42

Rune Alignment

Chapter 13.

"What are you doing?" Gleason asked.

Bobby turned around, paring knife in hand and replied, "Morning glory. You don't have a big bowl. I'll have to use a pot. We need to get you a mixing bowl."

She walked to him, still schlepping the chenille throw, put an arm around his waist, and saw the pile of chopped vegetables on a dinner plate. It looked like he'd cleaned out her fridge: the last of her eggs, milk, English muffins, butter, the last two peaches, and a wee block of cheese covered the small workspace. Bobby reached an arm around her and gave her a quick hug, planting a kiss on her forehead, then went back to dicing a green pepper.

"We need to go shopping. The kettle is on and breakfast will be ready in about fifteen minutes. Why don't you go take a shower and change? We'll eat when you're done." He was happy.

She dropped her arm and stood beside him, looking up at him. It was her turn to search his face. His stubble had become an early beard. His eyes were clear, dark ovals, deep windows into his brilliant mind. His hair, mussed from sleep, looked as curly as hers did, but he wore it short. Individual strands of silver littered the dark brown. He continued to work as she examined him. He felt her eyes and looked at her, "What?"

Without a word, she reached up, placed a hand on each side of his face, pulled his head toward hers and kissed him full on the lips. In one move, Bobby set down the paring knife, turned toward her, took her in his arms and returned her kiss. Her tongue gently sought its way into his mouth. He took a sharp breath and let her in. His left hand moved up her back to her neck, around to her throat, his fingers reaching, stroking her face. She felt him rise against her, she turned her head, leaving him kissing, licking and sucking her neck, "Bobby, wait. Bobby, no."

"Huh uh, this is good." He nuzzled her neck and used his fingers to move her face back to his open mouth.

"Wait, wait." Gleason stepped back and Bobby looked at her with abject confusion.

"What?" he was breathing heavily. "What's wrong?"

"I can't, not yet. I'm so sorry," she turned, gathered up the throw that had fallen off and walked to the bathroom for her shower.

Bobby watched her go, not understanding what had just happened. He wiped a hand over his face; with eyes closed, he let out a long, low growl. He crossed his right ankle over his left, placed both hands on the edge of the counter, bent at the waist and waited. Finally, when he was able to stand, he pushed off the counter and continued preparing their breakfast.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gleason stepped out of her clothes and stood under the steaming water. What have I done, she wondered. The water felt so good, she could stay there for hours; but Bobby was waiting for her. He'll be angry, she thought. She washed her hair and lathered her body, rinsed and stood under the hot water, hoping the hot water would melt the scars from her back. Why did I kiss him? A short time later, she stepped from the shower. She dried off and then wrapped her hair in the towel. It was good, the kiss, his arms felt so good; she wanted more, Bobby wanted more. She used the throw as a robe, gathered her clothes from the floor and crossed the hall to her bedroom. You don't know what lies beneath, she reminded herself. She pulled up plain white panties, pulled on an undershirt and then dressed in dark green cargo pants and a boxy, long sleeved tee shirt. You don't know; never really know. She put on socks and slipped her feet into well-worn mocs. What have I done? She twisted her damp hair into a French braid. He'll be angry now.

Bobby sprawled in a chair at the table, one arm slung over the back, chewing his thumb, waiting for her. He turned when she entered the kitchen, rose and stepped to the small oven where he used a tea towel to remove a small plate of toasted English muffins and then two dinner plates each bearing a huge vegetable omelet. He set the plates on the table, went to the fridge and took two small bowls containing peach slices. The table was set with butter, honey, mugs, old cloth napkins and mismatched silverware. She watched him move the teapot to the table; he even found the cozy and knew what to do with it. "It's ready," he said plainly.

"Bobby . . ." she started.

"Gleason," he held up a hand, "its ok. It was nice, more than nice, but you're right, it's too soon. Come on, I'm starved." He reached for her elbow, lead her to the other chair, pulled it out and she sat. He put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. Cinnamon?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jerry in Audio was pulling overtime, trying to copy and compile all the messages from the professor's cell phone. He had to get the messages copied and off her phone so the caller could leave more without bumping the earliest one. This is one sick bastard, he thought. He'd have to wait for Monday for Eames to get a warrant to get copies of the landline messages from the phone company.

Speaking of the landline, the professor's home phone was still unplugged. That has to be plugged in, he thought; we're probably missing all kinds of calls. Jerry decided to call Goren and remind him to try to get the professor to plug her phone back in. Although, he reconsidered, why not just call the professor herself on that department cell and tell her to do it. God knows what Goren's up to this weekend. Jerry dialed.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"This is really good," Gleason said with some surprise. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"

"Well, you see," swallowing and answering with a glint in his eye, "I am so much more than a pretty face." He didn't want to tell her that growing up, from age seven anyway, he did most of the cooking. When his mother was manifesting symptoms, it fell to Bobby to keep them all fed. His father was rarely around, especially when his mom got bad, and his brother was always out, avoiding the weirdness at home. Often, it was just Bobby and his mom.

"We need to go shopping," Bobby continued, "You need a mixing bowl. And a cheese grater. We need to get some food, too. I think I cleaned you out. What do you say? Let's go to the farmer's market." He checked his watch. "We have lots of time. It will be fun." Bobby was so happy; she could see it in his eyes, his gestures, could hear it in his voice.

They both ate with gusto. Between bites, she said, "I love an open air market, that's the only place I ever shopped at home. Can you find oddities there as well, bowls and things? I should probably make a list."

"No, you don't take a list for a market. You wand-. . ." a cell phone ring stopped him cold. Both spun their heads toward the living room. It rang again. "It's not mine," he said getting up. It rang again and he followed the sound to the small lamp table. Gleason's eyes were huge; she held her napkin against her mouth. Bobby stood looking at the new cell phone.

"Bobby," she started but he silenced her with a hand. It rang again. He took the phone, pushed talk, and put it to his ear.

"Uh, Dr. Wintermantle? Are you there? Dr. Wintermantle?"

Bobby listened silently, trying to get a read on the voice. It sounded normal, how could anyone get this number?

"Hello? Dr. Winter- . . ."

"Who the hell is this?" Bobby barked into the phone.

Silence then, "Goren? That you? It's me, Jerry. From work."

Relief flooded Bobby's body and he nearly slumped with calm. "Jesus Christ, Jerry! What the hell are you doing calling her phone?"

"Ha, you dog. I was going to call your phone but I didn't know where you would be. Little did I know. . . So, anyway, I called hers to tell her to plug in the landline. She's apparently unplugged it because nothing is happening on the redirect. We're going to miss calls from this guy if he's still active. He's one sick bastard, huh?"

Listening, Bobby glanced all around the living room for her home phone. Not seeing it, he headed down the short hallway to her bedroom. There it was, on the short, three-legged stool that served as her bedside table. The line was attached to the phone base; she must have unplugged it at the jack.

"Let me see where the jack is and I'll fix it. Hey, thanks for staying on this. I'll catch you later." He ended the call with the push of a button and saw Gleason watching him from the doorway. "Where's the phone jack?" he asked, "I should have done this last night." Gleason pointed to the wall on the far side of the bed. Bobby found the jack and connected the phone to the system once again.

"That was Jerry from work," Bobby explained. "He's putting a redirect feed on your line. Any calls that come in on your home phone won't ring here; they'll ring on a dedicated line in Jerry's lab. The caller will hear the same message prompt as before and think he's gotten your message service and he'll say what he's gonna say. Jerry will then be able to record the message on his equipment and then do a voiceprint. He'll also be able to begin a trace on the calls."

Her eyes were huge; she had that terrorized look again. "It's ok, things are getting done. Come on. Let's finish eating and then we'll get some air." He put his arm around her and led her back to the kitchen.