Ashes (14 page)

She heard Dr. Levinson’s voice from the survivor’s meeting.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. I learn by going where I have to go
. Pretty words, but she hadn’t woken, was still sleeping, drifting through her days. She had gone where she had to go, but had learned nothing, done nothing. Nine months since the bombing and what had she done with the life she had pulled from the ashes? Nothing.

Above her the sky rotated, in her stomach acid burned. She rolled onto hands and knees and threw up, all those sugary drinks from last night gone sour and burning up her throat. She retched and heaved until there was no more left and crawled away from the steaming hole in the snow, feeling dirty. Nine months of life squandered, and how many of those lost 361 people would have done something worthwhile with that time? Nine months and she had not done a single thing that she could point to with pride or happiness. She prostituted herself and her story, lived in her leased house like a tenant, lived in her new town without becoming part of it, took a job that offered her no enjoyment or challenge, rang in the new year by fucking a man she didn’t even like. She felt...

Unworthy.

Jennifer Thomson sat in the snow and, for the first time since she’d left Los Angeles, cried. Cried noisily, unprettily, until her eyes and nose were red and puffed, her face stiff with frozen tears. And some time later, stood up on feet that felt half-frozen and legs that were shaky. Tottering like a baby learning to walk.
No more hiding. No more running away.
She would start earning the life that had been awarded to her. She would start today.

She walked back up to the deck, shivering, tears frozen on her face. But with her head held high.

* * *

S
he was sitting outside on the deck drinking coffee when Alex finally showed up. He ambled onto the deck, clad in a robe and slippers though it was nearly noon. “What a night! How’s
your
head this morning?”

She shrugged, finished off her coffee.

“Been up a while?” he asked.

“A bit.”

He put one hand on her cheek. “A bit? Jeez, you’re half frozen.”

She jerked her head away, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. “You should come inside,” he purred, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Get warm.” He laughed and slid his hands down her blouse. “Baby it’s
cold
outside!”

“Knock it off!” She twisted away from him.

“What’s your problem?” he asked, and put his hands on her shoulders again.

“I don’t want this, any of it. You hear me? I don’t want this,” she said, pushing his hands off her. She turned to look at him. “I don’t want you.”

He stared at her, shoved his hands into the pockets of his robe. “That’s not what you said last night.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. As drunk as I was, Bozo the Clown could have shown me a good time.”

His face went red, a dull brick color, the black eyes were no longer dancing but flashing, like lightning. “So. That’s how you want it. Well then. You’re fired.”

Jennifer shrugged again. It was pretty much what she had expected. She started to walk into the house to call a cab, then stopped and turned to Alex. “Is it OK if I come in Monday, get my stuff?”

He thought it over for a second or two. “Sure,” he replied. “I’m a reasonable guy.”

D
eer’s Head Lake was frozen over, a sheet of ice that, seen from high above, would indeed have been in the shape of a deer’s head. Sean was on the peninsula that formed the space between the deer’s muzzle and neck. Across from him, a little less than two kilometers away, was the Deer’s Head Lodge. A two-story building of heavy logs, the perfect place for a fishing trip, a weekend getaway. The perfect place for the sort of meeting happening there today. One road in, easily watched. Woods on two sides, the lake on the other.

He lay behind a log; on the other side of the log a slope of about ten feet, and then the lake. Cattails, brown and stunted with the winter’s cold, poked up through the ice here and there. Sean raised his head over the log and brought binoculars to his eyes. They would be arriving for the meeting soon, and he wanted to observe from a distance. Assess the quarry.

Overhead the sky was gunmetal gray. He lowered the binoculars, looked up at the gloomy sky. Sighed, for he felt some of that gloom inside him. It was the day, of course. He should have expected it. New Year’s Eve was his favorite holiday, had been for many years. Most holidays he could take or leave, but he loved New Year’s Eve, and had tried to spend it in the States, on R&R, as often as he could. Because whether he was in the heart of the crowd in Times Square or alone on the Pacific coast, whether he was talking with one of the old crowd, Robert or Beatty or Hamilton, or enjoying the pleasure of Monique’s company, he could hear the clock chime midnight and think:
Another year has arrived and I’m still here to greet it.

He was still here. But last night there had been no one to share that moment. That would have been all right, if he had been able to make a phone call. To Robert, to find out how he was doing, if he had beaten the cancer. To Monique, even if she was married now, just long enough to say Happy New Year and wish her well, hear her voice. Someone that he didn’t have to lie to. Or didn’t have to lie to very much.

But Sean would not risk a call to anyone he cared about, not Robert who was his friend or Monique who had been his lover. He had not forgotten Robert’s warning to watch his back, and knew that his former employers were not above using those he cared for to get at him. So he had spent last night with a bottle of champagne and done a great deal of channel-surfing.

Sean allowed himself only one longing thought of past New Year’s Eves: Monique standing on the bed in their hotel room, drinking Dom Perignon from the bottle, wearing a party hat and not much else, singing, “Mack The Knife.” She’d bungled every verse, but he hadn’t complained one bit. Asked for an encore, even. One moment to savor the memory, then he closed the door on it. Time to attend to the task at hand.

He turned his gaze toward the lodge across the lake. Trained his eyes to focus on the long distance. He’d noticed that refocusing his vision had gotten a bit more difficult the last couple years. Still, at least he didn’t need glasses. Yet.

He kept his mind from wandering as best he could. Soon, thankfully, the cars began to arrive, and he raised the binoculars to his eyes. Pickup trucks mostly, with ladder racks and tow hitches, the tailpipes rusted and salt-corroded. Five vehicles in all. The men clad in jeans and boots, shirts plaid or denim beneath their coats. Talking, jokes. An easy familiarity about most of them. Of course. Not just anyone would be let into the circle. And he needed more than that. To not just enter the circle, but to get close to the leader. To Richard Blaine.

He wondered which of the men gathered there outside the lodge was Blaine. He scanned faces, postures, looking for that aura of leadership. Because kings did not need crowns or ermine robes to demonstrate authority. Knowing that you were king was often enough. All the trappings were secondary.

Sean saw no kings across the lake, and relaxed a bit. Blaine might have inspired loyalty in Henry Connolly and others, but he was no king, only a little tin god, and tin was flimsy, easily crushed. No, not a — 

Wait. One last person arriving. Sean was too far away for sounds to carry across the lake; he sensed the arrival in the way the other men turned to look, the expressions of respect on their faces. He followed their gaze to the man who now arrived, not in a pickup truck but on horseback. Bringing the focus of the binoculars in as close as he could he saw a horse, and on its back a man with dark hair and a close-cropped beard. He was broad-shouldered and tall, and when he dismounted it was with grace. He was mingling with the men now, and though the words could not be made out, the sentiments could. Greetings, asking after the family. Authority without arrogance, commiseration without condescension. Here, undoubtedly was Richard Blaine.

Here, Sean noted with both interest and dismay, was a king.

The king now arrived, they all went inside. To warmth and companionship, talk and plans. Sean had no particular interest in these things, at least not with this group of men. But he was interested in Richard Blaine. He decided to forgo his original plan of returning to his apartment to plan, decided to wait. Partly to see how long the meeting was and add that information to his growing store, partly to get another glimpse of Blaine and see what he could see.

He waited. Time passed: an hour, two. Would it be possible, he wondered, to slip around closer to the lodge, get a better view, possibly even catch some conversation? Abruptly he lowered himself to the ground, began reaching in his back pocket for his map of the lake area.

Sean heard the bullet hit the log first, and then a second later the report of the rifle. Instinctively he pressed himself to the ground, realized that the shot had come from the woods behind him, and hurled himself up and over the log, feeling the gun slip from its holster and fall to the ground. As he rolled over the top of the log there was a sharp burn as a bullet grazed his leg; he did not hear the shot. He came to rest on the other side of the log. The ground sloped away sharply on this side and he was able to crouch instead of lie flat, breathing hard, listening. He wanted to reach over the log to retrieve the gun but dared not. Could he dig under the log and get it that way? No. A quick glance told him the earth was too full of stones to make the digging quick.

It had been a long time since he was in this kind of danger, and he felt the old sensation of alertness fill him. It was not the panic acid bath of adrenaline, more like an electrical current, running from his brain to his nerve endings. He took a deep breath, not hyperventilating, just a deep breath, the oxygen adding to his alertness. Coldly he assessed the situation. One sniper, possibly more. In the woods, cutting off his escape that way. The only other way out was across the ice, a slow, slippery passage and him an easy target on it. No, not that way. Even the pistol would not help much; his assailant had a rifle, standard hunting gear from the sound of it, had the advantage in range and most likely a scope. All he had on him was the knife in its leg sheath. Without taking his eyes off the woods he patted his leg. Yes, he still had the knife.

Who was it? One of the group? Had his refusal of the invitation brought suspicion on him? Possibly. But it felt wrong to him. Listening hard, he heard a faint rustling. Someone walking. Changing their position. Most likely not peering down the scope, assuming of course that there was only one sniper. He had to know.

He took a quick peek around the side of the log. An instant’s glance, but it gave him everything he needed to know.

You’ll have to watch your back,
Robert had said. Sean hadn’t wanted to believe it would happen. He didn’t want to believe that it would be someone he knew. But it was true. He’d caught a glimpse of the shooter, and though he hadn’t seen him in five years, recognized him instantly. Pale blonde hair, rugged good looks. Beatty.

Sean felt a twinge of some unnamable emotion. Beatty had been in the ops team as long as he had. Beatty with his knack for languages and his talent for fast driving and his weakness for skinny blonde women. Beatty with his bottomless reservoir of bad jokes.
Hey, Irish, I got another one for you. Don’t look at me like that. This one’s funny, I promise.
They’d run missions together, mostly in Europe. Russia, Bosnia, East Germany. Beatty had saved his life once.

And now had been sent to take it.

Sean wondered if this assignment had been the cost of Beatty’s entry back into the fold. He could imagine it clearly:
You’ll have your old job back, all your privileges, rank, and salary. Just tie up this loose end for us.
Halsey pushed his picture, probably some surveillance photo taken in Florida, across the table to Beatty. Beatty gave it a cursory glance, no more. Beatty knew what he looked like. Halsey asked,
Will this be a problem?
And what did Beatty say?

What would Sean have said, had he been given the choice? He hoped he would have rejected the offer, not stooped so low as to kill an old comrade. But hoping was not the same as knowing. Sean didn’t blame Beatty, much. Who could say what his own choice would have been?

He knew who his assassin was. Now he needed to make that knowledge work in his favor. Beatty, then. What did he know about Beatty? Dog-loyal and committed to their employers. Had been retired a year before Sean. Had never been the greatest shot, especially with a rifle. Was certainly out of practice if he had not only missed twice but was changing his position already instead of waiting it out. Still, Beatty had considerable advantage.

Silence from the woods.

Cautious. Beatty was cautious. Liked to have a situation sized up. Liked to know the job was done. Liked completion. Would make his first shot the chest, for greatest stopping power and easiest aim. Would follow it up with a head shot, at closer range.

Make the enemy’s weakness work for you.
One of the first lessons learned.

Make Beatty come to him, to within range of the knife, or his hands. If he could get the rifle away from Beatty or get rid of it altogether Sean stood a chance. He was shorter than Beatty but faster, more agile.

But how to make Beatty come to him?

It had to be a tactic that Beatty would never think of using himself. Sean remembered Robert saying, “Beatty’s good, of course. Dedicated. But he’s not like us. He’s somewhat lacking in imagination.”

A plan came to him. It was risky, perhaps complete folly. Yet what else was there to do?

He ran a hand down the Kevlar vest that was under his clothes, one of the vests he had taken from the supplies in Henry Connolly’s truck. He slipped the leg knife out of its sheath, gripped it tightly. On his hands and knees, he took a deep breath and crawled out from behind the shelter of his log. He turned toward the woods, pretending to reach for a backup weapon, and the bullet hit him a glancing blow in the ribs on the right side. It was years since he had taken a bullet and even with the vest, the feeling was every bit as unpleasant as he remembered it, like being hit with a sledgehammer. Sean fell backward, lay supine with his head pointing down the slope toward the lake. So far so good — he’d held on to the knife, he could see up the slope and into the woods without moving his head. He was lucky it had not been direct impact: after a moment he was able to breathe again. A sharp pain in his ribs; he’d most likely cracked one. No matter. If he got away with nothing more than some cracked ribs he’d be well ahead of the game.