‘If it isn’t,’ Miles said, ‘she’ll tell us where it is. We won, Nathan.’
‘I ran when she shot at me… to a house down the street… they’re calling the police. The guy’s a vet. Like me.’
‘We need to call Victor and Celeste as soon as possible. Stay here. Don’t let Allison run.’
Nathan sat on Allison’s back. She didn’t respond.
Miles climbed the stairs, calling Amanda’s name. He heard a weak reply on the second floor.
The door was bolted shut. He opened it, saw a girl cowering in a corner, dressed in hospital scrubs, pale.
‘Amanda?’
‘Who are you?’ She trembled at his bloodied face, the exposed wound in his leg.
‘A friend of your dad’s.’
‘I want to go home. The sounds. The voices. This place is full of ghosts.’
‘No,’ Miles said. ‘The ghosts are gone. It’s okay now. There’s nothing to be afraid of.’
SIXTY-ONE
‘Does it work?’ Miles asked.
‘Yes,’ Amanda said. She sat on the hospital’s porch, letting the wind kiss her face. ‘It does. The magic’s all in the super beta-blockers. They kick bad-memory ass. And the therapy.’
‘You think I should take the pill?’
‘Yes. But I don’t like the therapy part,’ she said. ‘Talking so much. Quiet’s nicer. In the quiet I hear my mom’s and my dad’s voices.’
‘They loved you very much,’ Miles said.
‘I know that.’ She scratched at a star-shaped scar at the corner of her mouth and he wondered how she had gotten it. ‘Are you going to take the medicine, Miles?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Sometimes pain makes us stronger. Sometimes it makes us weaker. I’m not sure which kind my pain is.’
‘You should take the medicine,’ she said. ‘Hurting so much it ruins your life really sucks.’ She stood. ‘I’m helping Nathan.’
‘What with?’
She announced her project with teenager wryness. ‘It’s so lame. I’m painting a mirror for him.’
‘Don’t get attached to it.’
‘No. It’s a mirror for when he’s ready to look in one. I’m painting all the NFL team logos on the sides. He knows if he breaks it I’ll kill him. I think he might be ready soon, so I better get it finished.’ She went to work on her project.
Miles watched a new arrival from the porch. A young man with the bearing of a soldier, but with haunted eyes, got out of a van accompanied by one of Victor’s newly hired counselors. Sangre de Cristo had been seized by the government, as part of its investigation of both Quantrill and Dodd. Victor and his army of lawyers had negotiated a contract, after much arm twisting and gentle persuasion, to run a program to test Frost in participation with a respected pharmaceutical. Victor and Celeste began, quietly, to contact people who were active on his PTSD Web site. Ex-soldiers from around the world. Survivors of abuse, of rape, of terrorism, of natural disasters, who could not shake the trauma of their devastating memories. And two or three times a day, a new person would arrive, stepping out of a taxi or a rental car, or brought by his or her family, blinking up at the rise of Sangre de Cristo as if its walls held a final hope. Victor would bring them in for coffee and talk, explain the theory and potential and risks of Frost, and they almost inevitably agreed to be part of the testing. The government, eager to bury Dodd’s and Quantrill’s work and promote a legitimate drug, planned to seek a fast-track approval. Allison sat in a federal prison cell, awaiting trial.
Miles found Celeste walking on the edge of an artificial pond in the back of the property. She tossed pebbles in the water. She stood far from the blanket of walls. She lifted her face to the wind, to the sun.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.
‘Remembering. Not thinking. Just… remembering. I have two presents for you.’
‘Not my birthday.’
‘Surprise, yes it is. A new start. A new life.’ She pulled from her pocket the confession he’d left for her. They’d been back in Santa Fe for three weeks; she had not mentioned the confession; he had not asked for it. ‘This is yours.’
‘I guess it made for a rotten gift.’ He stared at his feet.
‘But it’s not the truth. You know you didn’t kill him.’
‘I still screwed up. If I hadn’t panicked him…’
‘You didn’t kill him, Miles, and the FBI will deal with the man who did.’ She pushed the paper into his hands. ‘It’s not a confession anymore, it’s the last chapter of your old life. I would rather focus on the new.’
He tore the confession into slow, deliberate shreds, cast the fluttering bits onto the calm of the waters.
‘You mentioned two presents,’ he reminded her when he was done.
She answered, ‘I’m starting on the new Frost today.’
He said nothing.
‘I can’t bear the memories of Brian dying. I need Frost. So I can move on…’ She put her hand to his cheek, the we unspoken. So we can move on.
Would you forget the worst moment of your life? He knew he hadn’t killed Andy. His worst moment was not of being a murderer but of being helpless to save his murdered friend. He never wanted to be helpless again. Never so alone again. He couldn’t have his old life back – but he would do whatever it took to have a new life.
He glanced at the opposite bank. Andy still stood there, shaking his head, frowning, saying, ‘No, don’t do it, Miles, don’t make me go. I want to stay. Always.’
‘Is he there?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, and mad at me.’
Celeste opened her closed fist. A white pill lay on her open palm, white as the torn shreds floating like confetti on the water.
Miles took the Frost pill from her palm. He slipped it into his mouth, put it on his tongue. Celeste closed her fingers around his.
He swallowed and opened his eyes.
‘Let’s go have dinner,’ she said. He nodded, and walked away from the pond with her, not looking behind him, because, he hoped, there was nothing for him to see.
