copy of Anya to his own distinct person. His eyes were more almond shaped and his mouth not as wide, but he had the same inner . . . hell . . . light, I guess you’d say.
“She’s pretty.” He looked as if he wanted to touch the photo but pulled back his hand before he made contact.
Maneuvering it free of the protective plastic film, I handed it to him. He started to shake his head, but I wouldn’t let him refuse, pushing it into his hand. “Keep it.”
“But . . .”
“I know, kiddo. You don’t have to say it,” I said patiently. “She’s not your mom. But she was a great mom, the best, and I don’t mind sharing.” I knew Michael wouldn’t accept anything less than rock-solid evidence, something that couldn’t be denied—like Anatoly, he’d want to see the DNA results. One day when our situation cooled down I hoped to get that for him. But that could be years and until then it was going to have to boil down to a leap of faith. Unfortunately, that was the one thing the Institute had been ill-equipped to teach.
Still, he did take the picture. Resting it carefully on his knee, he asked, “What about the one of you and the dog? Whenever I have trouble sleeping, I could use that to laugh myself into unconsciousness.”
“All right, you snide little punk,” I growled. “Just for that you get to see Babushka Lena in a bathing suit, all five yards of it.”
Over the next half hour, we made our way through the rest of the album and Babushka fulfilled my threat, showing up several times in beachwear that had been outdated even in the fifties. It was one of Lena’s early albums, put together before Lukas had been born. The majority of the pictures were of a preschool me wreaking havoc. Only in the last pages did I start to age upward . . . five, six, and finally seven. And in the very last picture I was shown sitting on the edge of a hospital bed. With an awkward armful of blanket and baby, I looked wary, amazed, and not a little horrified.
Michael studied the slightly yellowed window to the past with a blank face. Then, almost reluctantly, his lips curled. “Nice button.”
I shook my head and gave a combination groan and laugh. “Mom made me. You should’ve seen the matching shirt she wanted me to wear. Luckily her water broke in the gift shop and I escaped with my dignity.” The button pinned to my thin seven-year-old chest was blue and white with the traditional I’M A BIG BROTHER written cheerfully across it. “Mostly.”
Before he could point out how far from the truth that was, I changed the subject with a suggestion. “Want to take a run on the beach?” I hadn’t been able to keep up my usual exercise regimen the past few weeks, and that wasn’t good. When you’re on the run for your life, you need to actually be able to run.
“In the dark?” Michael glanced over at the slice of plum-skin dusk peeking in under the blinds.
“The moon will be out soon. There’ll be enough light to whip your skinny ass into shape.” Dumping the album onto the table, I stood. “I’ll grab my shoes.” When I came back down the stairs, I pretended not to notice him slipping two pictures into his jeans pocket. The first would be the one of Mom I’d given him, and I felt safe in betting the second was of a petrified boy holding a wet baby.
We walked along the water’s edge until the moon rose high enough to reveal the dips and swells in the sand. Quicksilver light made the sand glow an oddly brilliant gray, and our footprints shadowed hollows of inky black. The moon itself was huge, the pumpkin-sized globe you seemed to see so much more often as a child. The glitter of the stars faded to pinpricks beside its brilliance. Blowing out a breath that curled and steamed as white as the breakers, I called out to Michael, “You ready?”
He was about twenty feet ahead of me, looking out to sea as the water washed over pale bare feet. I’d told him it was too damn cold, but what did that mean to a kid who couldn’t remember ever seeing the ocean or feeling it on his skin? I let him enjoy the moment and trusted in his common sense to stave off frostbite.
Waving an acknowledging hand at me, he retreated farther up onto dry sand to put on his socks and shoes. As he tied the last laces with quick jerks of his fingers, he raised his head to look at me and opened his mouth. It was easy enough to make a general guess at what he was going to say. Let’s go or, knowing Michael, I don’t like to run. Running is sweaty and annoying. Whichever it was, the words didn’t materialize. The gun I pointed at him had them melting away.
He didn’t jump to his feet or lunge to one side, but instead he stayed frozen in place. His face smooth and calm, he mouthed silently, “Behind me?”
I gave an infinitesimal nod and fired a split second after he threw himself forward. The man behind him disappeared from sight, leaving nothing but an ominous dark spray on the sand. Dressed all in black, he had been crouched behind a low dune to blend perfectly with the background of night-shadowed beach grass—well . . . almost perfectly. As with most things in life, almost just wasn’t good enough. I had seen him. I’d seen the whites of his eyes gleam as he watched Michael . . . only Michael. Concentrating on your target is good; focusing on it to the exclusion of all else gets the back of your head blown into the sea oats.
Every time I thought we were safe—every goddamn time.
I didn’t have to tell Michael to run. By now it was more than second nature, for both of us. As was the taste of tin in the mouth and the adrenaline pulsing through the veins like an amphetamine poison—a familiar icy hand that clamped down on the back of the neck. It was like an old friend now . . . an old, hateful friend. I caught up with Michael and gave him a shove toward the dunes. There would be more there, I knew. There was no way around that, but fleeing down an empty beach was suicide. They would drop me in the sand. As for Michael . . . they would either kill or capture him, depending on whether Jericho thought him salvageable or not.
Killing would be kinder.
The grass, sharp as blades, beat at our legs. It stung even through my jeans as we fought for footing in our flight. And when I fell, it sliced open my palm with surgical sharpness. As I struggled to my knees, the hand that had erupted out of the sand to snare my ankle was joined by the rest of its owner. He matched the other one, with identical clothes and carbon-copy overconfidence. The night-vision goggles he wore would’ve protected his eyes from the sand, but they didn’t do anything to guard from the heel I jammed into them. With hands clawing at the now-shattered goggles, he flipped over onto his back with a strangled yell. Using his stomach as a spring-board, I took off after Michael. A crude and fast move, it was effective enough, judging from the sound of vomiting that followed me.
Michael had paused when I had fallen, and I hissed urgently, “Go. Go!” He ran on until a form came boiling out of the darkness to tackle him about the legs. Considering what Michael could do to him, the son of a bitch was brave to make the attempt. Considering the scream that came out of him, that label might be posthumous. But Michael hadn’t changed his mind about using his abilities to save himself. To save me he would break his own rules. For himself, it was still an emphatic no. The kid was too good for this . . . too goddamn good by far.
I reached them and tossed the limp attacker off Michael with one well-placed kick. “What did you do to him?” I grunted as I grabbed a handful of his shirt and pulled him to his feet.
“The same thing I did to that doctor, only this time I used my knee.” His hair a ghostly beacon, he rubbed a hand across his forehead. “They’re everywhere, aren’t they? It’s hopeless.”
“Only if we give up.” Hand still wound in his shirt, I towed him behind me into a haphazard speed. “And I’m not giving up on you, Misha. Now move your ass.”
We’d gone only a few more feet when a bullet kicked up sand at our feet. I missed the muzzle flash and fired in several directions. It was useless, and more bullets hit around us as we raced through the vegetation. We had no choice but to head back to the beach at the water’s edge. They’d formed a line between us and the house; there was no way around them. I didn’t know how long we’d last if we took to the water to swim down the coast, but I was afraid we were going to find out.
“Can you swim?” I demanded between panting breaths as we cleared the grass.
There was the glint of teeth as he smiled. “Theoretically.”
The repeat of his remark from one of our first escapes had a spurt of dark laughter locked in my throat. I only hoped his theory worked better in water than it did in cars. I hoped . . . God, I hoped I lived to see him swimming to safety. I hoped to see him grow to be twice the man I was. I hoped to see him happy and free.
Of course, none of that was going to happen. If God existed, he didn’t seem to be listening. Did he ever? Instead of God, it could be there was only inescapable fate. And fate seemed to like things tidy. What began on the beach should end on the beach. What was born in blood and pain should die the same way. God might be ignoring this particular sparrow, but fate was watching with lascivious interest. It couldn’t fucking wait to see what went down next.
