendous staffing issues.

The conclusion, based on the results of numerous internal affairs investigations and, more recently, a federal fact-finding commission, was that there was nothing to worry about. There was no foul play, and no one was actually missing. The problems were simply the result of institutional guilt arising from the failure to stop the terrorists who had rendered such a large part of New Jersey uninhabitable, at least for the next decade or two.

Another contributing factor that was mentioned was that so many retirement accounts, already doing poorly as the result of the greed induced recession, had, on average, lost more than half of their remaining value as a result of the post attack stock market crash. According to the article, an increasing number of men and women in blue just weren't willing to put their lives on the line for so little reward. The economic strife also added strain to marital relationships and was a major cause of the increase in divorces and abandonment.

Give them time, the article suggested, and, once the depression and trauma induced stress had run their course, things will return to normal.

Mark thought it was a load of bullshit. Hell, at the current rate of return, he'd have to work until his late eighties to get his 401k back to where it was a year ago, and he was still on the job. For that matter, there hadn't been any extraordinary problems with tardiness or absenteeism in Pittsburgh and, heaven knew, they had more reason to be depressed than most. Besides, the neat, packaged explanation didn't explain why homeless people and migrant workers were vanishing in droves, and barely explained why so many of those in the military were deserting. There had to be a lot more to it than what they were saying. Maybe he would have to call a guy he knew in...

"German mercenary. Seven letters. I'm pretty sure the fifth one is an 'i.'"

"Uh, hessian?"

"You sure? I'm doing it with a pen."

"Yeah, I'm fairly certain. Make the letters small, just in case."

"Hmpf, that doesn't sound very confident to me," she said, but he noticed that she was writing it in anyway.

He skimmed through the next three articles, one on global warming, another on the record breaking cold winter that was hitting most of the country, and a third on the former Vice President being detained for undisclosed reasons by a number of federal agencies, before he found another that piqued his interest.

It seemed that a number of National Guard and Army Reserve armories had been broken into, and the M16's, M4's and M60's stored in them had been stolen. Investigations had been conducted, and arrests had been made. The supposed motive of those arrested, who all insisted that they were innocent, was that they were arming themselves in preparation for the economic collapse that they feared was coming. Mark found it interesting that the article made no mention of whether any of the weapons had been recovered.

"Original host of 'America's Got Talent.' Five letters. I don't know any of them."

"Hell if I know. You know that I don't watch that crap."

"I thought you might have picked it up around the water cooler. I know how you and those scamps you work with love to gab."

"Bah. My scamps and I are hardcore. We don't touch water unless it's heavily laced with caffeine. Plus, no one would dare mention a show like 'America's Got Talent.' Not nearly manly enough. It's 24, one of the CSI's, or nothing at all."

"You do recall that the doctor said you need to cut down on the coffee, right?"

"Yes, mother," he grumbled.

She reached over to give him an affectionate and slightly condescending pat on the head.

The final article was a follow-up on the Jersey reactor. Mark was happy to learn that the government had followed the example of Chernobyl by completely encasing the entire facility in concrete. They had also managed to drain most of the highly radioactive water from a nearby laboratory facility and should be able to start recovering bodies shortly after the holidays. That was good: burying the last of the casualties would be an excellent step for the nation in putting the tragedy behind it.

With a sigh, he put the magazine away and rolled over to face Jenny.

"Here's one for you," he said with a lecherous grin. "It's what I am right now. Five letters. Starts with an 'h' and ends with a 'y.'"

With a little smirk, she put the crossword aside and rolled over to face him.

"Hmm. Gimme a second. How about 'happy?' Aww, how sweet. I'm so glad you're happy. I am, too."

"Although I am deliriously, almost insanely, happy, that's not quite what I had in mind."

"Well, damn. I thought for sure that was it. Okay. How about 'homely?' Are you still worried about that? Don't be. I hardly notice it any more. Although it would be nice if you'd wear a paper bag over your head more often when we went out in public."

Narrowing his eyes in mock indignation, he grumbled, "That's six letters, woman."

"Oh. So it is," she replied innocently.

"Here, I'll give you a hint," he said as his hand stretched out beneath the thick comforter to wrap around her waist and pull her close.

He kissed her warmly before trailing lighter kisses across her cheek. He then blew softly into her ear while sucking gently on her earlobe. She shivered with delight as she melted against him.

"Figure it out yet?" he asked in a whisper.

"Nope. Give me some more hints," she replied breathlessly.

Even as he continued to nibble on her earlobe, he trailed a hand down the side of her body. He grinned as he realized that she was wearing her favorite sleep wear: a satin nighty that predated their twenty year marriage. It was frayed around the edges and had become so threadbare that it was more revealing than the most scandalous attire offered by Victoria's Secret.

His hand passed over the tattered edges of the garment and continued down her thigh, delighting in the feel of her skin beneath his fingers. He wondered how women managed to keep theirs so soft and smooth: was it natural or did it have something to do with all the jars that tumbled from the medicine cabinet each time he dared to open it? He knew better than to ask.

His hand reversed direction and ran caressingly under the nighty and up her side to gently cup a breast.

"I think I'm starting to get an idea," she murmured as she rolled onto her back to give him easier access.

After lingering for a few delightful minutes on her chest, his hand slid back down to palm the slight paunch that she had developed in recent years. He knew that she hated to be touched there, but he couldn't help himself. There was something so feminine, even sexy, about the feel of the soft mass of her belly that he just loved.