The Blood Orange Moon

"How so?"

"There can't be the slightest hint of manipulation in anything she does. It was real bad early on, but I think they're both dealing with it better."

"I'm sorry," he said, putting his hand atop hers, "I know you're probably already saying more than you should. Still, I'm not really sure what you mean."

"The little things," she explained. "All those things that would seem innocent enough in a normal marriage? They're all questionable now. If she offers something out of the blue, he wonders what she wants in return. At first, she could barely do his laundry without him asking her what she wanted for it."

"Aw Jesus," he said, sinking back into the chair. "We never--I never--none of us ever thought about what would happen."

"I know," she said. "I think Mark knows, too. And Sandy. But it's still a problem sometimes."

Roberts took a breath and then tried to set his face in steely determination. "You need to call her back. Please. Call Sandy and tell her I think that little girl working for Barbara may be in real danger."

Clarice's eyes widened. "Then why don't you call the police?"

"And tell them what? Tell them my wife's hiring maids that look like her daughter-in-law or like you? They'll laugh at me."

"Then why don't you just go back there and stay?"

He shook his head. "Because, I need someone else there with me, someone who won't tell anyone else, either. My friends--our friends--they're not like normal friends. They'll sell me out in a heartbeat if they think there's something in it for 'em. Mark's the only one I've got."

"But he hates her. He'll never go back just to help her."

"Then he has to go back to make sure nothing happens to this poor girl living there now."

Clarice just stared at him, her mind working through his logic. Then, without another word, she went back into the kitchen and phoned Sandy again.

Returning a few moments later, she said, "Seven o'clock. Sandy can't promise he'll see you. Says he may slam the door in your face. But she says to be there at seven and she'll try to prepare him for seeing you."

Roberts's chin went to his chest as he said a silent prayer for the first time since Mark had disappeared.

Please, God, let him see me.

* * * * *

Sandy was pensive when Mark walked in the door at ten past six. Her lips were pressed tightly together, and her eyes seemed skittish and afraid to look him in the face.

"What is it?" he said, his body tensing.

"Your dad wants to see you."

"Is that all," he said, tossing his briefcase on the chair beside the door and walking past her toward the bedroom to change. He called back over his shoulder as he neared the bedroom. "Tell him the answer's no."

A moment later, she stood in the doorway, her eyes on the floor, and said, "I think you need to see him, Mark."

He took a deep breath, then turned his back to her and reached into the closet for a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. I don't need this now, he thought. Just when everything's getting better; just when we're almost back to normal. I just don't--

"He says a girl may be in danger," Sandy said, still from the doorway, her voice still soft and afraid of him. "A girl your mom's got working there as a live-in maid."

Mark snorted. "Anyone living within fifty miles of that fuckin' bitch is in danger, Sandy. Everyone. She's toxic."

He turned and saw tears on Sandy's face, and his whole mood softened. He walked to her and took her in his arms. "These people aren't our problem anymore, babe. They're just not, okay?"

"I'm sorry, Mark," she said. "Really, I'm so . . . I just . . . ."

He lifted her chin with his fingertips and kissed her, her lips wet and salty with her tears. Seeing the hesitation and fear in her eyes, he softened completely. "Say it."

She shook her head, and he pulled her into a hug and whispered into her ear. "I won't be mad, Sandy. Really I won't. We need to get past this. Both of us."

She pulled him tighter, but still said nothing. Stroking her hair and holding her there, he waited for her to settle down. Just as her muscles were almost totally relaxed, she spoke in a voice so small that Mark didn't hear her at first. When he made out what she said, he was dizzy.

"The girl," Sandy said. "Your mom's hiring girls to live with her that look just like me. Like me 'n Clarice."

When his mind processed this, he broke the hug and held Sandy by the shoulders, then looked at the fear written all over her face and her glistening, pleading eyes.

* * * * *

The three of them sat around the tiny kitchen table, Mark opposite him and Sandy to his left. The anger and disgust was still on Mark's face all these months later, just as it had been the first time he'd confronted David and Barbara with his knowledge of their betrayal.

Taking a breath, David said, "I know I've said it before-- "

"Good," Mark snapped, "then don't waste my time saying it again. Just tell me what you know, how you know it, and what you think I can do about it."

Roberts hesitated, looking from his son to Sandy, then back again. "Fair enough," he said. He spent the next fifteen minutes bringing Mark up to speed on everything that had happened since last they'd spoken eleven months before.

"That's it?" Mark said when he finished. His face was a mixture of thought, revulsion, and curiosity.

Roberts shook his head. "I've spent the afternoon tracking down one of the girls. One of them is placed somewhere else, still working for the same agency that's gotten us these other two. A Belinda Wasserstein. When I tried to call her, she screamed at me and hung up. Won't take any calls now."

"And?" He laughed and then continued, "Maybe Mom was just a bitch to her. God knows I couldn't work for her. She's driven away the help for years. Now you're making it out to be something sinister."

"There was fear there, Mark. I know fear when I hear it, and that girl was afraid."

Mark's face said he didn't believe it, but he was unsure, too. He walked to the counter, retrieved a cell phone, handed it to Sandy, and said to Roberts, "Give her the number. Sandy, you call her and see what you can find out. Start right off by telling her someone may be in danger. Get her to talk to you so we can straighten this mess out and you and I can get on with our lives."

Sandy nodded at him, uncertainty all over her face. Roberts pulled out his cell phone and read Sandy the number, which she dutifully punched in.

Roberts watched as her eyes shot to Mark, seeking some kind of answer. He nodded, and she took a deep breath before pressing Talk.

A moment later, her voice even and kind, Sandy said, "Miss Wasserstein, whatever you do, don't hang up. I think a young girl's life may be in danger."

Sandy's lips pressed together, waiting for a response. After what seemed hours, but was probably only ten seconds or so, Roberts heard a tiny voice on the other end speak. Sandy's whole body relaxed in relief as she continued, "My name's Sandy Roberts. Barbara Roberts is my mother-in-law, and we're worried she's hurtin' girls like you. We need you to tell us what happened while you worked for her. Can you do that?"

After another agonizing wait, the voice spoke, and Sandy said, "Can I put you on speaker phone so my husband can hear you? My husband and Senator Roberts, Belinda. Can I do that?"

Almost immediately, Sandy smiled, pressed another button on the cell phone, and placed it in the middle of the table. All three of them hunched in close and Sandy said, "Can you hear me okay?"

"Yes," the voice said, tiny and faraway. "I can hear y'all fine."

"Belinda, can you just tell us what happened while you worked for Missus Roberts? Why you left?"

"I don't know. It was . . . I just don't know, really."

"Don't be afraid," Sandy said. David was amazed watching her. Her voice was so soothing, but her body was a taut bundle of frayed nerves, her left hand spastically twitching. "Even if it's weird or strange or you don't think we'll believe you, you still need to tell us. There's another girl working there now, and we think she may be in danger."

"The dreams," Belinda started and then regrouped. "It started with the underwear, I guess."

"The underwear?"

"Some man--Charlie, I think his name was--he brought underwear over the third or fourth day I was there. It was . . . I don't wear that type of underwear. It's not proper."

"So why did he bring it?"

"I think because Missus Roberts told him to bring it. Told me I had to wear it. I had to throw away what I had--it was all fine, nothing wrong with it--she told me it had to go and I had to wear this."

"Did she say why?"

"I don't really remember. Something like I was workin' for her now, and I had to dress appropriately." She paused, giving word to Roberts's thoughts. "I mean, what does my underwear have to do with cleanin' and such?"

"I don't know, Belinda," Sandy said. "What else happened?"

"Like I said," she answered, her voice getting smaller, "it was them dreams."

"What type of dreams?"

"I can't . . . I . . . can you go back to just me 'n you again?"

Sandy snapped up the phone, hit a button, and stepped away from the table. "It's just us," she said, walking toward the living room. "Can you tell the difference? Good. Yeah, you can just tell me. No, don't be. Of course, dear."

Sandy disappeared down the hallway, and Roberts turned to look at his son. Mark's face was now full of pensive thought, his chin in his hands as he stared at the wall and waited for Sandy to return.

Roberts almost reached across the table to comfort him, but Mark was shut in on himself. Frozen, rigid.

Roberts sat back in the chair and stared at the clock, trying to force time to pass before his fears drove him insane. Though it seemed like hours, the clock told him it had been only fourteen minutes when Sandy stepped back into the dining room, the cell phone in the hand hanging limp at her side.

Mark turned to face her and said, "Well?"

She walked to the table and slid into the chair, her face looking shell shocked. "She was only there for two weeks. The dreams . . . she started having them on the second or third night there, and they got progressively worse."

"What type of dreams," Mark said, his voice soft and face full of concern for Sandy.

"She said they started out slowly. Vivid dreams full of gentle caresses."

"What type of caresses?"

"Touching and . . . sexual caresses. On her breasts, at first. Then . . . ." She looked at Roberts, then to her husband.

Mark gave her a gentle smile and said, "Go ahead. They were down there, weren't they? Between her legs?"

Sandy nodded before continuing. "She said the dreams got more vivid every night. And more . . . more was done to her."

"More?" Roberts said, not recognizing his own voice.

Sandy looked down at the table, her voice barely audible. "Toward the end, she'd wake up and touch herself down there. Look at herself in the mirror. She'd be puffy. Not so's you'd know for sure someone . . . something had been in her. She thought she was just having racy dreams, y'know? Like real good dreams so vivid . . . so alive . . . dreams of past lovers she was experiencing again."

"What happened," Mark said, reaching out and putting his hand on hers.

She snatched her hand away from his touch, though, and looked at him in fury. Mark froze.

"She was swollen and bruised the last morning when she woke up," she hissed at him. "The morning she ran away and never went back, she woke up and she was aching and sore. And her... she was torn and bleeding."

Roberts was stunned by her reaction, but a look at Mark caused a wave of agony to wash over the Senator's body.

Mark looked aghast and ready to cry. And ashamed.

Sandy gave a tiny yelp, her hand going to her face to cover her mouth, and she ran off and disappeared toward the bedroom.

Mark just slumped.

* * * * *

Amanda was having the dream again, only this time it was so much more.

Clint was eager and hungry, licking her in ways she'd forgotten about.

"This is so much better," he said at one point, leaning up and looking down the length of her body. She could still only see the gleaming whites of his teeth and the shoulders of that maroon and white jacket.

"I've missed this, baby," she said to him. Her words were slow and sluggish, as if in slow motion. All of this was as if in slow motion, including the insatiable hunger building deep within her as he slowly pressed a finger into her.

"You always liked this," he said, his finger beginning to wiggle inside of her.

"You know I did," she agreed.

"You've missed it."

"I never thought I'd feel this again, honey."

"You can feel it forever now," he promised, his lips lowering back to her naked mound. His tongue was like red hot fire as it flickered and danced, his finger impossibly big and long as it drove her to release.

"Please," she pleaded as the sensations built. "Please say you'll never leave me again."

CHAPTER FOUR

She was on her side, so far on the edge of the bed Mark was afraid she'd fall if he touched her. She was awake, too. Just as he'd been much of the night, he knew that she, too, was wide awake.

"I've got to go back down there," he said. "I don't know what I can do, but I think I have to go."

She was still, and he was about to say more when she turned to face him.

"I didn't mean to react like that, Mark. I don't want you to do it because you think I . . . ."

He placed his fingertip on her lips. "That's not why I'm doing it. I still hate myself for ever . . . I was . . . ."

They stared at each other for a moment, and then her face softened. "We need to just keep putting all that behind us, dear. Not forget, but learn to start living with it better."

"I thought we were doing pretty good."

She reached over and stroked the stubble on his face. "We are doing pretty good. Real good. And we'll keep getting better."

"I was just so ashamed all over again. For ever hurtin' you like that."

"I know," she said. She reached under the covers. he knew she was stroking her pregnant belly. The content smile on her face told him she was feeling for the baby. "It was a long time ago, back when things were still new. Still too raw, I guess."

He started to say something, but it was her turn to silence him with her gentle touch to his lips. "Both of us knew it wouldn't be easy, and it really hasn't been, okay? Just hearing that girl--hearing what she went through--that made it all come back to me, okay? I didn't do it to throw it back in your face. Really I didn't. I just...the way she said it. I knew what she'd been through, and I kinda went through a little bit of it all over again."

"I'm sorry," he said, trying to make her see how much he meant it.

She smiled, her eyes twinkling. "I don't want you to be sorry anymore, Mark. Not about anything. Or us, either. We've both been sorry enough, and I think maybe that's why we . . . . We need to remember and learn, not dwell on it all and beat ourselves up, okay?"

"Remember and learn," he repeated, stroking her naked shoulder.

"I love you."

He leaned in to hug her, feeling the heat from her protruding belly pushing into him. "I love you, too."

She stroked his hair, and he sighed into her bare flesh.

Remember and learn, he kept saying to himself.

* * * * *

There was no greeting when David Roberts picked up the phone.

"Three o'clock," Mark said, his voice firm. "Outside the law school at three o'clock. You pick me up."

"Are we . . .?" he started, letting it linger.

"We're gonna go back down to Tennessee and deal with this once and for all," Mark said. He hung up the phone before Roberts could respond.

Roberts sprawled back on the hotel room bed and stared at the ceiling. His fears that Mark would turn him down were now replaced with fears of what they'd find once they got there.

And how they'd deal with it.

* * * * *

Amanda kept replaying the dreams in her mind as she went about vacuuming and sweeping. Her body was loose and languid, relaxed with a satisfying glow she'd not felt since Clint had gone off.

"Someone seems cheery this morning," Barbara said from behind her.

Amanda froze, wondering again if the woman could read her mind. She turned and said, "May I do something for you, ma'am?"

Her smile was puzzling, made all the more confusing as the woman's eyes traveled up and down her body.

"Are you wearing what was bought for you?"

Amanda felt the shame burn her face. She had to force herself to look at the imperious woman when she said, "Yes, ma'am."

Barbara's smile got brighter, almost realistic even. "Good."

With that, she turned and left the room.

Later, as she washed the dishes from lunch, she thought she could hear voices speaking in the dining room. She shivered, unable to make out the words or clearly hear the voices, but sure that she and her employer were alone in the house.

Must be the television, she told herself, knowing full well there was no television set within forty feet of the dining room.

* * * * *

"This is way ahead of schedule," he said, his smile broad and genuine, the dimples in his cheeks deep and adorable.

"How so, dear?"

"She wants it," he said, leaning back in the chair and putting his feet on the table.

She gave him a disapproving stare, but he ignored her.

"She's not like the other ones. She was begging for more. Begging for it, Mama."

"But you didn't go too fast with her, did you?"

He chuckled. "Not possible. I'm tellin' you, she ain't had none in years. She's just aching for it. Both nights, tellin' me to just keep right on at it."

"But she still thinks you're him, right? This Clint fellow of hers?"

"For now," he said, his smile turning to a leer. "For now she does."

"You've got to take it slowly," she said. "Make sure she yearns for it every night."

Anger flashed across his face and he took on the look of a petulant child. "I know what I'm doing here."

"I'm just saying," she started, but he cut her off.

"Well don't. I'll set the timetable this go around. You set them last time, and look what happened."

She wanted to disagree with him, but knew it would be useless. Nothing was ever his fault. Nothing had ever been his fault since he was a little boy. She'd never been able to say no to him, and deep inside she knew she'd been responsible for the way it had all turned out.

"What're you thinking?" he asked.

"That you're so much like the rest of them," she said.

"The rest of who?" He laughed. "Daddy? Mark?"

She chuckled along with him at the absurdity of it. "Mark? You've got to be kidding me. He's weak. No, dear, the politicians. The king makers. The rulers."

"How's that?" he said, tilting the chair forward and leaning so close she just wanted to each out and touch him. But she couldn't. She knew that now. She'd tried before, but her hands had only passed right through, which caused her to shrink back in the remembrance that he was dead now.

"You gonna answer me?" he prodded, jolting her from her thoughts.

"You take what you want, Stevie. You always did. And that's what men like that--that's what powerful men do. They take what they want because they're not governed by the same rules. They bend the rules to suit their own needs, their own tastes and desires."

He liked that answer. She could see his face pondering her answer and working through the permutations.

"My own tastes and desires," he said after a moment, perking up in glee. "That's right, Mama. I'm makin' the rules now, and I need to just keep focused on my own tastes and desires."

For a flickering moment, Barbara was taken aback and again afraid for the poor girl living across the hallway from Stevie. If only she knew what lay behind that door she was forbidden to enter.