“I’m taking Elena someplace safe.”
“That’s good, smart.” She did not ask where, and Michael was glad. “You’re coming back though, right?”
There was small panic in her voice, and he knew she was thinking about the bodies. “I don’t leave jobs unfinished, Abigail. I can promise you that.”
She exhaled audibly. “It’s been a hard night in a life of hard nights. I didn’t mean anything negative.”
“I have something to do, and it might keep me away until late tonight or early tomorrow. I’ll call you, though. And you call me if Julian turns up.”
“You know I will.”
“One more question,” Michael said. “It’s personal.”
“You’ve earned the right to do personal.”
“It’s very personal.”
“Oh, for God’s sake…”
“Do you love your husband?”
“That’s a very odd question.”
“I don’t mean in a small way, Abigail. I mean the big way. Does he matter to you?”
She was quiet for long seconds. “Can you tell me why you’re asking this question?”
“No, but it’s important. I won’t repeat your answer.”
“I’m forty-seven years old, Michael. I don’t like riddles.”
“I need to know if you love the senator.”
“No.” Silence spooled out as the world flicked past. “I love someone else.”
They reached the Raleigh-Durham International Airport at ten minutes after nine. Traffic was heavy, the sidewalks crowded. Michael found a car-length of curbside near the American Airlines departure gate, and parked. Elena sat upright, both hands in her lap, neck rigid. Michael leaned forward and looked past her at the crowd. “I’m going to find a skycap.” He flagged a porter just inside the door, gave him a hundred dollars and asked for a wheelchair. “The silver Range Rover.” He pointed. “Just outside.”
“Give me a few minutes to get the chair.”
“Another hundred if you’ll bring two cups of coffee, one black, one cafe au lait. And some fresh pastry, please.”
The skycap hurried off, and Michael pushed through the crowd. He dug money from the bag in back of the car, then opened Elena’s door and dropped into a crouch, one leg stiff and straight. She didn’t want to look at him. Creases cut the corners of her eyes. Her foot was heavily wrapped, her lips swollen. Michael folded the currency into a thick wad, took her hand and cupped the money against it. “This is thirty thousand dollars-”
“I don’t need that much.”
“You don’t know what you need. Take it. I’d give you more, but it would be bulky and obvious.” He opened the glove compartment and found a large envelope, the owner’s manual inside. He pulled out the manual. “Here.” He handed her the envelope, and scanned the sidewalk as she stuffed the bills inside. “Listen.” He put a hand on her undamaged leg. “Everyone with a reason to want you hurt is dead. Jimmy. Stevan. No one is looking for you.” He ducked his head and lifted his eyebrows. “All of that is behind you, now.”
“I still taste metal.” She paused, breaking. “I feel it in my mouth.”
“Don’t-”
“I thought I was dead, Michael. I close my eyes and see his fingers going for that stick. I see you shooting, but he never stops.” She touched bruised lips. “I still taste metal.”
His hand tightened. “It’s done. It’s over.”
“I’ll miss you.”
“Then don’t go.”
But she was already shaking her head. “I want to be home, to be with my father. After all this, I need something pure.”
“My love for you is pure.”
“I believe your feelings are.”
“But not me.”
“Can you blame me, Michael?”
He looked away, shook his head.
“Then give me time.”
“How much?”
“Weeks, months. I don’t know. But I’ll call you.”
“To say what?”
“To say good-bye, or to tell you where I am. One or the other. Nothing in-between.”
Michael studied the lines of her face and felt something like panic. He didn’t even know where she’d been raised-she would never talk about it. He knew only that it was a village in the mountains of Catalonia. Once she left, she was gone.
But what choice did he have?
He gestured for the chair, then helped Elena into it. He handed the crutches to the skycap.
“Any luggage?”
“No.” Michael peeled a thousand dollars off a sheaf in his pocket. “Whatever she wants.” He handed the money over. “As long as she wants it. You understand?”
“Yes, sir. Absolutely.”
“Give us a minute.”
“Yes, sir.”
Michael took his coffee and put it on the car. He handed a cup to Elena, then a small paper bag. “I know how you like pastry.”
She looked at the bag, thought of yellow paint and breakfast in bed. She thought of unborn children and promises never kept.
“You were right, you know.”
“About what?” she asked.
“I should have taken you out of there. None of this would have happened.”
“Julian must be very special for you to love him so much. You’re right to help him.”
“But
“And he’s your brother. It’s okay, Michael. I get it.”
Michael blinked several times, cleared his throat. “What are you going to do?”
“Be with family. Heal. Try to process this. How about you?”
Michael thought of Slaughter Mountain, a list of names and the contents of a four-inch file. He thought of all the cops looking for his brother, the unique fragility of Julian’s mind. “I’m going to find some answers,” he said. “Dig Julian out of this mess. Finish what I started.”
“Is that all? Save a man’s life, solve some murders.” She offered a smile. “Little things.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“Maybe a little.”
“Do it again.”
Her smile faded. “I need to go.”
“Reconsider.”
“I need to go now.”
“Listen, baby. I know you think I’m… impure.” His hands found the arms of the chair and he leaned close. “But I’m more than the things I’ve done. I hope you find your way to that truth.”
“Michael…”
