Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,58
and finally gets a break. Five or six years ago, he did a camera safari, and he put together this incredible film about a tribe in East Africa, the men still hunt with spears. That’s when he started getting serious about documentaries. I don’t know if he did the bow-and-arrow thing, but he thought using a spear was the fairest way to hunt. No, ‘the noblest’—the corniest line in the film, I thought. But that’s not the reason the cable companies wouldn’t buy his film. Said it was racist, even though Deano loved the natives he worked with. Took him two years to get that film right. Damn near broke his heart.”
“Spear hunting,” I said. “That’s what you meant when you said ‘at first he just used cameras.’”
“What I’m telling you,” Cressa replied, her tone severe, “is that Deano was a fairly normal guy before the accident. Always pushing the limits—just the opposite of Rob. But, you know, in a healthy way. Like an athlete.”
“Sure,” I said, playing along. “Your brother-in-law was perfectly normal before the head injury. How about some more wine?”
I used it as an excuse to check the window and see what was keeping Tomlinson. For some reason, the man was rowing his dinghy, not using the engine. That was okay. He’d be here in time to guarantee I didn’t do anything stupid. And, so far, the odds against it were improving by the second—with every word that came out of the woman’s mouth.
—
“WHERE WAS THIS SHOT?” I had refilled Cressa’s wineglass and picked up the DVD. The woman had used the bathroom, returning fresh-faced and under control.
“I don’t want to talk about it tonight,” she replied. “You mind? I’d rather not start bawling again.”
The word WHORE!!! on the disc label had been typed, not printed, I noticed for the first time. “You might have a serious problem. You should go to the police like I suggested.”
Cressa tugged the belt of the trench coat tighter and folded her arms as she replied, “Rob’s father wouldn’t like seeing the family name in a newspaper. I wouldn’t like it, either.”
“Even if he’s dangerous?”
“Deano’s not dangerous, I just explained that.”
“You don’t know for sure it’s your brother-in-law,” I said, then tried a more direct approach. “In your prenuptial agreement, is there an infidelity clause? I’m trying to think of every motive possible. Whether it’s Deano or someone else, there has to be a reason for putting so much effort into the surveillance. Your husband says he didn’t know about the cameras. And if you’ve got nothing to do with it—”
“If I’d thought a clause about screwing around was necessary, I wouldn’t have gotten married,” Cressa cut in, then surprised me by taking the disc from my hand. I watched her grimace, struggling to bend the thing until it broke—CRACK!—then she sealed the subject, saying, “There. Like it never happened,” and handed me the pieces. “Can we please change the subject? I’ve had a terrible night.”
I was thinking, Any second, Tomlinson will be here, as the woman stood and told me, “All I want to do is pretend like it’s a month from now. That I’m here to relax and behave like a normal woman. Like I haven’t wasted ten years of my life in a platonic marriage—or should I feel guilty about that, too?”
I shrugged, meaning Whatever you say, which gave her permission, apparently, to unbuckle the trench coat and remove it one slow arm at a time. “It’s warm in here, but I love fires.” Cressa held the coat out for me to take. “Where should I hang this?”
Eye contact: rainforest eyes still glistening, but nothing broken behind those two sharp lenses, and curious about how I would react. It was because of what she wore beneath the coat: a pale lemon chemise that hung to her thighs, spaghetti straps that allowed her body to move cleanly beneath the satin sheen.
“I went running out of the house,” she explained while I turned toward the hat rack. “I was lying there in bed listening to all the sounds, then suddenly just panicked. Threw a few things in a bag and ran. You know how that happens sometimes?”
“It’s important to feel safe,” I agreed as I hung the coat, then immediately headed to the galley to check the window again.
“Don’t get the wrong idea about the nightgown.”
“Why would I?” I replied.
“I’m an emotional wreck, so it’s not the way it might look to your neighbors—but no one saw me.”