American Sextet by Warren Adler Page B

omnipotence, challenging his
vulnerability.
    He felt her orgasmic contractions and heard soft moans,
wondering what would happen if she screamed out, alerting the guards. All would
be over then. In his heart, did he want it to be over, leaving just the two of
them ... under the stars in the soft night?
    When his own release came he lifted himself on his toes,
stretching himself taut, his head turned upward like a wolf baying at the moon.
    "Are you happy, Jason?" she whispered.
    "Yes."
    "And not angry?"
    For what, he wondered. He had never been angry with her.
Only himself.
    For a moment, nothing stirred. Life seemed suddenly
suspended. No cars moved through the park. He had heard no horn sounds in the
distance nor the roar of jets taking off and landing from National Airport across the river.
    "In there," he said. "You were wonderful.
For a moment I didn't feel worthy." He stroked her hair. He wondered if
she would be able to face what was to come. Run, he urged her silently, as fast
as you can. If he had shouted it out, would she have obeyed? He didn't want to
know the answer.
    They got into the car. She moved close to him, like an
insect to a flame.
    "You know something, Jason?"
    His mind had drifted as he maneuvered the car out of the
parking place. Finally, he responded.
    "What?"
    "It was easy," she said. "The men liked me.
I mean, they were just like ordinary people."
    "Didn't I tell you?" he said, smiling easily as
he swung the car onto Pennsylvania Avenue.

VII
    Fiona sat on the upholstered white chair, her hands
caressing the satiny arms. The room faced west, but the setting sun's last rays
had already disappeared behind the houses that lined the street. Logic, she
knew, had not brought her here. Why couldn't she let the poor lady rest in
peace?
    She had let her own frustration get out of hand. She had,
indeed, stepped beyond the bounds of police protocol, grilling Martin for no
reason, superimposing morbid fantasies in which he was the villain. Her target,
she knew, was Clint. It was the damnedest thing how thoughts of him stuck to
the surface of her mind, tinging every thought.
    She closed her eyes, probing the hushed silence, wondering
if this was the place where the dead girl waited. Waited for whom? Had it
become, like her own place, a cage?
    Thinking of Clint, following his day's routine, she
wondered if images of her surfaced in his mind, confusing him. Did it prompt
longing? Emptiness? Or was he able to isolate the idea of her, their love, and
put it away until he saw her again? She cursed her vulnerability. It was
impossible to exorcise him. Her longing was acute, pervasive, uncontrollable.
    Was the doomed Dorothy also the victim of this impossible
terror? Had the loneliness become unbearable? Did she really bring on her own
death?
    Tell Ann, Clint, she begged in her heart. And come to me.
Was this the whimpering plea of valiant, plucky Fiona FitzGerald, a woman who
had stormed the male ramparts of the most macho organization in our society? It
sickened her to see herself so helpless.
    She got up and began to search the apartment again, peering
into closets and drawers. They were not as neat as they had been earlier. She
attributed this to Cates, who had poked around and found the little silver pin.
Although he had obviously tried to put things back in order, he had not been as
fastidious as the former occupant. It offended her to know that a man had
disturbed this very private woman's world. She opened Dorothy's underwear
drawer, where white satin panties had once been filed like index cards. It was
a mess now.
    Determined to right this male violation, she began to
refold the garments in that special way that only women know. For some reason,
she could not get it right. Something was wrong with the uniformity of the
pile. It took her some time to discover that three of the satin panties were of
different sizes from the rest. Removing them from the drawer, she stretched
them, noting that they were at least