through both dinner and dessert without once mentioning the episode at Gerald Folsom’s house. Katherine had been afraid they would talk about nothing else, which would only have embarrassed her further. But Paul had been a gentleman, as usual, and, instead regaled her with stories about humorous legal cases he’d handled, keeping her laughing through much of the dinner. Then somehow they’d segued to American literature.
“How do you find time to read so much?” she asked him.
“I don’t sleep. If I get five hours a night it’s a lot. I just finished reading Carl Sandburg’s Lincoln last night.”
“Any good?” she asked.
He smiled and said, “Well, let’s put it this way. Edmund Wilson said, ‘In my opinion Carl Sandburg is the worst that has happened to Lincoln since Booth shot him.’ “
“Ouch! That’s pretty rough.”
“Pretty accurate, too.”
They both chuckled, then the conversation lulled. Katherine finally filled it. “What do you think is going to happen with this Tea Party movement?”
Paul showed a mischievous smile. “John Adams, in a letter to Abigail, wrote, ‘I must not write a word to you about politics, because you are a woman.’ ”
Katherine hadn’t realized that Paul was such a tease. She smiled back and said, “And Abigail once wrote to John, ‘Men of sense in all ages abhor those customs which treat us only as vassals of your sex.’ ”
“Touché,” Paul responded. “To answer your question about the Tea Party, I think it’s causing people to focus on just how mad they are at all politicians. The citizenry is anxious to send a message to the political class that they’re fed up with over-spending, over-taxation, and over-regulation. I think we’re going to see incumbents of both parties get swept out of office, just like what happened in 2010.”
“Of course, we could be in worse trouble if Congress gets taken over by a bunch of freshmen legislators dependent on the bureaucrats and their own staffers,” Katherine said.
“Damned if we do and damned if we don’t.”
“Adlai Stevenson,” Katherine said.
Paul stared at Katherine. “I’m going to have to be on my toes when I’m with you.”
She smiled.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Folsom downed two scotch and waters before dinner and polished off most of a bottle of cabernet sauvignon with his rare steak and baked potato, feeling no pain as he got into his Mercedes and drove home. Images of Wendy lying in her bed, naked under her snow-white silk robe, intruded on his alcohol-fueled thoughts. His mind reeled with the possibilities of what the rest of his evening would be like, but derailed when an errant thought penetrated his mind.
What if he’d killed her? That question floated around in his head for a minute or two. He remembered how shocked he’d been when he saw how badly bruised Wendy was. The idea scared him and excited him at the same time. He’d never killed anybody. What would it feel like? What if he killed his wife? What would he do with the body? What sort of story could he come up with?
He shook his head as though to clear it of these strange ideas and questions, but they wouldn’t dissipate. He knew he’d leaped to another level, like surging through a time warp membrane into a strange and unknown land. Murder! Another dimension altogether.
The drive home took him twenty minutes. By the time he entered the house through the garage, he was jacked up on alcohol, adrenaline, and testosterone. He climbed the stairs to the second level, picturing what his naked wife looked like, sprawled on the bed, robe open. He disrobed on his way to her room, dropping his clothes on the floor as he went, completely naked when he got to her bedside.
Wendy had shifted and was now lying on her back, spread-eagled on the side of the bed, the corners of her robe caught between her thighs.
Folsom thumped the side of her head with his middle finger. “You awake?”
Wendy groaned.
He shook her. “Wake up!” he
“How do you find time to read so much?” she asked him.
“I don’t sleep. If I get five hours a night it’s a lot. I just finished reading Carl Sandburg’s Lincoln last night.”
“Any good?” she asked.
He smiled and said, “Well, let’s put it this way. Edmund Wilson said, ‘In my opinion Carl Sandburg is the worst that has happened to Lincoln since Booth shot him.’ “
“Ouch! That’s pretty rough.”
“Pretty accurate, too.”
They both chuckled, then the conversation lulled. Katherine finally filled it. “What do you think is going to happen with this Tea Party movement?”
Paul showed a mischievous smile. “John Adams, in a letter to Abigail, wrote, ‘I must not write a word to you about politics, because you are a woman.’ ”
Katherine hadn’t realized that Paul was such a tease. She smiled back and said, “And Abigail once wrote to John, ‘Men of sense in all ages abhor those customs which treat us only as vassals of your sex.’ ”
“Touché,” Paul responded. “To answer your question about the Tea Party, I think it’s causing people to focus on just how mad they are at all politicians. The citizenry is anxious to send a message to the political class that they’re fed up with over-spending, over-taxation, and over-regulation. I think we’re going to see incumbents of both parties get swept out of office, just like what happened in 2010.”
“Of course, we could be in worse trouble if Congress gets taken over by a bunch of freshmen legislators dependent on the bureaucrats and their own staffers,” Katherine said.
“Damned if we do and damned if we don’t.”
“Adlai Stevenson,” Katherine said.
Paul stared at Katherine. “I’m going to have to be on my toes when I’m with you.”
She smiled.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Folsom downed two scotch and waters before dinner and polished off most of a bottle of cabernet sauvignon with his rare steak and baked potato, feeling no pain as he got into his Mercedes and drove home. Images of Wendy lying in her bed, naked under her snow-white silk robe, intruded on his alcohol-fueled thoughts. His mind reeled with the possibilities of what the rest of his evening would be like, but derailed when an errant thought penetrated his mind.
What if he’d killed her? That question floated around in his head for a minute or two. He remembered how shocked he’d been when he saw how badly bruised Wendy was. The idea scared him and excited him at the same time. He’d never killed anybody. What would it feel like? What if he killed his wife? What would he do with the body? What sort of story could he come up with?
He shook his head as though to clear it of these strange ideas and questions, but they wouldn’t dissipate. He knew he’d leaped to another level, like surging through a time warp membrane into a strange and unknown land. Murder! Another dimension altogether.
The drive home took him twenty minutes. By the time he entered the house through the garage, he was jacked up on alcohol, adrenaline, and testosterone. He climbed the stairs to the second level, picturing what his naked wife looked like, sprawled on the bed, robe open. He disrobed on his way to her room, dropping his clothes on the floor as he went, completely naked when he got to her bedside.
Wendy had shifted and was now lying on her back, spread-eagled on the side of the bed, the corners of her robe caught between her thighs.
Folsom thumped the side of her head with his middle finger. “You awake?”
Wendy groaned.
He shook her. “Wake up!” he
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