Free Chicago Assault by Randy Wayne White Page A

waiting for him. She wore a long, filmy, turquoise nightgown. Her dark hair had been combed down over her shoulders. In the dim light of the hallway, her Italian complexion appeared even darker, her lips fuller, the silhouette of her heavy breasts and the shadow of hips more mysterious.
    â€œI’m so glad you came,” she whispered, kissing him lightly on the cheek.
    â€œYou said no matter how late—and it’s almost daylight, you know.”
    She took his arm and led him to the couch where the negress and the businessman had been performing. She sat close beside him, as if cold or frightened.
    â€œI know exactly what time it is,” she said, her voice as weary as her eyes looked. “I knew at one o’clock and at two o’clock, and every minute and every hour afterward.”
    â€œI thought the doctor was going to give you something.”
    She laughed sadly. “After a night like tonight, it would have taken a club to put me out.” She was silent for a moment, then touched Hawker’s arm. “It was awfully kind of you to come, James.”
    Hawker stood quickly and crossed the room to the bar. “I’m not feeling very kindly, Felicia. In fact, I’m feeling just the opposite. Drink?”
    He poured a shot of brandy for her, then measured half a glass of Scotch for himself. He reconsidered for a moment, then filled his glass the rest of the way. He drank it down in three burning gulps, then poured himself another.
    He heard Felicia get off the couch, heard her cross the room, and felt her touch the back of his neck. He wondered how there could be so much difference in the touch of two women.
    Megan’s touch was like electricity, cool and clean, a shock to the heart.
    Felicia’s hands were warm and wanting but filled with loneliness, like the drawings of winter trees in her bedroom.
    â€œYou are upset, aren’t you?” she whispered.
    â€œYes,” he said. “Yes. I guess I am.”
    â€œIs it because of Saul? Because you had to kill those men?”
    Hawker turned and placed the glass of brandy in her hand. “Yes,” he lied. “That’s the reason.”
    Her dark eyes burned into his as she put the brandy to her lips. “I’ve been sitting here hating myself all night, James.”
    â€œHating yourself? Why?”
    â€œBecause … because I’m glad Saul is gone. Not murdered the way he was. He wasn’t a good man, but he was a kind man. And I wouldn’t wish anything so horrible on him. But I’m glad in a sick, sick way, because it has freed me. And I’ve been hating myself because I know how wrong it is to feel the way I do.”
    Hawker gulped his second drink and poured himself a third. “What do you want me to tell you, Felicia? That it’s okay? That what you feel now is normal and natural, and that you shouldn’t feel guilty about it? Do you want me to play the kindly man-friend with the soft shoulder again? Well, damn it, Felicia, I’m not in the mood. And what you’re feeling isn’t natural, for Christ’s sake. Your husband has been murdered, woman. And you should have the goddamn decency to at least act like you’re sorry.”
    His words smacked into her like a hammer. He watched every word hit its mark, banging away inside the delicate head. She seemed to draw into herself, trembling.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Hawker said quickly.
    She pulled away from him. “No,” she said. “No. You’re right. It’s true. I am awful. God, what a beast I am!”
    She buried her face in her hands, her whole body convulsing. Hawker took her by the shoulders and turned her gently to him. He led her to the couch and sat down, holding her.
    The sobs seemed to originate at the very roots of her being. The horror and sadness and guilt came pouring out.
    Hawker almost envied her. For the first time in a very, very long while, he, too, felt like