down, and then holding the book up to the glowing light, he began to read. He read until the words rode each other piggy back and the book dropped from his big, limp hand.
*
And he dreamed.
In the dream Bella, cut and bloody, her head dangling by a strand of ragged flesh, rose from the slab in the morgue and walked. Zombie-like she walked, every step puddling pools of cold, inky blood. Her hands were no longer bound behind her back by her green, sequined pants. Her arms hung loosely at her sides. Her ripped torso dripped entrails. Intestines hung so low that she nearly stepped on them. Slowly she raised one bloody hand and pointed a finger at Hanson. He could not see himself in the dream, but he knew the finger was pointed at him. Her lipless mouth opened, moved, but no sound came out. She came closer. Her mouth was still moving. Blood leaked at the Corners but still no sound. She reached out with her red streaked hand to touch Hanson.
"Wha . . .!"
Hanson came awake, Rachel's hand resting on his shoulder.
"Marve," she said. "You okay?"
"Huh ..." Light streamed through the window, lay across his body in yellow slats. The Glory of the Hummingbird lay in his lap. Rachel, smooth as silk, the color of creamed coffee, smiled the smile.
"You were having a nightmare," she said, sitting down on the arm of the chair. She was wearing a plaid, ankle-length robe. It wasn't the sort of outfit that would look good on most women, but Rachel wasn't like most women. Hanson could smell her just-out-of-the- shower, fresh-soaped scent. She picked up the book. "De Vries gave you a nightmare?"
"No. Not De Vries."
Rachel's dark, brown eyes became serious. "What then?"
Hanson smiled, reached up to touch her thick afro hairdo. On the sides and the back it was almost to her shoulders.
"You have very nice hair," Hanson said.
"The nightmare, Marve. What was it about?"
"Work."
"About work?"
"Work brought it on."
"Tell me about it."
"Nothing to tell really . . . Little something just got to me, that's all."
"What got to you? You never have nightmares. I only remember you having one nightmare ever, and that was too many tacos that caused that."
"I still wince at the thought."
"About last night."
"There was a murder."
"I don't mean to sound cold, but in your business, isn't there always?"
"Yeah. But this one was different. Pressure is getting to me, I guess. It'll pass. Just too much blood this time."
"You need a vacation."
"Yeah. Maybe it's just an accumulation of years and bodies. No big thing."
"You still haven't told me about it."
"Honey, it's nothing ... I mean it's nothing you want to hear."
"If it's bothering you let me hear it. Talking it out might help."
Hanson put his arm around her waist, pulled her off the chair arm and into his lap. He ran his fingers through her hair, wondering as he often did, what a beautiful woman like Rachel saw in a gorilla like him. He took the book from her hand and dropped it on the carpet. He said, "Kiss me, you fool."
Smiling she did, but briefly. "You going to tell me about it?" she asked, pulling away.
"Nope."
"Why not?"
"You always wake up beautiful."
Rachel grinned. "Baby, I stay beautiful."
"That's, T stays beautiful, baby.' You're falling down on your black accent."
"Weren't we talking about dreams?"
"Were we?"
"Don't change the subject."
"Subject?"
"Marvel"
"Forget it, Rachel. It was a stupid nightmare. What time is it, by the way?"
"You're changing the subject again." Rachel looked at her watch, practically sprang out of Hanson's lap. "ShitI What am I doing sitting here. I've got to get Jo Anna off to school and my ass off to work." _
"Uh huh."
"You win this time," Rachel said feigning anger, "but next time . . ."
"Sure. Scoot, you'll be late."
And she went; graceful, quick and sensuous . . . and unfortunately, thought Hanson, off to work.
When Rachel was out of sight, Hanson picked up the De Vries book and returned it to the bookshelf. He stood looking at the
*
And he dreamed.
In the dream Bella, cut and bloody, her head dangling by a strand of ragged flesh, rose from the slab in the morgue and walked. Zombie-like she walked, every step puddling pools of cold, inky blood. Her hands were no longer bound behind her back by her green, sequined pants. Her arms hung loosely at her sides. Her ripped torso dripped entrails. Intestines hung so low that she nearly stepped on them. Slowly she raised one bloody hand and pointed a finger at Hanson. He could not see himself in the dream, but he knew the finger was pointed at him. Her lipless mouth opened, moved, but no sound came out. She came closer. Her mouth was still moving. Blood leaked at the Corners but still no sound. She reached out with her red streaked hand to touch Hanson.
"Wha . . .!"
Hanson came awake, Rachel's hand resting on his shoulder.
"Marve," she said. "You okay?"
"Huh ..." Light streamed through the window, lay across his body in yellow slats. The Glory of the Hummingbird lay in his lap. Rachel, smooth as silk, the color of creamed coffee, smiled the smile.
"You were having a nightmare," she said, sitting down on the arm of the chair. She was wearing a plaid, ankle-length robe. It wasn't the sort of outfit that would look good on most women, but Rachel wasn't like most women. Hanson could smell her just-out-of-the- shower, fresh-soaped scent. She picked up the book. "De Vries gave you a nightmare?"
"No. Not De Vries."
Rachel's dark, brown eyes became serious. "What then?"
Hanson smiled, reached up to touch her thick afro hairdo. On the sides and the back it was almost to her shoulders.
"You have very nice hair," Hanson said.
"The nightmare, Marve. What was it about?"
"Work."
"About work?"
"Work brought it on."
"Tell me about it."
"Nothing to tell really . . . Little something just got to me, that's all."
"What got to you? You never have nightmares. I only remember you having one nightmare ever, and that was too many tacos that caused that."
"I still wince at the thought."
"About last night."
"There was a murder."
"I don't mean to sound cold, but in your business, isn't there always?"
"Yeah. But this one was different. Pressure is getting to me, I guess. It'll pass. Just too much blood this time."
"You need a vacation."
"Yeah. Maybe it's just an accumulation of years and bodies. No big thing."
"You still haven't told me about it."
"Honey, it's nothing ... I mean it's nothing you want to hear."
"If it's bothering you let me hear it. Talking it out might help."
Hanson put his arm around her waist, pulled her off the chair arm and into his lap. He ran his fingers through her hair, wondering as he often did, what a beautiful woman like Rachel saw in a gorilla like him. He took the book from her hand and dropped it on the carpet. He said, "Kiss me, you fool."
Smiling she did, but briefly. "You going to tell me about it?" she asked, pulling away.
"Nope."
"Why not?"
"You always wake up beautiful."
Rachel grinned. "Baby, I stay beautiful."
"That's, T stays beautiful, baby.' You're falling down on your black accent."
"Weren't we talking about dreams?"
"Were we?"
"Don't change the subject."
"Subject?"
"Marvel"
"Forget it, Rachel. It was a stupid nightmare. What time is it, by the way?"
"You're changing the subject again." Rachel looked at her watch, practically sprang out of Hanson's lap. "ShitI What am I doing sitting here. I've got to get Jo Anna off to school and my ass off to work." _
"Uh huh."
"You win this time," Rachel said feigning anger, "but next time . . ."
"Sure. Scoot, you'll be late."
And she went; graceful, quick and sensuous . . . and unfortunately, thought Hanson, off to work.
When Rachel was out of sight, Hanson picked up the De Vries book and returned it to the bookshelf. He stood looking at the
Similar Books
Blaze of Memory
Nalini Singh
Harness
Viola Grace
Gone and Done It
Maggie Toussaint
All He Desires: The Complete Series
Erin Lark
Cambodia Noir
Nick Seeley
No Use Dying Over Spilled Milk
Tamar Myers
My Number One: Kasha & Knox
Janice Ross
Do You Take This Enemy?
Sara Orwig
Why They Run the Way They Do
Susan Perabo
Man with a past
Jayne Ann Krentz