Chapter 10

The doorbell rang. Rhoda Kane sprang up from the sofa and almost spilled her drink. She was halfway across the room before she realized she was almost running. She stopped. The hand that held the cocktail glass shook.

Resolutely, she steadied, crossed to the liquor cabinet, put down the glass, and went calmly to the door.

He stood there looking at her through those oddly empty eyes which, through some contradiction of all probability, warmed her.

He came in and closed the door, saying nothing. A touch of panic rippled through her. He was so silent, so unbending, so impersonal. Was this a reflection of her inability to communicate with him? Could their relationship fail because of this shortcoming on her part? What good was love if you couldn’t communicate it to the loved one?

She moved into his arms and raised her lips. His arms went around her, but there was no pressure or affection in them. Their lips were an inch apart. Her urge was to give full rein to the heady happiness and excitement within her--to show her love in a kiss.

But she held off and, after a few moments, he drew, back, raised one hand and passed it through her hair. Not with affection, she thought, but rather with curiosity; almost as though he were preoccupied with its composition. He rolled a strand of hair between thumb and finger, testing it.

“It needs cutting,” Rhoda said.

“Do you cut it?”

She laughed nervously. “You don’t know much about women, do you.”

“I know nothing about woman.”

Trying to inject a gay note into her voice, she said, “We eat, we sleep, we--we’re very functional, really.”

He rubbed a finger down her cheek. He pressed the flesh on her neck and watched the muscle spring back as he withdrew his finger.

“Do that to me,” he said.

Mystified, Rhoda pressed her finger against his neck until she could feel a pulse in his throat. She withdrew the finger. “Like that?”

“Did it leave a mark?”

“No. Is there something wrong? Do you have a sore throat?”

“My throat is not sore.”

Rhoda’s frustration was a pitiful thing. How could she get to him? How could she break through his shyness?

“I think you’re afraid of me,” she said lightly.

He did not answer. He took a backward step and regarded her for a moment with a frown. Then he began to unbutton her blouse.

Rhoda wanted to object. An instinctive protest caused her to draw back. His only reaction to this was to step forward and continue to unbutton her blouse. She wanted to resist but the fear of driving him away held her mute; that and something in his eyes that told of excitement, an unformed phantom of delight that had never materialized but still held sway over her through promise.

He stripped the blouse off. She wore no brassiere underneath, and he regarded her breasts somberly. He pressed a nipple with the tip of one finger and watched it spring back into place.

“Please. I--”

He ignored her. He pressed the nipple again and then found the zipper on the side of her slacks. He pulled it down and pushed the slacks down over her hips. She lifted each foot obediently.

He was on his knees now, running his fingers gently down her thighs. Rhoda trembled at the touch. Then she realized it was not love-making on his part--not in any sense. He was preoccupied with the fine hair on her skin. He studied it closely.

“I should have shaved my legs,” Rhoda said uncertainly. He raised his head, the cold eyes trained into hers. “This hair grows, too?”

Rhoda caught her lower lip between her teeth. Tears were close to the surface.

This is crazy. This is utterly insane. I’m mad or he’s mad. I don’t know. I just don’t know...

The last garment was removed and she was naked there in the middle of the living room. He studied her body again, that passionless, preoccupied frown on his face. He drew her down onto the floor and, for a moment, the room spun around Rhoda, her emotional entrapment now the focal point, the eye of the storm that raged in her being. He went on with his minute inspection of her person.

No--no. Please don’t. Please don’t treat me like this. I’m a woman. Don’t be contemptuous of me. Oh, no--please. Don’t degrade and humiliate me like this.

There was sudden pain. Rhoda’s body wrenched and heaved upward. With a sob, she sank back to the floor.

I must fight. I must not allow this. I must not let him do these cruel, degrading things to me. I must fight but I am afraid to. I am afraid he’ll go away and never come back--and if he did that, there would be nothing left for me.

John Dennis seemed to become aware for the first time that certain manipulations caused reaction--the jerking of Rhoda’s body and her involuntary cry of pain. He repeated the manipulation with his eyes on her face.

I cannot allow this. I must fight. I must resist. Oh, Rhoda Kane, what has happened to you? Frank, please help, help me. Frank--

But something seemed to flow out of John Dennis and into her mind and soul and spirit; something that made the flesh and what was done to the flesh unimportant.

The touch of John Dennis’ hand brought fright as it foretold further pain and degradation. Rhoda sobbed inwardly and braced herself to withstand whatever was to come.

Mad!--mad!--mad!

But it meant nothing.

The building was not for tourists. It wasn’t like the Pentagon or the White House or any of the other historical or glamour symbols in Washington, D.C. It was on a side street, and while no one associated it with governmental activity, it was of a size and importance that justified a uniformed attendant in the lobby.

He was a hard-bitten old Irishman named Callahan, and nobody got past him without justification. Also, he was a man of robust hates and great loyalties; a man whom Brent Taber was honored to call friend.

He was also a man Brent Taber was waiting to hear from.

The call came late in the afternoon of the day following Charles Blackwell’s search for his would-be brother. Taber picked up the phone.

“It’s me--Callahan. He’s here, Mr. Taber.”

“Thanks. I’ll be right over.”

“And be hurrying right along if you want to get here in time. He’s not one to be restrained indefinitely.”

“Tell him the elevator’s busted.”

Brent Taber slammed the phone down and left. He used an elevator this time and went across town in a cab. Even then, he was almost too late. As he arrived at his destination, Senator Crane was protesting loudly.