Montana sky.'
'What do you mean you lived alone for five years? You didn't live alone before that?'
'Your FBI training in action. Very good. I was married once upon a time.'
'Somehow I can't see you married. You seem so self-sufficient. Are you divorced?'
'No, Claire didn't divorce me. She died of leukemia.' 'I'm sorry, Dillon.'
'It's been even more than five years now. I'm just sorry that Claire never got to live in this wonderful house. She died three months before my grandmother.' 'How long were you together?'
'Four years. She was only twenty-seven when she died. It was strange what happened. She'd just read that old book by Erich Segal-Love Story. She was diagnosed with leukemia just weeks later. There was a certain irony in that, I suppose, only I didn't recognize it for a very long time. I've watched the movie several times over the years. Claire's death wasn't serene and poignantly tragic like the young wife's death in the movie or the book, believe me. She fought with everything in her. It just wasn't enough. Nothing was enough.'
Jesus, he hadn't spoken of Claire this much since her death. It rocked him. He rose abruptly and walked over to the fireplace, leaning his shoulders against the mantel. 'I'm sorry.' 'Yes.'
'Do you still miss her?'
He looked toward one of his grandmother's paintings, given to him on his graduation from MIT, an acrylic of a bent old man haggling in a French market, in the small village near Cannes where his grandmother had lived for several years back in the sixties. Then he looked at Lacey, his expression faintly puzzled. 'It's odd, but you know, I can't quite picture Claire's face in my mind anymore. It's all blurry and faded, like a very old photograph. I know the pain is there, but it's soft now, far away, and I can't really grasp it. Yes, I miss her. Sometimes I'll still look up from reading a book and start to say something to her, or expect her to yell at me when I go nuts over a football play. She was an ice skater. Very good, but she never made the cut to the Olympics.'
'That's how Belinda is now to me. At first I never wanted the pain to lessen, but it did anyway, without my permission. It's almost as if Belinda wanted me to let her go. When I see a photo of her now, it seems like she was someone I knew and loved in another place, another time, maybe the person who loved her was another me as well. Sometimes when I'm in a crowd, I think I hear her call out to me. She's never there, of course.'
He swallowed, feeling tears of bittersweet memory he hadn't felt in years. Maybe the tears were for both of them.
Her eyes were clear and calm as she said, 'You know, I'd fight too. Never would I go quietly into that good night, just sort of winking out and isn't that too bad, and wasn't she a nice person? No, I'd be kicking and yelling all the way.'
He laughed, then immediately sobered. Guilt because he'd spoken about Claire, then laughed? Suddenly, he laughed again. 'I would too. Thanks, Sherlock.'
She just smiled at him. 'My head doesn't hurt anymore. One of those magic pills?'
'Yeah. Now, would you like to watch the news while I clean up the kitchen?'
'No dessert?'
'You didn't clean your plate and you're demanding dessert?'
'Dessert's for a completely different stomach compartment, and my dessert compartment is empty. I know I smelled cheesecake.'
She ate his New York cheesecake while he cleaned up the dishes. She watched the national news. More trouble in China. More trouble in the Middle East. More wiping out of Kurds, only which Kurds? They were as divided a group as were all the countries surrounding them. Then, suddenly, there was Big
John Bullock, Marlin Jones's lawyer, full of bluff and good nature for the reporters, flinging out answers as they pursued him from the Boston courthouse to his huge black limousine.
'Will Marlin Jones go to trial?'
'No comment.'
'Is Marlin crazy?'
'You know the ruling.' He rolled his eyes and shrugged his massive shoulders.
'Will you plead him not guilty?'
'No comment.'
'Is it true you told everyone that he had a bad childhood, a mother who beat him up, and an uncle who sexually abused him?'
'Public records are public records.' 'But there's a confession.'
'It won't be admissible. The cops and the FBI made him confess.'
'But what about that FBI agent? Your client knocked her cold and took her to that warehouse to kill her. They've got everything on tape and on film.'
Big John gave an explosive wave of his arms. 'Pure and simple entrapment. There wasn't a thought of killing her in his mind.'
'I heard that he even knifed the agent.'
Big John just shook his head. 'No more. Just remember, it was entrapment. It was all a setup. It won't be admissible, you'll see.'
And one woman newscaster said, 'Oh, so you're saying if he'd killed the FBI agent then it wouldn't have been entrapment?'
Lots of laughter. And a lot of faces looking hard at Big John Bullock.
'No more questions, folks. Talk to you later.'
A commercial came on for Bud Light.
She felt Savich behind her. She said quietly, 'I'm going back to Boston. I've got to see Marlin Jones again.'
'They won't let you see him, Sherlock.'
'I've got to try.' She turned slowly and looked up at him. 'You see that, don't you? I've got to try. I can't just sit around waiting for some maniac to come after me again. If you tell them to let me in, they will.'
'He's not the maniac who's after you now. Besides, you go talk to him again, and it could all come out that Belinda was your sister.'
'No, I wouldn't tell him any of that. I wouldn't tell anyone about that.'
'It's still a risk. Trust me on this: You can't begin to imagine what the media would do if they found out you were the sister of one of the murdered women and finding Marlin has been your obsession for seven years. You think the way I just said it sounds hard. Just wait until the media got hold of it. Big John would certainly squawk about entrapment then.
'I think a more worthwhile trip would be to San Francisco. Why don't I call the San Francisco office and have a couple of agents go talk to Douglas, your father, and your mother?'
She just shook her head.
'As for Marlin, maybe, after you've rested a couple of days. Look, it's Sunday. I want you to take it easy until Tuesday. You promise?'
She stroked the gold chenille afghan. 'I guess I could use a good night's sleep.'
'Two days, Sherlock. I want your promise that you'll lie low for two days. Then we'll talk about it.'
She was silent, and he felt a good dollop of anger.
'You're an FBI agent, Sherlock. That means you do what I tell you to do. You carry out assignments that I instruct you to carry out. You don't go surfing any wave that catches your fancy. You got that?'
'You're nearly yelling. How could I not get it?'
He stepped forward, then stopped. 'I've got a nice guest room upstairs. I also packed you a suitcase. It's still in the trunk of the car. I'll take you up, then bring it in.'
She didn't think about her underwear until she was standing in the Victorian bathroom with its highly polished walnut floor, its claw-feet tub, pedestal washbowl, and plush pale yellow Egyptian towels with small flowers on them. She'd stripped down to her bra and panties, turned and seen herself in the mirror and stared. He'd picked out the softest peach silk set she owned. What had he thought when he picked them out
of he drawer? Without thinking, she ran her hand over her belly, the silk smooth and slithery against her palm. What had he thought?
No, she wouldn't think about that. They were just a bra and drawers, no matter how exquisite.
How potentially sexy. He probably hadn't even thought a thing just grabbed them up. She loved pretty
