Rapture

“No, it’s you.” He had the sense if she were not around, things would be clearer, even if he never remembered another event from his life: In that hypothetical, all he’d have to worry about was himself, and one problem was definitely better than two.

“I’ve tried to do the right thing,” he muttered, and then wondered who he was talking to.

“And you are—by going somewhere you can rest. Things have been chaotic as hell for you in the last twenty- four hours. You need to sleep.”

Letting his head fall against the headrest, he closed his eyes and thought of facing off against Jim, fully prepared to pull the trigger and kill the guy.

Sleep did not appear to be what he needed. More like handcuffs and a psych eval: In that moment when his finger had been on the trigger, there had been no hesitation on his part: not with the speed that he’d put the muzzle to the guy’s jugular, not because there had been witnesses, and not from any sort of moral hmmm-this-is- a-human-life.

Had he been a soldier? Because that shit was nothing civilian, everything military.

Yeah, he thought, that was it. And he’d been one of the most dangerous kinds of fighters…those who had a dead space in the center of their chest. Which meant they were capable of anything.

You hated the man you were.

As the light turned green, Mels took them past a section of minimalls, the stores like LEGOs linked together on the far sides of narrow parking lots. It was everything he never noticed, the cutesy coffee shops, the places that peddled folklore gifts, the low-end jewelers and dollar stores. So banal. So day-by-day. So normal—

“I tried to commit suicide.”

Mels hit the brake for a hairbreadth, even though traffic was flowing evenly down the four-lane stretch of byway.

“Did you…” She cleared her throat. “Is your memory coming back?”

“Bits and pieces.”

“What happened? I mean, if it’s not too personal.”

Thinking back to Jim Heron, he answered with the other man’s words. “I didn’t like who I was.”

“And who were you?”

Dark as night, cold as winter, cruel as a blade. But he kept that to himself. “You’re tenacious, you know that.”

She touched her sternum. “Reporter. It’s part of the job description.”

“I’m learning.”

Matthias closed his eyes again and listened to the rise and fall of the engine. When something warm and soft covered his wrist, he jumped. It was her hand, her elegant hand.

On some level, he couldn’t believe she wanted to touch him.

Swallowing hard, he gave her a squeeze and then retracted from the contact.

They came up to the Marriott about ten minutes later. The hotel was your typical big-city shindig, looming high over trimmed hedges and a shallow lawn, smack in the center of the business district. Entering the porte cochere, they got tangled in a mess of porters and cars and people with luggage. Then again, it was after three o’clock, which was rush hour for travelers.

“Will you come up?” he heard himself ask, as he wondered who might have followed them—and exactly what kind of relationship he had with Jim Heron.

The word help had been tossed around by the guy, except you had to wonder what the motivations were, and it wasn’t smart to take anything for granted.

“I’ll see you get settled—how about that.”

“That’s…good.” He would still have preferred a clean break, but that was no longer possible.

Thanks to Heron.

Although…it was no hardship to have an opportunity to be with her a little longer.

Mels idled past all the rolling brass trolleys and the uniformed guys who were humping suitcases out of trunks, and headed down into the parking garage. Through the Toyota’s vents, the smell of exhaust bubbled into the car interior, and he cracked a window—but how stupid was that. The air they had entered was the source of the bad smell.

They gave her buddy’s car over to a valet, who didn’t look too excited to park the POS, and shuffled through a revolving door into a lower-level lobby that was decorated with bloodred carpeting and gold walls. Unfortunately, and in spite of all the flocking—or maybe because of it—the decorations were more bordello than business-class, a grasp for the luxury of a Four Seasons that didn’t quite make it.

“I’ve always thought this place tried to be like the Waldorf,” Mels said as she punched the button for the elevator. “But this is Caldwell, not Manhattan.”

“Funny, I was just thinking that.”

“’Scuse any bitterness, by the way,” she said. “I’m a transplant.”

“From New York?”

“Well, I was born here, but I belong there. I’m just waiting to go back.”

“What’s keeping you in Caldwell?”

“Everything. Nothing.” She glanced over. “In a weird way, I envy you your amnesia.”

“I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

Yeah, he really didn’t want that for her, and not because he was being a gentleman. Standing beside her, he would have killed to know about her, her family, where she grew up, everything that had brought her to this quiet, fragile moment in time.

“Mels…”

Before he could start asking, a family joined them in the wait for the elevator, the daughters running around, the parents looking like they were stuck in a version of hell that smelled like bubble gum, and was populated by short demons in matching fairy princess outfits that asked for ice cream every three minutes.

Ding!

As the doors opened, he put his hand on the small of Mels’s back and led her into the elevator. He didn’t want to stop touching her, but he dropped his arm, and endured the stares of the children.

Up at the main level’s lobby, the hustle and bustle of the porte cochere had invaded the reception area, a line of people snaking out from a bell captain who stood guard at a set of velvet ropes.

“This is a nightmare,” Matthias muttered dryly.

“It could be worse. You ever heard of Motel 6?”

“Good point.”

When they finally got up to the front desk, he gave his name, and wasn’t sure how it was going to work. Typically, you had to present the credit card you made the reservation with to get a room—

“Oh, yes, Mr. Hault, you’re already checked in.” The woman typed fast on the computer. “I just need your driver’s license, please.”

Matthias glanced around the lobby. How the hell had Heron managed to get here with his credit card and do the deed? Traffic had been bad, but not that bad on the route he and Mels had come in on—unless of course the guy had pulled a helicopter out of his ass.

And about the credit card, had it been Heron’s own? The SOB was supposed to be dead, so you had to wonder how the company was going to send the bill to Pine Grove. Then again, CC numbers were as easy to get as library cards if you knew the right people—and given the look of Heron’s roommate, black market access was no doubt a no-brainer.

“Sir? Your license?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

As he handed the thing over, the receptionist smiled at him professionally, her expression the equivalent of a facial welcome mat. “Okay, here are your room cards. Just take the elevators over there to the sixth floor. You’re in room—”

Not six sixty-six, he thought for no apparent reason.

“—six forty-two. Would you like someone to help you with your bags?”

“No, I’m good. Thanks.”

“Enjoy your stay, sir.”