Here are some of the males who would deny us our dark safety.
And then came the names.
Gritty-eyed and unwashed, Kate stumbled off and collapsed between the sheets for three hours, when she was dragged out of unconsciousness by a steaming mug and Lee's voice.
“Your hair,” Lee purred into her lover's ear, sinking her fingers into the matted brown tangle on the pillow. “‘Your hair flows like a flock of goats, spilling down the side of Mount Gilead.’”
Kate opened one eye to glare at the face of her partner, who was convulsed with hilarity at her own wit. “You woke me up to tell me that?”
“I woke you up to remind you that you have an appointment in Marin at eight o'clock.”
Kate looked at the clock, and then nearly knocked the mug out of Lee's grasp as her own hand shot out for the telephone. She punched in the number, as familiar as her own, and then grimaced at the woman's voice that answered.
“'Morning, Jani,” she said carefully. “This is Kate. Have I missed Al?”
“He's in the shower, Kate. Can I have him call you back?”
“Okay. I'm at home. It's kind of urgent, Jani.”
“Isn't it always?” Jani commented, and the phone went dead. Kate put her own phone down, wondering if she should read anything into Jani's brusque dismissal, and if so, how much. She had seemed okay on the phone the other night, so maybe it didn't mean anything.
“What's wrong?” Lee asked, again holding out the mug. Kate took it gratefully, slurped off the top inch, and arranged a couple of pillows behind her head.
“Jani didn't sound very happy to hear me,” Kate told her. “I'd thought it was calming down with her, but maybe not.” Jani still held Kate to blame for the kidnapping of her daughter, Jules, while under Kate's supervision just before Christmas. Since in Kate's opinion Jani was right, she could hardly complain at the woman's treatment of her. Still, it added a degree of tension to her partnership with Al that was sometimes awkward.
Lee, however, had an alternative explanation for the exchange.
“It's probably her morning sickness. Didn't you tell me she was about ten weeks along? She was probably just trying not to vomit into the receiver.”
“You think so?”
“I think it's possible. You might check with Al before you get het up about nothing.”
“Is ‘het up’ a medical term, Doctor?”
“Definitely. New Age terminology meets the Victorian era.” Lee drew a deep breath, looking down at her hands, and Kate went instantly wary. “Sweetheart,” Lee began, “I've been thinking about what you said the other night.”
Kate made no pretense at not knowing what Lee was talking about. There was only one subject at the moment that called for low voice and lowered gaze.
“About a baby?”
“Indirectly. Or rather, on the way to a baby. I've never really apologized properly for what I put you through last summer.”
“That's not—”
“Let me say it. I treated you like shit. I made you crawl and then shoved you away, just to prove I could. And when I finally heard that you'd been hurt, nearly killed, it was like—oh, I don't know. Like having a bucket of ice water dumped into my brain. All I could think of was, if you'd died, you would have gone thinking that I wasn't coming back. It was a shock, that idea, it made me feel … I can't begin to describe how I felt,” admitted the articulate psychotherapist. “I think about it every day. And I am sorry. Mostly—” she held out a hand to stop Kate's protest. “Mostly I'm sorry for what my actions did to us. You've been insecure about us ever since, which I can understand. But let me say, here and now, that I am not going anywhere. I love you, and I am staying here with you. If you can just think of the other as a sort of temporary insanity, I would be very grateful.”
Kate was not exactly proud of the memory of her own response to Lee's abrupt exit, which had gone from drunken self-pity to reckless rage for weeks. She had not told Lee, would not tell her now, but merely took her lover into her arms and held her.
After a minute, Lee stirred. “Now we can talk about the baby thing. I've found an OB/GYN over in Berkeley who is willing to work with a disabled lesbian. I made an appointment for early next month. I'd like you to come with me.”
Kate smoothed Lee's own unruly curls. “You're very sure about this?”
Lee sat up again to meet her eyes, taking Kate's hand. “I think I'm sure, if that makes sense. What I mean is, I want very badly to try, but if at any point along the way the difficulties become too major—if the doctor says absolutely not, if the insemination doesn't take, if problems crop up—I will back off. You may need to remind me of that promise, by the way,” she said, her smile a bit lopsided. “If I'm becoming fixated, let me know. Loudly.”
“That's a deal.”
“One more thing.”
“Only one?”
“At the moment. We haven't talked about money.”
“We'll manage.”
“A baby's an expensive addition. And if we commit ourselves to in vitro, it gets really expensive. Plus, I can't see myself working full-time, either before or after.” Her attitude was not simply one of warning Kate, but of leading up to something.
“So you want me to rob a bank?” Kate asked lightly. “Or are you and Jon cooking up a little computer fraud and you want a couple of tips?”
“Uh, no. I think I'll avoid anything that would land one of us in jail. I hear they're bad places to raise children. No, I was thinking that we might have to sell this house, move someplace cheaper.”
It was not entirely unexpected; in fact, it was a suggestion Kate had made any number of times over the years since Lee had inherited the property following the death of her authoritative and strongly disapproving mother, but it still sent a sharp pang of regret through her. Objectively speaking, it was worth a small fortune, but Kate had put herself into this house, her sweat and her commitment, and she loved it as she never thought she would love a mere building. She also knew without question that they were both well and truly spoiled for any lesser house they might find to replace it.
She kissed Lee and smiled at her. “I'll miss the view of the Bay,” she said, and left it at that.
Al's return call found her about to step into her own shower. She turned off the water and sat down on the toilet in front of the glowing bars of the ancient wall heater.
“Jani said you needed to talk.”
“Look, Al, is Jani okay with me?” she asked bluntly. “She sounded pissed off.”
“Jani?” Al's surprise was all the answer she needed. “No, she's not pissed off with you. With life in general, maybe, and with hormones and a dry cracker diet in particular, but she's good with you.”
“I'm glad.”
“We're both waiting for the second trimester to get under way. It usually settles down then.”
Hawkin the expectant father, Kate thought in amusement, and wondered idly if she and he would share hints and complaints when and if Lee was in Jani's condition. The thought brought the entire possibility of Lee and a baby into abrupt focus, and for a long moment Kate sat naked on the toilet seat, bemused by the whole situation. Al's growl jerked her to attention.
“Martinelli, is that all you phoned to ask?”
“No, Al, sorry. Didn't get much sleep last night. Do you have a minute?”
“Go ahead.”
“Okay. Last night we had Roz and Maj over, and got to talking about religion and the conservative Right with their anti-gay programs and the bombing of abortion clinics. And then Jon mentioned that Web site that everyone was talking about when the doctor back East was shot, the Web site that lists doctors and clinic directors, their families and home addresses, all kinds of things nobody would want a nut to get ahold of.”
“The hit list.”
“Exactly.”
“Do I see where this is going?” Al asked slowly, and Kate knew him well enough to hear the excitement in his voice. She hugged herself to keep warm
.
“You do. It took me forever, but I found one that is a kind of mirror image. It's called Womyn of the EVEning—that's w-o-m-y-n, and the e-v-e in evening is capitalized. It's only been online since January, which may be why nobody's heard about it. It isn't one of those governmental lists, notifying residents they might have a sex offender as a neighbor. This one's a list of suspects who are known to beat their wives, abuse kids physically or sexually, or rape women. Each guy is given a case history, his arrest and conviction record, and a list of the things he's suspected of that he didn't get taken down for because the courts weren't able to prove anything further. You know the routine—tainted evidence, a withdrawn statement by a victim or witness, circumstantial evidence without direct corroboration, that sort of thing. There were a couple of plea bargains for lesser offenses. God knows where all their information came from, though it looks to me like somebody's getting into things they shouldn't.”
“Hackers?”
“Or an inside source.”
“How many on the list?”
“Two hundred fourteen names.”
“What? In four months? Christ, Martinelli.”
“Makes you think, doesn't it? It's compiled by a woman who seems to be somewhere in Nebraska. People send her names, and if they match her criteria— that's what she calls it—she adds them to the list, with their phone numbers and addresses. I've sent her an imaginary case, to see what she does with it, what kind of checks she runs.”
“Are any of our—” Al started, but Kate was already there.
“They're all on it. All three.”
Al was silent, then said what was on both their minds.
“That takes it out of our hands for sure. Have you called Marcowitz yet?”
“My next call, after I talked to you.”
“The feds'll be embarrassed that you found it first,” he said, pleased at the idea.
“I thought I might point that out, if they try to cut us out of the loop completely.”
“Blackmail, Martinelli? Not nice.”
“Just doing my job, Al.” “Sure you are. Find anything else interesting on the list?”
“Don't know about interesting, but there's going to be a hell of a lot of work there. But Al? There are a bunch of connecting sites, things like legal information for victims, do-it-yourself PI work, how to go underground, that kind of thing. I haven't been through all of them yet, but I had two interesting hits. One of them was a self-defense site that talked about, among other things, buying and using various kinds of taser.” Hawkin grunted in reaction. “The other—frankly, I don't know what to think. Roz Hall's church has a Web site two links away.”
Every creation is born out of the dark.
Every birth is bloody. Something gets torn.
Kali is there to do her sovereign work
Or else the living child will be still-born.
Kate had not been inside Roz and Maj's house since the previous Thanksgiving. It looked as if she was not about to enter it today, either, since there was no response to either doorbell or knuckles. She had thought she was early enough to catch them, and Roz's red Jeep stood in the driveway, but the house was empty. Try again later.
She had her car door open when Maj's boxy white BMW rounded the corner, lights on and wipers going against the morning drizzle. It signaled its turn to an empty street and pulled sedately into the drive. While Kate waited for the doors to open, she reflected that either cars were no indication of personality, or else a certain degree of incompatibility was no bad thing in a relationship: Whereas Roz drove a big, battered, once-flashy but still new vehicle that already had a dozen political stickers superimposed in layers on the back bumper, Maj stuck to the car she had bought new twelve years before, a car as immaculate and scrupulously maintained as its owner, which usually wore a single bumper sticker, scraped off and changed two or three times a year at Maj's whim, its message either puzzling or humorous, if not both. Her most recent one, Kate noticed, declared that REAL WOMEN DRIVE STICK. The BMW, needless to say, had a manual transmission.
The car doors opened and the two women got out, followed by a large black dog, which shook itself damply, spotted Kate, and launched itself down the sidewalk toward her as if she was either a long-lost soul mate or a mortal enemy. Before Kate could decide between pulling her gun or a swift retreat into her car, Roz spoke sharply and the dog skidded to a halt, casting Kate a longing glance before it returned to Roz's side.
“You're up and around early,” Roz declared. “Were you looking for us?”
“I thought I missed you. I should've called first.”
“Maj just dropped Mina off at school and circled around to pick me up from my run. I don't think you've met the newest addition—this is Mouton, also known as Mutton, or Mutt to his friends.”
“Mutt?”
“What can I say? It's what he answers to.”
“Because he's a mutt?”
“No,” said Roz, bending down to take the dog's damp head between her hands and rub it vigorously back and forth. “It's because he's just an overgrown lamb,” she crooned at him, to his ecstasy.
Mutt was mostly black Lab with the addition of something from the fluffier end of the gene pool, and he did look a bit like a sheep. A wet, smelly, wriggling sheep who, when his mistress had released him, wanted nothing but to bound up into Kate's arms but settled for washing the back of her outstretched hand with an enthusiastic tongue. Perhaps a black sheep, Kate thought, noticing Maj's disapproving glance at the animal's damp and sandy feet. How did one train a dog to wipe his feet at the door?
“He's very nice,” she said obediently, though she'd never been much for dogs. “How long have you had him?”
“Couple of months. He belongs to a friend who moved back to England. She couldn't stand the thought of locking him up for their six-month quarantine, so we sort of inherited him, unless she decides to come back. Mina adores him, and Maj approves of the way he forces me to get some exercise. Want a cup of coffee?”
“Love one.”
“Are you in a hurry?” Roz asked over her shoulder, her key in the lock. “If you're not, I'll jump in and out of the shower first so we don't have to leave all the windows open. Mutt doesn't mind my delicate fragrance, but human noses tend to twitch.”
“Shower ahead, there's no rush.”
Mutt did have the manners to shake himself before entering the house, and he pounded up the stairs on Roz's heels. Maj shook her head affectionately and led Kate back into the large, spotless, very Scandinavian-looking kitchen to put on a pot of coffee for Roz and Kate and a cup of herbal tea for herself and the baby. She moved more heavily these days, balancing against the weight in front, and Kate reflected that on the way over this morning she had seen four other pregnant women, at various places along the streets. Either half the city was pregnant, or she had babies on the brain.
“The smell of coffee doesn't bother you?” Kate asked. Giving up coffee for nine months if Lee got pregnant was not an appealing thought.
“No,” Maj replied. “Should it?”
“My partner Al's wife is pregnant and says that coffee makes her sick. I just wondered if it's a common reaction.”
“Coffee doesn't affect me. It's odd things like chicken and celery that get to me.” She shrugged. “Who knows?”
“How's my step-goddaughter? Over her monkey phase yet?”
“I wish. She found a book on Jane Goodall last week. Now she wants to go to Africa and live with the chimpanzees.”
“And you? Getting any work done?” A person tended to forget that Maj Freiling had a life out from the shadow of Roz Hall and the family structure, but that was partly due to the general uncertainty about what Maj's job was. It was neither psychology nor brain surgery, but existed somewhere between the two, and seemed to consist of conversations with researchers on how people thought. She was, Kate knew, working on and off writing a book, which Lee had explained as having to do with sex-linked characteristics and gen
der role expectations, but that too was made up of apparently unrelated fragments rather than a unifying thesis. Today's conversation was typical.
“Oh, yes,” Maj answered. “I came across an interesting man at San Francisco State who is looking at the complexity of our perception of a person's voice, how we can judge sex and age, education and authority just by a few words over the telephone. He is working from an evolutionary viewpoint, the question of why a person's voice perception is so capable of reading subtle clues, almost as much as visual perception. I am more interested in the consequences, but I am thinking of adding a chapter, or at any rate a few pages, on the subject. It is most distracting,” she added with a laugh, seeing that Kate was not following any of it. Her accent, almost nonexistent in everyday conversation, became more precisely European when she spoke about her work, Kate noticed, and wondered what message this voice perception carried.
They drank their hot drinks and talked about this and that, and then Roz came back in, her hair wet and Mutt's nearly dry, to pour herself some coffee and a bowl of cereal.
“Want anything to eat?” she asked Kate, who declined the offer. “Well, let me fill up your cup again and we'll get out from under Maj's feet.”
Roz's office was as untidy as the kitchen was neat, bookshelves sagging, a door-on-sawhorses set up at a right angle to a sturdy oak desk, both entirely buried in books and files and computer printouts. Roz walked around to the niche surrounded by desks and shelves and balanced her bowl and cup on top of a stack of folders. She waved Kate to the chair across from her and began to spoon up her breakfast.
“What have you found about Pramilla Mehta?” she asked around a mouthful of granola. “Can you prove yet that her husband killed her?”
“The investigation is, as they say, ongoing.”
Roz peered at her over the laden desk. “You can't talk about it.”
Kate pulled a face. “It's difficult. He was clearly mentally deficient, and possibly mentally disturbed. We're having a profile put together, to see if he had a potential for violent outbursts followed by careful planning. I mean, we know he could be violent, but the cover-up is the question. I personally don't think he did, but then I only met him once, and he wasn't in very good shape at the time.” If Roz was either surprised or suspicious at Kate's willingness to share information, she did not show it, but Kate knew that there would be no forthcoming information from Roz if Kate did not at least give the appearance of openness. And she had actually not given Roz anything that wasn't in the papers.