But that didn’t mean I wanted to listen.
Silence stretched so long, I was beginning tothink he’d hung up. Finally he answered.
“There’s the ocean.”
I closed my eyes. I was a trained killer. Ilived with death every day. I dealt it out to others like a losinghand of poker. As traumatic and horrible as Kirk’s death had been,that was his reality, too. Kill or be killed. Every day balanced onthe edge of a knife.
It was what we did. It was who we were.
But Julie wasn’t from that world.
She’d never signed up for this. She’d hadthis horror forced upon her. Did she really deserve to be cast intothe ocean for being in the wrong place at the wrong time?
Could I be the one who pushed her from theaircraft?
“I won’t do it, Jacob. I won’t let them turnher into a biological weapon, but I won’t kill her either.”
“If you don’t, I’ll have to send someone elseto do it.”
“They’ll have to kill me, too. Do you haveanyone that good?”
“She can never be a part of society.”
“I know.”
“That’s no way for a young girl to live.”
“I know.”
I stared at Julie, sleeping in the backseat.
“The ocean may be the most humane thing todo.”
“I know,” I said, trying to swallow the giantlump in my throat. “I know.”
Six Weeks Later
“Sometimes,” the Instructor said, “you’lldo things that will be hard to live with. You might never be ableto forgive yourself. There’s no advice I can give you for when thishappens. I’m sorry.”
The wind off the coast of Maine was as coldas the water was rough. Between the blue sky, autumn leaves, grayrock, white lighthouse, and adjoining red keeper’s house, the placelooked as colorful as an image from a postcard.
Picturesque but lonely.
Maine had over sixty lighthouses along itsshores and nearby islands, some so remote that even tourists andphotographers hadn’t discovered them.
This was one.
I hefted box after box out of the fishingboat I’d rented and set them in the trolley next to the dock. Railsran to up the steep, rocky face to the lighthouse and keeper’shouse, an efficient system of delivering supplies that had been inplace for a hundred years. It took me nearly a half hour, butfinally the trolley car was full and my boat was empty.
Except for one box I would delivermyself.
I lugged it to my hip and started up thenarrow path. The first time I’d been to the lighthouse had been thesummer night after Plum Island. Now the ocean wind carried with itthe crisp slap of fall.
I reached the crest of the hill, my backslick with sweat and the muscles in my legs pleasantly warm. Thecountless blood tests I’d had since contracting Ebola had all shownI was virus free, and every day since I’d fully appreciated howalive I felt, how strong.
This had been Jacob’s idea. He and I wereonly two of three people in the whole world who knew about it.
The third person opened the screen door andskipped down the steps, running toward me.
“I didn’t expect you until Saturday,” Juliesaid, all smiles.
I set my box on the ground and took her in myarms. She felt good, and when we finally ended the hug, I had toblink back a few tears.
Julie looked me over. “Your hair looksgreat.”
I raised a hand to my head, still a littlesurprised that my tresses no longer reached my shoulders.
“I’m still getting used to it.”
She eyed the box. “You brought mepresents?”
“I have a whole trolley load waiting to behauled up.”
Her eyes widened like a little kid atChristmas. “What did you bring?”
“Supplies, of course. Food, toiletries, thatkind of thing.”
“Anything fun?”
“Of course.”
“Movies? Books?”
I nodded. Loading up boxes of the thrillersand romantic suspense novels Julie loved had just about broken myback. I couldn’t wait for the time when e-readers were common andbuying a new book would be as easy as pushing a button.
“I’ve started writing, too. You wouldn’tbelieve how fast time flies when I’m busy making up stories.”
It was a relief to see Julie was adapting sowell to her limited life. After our escape, I’d spent two weekshere with her, helping her adjust. Since then, I’d spent manysleepless nights worrying about my decision to hide her rather thancast her into the sea. Now I felt like I could finally breathe alittle deeper.
“I can’t wait to read your stories.”
She grinned. “Maybe I’ll publish themsomeday.”
A tentative scratching noise came from thebox at my feet.
“Okay, Chandler. What’s in the box?”
“You really want to know?”
She gave me a pointed look. “Duh.”
“Okay. Open it. Gently.”
She popped open the lid in two secondsflat.
“Oh my God.” She pulled out the little brownpup and squeezed him to her chest. “What kind is he?”
“A mutt. He’s a rescue dog.”
“Like me.” She beamed, then the smile faded.“He won’t get sick, will he?”
“No. Dogs who have been exposed to Ebolaproduce antibodies and become immune. Epidemiologists test theblood of dogs in some areas in the world to trace areas of virusoutbreak.”
I could tell her more, having reassuredmyself before bringing the pet to Julie, but she didn’t care. Shewas too busy petting the little guy and keeping him from nippingher fingers.
“I also included some puppy trainingbooks.”
She laughed. “Good idea.”
“All that’s left is for you to name him.”
Her eyebrows bunched together. She opened hermouth, then closed it without speaking, hugging the squirming puppyto her chest as if he was everything. And once again I was struckby how young she was, barely eighteen, this girl who’d seen toomuch, who’d been sentenced to live the rest of her life inisolation.
She leaned forward and kissed the pup’shead.
“I think I’ll call him Kirk. Do you thinkhe’d like that?”
I had no idea. When it came to normal lifeissues like whether or not he liked dogs, I knew little aboutJonathan Kirk. I had only seen slices of who he was. The brutalpart that enabled him to do unspeakable things for money. The slyhumor. The bravery in the face of death. The love of life that hewas able to reveal, and able to reveal in me. How I never reallyknew him, yet missed him so terribly.
“Do you like it, Julie?”
Eyes
