Union Atlantic Page 0,78

fine. I'm just catching up on the paper. There's a wonderful piece about walruses with the most amazing pictures. Such odd-looking creatures and they sing these incredible songs to one another. I'll cut it out for you."

"I could come home if you want."

"Nate, don't be silly. I'm fine. Are you staying the night?"

"I might."

"Well, enjoy yourself."

"Did you put the air conditioner on?"

"Oh, no, it's so loud. I hate the sound of it. I've got the windows open and there's a bit of a breeze."

"Mom, you should turn it on. It's broiling."

"It'll cool down."

"Well ... I guess I'll see you tomorrow?"

"All right, then. Good night, dear."

He put the phone back in its cradle, aware all of a sudden of the quiet.

"Nate? What are you doing here?"

He turned in wonder to see Doug already halfway into the room.

"Jason Holland," he finally sputtered. "He's my friend."

"Jesus. What a mind-fuck this party is. Where the hell did Glenda put the bathrooms? I've been looking all over."

"There's one right there," Nate said, pointing to the far end of the room.

When Doug had gone inside, Nate instinctively rose to shut the door to the hallway, his heart sprinting, imagining what would happen if Jason or one of the others were to wander in here now. Slowly, his breathing came under control. He tucked his shirt into his shorts and ran a hand through his hair, wishing he'd had the chance to shower after swimming and sweating out in the yard with the dogs. In the mirror, the fabric bunched now at his waist looked queer so he untucked his shirt again and tried pulling his shorts lower on his hips.

When Doug stepped back into the room, Nate noticed that he was pale, as if he hadn't slept. Strangely, the exhaustion seemed to have removed from his face a layer of his usual indifference.

"So you know the Hollands?"

"Yeah," Doug replied. "I know them."

"I stopped by the house a few times. Have you been away?"

"I've been busy."

The thrill of being alone in a room with him again seemed to make everything else fall away. What would it matter if someone did come knocking at the door? This - between them - this was about what they wanted. Not who the desire made them.

Trying to hide his erection, Nate took a seat on the edge of the bed.

Doug paused to inspect the replica of the ocean liner.

It was the SS Normandie. Just over a thousand feet, according to the brass plaque. As long as an aircraft carrier, with a draft as deep, and likely capable of a similar speed, thirty knots or so, complete with the ballrooms and the luxury suites. Such a classy, elegant profile, she had, the stuff of postcards. Capsized dockside in the Hudson, if Doug remembered correctly, and sold for scrap.

"Glenda's crazy," he observed. "She thinks she's some kind of duchess."

"Mrs. Holland? Yeah. She's a weird cook too."

"Let me guess. You're high as a kite."

"No - I mean, not really. We smoked earlier but - "

"I need a favor," he said, examining the fine thread braided into a miniature length of rope and coiled on the ship's foredeck. "In the old lady's house. There are papers, records, lots of them, I'm guessing. I need as much about the case as you can get. Are you going to do that for me?"

"I thought it was over."

"No. We're just in a new phase."

He came over to stand in front of Nate. A couple of weeks earlier he'd gone so far as to agree to go to a movie with the kid, even though he knew it would only feed his fantasy of the two of them as actually together. Nate had dressed up in pressed chinos and an ironed shirt; he'd even polished his shoes.

To be that innocent, he thought.

He looked up at Doug with such tender hope.

"What do you want from me?" Doug asked. "You want me to fuck you?"

Nate blushed. "Why are you being so harsh?"

"That's what you want. Right?"

When he tried to stand up Doug put a hand on his shoulder and pressed him down again; he turned to face the wall. Looking at the kid's profile, it occurred to Doug how easy it would be to take his head in his hands and with a quick twist of the neck, kill him.

"I swear to God," Vrieger had said to him once, "I wish I had stabbed every one of those passengers to death. At least then I'd know what we did to them."

"You