The Green Memory of Fear. B. A. Chepaitis

felt as if someone had pulled the plug on her energy core. The queasiness was passing, but her fatigue was inexplicable, and the joints in her wrist hurt, as if leaching out poisons. She wondered if she was still getting rid of the toxic waste from her last prisoner, a difficult case. She went to her kitchen and made tea from a blend of cleansing herbs One Bird taught her.

      She drank the mix, a bitter tasting remedy, then went directly to her bedroom, stripped off her clothes and wrapped herself in a gold silk bathrobe before she fell onto the bed. She dropped into sleep like a stone, only to be woken repeatedly by a series of disconnected dreams, all of them ugly. They woke her, then woke her again until she stuffed her face into her pillow and groaned, “Christ, just let me sleep, will you?”

      She gave it up when a dream of being telecommed by a horse in judge’s robes morphed into her own telecom buzzing, waking her for good. She twisted to her clock. 6 pm. Shit. She hadn’t been in bed that long, had she? She sat up and held her head. At least she felt better. Not nauseated. Not exhausted.

      “Okay,” she said. “I’m awake.” She sat up, made sure her robe covered what she wanted covered, went to the telecom and pressed the receive button. Alex’s face appeared on screen.

      He scanned her. “Good nap?” he asked.

      She ruffled her hair further. “More like adventures in dreamland. What’s up?”

      “We are,” he said, “or did you forget?”

      She scanned the back of her eyelids for information. What she was booked for. Dinner with Alex. A date.

      “You forgot, didn’t you Jaguar?”

      “No,” she said. “I just didn’t believe you.”

      “You thought I was kidding?”

      “Maybe.”

      “Maybe not. Serious as the plague.”

      “Alex, are you sure this is a good idea?”

      “No,” he said. “Not at all. I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

      “We’re taking your wings?” she asked.

      “Yes,” he said, trying to leave no room for discussion.

      “I don’t like wings,” she noted.

      He moved his lips away from his teeth in a close approximation of a tolerant smile. “Would you prefer to take your car and meet me at the restaurant?”

      “Yes,” she said. “I would.”

      “Right. Then let’s. It’s La Loba. In case you forgot. In an hour.”

      “Okay. I might be a little late. I have to get dressed.”

      He looked at the gold bathrobe she was clutching to herself. “That color’s nice on you,” he suggested.

      She looked down at the robe, then narrowed mischievous eyes at him. “You’ll be sorry for that,” she said, and clicked off.

      * * * *

      When she made her way across the restaurant to where Alex sat, he almost forgot to breathe. She wore silk the way some women wear skin, and the gold of her pantsuit was not far removed in tone or in proximity from her skin. It deepened the green of her eyes, caught at the gold in her hair, which caught at the air in his throat. He rose from his chair and gave her the bow she deserved.

      She lifted her gaze and he felt the brush of her thoughts against his. Just fishing. Just seeing what was hanging around. Her mouth twitched into a smile.

      “I would’ve worn the robe,” she said, “but it was wrinkled because I slept in it. I haven’t slept in this. Yet.”

      “Yet,” he repeated hopefully, and then walked over to pull her chair out for her, letting his hand rest briefly on her shoulder after she was seated. She didn’t shove him away in response, so he advanced to a caress.

      She opened her menu and said, without raising her head, “If you air kiss me, I’ll kill you.”

      “When I kiss you there won’t be any air involved,” he replied as he returned to his chair.

      So far, he thought, so good. She would keep it light. Stick to the surface like an Olympic skater. Probably he’d enjoy it immensely. By the time the waiter came by and they ordered their tequila and dinner, he knew he was right. She got the lobster. He’d seen her eat lobster before. Predation and sensuality, both at their best.

      “So what do we talk about?” she asked after the first shot of tequila was down, “First date, right? Politics are a no-no. Religion’s touchy.”

      “Maybe we should try sports,” Alex suggested.

      “No good. You’re a Packer Backer. I favor the Jaguars. You’ll just get pissed off when I talk about winning.”

      “Packers have more experience. More staying power. You know that.”

      “And once Jaguar’s latch on, they don’t let go. Not until they’re dead.”

      “I’m not especially worried about that,” he said.

      Arrival of their dinners interrupted further debate and, eschewing the bib, she cracked a claw and pulled white meat from the shards with her fingers. She dipped it in butter and licked the meat, the ends of her fingers, her own lips. Alex felt deep contentment.

      “If sports are out, then what do you suggest?” she asked.

      “We can start with the courtesies. That outfit looks lovely on you.”

      “Thank you,” she said, and ripped a leg off the lobster, sucked meat from the end of it.

      He leaned an elbow on the table and rested his chin on his hand. “You like lobster, don’t you?”

      She cracked the tail and used her fingers to pull out thick pieces of sweet flesh. “One man said it made him sick to his stomach to watch me eat it.”

      “Some men,” Alex suggested, “have weak stomachs. Me—I’m just enjoying the show.”

      She continued to pursue her pleasure. Talk turned to food and its preparation, meandered from there to good wine, strolled toward music and always stayed on the safest grounds. Alex didn’t mind, as long as the lobster held out. When it was gone, he sighed, but regained his interest when the waiter brought chocolate mousse, which she savored in small lipfuls sucked from the end of her finger.

      “Good?” he asked her.

      “Very,” she replied. “But you haven’t eaten much. Not to your liking?”

      He shook his head. “I’m distracted.”

      “By?”

      He gestured toward the mousse. “The show,” he said. Then, to his own dismay, he kept talking. “That, and something at work.”

      Jaguar’s finger paused in its journey toward her mouth. “Oh?” she asked.

      He knew what he was about to say, knew he shouldn’t say it, and said it anyway. “One of my teacher’s done something out of character,” he said. “Way out. I want to know why.”

      He listened to himself talk with some amazement. He’d made up his mind not to bring up Dr. Senci. Apparently some part of him had vetoed his mind. He sincerely hoped it wasn’t the Adept part. That wouldn’t bode well.

      “Who?” she asked.

      “My best Teacher. She stays in the field. Never does research.”

      “I like her already.”

      “I thought you might. But she requested a research assignment today, gathering preliminary data on an accused pedophile. A Dr. Thomas Senci.”

      She finished licking her finger and stared at him. He didn’t blame her. If he had a mirror, he’d stare at himself.