Interception

Jill opened the door and was taken aback for a second. Special Agent Peter Strahm was everything that...she really hadn't been expecting. He was tall and very broad shouldered, classically handsome in a somewhat old-fashioned way, and looked a touch ill at ease in a suit, as if he were far more accustomed to wearing casual clothing.

“Good evening, Ms. Tuck,” he said, in a soft New Jersey accent that hadn't been apparent over the phone. He extracted his wallet from his inside pocket and allowed her time to inspect his badge and authorisation before flipping it shut. “Might I recommend using your door chain after dark, by the way?”

“I...” she hesitated, reflecting that it had been of no use at all in securing her home against Detective Hoffman, and then recovered her composure and smiled. “Of course, thank you. Please come in.”

Nodding his thanks, Strahm stepped past Jill into the lounge and turned once, taking in the layout of the room in a single, economical glance; that was his law enforcement training at work, Jill noted. Always make sure the location is secure before proceeding. As his head swung back, Strahm caught Jill studying him and, just for a second, a quizzical look crossed his bright blue eyes. The moment passed, Jill cleared her throat and clasped her hands in front of her demurely.

“How can I help you?” she asked, and noticed that Strahm seemed momentarily uncomfortable.

“Perhaps it might be better if we sat down,” he said. Jill glanced over at the couch and clamped her lips together, thinking back to what had taken place there not more than five minutes earlier. She exhaled softly and walked over to the table instead, sitting down and lacing her fingers together. Strahm joined her.

“I'm afraid I need to ask you some questions about your ex-husband, Ms. Tuck,” he said, seeming genuinely sympathetic.

“I've already told the police everything I know about John,” said Jill. She dropped her gaze for a second. As Strahm shifted position, the low light gleamed from the modest gold wedding ring he wore, and Jill indulged in some brief speculation on the matter. “We separated, and not exactly happily as you might imagine. I haven't spoken to him in person for at least eighteen months now.”

“I understand that this is hard for you, Ms. Tuck...”

“Please, call me 'Jill'”

“I understand, Jill,” he nodded curtly, “but I need to make sure that there's nothing – nothing – I've overlooked. The situation's getting out of control. That's why I'm here,” he finished, sitting back in his chair, gazing levelly at her. In the intervening silence, a cop car howled momentarily somewhere out in the bowels of the city, punctuating the tension quite appropriately.

“You said you haven't spoken your ex-husband in person for a year and a half?”

“I haven't, no” Jill clenched her hands together.

“But you have spoken with him since then?”

Damn it, thought Jill. She was aware that the scrutiny had intensified, and she lacked the strength to meet it, caught as she was in an attempt to sidestep the admission.

“I have, yes,” she said, slowly. “However, I'm still not sure he told me anything that'll be of any use to your investigation.”

“Why don't you let me be the judge of that,” said Strahm, not unkindly, with the smallest of interrogatory head tilts.

(I need you to see to Eric's welfare from now on, Jill. I can't rely upon Detective Hoffman to honour the essential decencies...)

“We talked about Gideon,” said Jill, haltingly. It was an element of the truth. Gideon was present, whether spoken or unspoken, in every conversation she had with John. Where what once bound them together was love and communication, they were now tied by the death of their child and – of course – always by the Games.

(Why do you rely upon him at all?)
(I have my reasons. I've always asked only that you trust me)

“Gideon?” asked Strahm, focusing on her closely. She returned the intensity of his gaze. It was, all at once, strangely intimate.

(...what right do you have to say that Jeff should learn to let go? You can't let go...)

“Our son,” said Jill, staring at her own reflection in the table top. Her eyes stung, and she twisted away and stood up in one movement. “I'm sorry. I really could use a drink. Can I get you something?” It was an excuse to retreat, even for a few minutes. She found half a bottle of Chenin Blanc in the fridge and wrenched out the cork. The neck of the bottle clattered loudly on the rim of the glass as she poured.

“Let me get that for you,” said Strahm, right behind her ear. Jill started; she hadn't heard him approach. He took the bottle from her shaky grasp and set it on the counter, then turned back with the full glass and handed it to her. She wrapped both hands around it, unsure of her grip. Strahm remained standing close to her, his expression that of a man watching someone standing on the ledge of a high building.

“I apologise. I didn't mean to upset you,” he said, gently.

“What is this,” said Jill, her head snapping back, “a one-man game of Good Cop, Bad Cop?” She regretted the barb instantly, as Strahm visibly recoiled.

“I don't play games, Jill,” he said, stonily. “That's your ex-husband's thing, remember? I'm just trying to save a few lives here. Nothing too major.”

The sudden silence clanged.

“Can we start over, Agent Strahm?” said Jill. “I think we got off on just about the worst note possible. I really do want to be of assistance, believe me.”

“Of course,” said Strahm, some of the frost melting from his eyes. To her surprise, he fetched a second wine glass and carried the bottle back to the table. “It's Peter, by the way.”

“John lost all perspective after Gideon died,” said Jill, as they sat down. Strahm watched her over the rim of his wine glass, but said nothing for the moment. “Understandably, I suppose, and I can't deny that I was adrift for a while myself, but...” she sighed “...John never truly fitted into this world to begin with. Gideon was his anchor. Far more so than me, really, which is why the miscarriage destroyed our marriage so quickly.”

“This is what it's all been about, then?” asked Strahm, quietly. “Does he blame you?”

(All I wanted to do was help them)
(You can't help them. They have to help themselves)

“No, he doesn't. He places appropriate blame,” said Jill, firmly.

“I'm not sure that there's anything appropriate about John's crusade,” replied Strahm, setting his glass aside and propping his chin in his hand.

“The police can't find John because they underestimate him,” said Jill, evenly. “I believe you're already making the same mistake. No,” she said, as Strahm opened his mouth to object, “I'm right. The world isn't what you think it is, believe me. He understands it. To answer the only question you came here to ask me: no. I don't know where John is. He removed me from his life for reasons of his own and I have never known him to back down on any decision he's made. If he calls me again I will let you know, but until then, it's late and I'm sorry.”

For long seconds, Strahm looked as if he were about to argue the point, and then he dropped his gaze with a soft sigh and stood up. He paused only to fish a card from his inside pocket and hand it to Jill.

“My number,” he said. “Please call me any time, day or night. This is serious, Jill.”

“I'm aware of that,”

“I know you are,” said Strahm. “I'm just not sure we're both using the same definition of the word. I'll let myself out.”

After the front door had closed, Jill made her way to the bedroom, where Hoffman was already waiting for her, stretched out on the bed with his shirt unbuttoned and hands clasped behind his head, completely at ease.

“God-damned American hero, isn't he?” he said, smirking nastily. “I don't think you made him feel very welcome. Shame on you.”

“I did my best,” she retorted. “He's not going to be easy to break and you know it.”

“What the fuck ever,” growled Hoffman, “I'll think of something. In the meantime, I think we have some unfinished business. Come here.”

Jill still had her hand on the door handle. “I'd rather not,” she told him, wondering how much of that statement was a lie.

“I'm not asking, Jill,” There was a warning note in his voice. She bit her lip and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, stripping off her blouse as she did so. Hoffman sat up and slipped her bra strap off her shoulder, sliding it down with infinite care, and applied his lips to her flesh just as gently. She felt his teeth nip at her skin and then he moved lower, mouth opening, flicking at her nipple with the very tip of his tongue, each stroke so delicate and so careful that she prickled from head to toe. Jill moaned and allowed her head to loll back, at which point Hoffman eased her onto her back and mounted her.

She was undeniably wet and could not have been more wanting, but even so she was unprepared for the size of him, and stifled a brief whimper by burying her face against his sweat-slicked chest. Hoffman chuckled.

“Look at me,” he said, hoarsely. “I want you to look at me while I'm inside you.”

Jill exhaled harshly, licking her lips, tasting the salt and musk of him. She raised her head, staring into Hoffman's eyes as he jerked his hips once or twice, making her entire body shudder violently. His eyes. She knew them to be blue, knew it as well as anything, but here in the gloom of her bedroom they were as black as a snake's. Now the shudder that ran through her body was as much a product of terror as of desire.

“Please don't hurt me,” she breathed. Hoffman's lips twisted and he ground his hips against her until she cried out.

“Why would I do that?” he asked.

“Don't...”

“You asked for this, Jill.”

She knew it was the truth, and surrendered to it as he began to move within her.