Mortal Fear. Greg Iles

know exactly how long she has been off the pill. I can trace the date by the fight we had when she made this unilateral decision. My wife is not one to equivocate. When she decides on a goal, she takes the shortest path to it. In her mind, the time has come for us to have children. If I am opposed, it must be because I’m nostalgically clinging to my irresponsible youth, which is pointless. Neither of us ever liked using a condom or anything else during sex; thus, she assumed that when she stopped taking the pill it would be only a matter of weeks until she conceived.

      The first four months were the grace period required for the artificial hormones to be purged from her system. At that time she had a vested interest—genetic—in keeping our sexual contact to a minimum. But we are at the five-and-a-half-month mark now, and despite her confidence in my uncontrollable lust, Drewe has yet to conceive. This is not due to a flaw in her judgment of my character. It’s just that she forgot to reckon EROS into her calculations. The computer forums—and certain women on them—have proved to be a vicarious but satisfactory outlet for my sexual energy. I think Drewe suspects this, and it accounts for her bitter resentment of the time I spend sysoping the forum.

      “You love Holly so much,” she says, and I feel her looking right at me. “I can see it. I don’t understand why you don’t want a child of your own.”

      “I do want one,” I say truthfully. “I want two.”

      “But what? Just not yet? Harper, I’m thirty-three. At thirty-five, the odds for Down’s syndrome and a hundred other things go up dramatically.”

      As neutrally as possible, I say, “We’ve had this discussion before, Drewe.”

      The temperature in the car drops ten degrees. “And now we’re having it again.”

      When I don’t respond, she sighs and looks out at the dusty cotton fields drifting by. The ocean of white covers the land as far as the eye can see. “I know I’m pressuring you,” she says in measured tones, “but I just don’t understand your reasoning.”

      And I hope you never will.

      After a silent mile, she says, “Are we ever going to make love again?”

      As if the situation isn’t complicated enough. Five minutes after discussing having children and being off the pill, she makes a sexual overture that by her tone I am supposed to interpret as passion?

      “I do actually miss it, you know,” she says, looking straight through the windshield.

      “Me too,” I murmur. What else can I say?

      “Doubting my motives?”

      I can tell by her voice that she has turned to face me again. Hearing a rustle of cloth, I look across the seat. Drewe has opened her blouse. Her bra attaches at the front, and she opens that too. Twice in the past month, advances like this have led to serious arguments. However, her nipples confirm her tone of voice. Maybe this is an honest approach.

      She turns sideways in her seat, lifts one bare foot over the Explorer’s console, and lets it fall into my lap. She is very good with that foot. Giggling like a schoolgirl, she manages to unfasten the belt, snap, and zipper of my jeans.

      “Obviously you miss it too,” she says.

      “They teach you that in medical school? In case you have a hand injury?”

      “Mmm-hm. We practiced on interns. The young, handsome ones.”

      “Okay, okay.”

      In one smooth motion she hitches up her sundress and climbs over the console. Then, facing me, she plants a foot on either side of my seat and lowers herself between my body and the steering wheel. I glance away from the road long enough to see her pull aside her white cotton panties and slide effortlessly down onto me.

      The sudden grating of gravel under the right front tire tells me we are going off the road. I jerk the wheel left and look up, then floor the accelerator and whip around a mammoth green cotton picker. Drewe is laughing and kissing my neck and pressing down harder.

      “Jesus, you’re ruthless,” I tell her.

      “You can pull out,” she whispers.

      Sure.

      We have been home less than ten minutes when the telephone rings. It is Bob Anderson.

      “Did we leave something over there?” I ask, feeling my back pocket for my wallet.

      “Nothing like that.” Bob falls silent. After ten seconds or so, I ask him if anything’s wrong.

      “I don’t know, Harp,” he drawls. “But fifteen minutes after you left the house, Bill Buckner called.”

      “The Yazoo County Sheriff?”

      “Right. He told me—strictly as a favor—that he got several long-distance calls last night and again today. Calls about you.”

      Shit. “Me?”

      Bob gives me more of the silent treatment. I blink first. “Look, Dr. Anderson, I can probably guess what this is about.”

      He offers nothing.

      “We’ve had a little trouble on the EROS network.”

      “Trouble.”

      “There’s been a murder.”

      “More’n one, from what Bill says. Bad, too.”

      Drewe is staring at me inquisitively. “Look Dr. Anderson, I met with the New Orleans police yesterday, and I’m pretty sure everything’s under control.”

      “Bill said a couple of the calls were from the FBI.”

      “I met with them too.”

      Bob mulls this over. At length he says, “Harper, do you need help, son?”

      “Thanks, Dr. Anderson, but I really think everything’s under control.”

      “I know a lot of people,” he says in a voice that makes it clear he does not like talking this way. “In a lot of places.”

      “I’m sure you do. And if there was real trouble, you’d be the first person I’d call.”

      Bob waits some more, then says, “Well, I guess you know best,” in a tone that says he guesses anything but that. “You keep me posted, son.”

      “I’ll do that.”

      “And you take care of my little girl.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      I hang up.

      “Your dad,” I tell Drewe.

      “What is it?”

      “He’s worried. The Yazoo County sheriff called him. Buckner’s been getting calls from the FBI, asking about me.”

      Drewe shakes her head, her eyes locked on mine. “God. Harper, do they actually think you’re involved in these murders?”

      “I don’t know. Miles and I are two of only nine people who have access to the real identities of EROS subscribers. Anybody who has that access is a suspect until they can prove they’re innocent.”

      “That shouldn’t be hard for you.”

      “For three of the murders, no. And with your help, I hope I can prove it for all of them.”

      “What do you mean? You’re always here with me. When did these murders happen?”

      “I don’t know exactly. They started about a year ago. Most happened within the last nine months. The problem is that for the past few months you and I haven’t been spending that much time together.”

      Drewe looks away quickly. She is an intensely private person, and I know she is wondering what I told the police about our relationship. “Harper, damn you.” She closes her hand around my wrist. “No matter what’s going