Chapter Eleven
30 MAY, 2021
WEBB RESIDENCE
ALEXANDRIA, VA
15:45 ZULU
Clay took one look at the Mercedes and put his hand to the switch for the privacy window, lowering it to reveal the Kennedy and the Company driver.
"Stop!" He barked the order sharply enough to bring the limo to a screeching halt. He leapt from the car and paced the short distance to the convertible with a predatory stride then stopped. His hands flew to his hips and his mouth tightened as he surveyed the damage.
He stood there for several seconds, his green eyes glittering and the muscles in his jaw contracting as he fought to control his already frayed temper. Three days of suffering the indignities of hospital poking and prodding had already combined to boil over in one minor outburst when a orderly had informed him that he would have to ride down to his car in a wheel chair, rather than walking out on his own, perfectly capable two feet. Only his wife's terse, "quit whining Webb, and get in the chair," and the fact that Kennedy was at the helm had served to mollify him.
With a look that indicated extreme irritation and sorely tested patience, he rounded upon the small group that was slowly filtering out of the limousine. "What happened to my car?"
Penny folded her arms across her chest and tilted her head to indicate Kennedy and the two Special Protection Officers who flanked him. "You should have parked it in the garage. --I told you he was gonna notice."
Sarah said nothing as she returned her husband's accusatory glare with equanimity. Frankly, she had left the car out on purpose. Best to get it all out in the open and be done with it, she decided. –If only the other matter she had to discuss with him could be handled so easily…
"Well?" he demanded. "Is somebody going to tell me what happened?"
"It was a hit and run," she said casually. "Someone backed into it at Beltway Burgers and drove away."
"You took my car to Beltway Burgers?" he said in disbelief, "The cafeteria would have been gourmet compared to that." His eyes shifted from her to the car and back to her again, as if hoping he had somehow imagined it. "You took my car to Beltway Burgers?!" he said again, his voice rising, and this time she detected outrage mingled with the disbelief.
"Sorry, they didn't have valet parking," She said dryly, and stalked past him towards the house. Obviously, he was spoiling for a fight. He was going to get it, but not right now. She didn't want Penny or the "entourage" as an audience when she said the things she had to say to him.
Kennedy left Clay with an aluminum briefcase full of the latest documents requiring his perusal and quickly departed with the limo and the driver. The two Special Protection Officers, looking slightly embarrassed, took a moment to settle their armloads of flowers, cards and balloons on the hall table and then melted away quietly to their positions at the front and back gates of the property. The three of them stood in the living room for a long moment. The silence that had suddenly fallen over the house was palpable. Penny looked uneasily from one parent to another.
"So Mom," she said casually, "when do you want to get started on the potato salad?"
God, Mac thought, it really must be bad if Penny was actually volunteering to help in the kitchen. In her daughter's eyes, any sort of domestic chore was to be regarded as a fate worse than death. On the other hand, an offer of help from her child was an offer not to be turned down.
"Right now," she said quickly. "Go and wash your hands and I'll start scrubbing the potatoes, and you can start peeling them."
Clay looked at Penny, "You want some help? I'd hate to find any fingers in my potato salad."
Penny smirked and arched a disbelieving brow. "You know how to peel potatoes? –I thought you left the scut work to your souse chef." On the nights when it was Clay's turn to cook, he could sauté, broil, roast or grill with the best of them, but even then he usually made Penny clean and cut the vegetables.
He responded to her sarcasm with a bland look. "Of course," he said lightly, enjoying the repartee with his daughter. "I was in the Army once. It's the first thing they teach you in boot camp."
Mac only barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The bulk of his military service had been with the Adjutant General's office. The closest Clay had ever come to preparing a potato in the Army was rubber stamping requisitions for cases of instant mashed flakes.
"I think we can manage," she said, and looked pointedly at the briefcase. "Besides, we probably shouldn't bother you. I'm sure Kennedy has left you plenty of homework to catch up on."
Penny looked at her oddly for a moment, but it was Clay's face she fixed upon as she spoke. His smile faded instantly, the green eyes going flat and impenetrable as he returned her gaze. He nodded slowly, and when he spoke, his voice was brusque and businesslike. It was the voice of the DCI, not of her husband.
"You're right," he said, as his glance traveled from her to Penny. "I'll leave you to it, then," he said, and made down the hall for his study with the briefcase in hand.
The silence that followed him was intense enough that the sound of the study door softly closing was audible all the way down the hallway.
Mac sighed and headed for the kitchen, feeling the anger and frustration that had been simmering within her since last evening slowly start to churn to a slow boil. If the weekend could possibly get any worse, she certainly couldn't see how. If she had believed in that sort of thing, she might have wondered if perhaps some strange convergence of the stars and planets had been taking place to unleash so much disaster within a three day period. Clay's heart attack, the car troubles and the hassles of the party aside, the entire house felt like a ticking bomb, ready to explode. Bud's little revelation last night had merely pulled the pin on this particular hand grenade that had suddenly rolled between her and Clay. The only question, she thought, was which one of them was going to be the one to take their thumb off the spoon and let it blow.
Moving to the large stainless steel refrigerator, she began taking out the necessary vegetables, yanking at the compartments with a bit more force than was really necessary. She felt like a fool. Looking back, it all made sense now. His odd silences, his sleepless nights, and his preoccupation with thoughts he could not discuss with her… If she hadn't been so worried about trying to tell him about her decision to help Sergei find out about Harm, she would have realized that that was exactly when all of his strange behavior had really begun. It certainly explained why the Navy had been stonewalling them. –Most likely because the Navy itself was being stonewalled …by the CIA.
She slammed the refrigerator door shut. Damn him! He had known all along. He had known in the hospital when she had finally worked up the nerve to tell him about the case. He had known and he had had the gall to act is if he was upset that she hadn't told him. –When he had already known for weeks. She yanked open a kitchen cabinet, seeking out a stock pot. –Bastard! He'd actually had the nerve to make her feel guilty about it! That was what bothered her the most.
No, she quickly amended. What bothered her most was that he'd lied to her.
Granted, it was a part of who he was and what he was trained to do. If it was done in the name of national security, he probably could have sold P.T. Barnum the Brooklyn Bridge. She'd worked with him enough in the years before their marriage to see him in action, and she was familiar with his technique. It was the verbal slight of hand he employed that made him so convincing. He had the ability to carefully craft his words, leading you to make a particular assumption without ever actually stating the falsehood himself. By the time he did tell an outright whopper, he had paved the path so smoothly that you barely even noticed. But that was work. Lying to checkpoint guards and arms dealers was one thing. Lying to the people who loved him was something completely different.
She'd known the instant he'd done it. It had been easy enough to tell. She had boxed him in neatly, and he had been watching her with all the intensity of a cornered animal…and then he had changed. How exactly, she couldn't say, but for one indefinable moment, something had been different. Something had shifted in the murky green depths of his eyes, and suddenly she had been talking to a stranger.
Perhaps, she thought bitterly, she'd been talking to a stranger all along. She didn't think he had ever lied to her before, but now, she wasn't so sure. Her mind filtered back to her conversation with Victor –God, had it only been yesterday morning?
"Oh, there are lots of things he's not telling you…"
She'd always told herself she could live with the secrets, the times he couldn't tell her where he was or when he'd be back, the nightmares he couldn't talk about. Now she wasn't so sure
Penny sailed briskly into the kitchen, stirring her from her darkening thoughts. She had changed into a tank top and shorts and her shoulder length dark hair was pulled up out of her face with a hair clip.
"Bring on the potatoes," she said, hiking herself up onto one of the stools beside the butcher block island. Sarah shoved the potatoes, a peeler and a couple bowls in front of her daughter and turned back to rummage through the cabinets in search of the old tin recipe box.
Her fingers encountered the sharp metal corners and she plucked it down from the shelf. The battered white tin seemed incongruous with the rest of the highly polished kitchen, but the little box was one of her few treasures.
She'd never been much of a cook, and considering their busy lifestyle, it really hadn't mattered much to Clay. Most of the time, when they weren't eating out, they dined on the dishes that their housekeeper prepared and left in the oven before leaving for the day. On nights when he was in the mood for something a little more upscale, Clay might take a turn –usually with Penny's assistance. Aside from her morning coffee and bagels, or the occasional urge to bake some cookies, she was pretty much a visitor to her own kitchen. But on the rare occasions when she did cook, she usually bypassed the small bookcase with Clay's carefully chosen selection of cookbooks, and went straight for the box.
It was the only thing she'd taken for herself when they'd packed up the house after A.J.'s death. A few small personal items had been taken to Meredith. As for the rest of it, what Francesca hadn't wanted, she and Harriet had sold or given to charity. But no one had seemed much interested in an old tin recipe box, and she'd dumped it in the small box of things she'd meant to take home with her and put in the garbage. Later, when she had opened it up, she'd discovered a treasure trove.
One spattered card was scrawled with the ingredients for the Admiral's chili, a five alarm concoction that had been guaranteed to send every junior officer in the JAG office running for the water fountains. Another, equally stained scrap of paper contained the directions for AJ's ever popular Swedish meatballs. She recognized many of the recipes from years of office potlucks and private dinners at the Admiral's house, but not all of them were in AJ's heavy, cramped hand. There was a faded and dog-eared clipping from a newspaper for a sweet potato casserole with a few additions in a fine, lacy hand that she suspected was his mother's. She'd never been much of a fan of sweet potatoes, but she'd loved that dish, and just the thought of it conjured memories of happier times, gathered around the Admiral's table at an elegant Christmas or Thanksgiving dinner. There was a memory for almost every card in the box, from A.J's barbeque sauce to Meredith's god-awful chocolate chip cookies, and on the days when she missed them most, she found that a walk through the recipe box and a little time in the kitchen making one of the simple down home dishes was just the cure she needed.
She'd discovered the potato salad one day, quite by accident. It was an old recipe, written on a yellowed, unlined card in the flowing faded ink of a blue fountain pen. At the top was scrawled "Grandma Chegwidden's Potato Salad" and in the corner was inked the date, 1910. It was unlike any other potato salad recipe she'd ever seen, and just odd enough that she'd made a small batch for no other reason than the sheer curiosity of what such an unusual combination of ingredients would taste like. She'd fallen instantly in love with it, and so had everyone else. As a result, she'd been stuck with making the damned potato salad every holiday picnic since.
Unfortunately, she must have been in a hurry the last time she'd made it, for the recipe didn't seem to be in its usual spot. Gritting her teeth, she started at the front of the box and slowly began to sort through it, card by card.
"Mom?"
"Hmmm?"
"Are you mad at Daddy?"
"Whatever gave you that idea?"
--It certainly couldn't be the fact that any one who's come within ten feet of us has felt the need to put on a sweater and turn up the thermostat.
Penny raised her eyes from the potato she was working on, her expression casual, yet cautious. She lifted one shoulder slightly. "I don't know. –You just seem funny today. You hardly said anything to Dad on the way home. –You've hardly said anything at all."
"Well, there you go," Mac said practically. "You know how your father and I get when we're mad about something. We always have plenty to say to each other."
Penny lifted one brow in an arch expression as if to say tell me about it. She dropped the peeled potato into the pan of water and reached for another. "It's just that the two of you are acting so weird today."
"Weird how?" Mac said, digging frantically now for the recipe. She really didn't want to discuss this. –Especially not with her fourteen-year old daughter. Where in the hell was that card, anyway?
"It's just that with Dad coming home from the hospital today…" Penny hesitated and screwed up her face as she tried to put her finger on the matter, "—I don't know, I just thought you'd be happier about it."
So did I, Mac thought grimly, flipping over another card. Again, it was not the one she wanted, but the few simple words, written in bold lavender ink with Meredith's rounded script brought her to a screeching halt.
Recipe for a Happy Marriage and Lifelong Love:
Truth, Trust and Forgiveness
Mix in equal parts and take daily for the rest of your life.
She remembered this card well. She'd laughed the first time she'd found it. It had been paper clipped to the back of Meredith's banana bread recipe, and near the bottom, in a smaller hand, had been a brief note.
AJ, next time tell me if you don't like my baking. –It will save the dog the trip to the vet and I WILL forgive you …eventually.
M.
Now, however, she could only stare at the three words scrawled mockingly across the middle of the card: Truth …Trust …Forgiveness. Not so long ago, she had thought that she and Clay had been blessed with all the ingredients for a happy life together. Now, she wasn't so sure. They seemed to be pretty low on truth and fresh out of trust. The jury was still out on forgiveness…
"So, are you?" Penny pressed, breaking into her thoughts.
"Am I what?"
"Mad at
Daddy?"
Mac sighed. She might have her
share of shortcomings, but unlike her husband, she still had a little truth to
go with them.
"Yes," she said tersely, and continued to plow on through the box. The faded index card appeared at last, stuck between a magazine clipping from an old issue of Southern Living and what appeared to be a label peeled off the back of a Pace Picante bottle.
"Why?" Penny wanted to know.
On the other hand, Mac reflected, there were times when it paid to take a page from Clay's play book. Just because she told the truth, didn't mean she was required to tell all of it.
She laid the recipe card down on the counter in front of Penny. "It's need to know," she said shortly.
Penny shot her the same disgruntled look she always gave Clay when he used it on her. "—And I don't need to know," Penny sighed.
Mac flashed her daughter a tight smile and wondered if it looked as phony as it felt.
"You can peel the cucumbers next," she said.
***
23:00 EST
Webb Residence
Clay stared down at the page that he had been looking at –but not actually reading—for the last half hour. In fact, he was still on the same damned briefing he'd pulled from his briefcase four hours earlier. He tossed the report back into the brief case and locked it. He was thoroughly disgusted with himself. He'd never been this unfocused before, but then he'd never had his life so close to blowing completely to hell, either.
Well, he amended ruefully, he had, but it had been a long time ago …and he hadn't really had this much to lose. In fact, stranded as he had been in the ass end of Argentina, he really hadn't had anything except his wits and his vital signs, and neither had meant very much to him at that particular moment in time.
Life was often cheap in the intelligence business, and life in South America had been cheaper than most places. There had been a time, after his exile to Suriname and a few months before Kershaw had offered him the Tierra del Fuego assignment, that he frankly hadn't given a damn whether he lived or died. He'd only wanted it to end. Whether that ending had come with a plane ticket home or a bullet in the back of the head hadn't much mattered to him so long as it was over. It was likely only habit and the very real concern of what it would do to his mother if he did get killed that had kept him alive Argentina's seamy criminal underworld. …And then Sarah had agreed to go to Paraguay with him. –And incredibly, in the midst of that living nightmare he had drug her into, he began to think that perhaps it did matter after all.
Without even realizing it, she had resurrected something inside him that he'd thought he'd lost, and he'd reached for it with a tenacity that surprised even him. She was his light in the darkness. She was his reason for living. She had been the strength that he'd reached for in those agonizing hours of torture he had endured at the hands of Siddiq Faad's men, and the hope that he'd clung to in that long desperate drive through the Chaco Boreal with Galindez. She was his miracle, his gift from God …and now, in the truest example of all humanity, he'd managed to royally screw it up.
If he had only suspected it last night, he was certain of it now. The whole damned day had been a disaster. It had been obvious when she'd met him at the hospital this morning that something was wrong, and her responses to his questions and comments had only gotten frostier as the day progressed. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what was wrong. Obviously, she knew. –Exactly how much she had discovered, he could not be certain, but obviously Bud's relentless digging had finally revealed something tangible. –And it wasn't just Bud. Catherine had obviously been asking a few questions of her own, and judging from the conversation he'd had with Galindez this afternoon, there would be no support coming from that quarter. He couldn't really blame her. He probably shouldn't have stonewalled her on this, but the truth of the matter was that he hadn't been ready to talk about it. Unfortunately, that clearly wasn't going to be an option any more. The cat was steadily clawing its way out of the bag. Once it got out, there would be no going back to the way things were. Galindez was right. He had to tell Sarah –and soon—but it wasn't as easy as it sounded.
Dinner had been a strained affair at best, with Penny chattering nervously to fill the chasm of silence that had suddenly erupted between her parents. Sarah had brushed off his efforts to get close to her in the afternoon, helping out in the kitchen, and she'd studiously avoided him for the remainder of the evening. She'd made it abundantly clear she did not want to talk to him, and Penny's constant hovering in the background made it impossible to override her decision. Tomorrow was out of the question, of course. What with the cookout planned and their presence expected they would have to spend the day making nice for all of their friends and colleagues. He only hoped they could pull off the charade.
It would have to be Tuesday. Penny would be back in school. He would still be off on sick leave, and she would be off because …well, because it would be expected. On the other hand, he thought ruefully, Sarah had never been much of one for conforming to convention. She might decide to go to work just to spite him. He scowled and raked a hand through his hair. –So what if she did? He wasn't an invalid. He was perfectly capable of going down to her office, slamming the door shut behind them and demanding five minutes of her time. He'd rather it not come to that, of course. It wouldn't be pretty. But on the other hand, neither could it be avoided any longer. He sensed that time was running out. He only hoped that it wasn't already too late.
Switching out the light, he closed the door to his study and made his way down the hall to the bedroom. His eye traveled to their bed. It was empty. His mouth thinned in growing disgust. He was tired of walking on eggshells in his own house. This was getting to be ridiculous. Turning on his heel, he strode back down the hall way and found her at last island in the kitchen. She had poured herself a glass of milk, and was seated at the island, studying something on her laptop.
"Aren't you coming to bed?"
Her eyes never left the screen. "Not yet," she replied. "You go on ahead."
He waited for a beat, allowing the silence to stretch out between them.
"Fine," he said at last, and turned and headed back down the hallway.
Stalking back into the bedroom, he grabbed his pajamas out of the bureau and caught a glimpse of his own grim features in the dressing mirror. That went well, he thought acidly. He wasted little time in readying himself for bed, taking a quick, perfunctory shower, and brushing his teeth before turning back to the empty bed that beckoned.
Turning back the covers, he climbed in and adjusted the pillow beneath his neck before reaching over to switch off the bedside lamp. He laid flat on his back with his eyes closed, willing his mind to empty and his body to relax. …He rolled onto his right side and curled himself slightly into a ball, burrowing deeper into the covers and seeking the illusion of warmth and safety and comfort that always lulled him off to sleep. ….He rolled onto his left side and stared at the empty space on her side of the bed. He sighed and lay flat on his back again, staring at the soft white plaster of the ceiling.
It was going to be a long night.
Sometime later he heard her slip softly into the room. He opened his eyes and stared at the clock. Forty-five minutes. It had seemed like hours. He lay there quietly, feigning sleep as he listened to the small familiar sounds she made: the whisper of clothing falling to the floor, the creak of the hamper lid, the hiss of the shower turning on, the slight protest of the pipes and the abrupt silence as she turned it off, the whir of the hair dryer, the small scrubbing sounds as she brushed her teeth, the bathroom door opening …closing, the sound of soft footsteps padding across the carpet to the bed…
And then silence.
The air in the room seemed to still for a moment as he waited with growing apprehension for the next sounds in that familiar routine: the rustle of the coverlet being thrown back on her side of the bed …the soft creak of the bed springs as she settled in beside him …the warmth and comfort of her body next to his. He waited for it. He clenched his teeth. He hoped. He closed his eyes. He prayed.
And then he heard it: the soft sound of her footsteps, moving away and the tell-tale snick of the bedroom door opening under her hand.
"Where are you going?" The words spilled out of him before pride could call them back.
She stilled, and in the dim light that filtered in from the hallway, he could see the fine line of tension that ran through her body, stiffening her spine and curling her fingers into fists before she forced herself back to composure.
"Down the hall," she said at last. "You need to rest. I don't want to disturb you."
It was a lame excuse. They both knew it. He levered himself up onto one elbow, pinning her with his sharp green gaze.
"You don't disturb me, Sarah."
She turned to look at him then, staring at him with an intensity that seemed to bore right through him. Her face was expressionless, her eyes eerily unreadable in the faint light from the hall.
"No," she agreed, "but you disturb me."
"Why?" He asked, putting just the right amount of innocence in the word, knowing it would push her buttons and make her angry. He waited for the explosion, desperate now for the familiar pattern of her fury. He wanted her to yell and scream at him. He wanted to shout back. And more than anything, he wanted that moment when their anger would spark into passion and consume them both. God, how he wanted that!
He wanted to hold her tonight. He needed it. Hell, he just needed her.
He waited for the explosion, but it never came.
"Why?" he asked again, and this time he could not hide the ache in his voice.
She cocked her head slightly, and he thought he caught a flit of what might have been sadness chase across her face.
"You know why, Clay" she said softly and walked out, closing the door behind her.
***
He tried to sleep, but quickly gave it up. The room was too silent and the bed too empty. Hating the dark, cavernous atmosphere that the bedroom had suddenly acquired, he rose and pulled on his robe. Stepping out into the hallway, he heard the soft clink of metal tags from somewhere in the darkness. He peered down the hall to his left, and saw Jack curled up in the tiny alcove outside Penny's door, most likely banished for trying to sleep on the bed. Jack cocked his head toward the open door with a hopeful expression. Clay frowned at the dog and pulled the bedroom door shut behind him. The dog sighed heavily and dropped his head back down between his paws as he shot his master a beseeching look. Clay ignored it.
Turning, he set off down the hallway with the intention of retreating to the wing chair and the fireplace, as he did on all those other nights when the guilt and the memories came surging forth and sleep refused to claim him. He was halted, however, by the thin shaft of light that sliced across the polished hardwood floor of the hallway. His eyes traced it back to the small crack beneath the door of the guest bedroom. He stood for a moment, listening intently until he caught the faint click of her fingers upon the keys of her laptop. So she couldn't sleep, either.
He moved carefully, mindful of the creaking floorboards until he was standing before the guestroom door. Gently, he laid his hand upon the knob. Slowly, silently, he twisted it. The door knob turned the barest fraction of an inch and stopped, unyielding beneath his fingers. Locked. The clicking of the keyboard stopped abruptly.
He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the polished panel, willing her to come to him. The silence reigned. His hand curled into a fist and raised to knock, then stopped. What would he do if she didn't answer? Pick the lock? He lowered his hand and quietly backed away.
The dog tags chimed softly once again and he glanced back down the hall towards Penny's door. Jack stirred slightly and sighed as he tried to find a more comfortable position. The dog sprawled out on his side, and one eye shifted to Clay as if to say, "join the club, pal."
If he hadn't known better, he'd have sworn the damned dog was smirking at him.
The click of the keyboards resumed.
He felt a surge of frustration wash over him, and continued on down the hallway, taking care to avoid the squeaky floorboard just past his study door. His anger drove him to the sideboard, and he opened the door of the liquor cabinet, reaching automatically for the heavy crystal decanter of single-malt scotch. He lifted the decanter and yanked out the stopper, tipping the neck towards a waiting tumbler.
Nothing came out.
He stared at the decanter in consternation. It was empty.
He swore as realization dawned upon him. Penny. She had been nagging him all weekend. She'd pestered him about taking his pills tonight, and she'd rationed out his dinner with scientific regimen. –And she had obviously been taking diligent mental notes of the doctor's instructions when they released him from the hospital: no smoking, no junk food …and no alcohol. He stared glumly at the empty decanter. It had been over half full of twelve year old Springbank. She'd probably dumped it down the drain.
He sank dejectedly into the wing chair and reached for the remote. The gas fireplace ignited with the touch of a button, and he stabbed repeatedly at the arrow buttons, decreasing the gas flow until only a few small flames licked at the artificial logs. Five minutes later, he was still sitting there, dismally contemplating the fire in an effort not to think. It wasn't really working. He almost felt a rush of relief when that finely honed sixth sense kicked in, alerting him to another presence.
"Trying to sneak up on me?" He murmured. He tilted his head slightly and gazed into the luminous pair of pale yellow eyes that watched him from the shadows beneath the coffee table.
"You're good, but you're not that good, old man."
The cat stretched languidly and padded slowly across the fire-lit tiles of the hearth, coming to a stop at Clay's feet. Tigger sat down, somehow managing a delicate air in spite of his size. The cat regarded him expectantly. Like the well-trained human that he was, Clay raised his hand and rubbed his thumb and forefingers together in invitation. The tabby deigned to accept it and sprang into his lap, settling in with kneading claws and a throaty, rumbling purr.
His fingers settled unconsciously into the dark orange fur, and the cat's rumble grew even louder. He shot the cat a sardonic look. "Don't worry, I'm not fooled. I know you only missed the body heat and the breakfast sausage."
The cat blinked, as if to acknowledge the veracity of the statement and glanced back to watch the fire. Clay joined him, content to watch the flames as well. There was something comforting in the presence of the cat and he allowed his fingers to rub absently at all the animal's favorite spots: behind the ears, under the chin, at the nape of the neck. The clock on the mantel chimed one. He supposed he should really think about going back to bed, but he didn't see much point in it. He wouldn't sleep anyway.
The cat stretched and shifted slightly to catch a better view of the fire. The steady purring continued, the constant rumble keeping time with the breathing of the man as it slowed and deepened, evening out into the heavy respirations of slumber. Soon the man began to emit a soft, steady rumble of his own.
The snoring stopped abruptly and the cat tensed as the man shifted and muttered in his sleep. Cautiously raising its head, the cat stared intently into the man's face, studying the nervous, darting movements that shifted beneath the closed eyelids. It was a pattern the animal was more than familiar with. Moving stealthily, the cat rose carefully and jumped to the floor, abandoning the man in the chair to his tangled dreams.