NO OTHER EXTREME
excerpt...

by T.J. MacGregor

prologue

Thursday, November 1
Tango Key, Florida

Jay Hutchin watched them as they strolled down the dimly lit street, arms around each other, faces as close together as an envelope and a postage stamp. His chest went tight, his throat dried up. He felt as if he might choke.

He sat low in the driver's seat of his wife's Toyota, grateful for the shadows that concealed him. The car was parked in a crowded lot across the street from the restaurant Diane had entered an hour ago. She'd gone in alone and had come out with this man, who must have been waiting for her inside.

I'll be staying at the Peninsula, she'd told him over the phone earlier today. My manager's in town, we'll have dinner, I'll be back at The Peninsula Motel by midnight. Cabin thirteen. Even though Hutchin hadn't seen this man's face, he knew he wasn't her manager. He had seen photos of her manager, one of the Hollywood power brokers who was short, squat, balding, mid-fifties. This guy was tall, sinewy, and moved with an undeniable youthfulness. This guy, Hutchin thought, was closer to Diane's age, late twenties or early thirties.

He wasn't sure what had tipped him off that Diane was lying. Experience, he supposed. He made his living sorting truth from fiction. His suspicion had eaten away at him until it had pushed him out of the house and across the bridge to Tango Key, to the Peninsula Motel. This time, he didn't have to make any excuses to his wife, either. She had left for the weekend, a teachers' workshop in Miami, and had gotten a ride with some other teachers. He had taken her Toyota because Diane didn't know this car, had never seen it. He had parked outside the motel just after dark and waited for Diane to appear.

Look at her, he thought, just look at the two of them, stopping now on the street, in the shadows of a giant ficus tree, embracing, kissing, their bodies pressed tightly together. He squeezed the bridge of his nose and slid lower in the seat, fighting the hard, relentless pounding in his temples.

Lying bitch. How could you?

For months, they had met whenever she was in town, checking on the home she was building here on Tango Key, haven for the rich and the famous, and the nearly rich and nearly famous. Diane belonged to the latter category, an actress whose star was definitely on the rise, a young woman whose exquisite presence had been imprinted on the mind of the American public as supporting actress in an Oscar-winning film last year.

Every time Hutchin had gone to her, he had placed himself at risk. But he had gone because he had to, because her body was his addiction, that eager mouth, those silken hands, those shapely legs, the blades of her hips. He had gone because he had no other choice.

He raised his head once more, raised it just enough to see that they now continued down the sidewalk. Just how had she thought she would get rid of this guy in time to meet him at the motel? What excuse did she intend to give? Oops, it's midnight, gotta run before I turn into a scullery maid.

He lost sight of them as they ducked into a dive where the music was loud and the food, greasy. Hutchin waited another ten or fifteen minutes, then he drove out of the lot and headed to her motel to wait for her, a cluster of old cabins at the south end of the island, the cheapest accommodations on Tango. She had stayed here before because no one recognized her. No one asked questions. Hutchin had never met her here. They had met at other hotels, off of Tango Key, outside of Key West, and she always left the door key stuck in a nearby potted plant or under a mat, the find-the-key game. He would find the key, all right, and would be waiting in bed for her when she came in.

He parked a block away and hurried along the sidewalk, hugging the shadows, his head down. The cabins were arranged in a three-sided square around a swimming pool, with a tall ficus hedge forming the final side of the square that faced the street. Hutchin ducked between the hedge and the corner of the first cabin and walked quickly past the dark, silent row of cabins. By tomorrow, the cabins would be filling up as more snowbirds poured into the keys. But for tonight, it looked like they had the place pretty much to themselves. Safe enough, he decided.

Cabin thirteen stood alone in a corner of the square, shrouded by thick bushes on either side and pines behind it. He found the key under the door mat and let himself inside. He stood for a moment with his back to the door and breathed in her scent - perfumes, soaps, shampoos. A light was on in the bathroom, providing enough illumination for him to make out her bed - sheets rumpled, one pillow on the floor - and her suitcase, the lid thrown open, clothes tumbling out.

How could someone so lovely be such a slob?

Was he with you here earlier?

Hutchin stared at the bed and in his mind, saw her with this man, the two of them rolling through the sheets, breathing hard, their legs intertwined, and began to seethe. Lying bitch.

He turned slowly, looking for a second suitcase. But of course the man wouldn't be staying here. Even Diane wouldn't cut it that close. He swept past the bed and went into the bathroom. Two towels on the floor, a man's after shave cologne on the back of the toilet, and a used condom in the wastebasket. Blood roared in his ears, his fingers clenched into fists. He backed up to the wall and just stood there, blinking hard and fast, his heart racing.

They made love in the shower. He saw them, a mental image possessed of such clarity that he perceived details - water pouring over them as they groped at each other, her hair a black waterfall. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, struggling against the tide of her betrayal, his heart splintering into a million little pieces. The next thing he knew, he was at her suitcase, leaning forward, his face buried in her clothes. He breathed in a universe of scents, each with a memory attached.

Lying bitch.

His body snapped upright and he plunged his hands into her clothes, into soft silks and cottons, spilling everything to the floor. Two objects fell out - a pocket-sized appointment book and a larger notebook with moons and stars on the front. Hutchin picked them up, tossed the clothes back into her suitcase, and stepped closer to the bathroom door where there was more light.

Heart hammering, he paged through the appointment book. Since February of last year, she had come to the keys at least once a month, her flights as meticulously recorded as her auditions and professional appointments in California, Vancouver, Miami. And every other week or so, a man's initials or name appeared: SW or Steve or, once, S. Willis. Hutchin could barely think through the terrible pressure in his head, the relentless ache in his temples. He tried to remember when he had seen her, the months and dates, the times. But it was as if his brain had been wiped clean.

He flipped faster and faster through the pages, his hands trembling. Last month, October. Okay, he could remember last month. He had seen her on October first, a Monday. They had met at the Miami airport, where she had a layover on her way back to California, and had gotten a room just for the afternoon because her flight left that evening and he had to get home. That square had in it except her arrival time and a red check mark. In the squares for October second through the fourth she'd written: SW, Key Largo.

Another lie. Instead of leaving, she had gone to Key Largo with SW. And for this weekend? What had she scribbled in for this weekend? He turned the page. For tonight, November 1: Dinner with SW. There was a red check mark beneath it. For November 2: Steve, Key Largo, 3:00 PM. No red check mark. For November 14: Miami, Delta #1256. No red check.

I'm the red check mark.

A sharp, hideous laugh exploded from his mouth. He pressed his hand over his mouth to stifle it, got a hold on himself, moved over to the bed, and sat down heavily. He slapped the appointment book shut and used the hem of his t-shirt to wipe off the sweat marks that his hands had left, then dropped it on the nightstand. Let her see it when she came in, he thought. Let her lie her way out of this one. He wanted to see her face, her lying bitch eyes.

Hutchin sat back against the headboard, the journal pressed to his forehead. He could almost feel the words inside, the descriptions of her betrayal. Open it, read it, now.

No, he didn't dare turn on the light. And he felt too nauseated to stand and move closer to the light that spilled from the bathroom.

For the longest time, he just sat there with the journal pressed to his forehead, his eyes squeezed shut. He suddenly bolted forward, confused, his eyes like grit, and realized he must have dozed off.

He heard footsteps outside, a soft cough. Hutchin swung his legs over the side of the mattress, slipped the journal under the bed, and was rubbing his eyes as the door creaked open.

"Hey," she said in that soft, seductive voice. "Have you been waiting long?"

An eternity. "Just a few minutes." He raised his head, his heart seizing up at the sight of her. "How'd your meeting with your manager go?"

"Okay." She tossed her bag on the other bed and immediately pulled her t-shirt off over her head, her thick, black hair tumbling to her shoulders. "I've got an audition in Vancouver in two days." She unzipped her jeans and stepped out of them as immodestly as a little kid. She left them on the floor with her t-shirt, her shoes, and came toward him in just her bra and panties, her magnificent body stinking of another man. She slipped her arms around the back of his neck and kissed him. He couldn't respond, his body had gone dead. She pulled back, frowning slightly, and sat beside him.

"You okay? You seem kind of subdued, Jay."

"Just tired."

She turned on the bedside lamp and the buttery circles of light fell across the appointment book. He knew she saw it. Even as the reality registered for her, he knew she was struggling to remember if she had left the appointment book on the nightstand. He knew she was also wondering if he had looked at it and what lies she would tell him if he had. Her devious mind churned, but her expression gave no indication of it.

"Work's a bitch?" she asked, running her hand over his hair.

"Something like that."

She unbuttoned his shirt. "You need to relax. I'll give you a massage."

When his shirt was off, he sank back onto the bed and she removed his shoes and then hovered above him, her beauty breathtaking, as always, her hands silken and flawless, as always, her black hair like a dark curtain along the sides of her face. She leaned forward and kissed him again and this time his arms came up to encircle her waist, and he flipped her over on her back. She mistook it for foreplay, her husky laugh seductive. Now he hovered above her - you lying bitch - and said, "Tell me about Steve Willis."

She flinched, he saw it. "Just a friend. A med student, a resident, actually. He works in the burn unit at Jackson Memorial in Miami, where I've done some charity gigs. Why?"

How smoothly she lied, he thought, how effortlessly. "And that's why you were embracing on the sidewalk tonight outside the restaurant? Out of gratitude?"

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about," she said crossly, trying to get up.

But he held her down, held her in place with his large, powerful hands and brought his face right up close to hers. "Is that why his name is all over your appointment book and I warrant just a red check mark?"

She wrenched free of him then and snapped upright, to a sitting position, her face livid. "You're married, Jay. I'm single. I'm allowed to see whoever I want, whenever I want, wherever I want. I don't quiz you about how often you have sex with your wife or why you stay with her. So don't do it to me."

"So it's true. You're having an affair with him."

She rolled her eyes and stood, but Hutchin grabbed her hand, jerking her down to the mattress again. And then everything happened so quickly he could hardly follow the precise sequence of events. It was as if he were standing outside of his own body, watching events unfold over which he had no control. He saw himself shove her down onto the bed, slap a pillow over her face, and hold it there while she struggled and kicked, her screams muffled. He watched himself continue to hold the pillow over her face even when she stopped struggling, even when her legs had gone still. He heard himself murmuring, over and over again, Lying bitch, lying bitch, lying bitch.

Then everything snapped into focus and he jerked his hands off the pillow, horrified that Diane didn't move, didn't sit up, that she just lay there. He snatched the pillow away from her face. Her open eyes gazed vacuously at him, the impossibly long lashes like brush strokes against the eggshell colored lids. When he leaned closer to listen for her breathing, he saw himself reflected in those eyes. Those vacant eyes.

No one home. Sweet Christ.

He dropped the pillow over her face and wrenched back, away from the bed, from her, from those terrible eyes.

A tidal wave of panic swept over him. He grabbed his shirt off the floor, jerked it on, his eyes darting frantically around the room. What did I touch? Her clothes, he had touched the clothes in her suitcase. His prints wouldn't be on her clothes, but had he touched the lid of the suitcase or had it already been open?

Open, yes, he was reasonably sure it had been open when he'd come in. Be sure. He ran into the bathroom, yanked a towel from the rack, paused. Had he touched anything in here? The faucets? The sink? No. No, nothing in here. He hurried back into the bedroom and wiped down the lid of her suitcase, the appointment book, the base of the lamp, the switch. Then he remembered the journal and got down on his hands and knees to retrieve it from under the bed. He pocketed it. Maybe she had written his name somewhere in the appointment book. He had to be sure. Take it, too. He grabbed it, pocketed it, put on his shoes and socks. He hurried over to the door and turned, trying to see this as a cop might. Leave the pillow covering her face or remove it?

Leave it.

And leave the lamp on.

He used the bath towel to turn the knob, to open the door, then quickly rubbed the outside knob, which he had definitely touched. The motel key was still in his pocket. He peered out into the darkness, his terror so extreme now that his body refused to move.

It's okay, no one out there.

The muscles in his legs twitched, he stepped outside, shut the door and wiped the knob again. Then he darted around to the back of the cabin and through the pines, his chest on fire, her lying bitch face permanently etched into his brain.

©2000 T. J. MacGregor

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