“You must be the only one who does. How about Joanne Griffith? Anything new on her?”
“I gave my report to Lieutenant Gallagher,” Culhane replied.
“Have you seen Moore’s report?”
“Yes. Why?”
Osborne poured himself another drink, nearly drowning the bee in the process. “Joanne Griffith worked for one of Melrose’s companies,” he said.
“Century,” Culhane confirmed. “She worked there for more than ten years. A model employee, from what I gather.”
A model employee who’d been thrown in the sea.
“What had she been working on lately?”
“A construction project near Rangiputa, on the Karikari peninsula.”
An idyllic area in the north of the island, a region largely deserted because of its lack of economic activity. Several Maori tribes lived in that wild landscape, including the Tainui.
“Anyway,” Culhane continued, “drowning still seems the most likely theory.”
Osborne frowned, but said nothing, because Rosemary was coming back from the kitchen, her hands laden with food. She put everything down next to the barbecue, her calves lashed by Toby’s tail.
“Enough of all this serious talk, let’s eat! Oh, Tom! You haven’t even lit the barbecue! Are we going to eat before dawn?”
The two men abandoned their conversation, although there were still plenty of things to say. Osborne uncorked another bottle, while Tom battled the wind to light the barbecue. As he grilled the meat, he deflected a few acerbic remarks from his wife—with the amount she’d already drunk, he was afraid she’d make some awful faux pas.
The marinated chicken was delicious, Osborne informed his hostess, who replied with an enigmatic smile. They drank. Rosemary was talking with a certain ease now, and even the red patches had gone from her neck. Her usual irritability seemed to have vanished tonight. Culhane noted the transformation—how long was it since he had last heard her laugh? He, too, had turned red under the effects of the alcohol, and, now that his wife was no longer picking him up on everything, he even allowed himself a few attempts at humor. While stopping short of slapping him on the back, Osborne put on a good show of finding him funny. Charming people, very different from him—at least, that was the image they gave. Taking advantage of their bustling over the desert, Osborne poured a little powder in Culhane’s glass, quickly dissolved by the Chardonnay.
“I think I’m a bit drunk!” Rosemary simpered, putting a cake down on the table.
“It suits you,” Osborne said.
“Nice of you to say so.”
“It’s true.”
For the first time, Rosemary found she liked his eyes on her. She blushed when Tom came back, a sauce boat in his hand. He wasn’t walking straight anymore either. Another five minutes and he wouldn’t be walking at all.
“Let’s try a bit of this cake,” Osborne suggested.
He smiled strangely at Rosemary as she topped his portion of cake with custard. She responded with a half-smile of her own, delighted to feel she was being seduced. With all her problems, she had forgotten that men could find her attractive.
Osborne poured everyone another glass. Slumped in his chair, Culhane was starting to nod off. Rosemary smiled at the sight.
“I’ll make some coffee,” she said.
Pushing away Toby, who had followed him, Osborne walked to the flower beds and threw up his meal. The taste was bitter, almost venomous. He needed a little pick-me-up . . .
The remains of the meal had been left to pile up in the sink. Rosemary was putting the plates in the dishwasher when, emerging from the toilet, Osborne came into the kitchen.
“I can help you,” he said.
“Oh, don’t worry, I can manage.”
But he wasn’t thinking about the dishes. She realized that when she looked up. Seeing the expression on his face, she immediately retreated. He was smiling the way he had smiled when he arrived. He was standing close to her now, so close that she could feel his breath on her dress, that warm caressing breeze on her skin, like a hand. And those yellow eyes of his, hypnotizing her.
“Paul . . . ”
She tried to move back but her hip was already touching the rim of the sink. Cornered at this end of the kitchen, suddenly incapable of the slightest movement, Rosemary stopped breathing. He put his hand on her bare shoulder, stroked a few square inches of skin, and then, with his eyes still on her, slowly descended to her cleavage. Rosemary quivered, in the grip of a sensation she had never known. She thought for a moment of Tom, dozing in the garden, remained silent, forgot everything. Osborne’s penis brushed against her, she could feel it hard against her dress, she felt hot, her desire was rising fast. His hand slid over her hips, her thighs, under her dress. A burning hand. Rosemary had stopped moving. She felt desired, desirable. The hand explored the jungle of her pubis, then slipped inside her lace G- string and came to rest on her labia. He had her now. He had caught her. He could do with her what he wished, she would consent to everything, she wouldn’t stop to think.
“No,” she said. “No . . . ”
But she let herself be penetrated, gently. Her breath was slow, the fluid in her entrails divine. The sense of breaking a taboo, and the heat of his penis, together filled her with a wicked joy. He sank into her, up to the hilt, drawing a moan from her. He thrust in more strongly, lifted her, and impaled her violently. Rosemary breathed out and, free at last, let herself be taken against the edge of the sink. She bit her lips in order not to cry out, their hips banged together, he was taking her standing up, with powerful thrusts that almost hurt her. All at once, her body flew away.
When she opened her eyes again, his penis had withdrawn, leaving a disquieting emptiness deep inside her.
Time passed without her. Osborne had fled. There was nothing left in the kitchen but smells of marinade and the unpleasant impression of having been possessed.
Rosemary bowed her head, and began sobbing softly.
Once on the sidewalk, Osborne felt himself take off. Electricity was rising through his body, and all his muscles were tense and alert. By some strange miracle, he was back in top form.
The nightmare could start again.
