hazel eyes stared over it at him.
'Well,' he began, across the driveway from her, 'I got the kids to school-they weren't too late.'
'Have to kill anybody along the way, John?' Without waiting for an answer, she turned and walked back inside the house.
As Rourke pulled his leather jacket shut against the cold, he felt the stainless Detonics .45 in his hip pocket. He'd left its mate and double shoulder rig in the house, and realized that she'd seen it.
'Shit,' he muttered to himself, then walked across the gravel and up the three steps and onto the long riverboat front porch, then into the high-ceilinged old house. 'Where are you?' he half-shouted.
'In the kitchen-making your breakfast,' Sarah called back. He tossed his jacket on the coat tree and walked the length of the hallway to the end, then turned into the kitchen.
'You finished stripping the wainscoting? It looks good that way,' Rourke said, sitting down in front of the steaming mug of coffee that waited for him on the trestle table.
'It was a lot of work,' she said, still facing away from him, standing by the electric stove. 'The woodwork, I mean,' she added, her voice low.
'How are the kids?' he said.
'Didn't you ask them?' She turned toward him and put a plate before him-a small steak, two eggs, hash brown potatoes and toast.
'I didn't expect this,' he said.
'Didn't you ask them-the children?' she repeated.
'Yeah,' he said, a forkful of egg and potato poised in front of his mouth. 'I asked them-all they said was they missed me. Said you missed me too,' he added.
'Well-they do. I do, but that doesn't change anything.' Sipping at her coffee, she said, 'I was worried you hadn't gotten out of Pakistan in time. The Russians and everything. I thought you were supposed to be in Canada for that seminar on-what is it?'
'Hyperthermia,' Rourke said. 'Field recognition and treatment of hyperthermia-a lot of interest in that these days.'
'Why didn't you become a doctor after medical school? You're crazy.'
'Dammit, Sarah,' Rourke said.
'Well, why didn't you? You went to college, took Pre-Med, went to medical school, then you quit and went into the CIA. You're an idiot.'
Rourke threw his fork down on the plate, then stood and walked to the window looking out onto the enclosed back porch. 'What? You want the same argument we had last time?'
'No,' she said quietly. 'I just want different answers.'
'I like what I'm doing.'
'Killing people?'
Rourke turned and glared at her, realizing he still had the gun in his pocket. Weighing it in his hand a moment, he set it on top of the refrigerator and sat down again.
'Answer me. Do you really enjoy violence?'
Biting down hard on a piece of toast, he said quietly, 'I'll tell you one more time. I enjoy working with police and military people. Training them how to stay alive. If staying alive entails killing someone else, then, okay-it does. I didn't make the world. Somebody has to teach people how to stay alive in it. I know all there is to know about terrorism, brushfire wars-but it's more than that. Just the day-to-day business of staying alive would kill most people if they found themselves in the wilderness, the desert...if they lost their modern technology in a flood or a quake. Most people-'
'Like me?' she said defensively.
'Yes. Yes, like you or anybody else. Do you know anything about edible plants? Ever skin down a snake then worry about whether you'd gotten all the poison out because if you didn't eat it you'd starve to death? No. But I have.'
'What do you want, a medal? I don't mind that part of it-but why is it always tied to death? I bet you're hoping the Russians go straight on through Pakistan and we go to war with them. Then everybody'd have to tell you you were right.' Then, deepening her voice and frowning, she shouted, 'Plan now for death and destruction-read the collected works of J.T. Rourke, noted survivalist and weapons expert. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, he can tell you how to survive war, famine, death-and, if you act now, he'll even throw in pestilence at no extra charge.'
'Hell, lady,' Rourke said, downing his coffee. 'If I really thought you believed that, I'd give up on this whole damned thing between us.'
'What? Divorce instead of the separation we have now?'
Rourke stood, walked around the table and put his hand on her shoulder, felt her touch her face against his hand, then felt her lips touch his fingers.
'Why do we fight?' she whispered.
'Because we love each other. Otherwise, we'd have given up a long time ago.'
'On that,' she said, 'I'll admit you're right.'
Rourke dropped to his knees beside her chair and wrapped his arms around her, feeling her body pressing against him. They stayed that way for a long time.
When he sat down again his coffee was cold and so was the food.
