Jane imagined Nicholas Clock, miraculously rising from his coma, untethering his own IV line, and walking out of the hospital. She pictured Teddy, placing the note on his bed before he slipped out of the Inigos’ house and disappeared into the night. Both of them knew exactly where they were going, because they were bound for the same destination: a future together, as father and son.
“Do you have any idea what this note means?” asked Nancy.
“Yes. I think I know exactly what it means,” Jane said softly, and hung up.
“So Nicholas Clock is alive,” said Maura.
“Not just alive. He finally has his son.” Jane gazed out the window at the TV news vans and the growing pack of reporters and cameramen.
And even though she was smiling, the lights of all those vehicles suddenly blurred through her tears. She tipped her beer bottle in a toast to the night and whispered: “Here’s to you, Nicholas Clock.”
THIRTY-FOUR
BLOOD IS MORE EASILY WASHED AWAY THAN MEMORIES, THOUGHT Claire. She stood in Dr. Welliver’s office, surveying the brand-new rugs and furniture. Sunlight gleamed on spotless surfaces, and the room smelled of fresh air and lemons. Through the open window she heard the laughter of students rowing on the lake. Saturday sounds. Looking around the room, it was hard to believe that anything terrible had ever happened here, so thoroughly had the school transformed it. But no amount of scrubbing could erase the images seared in Claire’s mind. She looked down at the pale green carpet, and superimposed on that pattern of vines and berries, she saw a dead man staring up at her. She turned toward the wall, and there was Nicholas Clock’s blood splattered across it. She looked at the desk and could still picture Justine’s body lying nearby, brought down by Detective Rizzoli’s gunshots. Everywhere she looked in this room, she saw bodies. The ghost of Dr. Welliver still lingered here as well, smiling across her desk, sipping her endless cups of tea.
So many ghosts. Would she ever stop seeing them?
“Claire, are you coming?”
She turned to Will, who stood in the doorway. No longer did she see the pudgy, spotty Will; now she saw
And he had beautiful eyes.
She cast a final look around the room, said a silent goodbye to the ghosts, and nodded. “I’m coming.”
Together they walked down the stairs and stepped outside, where their classmates were enjoying that bright Saturday, splashing in the lake, lolling on the grass. Shooting arrows at the targets that Mr. Roman had set up that morning. Claire and Will headed up the path they both knew well now, a path that brought them up the hillside, winding through the trees across lichen-covered boulders, past scrubby juniper bushes. They came to the stone steps and climbed to the terrace, and the circle of thirteen boulders.
The others were waiting. She saw the usual faces: Julian and Bruno, Arthur and Lester. On that fair morning, a chorus of birds sang in the trees, and Bear the dog dozed on a sun-warmed rock. She went to the edge of the terrace and looked down at the castle’s jagged rooftop. It seemed to rise from the valley below like an ancient mountain range. Evensong.
Julian said. “I now call to order this meeting of the Jackals.”
Claire turned and joined the circle.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
After more than two decades as a writer, what I’ve come to value most are the enduring friendships I’ve made in this business, and a writer could have no better friends than my terrific literary agent, Meg Ruley, and my superb editor, Linda Marrow. Through thick and thin, you’ve been there for me, and I tip my martini glass to you both! Thanks also to Gina Centrello, Libby McGuire, and Larry Finlay for believing in me through the years, to Sharon Propson for making book tours such a pleasure, to Jane Berkey and Peggy Gordijn for infallibly spot-on guidance, and to Angie Horejsi for her wit and wisdom.
In researching
Most of all, I thank my husband, Jacob. After all these years, you’re still the one.
BY TESS GERRITSEN
