Читать книгу Unstoppable - Suzanne Brockmann - Страница 12

Chapter Three

MARIAH WAS ON THE ROOF when she saw Serena’s sports car pull up in front of the Foundations for Families building site.

“Hel-lo!” Her friend’s bright English accent carried clearly up to her.

Mariah used the back of her hand to wipe the perspiration from her forehead. Tomorrow she was going to have to remember to bring a sweatband—the weather forecast had predicted more of this relentless heat. She was dirty and hot, with stinging salt and sunblock dripping into her eyes, and her back was starting to ache.

But she was surrounded by people who laughed and sang as they worked. Today she was driving nails alongside Thomas and Renee, the man and woman who would own this house, watching the pride they took in being able to help build the home that would shelter them and their two daughters—Jane Ann and Emma.

Foundations for Families started each day with a minute of silent meditation, of joining hands and closing their eyes, just taking a moment to touch base with the powers that be—God, or Mother Nature, or even Luke Skywalker’s Force—it didn’t matter which. Meals were something out of an old-fashioned barn raising with sandwiches and lemonade provided by volunteers. And each day, Thomas and Renee would call to Mariah and thank her by name—sometimes even enveloping her in an embrace as she left to go home.

Mariah couldn’t remember ever being happier.

Down on the ground, Serena shaded her eyes to gaze up at her. “What time are you done here?”

Mariah rested her hammer against her work boot and unfastened her water bottle from her belt. She took a long swig before answering. “My shift ends at six,” she said.

“Good. Then you can meet me at seven, at the resort,” Serena decided. “We can eat at the grill out by the pool, then prowl the bars, husband hunting as you so aptly put it.”

The resort. Where Jonathan Mills was staying. Except Mariah was almost certain he wasn’t the type to hang out in a bar. Still, she was almost tempted to go over there. Almost.

She hooked her water bottle back onto her belt and hefted her hammer. “Sorry. Can’t,” she told her friend, glad she had an excuse. She wasn’t the type to hang out in bars, either. They were noisy, crowded and filled with smoke and desperation. “I’m coming back out here tomorrow. I’ve got to be up early in the morning. Laronda scheduled a building blitz. We’re gonna get this sucker watertight by sundown.”

Serena looked at the rough plywood that framed the modestly sized house and skeptically lifted an elegant eyebrow. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” Mariah said cheerfully. “Of course, we could always use more volunteers. I don’t suppose you’re interested…?”

“Not on your life.” Serena snorted. “I did my share—in Africa fifteen years ago, with the peace corps.”

The peace corps. Funny. Mariah knew Serena had spent nearly eighteen months with the peace corps—building roads and houses, working in a part of Africa where electricity hadn’t found its way to this very day. They’d talked about it quite a bit, but Mariah still couldn’t picture the elegant blonde actually getting her hands dirty digging latrines. Serena? No, she just couldn’t imagine it. Still, why would the woman lie? And she spoke of her time in the corps with such authority.

“Sure I can’t talk you into having some fun tonight?” Serena asked.

Mariah shook her head. “I’m having fun right now,” she told her friend.

“You,” Serena said, “are one seriously twisted woman.” She called back over her shoulder as she headed toward her car, “Don’t forget about my party Friday night.”

“You know, Serena, I’m not really the party type…”

But Serena had already climbed behind the wheel, starting her car with a roar.

Mariah didn’t want to go to any party. She’d been to several of Serena’s affairs before and stood uncomfortably while Serena’s chic resort friends talked about nothing of any substance. The weather. The stock market. The best place to rent jet skis.

Last time, she’d left early and vowed to make up an excuse if Serena ever invited her again. She’d have to think up something convincing…

But she wasn’t going to think about it right now. She had a house to build. No worries. No problems.

Mariah got back to work.

MILLER WAS RUNNING on empty.

He’d awakened before dawn, after only a few hours of rest, jarred out of sleep by an ominous dream. It wasn’t his usual nightmare, but it was a dream filled with shadows and darkness, and he knew if he fell back to sleep, he’d soon find himself outside that damned warehouse.

So he’d made himself a cup of coffee, roused Princess and headed down the beach, toward Mariah’s cottage.

The first glimmer of daybreak had been lighting the sky when he’d reached the part of the strand where he’d met Mariah two mornings ago. And as he’d watched, the light in her beach house went off, and she came outside, shouldering a backpack.

She climbed on her bicycle and rode away, down the road toward town, before he was even close enough to call out to her.

He stayed for a while, hoping she would return, but she hadn’t. Later, he’d found her bike, locked to a rack by the public library.

Having to wait for her to come back was frustrating, but Miller had been on stakeouts that had literally lasted for months, and he knew how to curb his impatience. He’d set up camp under the shade of a brightly colored beach umbrella, lathered himself with sunblock and waited.

He’d spent the first part of the morning reading that book Mariah had lent him. It was one of those touchy-feely books that urged the reader to become one with his or her emotions, and to vent—to talk or cry. Emotional release was necessary—according to the author, a Dr. Gerrard Hollis from California, of course—before the anxiety causing stress could be relieved.

Miller flipped through the chapters on breathing exercises and self-hypnosis techniques, focusing instead on the section about reducing stress through sex. There was nothing like regularly scheduled orgasmic release—according to the esteemed Dr. Hollis, whoever the hell he was—to counter the bad effects of stress on the human nervous system.

Each of the exercises outlined in the book—and this section went on for an entire detailed chapter—were designed to be both physically and emotionally relaxing. They were also designed to be done either by a couple, or by an individual. Women could make use of certain “assistive” devices if they so desired, Dr. Hollis pointed out.

Miller had gotten a hell of a lot of mileage out of thinking about Mariah performing those exercises, with or without assistive devices.

But she still hadn’t returned by lunchtime, and Miller had gone back to the resort. He’d spent the afternoon helping Daniel fine-tune the surveillance equipment the younger man had planted in Serena Westford’s rented house. Yesterday, around noon, their suspect had gone off island. Instead of following her, assuming that if she was going over the causeway to the mainland she was planning to stay for a while, Daniel had used the opportunity to hide miniature microphones in key spots in Serena’s home.

Their surveillance system was up and running.

And now Miller was back outside Mariah’s house, watching the sun set, wondering where she had gone, feeling slightly sick to his stomach from fatigue.

He heard the squeak of her bicycle before he saw her. As he watched, she turned up her driveway, getting off her bike and pushing it the last few feet up the hill. She put down the kickstand, but the sandy ground was too soft to hold it up, and she leaned it against the side of the house instead.

She slipped her arms out of her backpack and tossed it down near the foot of the stairs leading up to her deck. And then, kicking her feet free from a pair of almost ridiculously clunky work boots, she pulled her T-shirt over her head and headed directly toward the ocean.

As Miller watched, she dropped her shirt on the sand and crash-dived into the water. She didn’t notice him until she was on her way back out. And then she saw Princess first.

Mariah’s running shorts clung to her thighs, their waistband sagging down across her smooth stomach, the pull of the water turning them into hip huggers. The effect was incredibly sexy, but she quickly hiked her shorts up, pulling at the thin fabric in an attempt to keep it from sticking to her legs.

“John,” she said, smiling at him. “Hi.”

She was wearing some kind of athletic bra-type thing, the word “Champion,” emblazoned across her full breasts. There was nothing she could do to keep that wet fabric from clinging, but she seemed more concerned with keeping her belly button properly concealed.

And Miller couldn’t think of anything besides the exercise that Dr. Hollis called “Releasing Control.” And the one the good doctor called “Pressure Cooker Release.” And something particularly intriguing that was cutely labeled “Seabirds in Flight.” It was a damned good thing his shorts weren’t wet and clinging to his body.

“Hey.” Somehow he managed to make his voice sound friendly—and as if he wasn’t thinking about how incredible it would be to reenact that famous beach scene in From Here to Eternity with this woman right here and now. “Where’ve you been all day?”

“Were you looking for me?” She couldn’t hide the pleasure in her voice or the spark of attraction in her eyes.

Miller felt that same twinge of something disquieting and he forced it away. So she liked him. Big deal. “I came by this morning,” he told her.

The waves tugged again at her shorts, and she came all the way out of the water to stand self-consciously, dripping on the sand. She had no towel to cover herself this time, and she was obviously uncomfortable about that. But she leaned over to greet Princess, enthusiastically rubbing the dog’s ears.

“I went over to the mainland,” she told Miller, rinsing her hands in the ocean. “I volunteer for Foundations for Families, and I was working at a building site. We got the vinyl siding up today.”

“Foundations for Families?”

She nodded, squeezing the water out of her ponytail with one hand. “It’s an organization that builds quality homes for people with low incomes. The houses are affordable because of the low-interest mortgages Triple F arranges, and because volunteers actually build the houses alongside the future home owners.”

Miller had heard of the group. “I thought you had to be a carpenter or an electrician or a professional roofer to volunteer.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “And how do you know I’m not one?”

Miller covered his sudden flare of alarm with a laugh. She wasn’t challenging him or questioning him. She hadn’t suddenly realized he knew all about her background through his FBI files. She was teasing. So he teased her back. “Obviously because I’m a sexist bastard who archaically thinks that only men can be carpenters or electricians or roofers. I apologize, Miz Robinson. I stand guilty as charged.”

Mariah smiled. “Well, now that you’ve confessed, I can tell you that I’m not a carpenter. Although I am well on my way to being a professional roofer. I’ve helped do ten roofs since I got here a couple of months ago. I’m not afraid of heights, so I somehow always end up working there.”

“How many days a week do you do this?”

“Three or four,” she told him. “Sometimes more if there’s a building blitz scheduled.”

“A building blitz?”

“That’s when we push really hard to get one phase of the project finished. Today we blitzed the siding. We’ve had weeklong blitzes when we start and finish an entire house inside and out.” She glanced at him. “If you’re interested, you could come along with me next time I go. I’ve got tomorrow off, but I’m working again the day after that.”

“I’d like that,” he said quietly. The uneasiness was back—this time not because he was deceiving her, but because his words rang with too much truth. He would like it. A lot.

Means to an end, he reminded himself. Mariah Robinson was merely the means to meeting—and catching—Serena Westford.

But Mariah smiled almost shyly into his eyes and he found himself comparing them to whiskey—smoky and light brown and intoxicatingly warming.

“Well, good. I leave early in the morning—the van picks me up at six. You could either meet me here or downtown in front of the library.” She looked away from him and glanced up at the sky. The high, dappled clouds were streaked with the pink of the setting sun. “Look at how pretty that is,” she breathed.

She was mostly turned away from him, and he was struck by the soft curve of her cheek. Her skin would feel so smooth beneath his fingers, beneath his lips. Her own lips were slightly parted as she gazed raptly out at the water, at the red-orange fingers of clouds extending nearly to the horizon, lit by the sun setting to the west, to their backs.

And then Miller followed her gaze and looked at the sky. The clouds were colored in every hue of pink and orange imaginable. It was beautiful. When was the last time he’d stopped to look at a sunset?

“My mother loved sunsets,” he said, before he even realized he was speaking. God, what was he telling her? About his mother…?

But she’d turned to look at him, her eyes still so warm. “Past tense,” she said. “Is she…?”

“She died when I was a kid,” he told her, pretending that he had only said that because he was looking for that flare of compassion he knew was going to appear in her eyes. Serena Westford, he reminded himself. Mariah was a means to an end.

Jackpot. Her eyes softened as he knew they would. She was an easy target. He was used to manipulating hardened, suspicious criminals. Compared to them, Mariah Robinson was laughably easy to control. One mention of his poor dead mother—never mind that it was true—and her eyes damn near became filled with tears.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured. She actually reached for his hand and gently squeezed his fingers before she let him go.

“She always wanted to go to Key West,” Miller said, watching her eyes. “She thought it was really great that the people on Key West celebrate every single sunset—that they stop and watch and just sit quietly for a few minutes every evening. God, I haven’t thought about that in years.”

Mariah gave him another gentle smile, and he knew he was lying to himself. He was doing it again. This was his background, his history, not Jonathan Mills’s cover story. He was telling her about his mother because he wanted to tell her. He’d known Tony for nearly two decades, and the topic had never come up in their conversations. Not even once. He knew this girl, what? Two days? And he was telling her about his mother’s craziest dream.

They’d planned to rent a car and drive all the way from New Haven down to Key West. But then she’d gone and died.

Mariah was silent, just watching the sky as the last of the light slipped away. Who was controlling whom? Miller had to wonder.

“Do you have plans for this evening?” he asked.

She turned to scoop her T-shirt up off the sand. “A friend wanted me to go barhopping, but I turned her down. That’s not exactly my idea of fun. Besides, I’m beat. I’m going to have a shower, a quick dinner, and then sit down with a good book with my feet up.”

“I should go,” Miller murmured. He definitely had to go. Serena Westford was probably that friend, and if she was out, she probably wasn’t going to be dropping by tonight. He’d come back in the morning when the sun was up, when the soft dusk of early evening wasn’t throwing seductive shadows across everything.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Mariah said. “I picked something up for you on the mainland this morning.”

She hurried back up the beach toward the backpack she’d left at the bottom of the stairs. Miller followed more slowly. She’d picked something up for him?

“Wait a sec,” she said, bounding up the stairs, carrying the heavy-looking backpack effortlessly. “I want to turn on the deck light.”

Princess followed her up the stairs.

“Hey, what are you doing?” he heard Mariah say to Princess. “You can’t go in there. My rental agreement distinctly says no dogs or cats. And I hate to break it to you, babe, but you’re definitely a dog. I know you don’t believe me....”

The light came on as Miller started up the stairs. It was one of those yellow bug lights, easy on the eyes. It cast a golden, almost fairy-tale-like glow on the deck.

Mariah had her backpack on the table as she unzipped one of the compartments. He stopped halfway up the stairs, afraid to get too close, fighting the pull that drew him toward her. Means to an end, he reminded himself.

“There’s a Native American craft shop on the mainland,” she told him as she drew a heavy tool belt out and set it on the table. “I love going in there—they’ve got some really beautiful jewelry and some fabulous artwork. But when I went past this morning, I was thinking about you and I went in and bought you this.” She pulled a bag out of her pack and something out of that bag.

It was round and crisscrossed with a delicate string of some kind, intricately woven as if it were a web. A feather was in the center, held in place by the string, and several other longer feathers hung down from the bottom of the circle.

Miller didn’t know what the hell it was, but whatever it was, Mariah had bought it for him. She’d actually bought him a gift.

“Wow,” he said. “Thanks.”

She grinned at him. “You don’t have a clue what this is, do you?”

“It’s, um, something to hang on the wall?”

“It’s something to hang on the wall by your bed,” she told him. “It’s a dream catcher. Certain Southwestern Native American tribes believed having one near while you slept would keep you from having nightmares.” She held it out to him. “Who knows? Maybe they’re right. Maybe if you hang it up, you’ll be able to sleep.”

Miller had to climb the last few steps to take the dream catcher from her hands. He wasn’t sure what to say. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had bought him anything. “Thank you,” he managed. She had been thinking about him today. They’d only met twice, and she had been thinking about him....

That was good for the case, he tried to tell himself, but he knew the real truth. It had nothing to do with Serena Westford and everything to do with this sudden ache of desire he couldn’t seem to ignore.

For the briefest, wildest moment, he actually considered following through on his urges to make his relationship with Mariah a sexual one. But even he couldn’t do that. Even he wasn’t enough of a son of a bitch to use her that way.

Still, when Miller opened his mouth to take his leave, he found himself saying something else entirely. “I haven’t had dinner yet. Can I talk you into joining me? There’s a fish place right down the road…?”

“I’m really not up to going out,” Mariah told him. “But I’ve got a swordfish steak in the fridge that I was going to throw on the grill. I’d love it if you’d join me.” She didn’t give him time to respond. “I’ve got to take a shower,” she said, pushing open the sliding door that led from the deck into the house. “I’ll be quick—help yourself to a beer or a soda from the kitchen.”

She was inside the house before he could come up with a good reason why he shouldn’t stay for dinner. But there were plenty of reasons. Because eating here, in the seclusion of her cottage, was too intimate. Because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to maintain this pretense of wanting to be only friends. Because the thought of her in the shower while he was out here waiting was far too provocative. Because he didn’t trust himself to keep his distance.

But Miller didn’t say anything.

Because, despite the fact he knew he was playing with fire, he wanted to stay here with Mariah Robinson more than he’d wanted anything in years.

“CAR ALARMS,” JOHN SAID as he helped Mariah carry the last of the dishes back into the kitchen. “The company makes car alarms, and in the late eighties the business boomed. I took over as CEO when my father retired. I’ve been gone too long—I need to get back to work in a month or two.”

Mariah leaned back against the sink. “How have the sales figures been since you’ve left?”

He shrugged. “Holding steady.”

“Then you don’t need to do anything,” she told him. “Particularly not throw yourself back into the rat race before you’re physically ready. Give yourself a break.”

He smiled very slightly. “I still look pretty awful, huh?”

“Actually, you look much better.” Over the past few days, his hair had grown in quite a bit more. Mariah figured he must be one of those men who needed a cut every two weeks or so because his hair grew so quickly. It was dark and thick and he now looked as if he’d intentionally gotten a crew cut rather than as if he’d been attacked by a mad barber with an electric razor.

His skin looked a whole lot less gray, too. He actually had some color, as if he’d been out in the sun for part of the day.

His eyes were a different story. Slightly bloodshot and bleary, he still looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks.

“Did you get a chance to look at that book I gave you?” she added.

“Yeah.” He couldn’t hide his smile. “It was…educational. Particularly the chapter about stress reduction through sex.”

Mariah felt her cheeks heat with a blush. “Oh, God,” she said. “I forgot all about that chapter. He does go into some detail, doesn’t he? I hope you didn’t think I was—”

“I didn’t think anything,” he interrupted her. “It’s all right. I was just teasing.”

She laughed giddily. “And I was just going to ask you into the living room to try out one of my favorite stress-relieving exercises, but now I’m not sure how you’ll take that invitation.”

“It wouldn’t happen to be the exercise called “Pressure Cooker Release,” by any chance?” he asked.

She knew exactly which one he was talking about, and she snorted, feeling her face turn an even brighter shade of red. “Not a chance.” But maybe after she got to know him quite a bit better…

He smiled as if he was following the direction of her thoughts. Jonathan Mills had the nicest smile. He didn’t use it very often, but when he did, it softened the harsh lines of his face and warmed the electric blue of his eyes.

She found herself smiling back at him almost foolishly.

He broke their gaze, glancing away from her as if he were afraid the heat that was building in both of their eyes had the potential to burn the house down.

Pressure cooker release indeed.

Mariah waited for a moment, but he didn’t look back at her. Instead, he poured himself another mug of decaf, adding just a touch of sugar, no milk.

The conversation had been heading in a dangerously flirtatious and sexually charged direction. John had started it, but then he’d just as definitely ended it. He’d stopped them cold instead of continuing on into an area peppered with lingering looks and hot sparks that could jolt to life a powerful lightning bolt between them.

Mariah didn’t know whether to feel disappointed or relieved.

Jonathan Mills had proven himself to be the perfect dinner guest. He’d started the gas grill while she was in the shower and had even put together a salad from the fresh vegetables she’d had in the refrigerator.

He was clearly good at fending for himself in a kitchen. He had to be—he’d told her over dinner that he’d never been married. He’d told her quite a bit more about the successful business he’d inherited.

What she couldn’t figure out was why no woman had managed yet to get her hooks into such an attractive and well-to-do man.

Not that Mariah was looking to get involved on any kind of permanent basis. She wasn’t like Serena, eyeing every man who came her way for eligibility and holding a checklist of whatever characteristics she required in a husband. Money, Mariah thought. Serena wouldn’t want a man if he didn’t have plenty of money. John had that, but he also had cancer. Serena probably wouldn’t be very interested in acquiring a man who was fighting a potentially terminal illness.

Nobody would.

Who would want to risk becoming involved with a man who had Death, complete with black robe and sickle, hovering over him?

Mariah cleared her throat. “Well,” she said, “if you’re interested in giving it a try, the relaxation exercise I’m thinking about is one I found extremely effective and…”

He looked a little embarrassed. “I don’t know. I’ve never been very good at that kind of thing. I mean, it’s never worked for me in the past and—”

“What can it hurt to try?”

John met her eyes then. He laughed halfheartedly, sheepishly. “I really don’t have much patience for doing things like lying on your back and closing your eyes and having someone tell you to imagine you’re in some special place with a waterfall trickling and birds singing. I’ve never been to a place like that and I can’t relate at all and—”

Mariah held out her hand. “Just try it.”

He looked from her face to her hand and back, but didn’t move. “I should just go.”

She stepped closer and took his hand. “I promise it won’t hurt,” she said as she led him into the living room.

Miller knew he shouldn’t be doing this. This kind of touchy-feely stuff could lead to actual touching and feeling. And as much as he wanted that, it wasn’t on his agenda.

He was here to catch a killer, he reminded himself. Mariah was going to provide his introduction to that killer. Her role was to be that of a mutual friend. A friend, not a lover. A means to an end.

As Mariah passed a halogen lamp, she turned the switch, fading the light to an almost nonexistent glow. It was a typical rental beach house living room. Sturdy furniture with stain-resistant slipcovers. Low-pile, wall-to-wall carpeting. Generic pictures of lighthouses and seabirds on the walls. A rental TV and VCR all but chained to the floor. White walls and plain, easy-to-clean curtains.

But Mariah had been here for two months, and she’d added touches of her own personality to the room.

A wind chime near the sliding glass doors, moving slightly in the evening breeze. Books stacked on an end table—everything from romances to military nonfiction. A boom box and a pile of CDs on another end table. A crystal bird on a string in front of a window, sparkling even in the dim light. A batik-print throw across the couch. The bouquet of bright yellow flowers he’d brought her just a few mornings ago.

She released his hand. “Lie down.”

“On the floor?” God, he hated this already. But he did it, lying on his back. “And close my eyes, right?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

As he closed his eyes, he heard her sit on the couch, heard her sandals drop to the floor as she pulled her long legs up underneath her.

“Okay, are your eyes closed?”

Miller sighed. “Yeah.”

“Okay, now I want you to picture yourself lying in a special place. In a field with flowers growing and birds flying all around and a waterfall in the distance…”

Miller opened his eyes. She was laughing at him.

“You should see the look on your face.”

He sat up, rubbing his neck and shoulders with one hand. “I’m glad I entertained you. Of course, now my stress levels are so high I may never recover.”

Mariah laughed. It was a husky, musical sound that warmed him.

“Lie down here on the couch,” she said, moving out of his way and patting the cushions. “On your stomach this time. I’ll rub your back while we do this, get those stress levels back down to a more normal level—which for you is probably off the scale, right?” She stopped, suddenly uncertain. “What I meant to say was, I’ll rub your back if you want…”

Miller hesitated. Did he want…? God, yes. A back rub. Mariah’s fingers on his neck and shoulders… He moved up onto the couch. Surely he was strong enough to keep it from going any further.

“Thanks,” he said, resting his head on top of his folded arms.

“It’ll be easier if you take your shirt off,” she told him, “but you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she added quickly.

Miller turned to look up at her. “This is just a back rub, right?”

She nodded.

“You’re doing me a favor. Why wouldn’t I want to make it easier for you?”

Mariah was blunt. “Because people sometimes misinterpret removing clothes as a sign that something of a sexual nature is going to follow.”

He had to smile. “Yeah, well, that’s mostly true, isn’t it?”

She sat down next to him, on the very edge of the couch. “If I was going to come on to you, I would be honest about it. I would tell you, ‘Hey. John, I’m going to come on to you now, okay?’ But that’s not what I’m doing here. Really. We just met. And if that weren’t enough, you have issues. I have issues.”

“You have issues?” he asked. Did they have something to do with the reason why she’d traveled more than halfway across the country to live under an assumed name?

“Not like yours. But yeah. I do. Doesn’t everyone?”

“I guess.”

She was remarkably pretty, sitting there above him like that, her clean, shiny hair falling in curls and waves down to her shoulders.

She’d put on a pair of cutoff jeans and a tank top when she came out of the shower. She smelled like after-sun lotion, sweet and fresh.

Miller pulled his T-shirt over his head, rolling it into a ball and using it, along with his arms, as a pillow. As he shifted into position, he could feel Mariah’s leg pressed against him. It felt much too good, but she didn’t move away, and he was penned in by the back of the couch. He had nowhere to go.

But then she touched him, her fingers cool against the back of his neck, and he forgot about trying to move away from her. All he wanted was to move closer. He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth against the sweet sensation.

“This is supposed to make you relax, not tighten up,” Mariah murmured.

“Sorry.”

“Make a fist,” she told him.

Miller opened his eyes, lifting his head to look back at her. “What?”

She gently pushed his head back down. “Are you right-or left-handed?”

“Right-handed.”

“Make a fist with your right hand,” she said. “Hold it tightly—don’t let go.”

“Am I allowed to ask why?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m telling you to. You agreed to do this exercise, and it won’t work unless you make a fist. So do it.”

“I never agreed to do anything,” he protested.

“You gave your unspoken consent when you lay down on this couch. Make a fist, Mills.” She paused. “Or I’ll stop rubbing your back.”

Miller quickly made a fist. “Now what?”

“Now relax every other muscle in your body—but keep that fist tight. Start with your toes, then your feet. You’ve surely done that exercise where you relax every muscle, first in your legs and then your arms and then all the way up to your neck?”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t work,” he said flatly.

“Yes, it does. I’ll talk you through it. Start with your feet. Flex them, flex your toes, then relax them. Do it a couple of times.”

She ran her fingers through his hair, massaging the back of his head and even his temples. Christ, it felt heavenly.

“Okay, now do the same thing with your calves,” she told him. “Tighten, then relax. You know, this is actually an exercise from a Lamaze childbirthing class. The mothers-to-be learn to keep the rest of their bodies relaxed while one muscle is tensed and working hard. Of course they can’t practice with the actual muscle that’s going to be contracting, so they contract something else, like a fist.” Her voice was soft and as soothing as her hands. Despite himself, he felt his tension draining away. He actually felt himself start to relax. “Okay, tighten and relax the rest of your legs. Are you doing it? Are you loose?”

He felt her reach down with one hand and touch his legs, shaking them slightly.

“That’s pretty good, John. You’re doing great. Relax your hips and stomach…and your rear end. And don’t forget to breathe—slow it down, take your time. But keep that fist tight.”

Miller felt as if he were floating.

“Okay, now relax your shoulders and your arms. Relax your left hand—everything but that right fist. Keep holding that.”

He could feel her touching him, her hands light against his back, caressing his shoulders and arms.

“Relax the muscles in your face,” she told him softly. Her husky, musical voice seemed to come from a great distance. “Loosen your jaw. Let it drop open.

“Okay, now relax your right hand. Open it up as if you’re setting everything free—all of your tension and stress. Just let it go.”

Let it go.

Let it go.

Miller did as she commanded, and before he could stop himself, he sank into a deep, complete, dreamless sleep.