Razing the Dead (23 page)

Worried though I was about whatever was to come, I was
impressed by the boutique hotel. I guessed that it had been built as an elegant home for a prominent family in the eighteenth century, and any changes made since were discreet. The rooms were scattered over three floors above the ground floor, one or two rooms off each landing with a curving stairway connecting the floors.

Clearly James had taken care of all the details earlier. He nodded toward the concierge at a desk in the small lobby, then pointed me toward the stairway and guided me to a door on the third floor, which he opened with a key he pulled from his pocket. I walked in to find, first, a miniature sitting room with a short settee and a small desk, on which were a vase of flowers and an ice bucket with another bottle of chilled wine. Beyond that lay the bedroom, with a small bathroom—obviously a later addition, but nicely done—shoehorned into the corner adjacent to the sitting room. The windows overlooked the restaurant courtyard, but they were well insulated and I couldn't hear anything from below.

My mind was working slowly, and eventually it occurred to me that I didn't have any night things or clothes. “I don't have . . .” I began.

“Yes, you do,” James said, nodding toward a bag tucked in a corner.

“Marty?” I guessed. He nodded.

“So, what now?”

James took off his jacket and hung it neatly over the back of a chair. And then he took off his holster and his gun. No matter how often I saw James armed, it still threw me. After what had happened earlier this year, I was grateful for his weapon, but it was still unsettling.

“Is that . . . ?” I pointed. I hadn't actually looked at his gun since he'd gone back to work. The sight, the presence of that weapon, disturbed me, made me edgy. And it looked especially incongruous in this lovely antique room.

“The same weapon? Yes, it was returned to me.” Then he looked at me more closely. “Yes, that's the one you fired. You know, we never talked about that.”

I quailed inwardly. “Well, there really wasn't a good time right after, and then things just moved on . . . Are you going to open the wine?”

Yes, it was a distraction, but I needed it. I followed James into the front room, where he was filling two glasses. He handed me one. “What's wrong?”

A good observer was Special Agent James Morrison of the FBI. “I owe you that explanation. Can we sit?”

He sat on the mini settee. I sat on the stiff side chair by the small window, not touching him.

I hesitated, unsure of how to begin; I knew this would be hard for me, but it had to be said. “About the gun thing—there are some things you need to know. I've been handling weapons—handguns, shotguns, the whole gamut—since I was in high school. My father taught me. It was one of the bonding things we did—I was an only child, and I think he would have preferred a boy, but he took me along to the range one day, and when I turned out to be a pretty good shot, it helped. We used to go regularly on Sundays, just the two of us.”

James was watching me intently, but he made no effort to interrupt. I took a deep breath and went on. “When I realized that I could get my hands on your Glock that day, I acted without even thinking.”

“So it wasn't just a lucky shot?”

I nodded. “No, it wasn't. I hit what I was aiming for. Besides, it would have been hard to miss at that distance.”

“Thank you,” James said. “Your father would be proud of you. He taught you well.”

I looked away, fighting to get the next words out. “There's more. Have you ever wondered why I never talk about my family?”

“I hadn't really thought about it. There's a reason?”

“Yes.” There was no pretty way to put this, so I just stated it bluntly. “My father killed himself when I was seventeen, with one of his handguns. My mother didn't take it too well, and more or less drank herself to death, although it took her five years to destroy her liver. She wouldn't let me get rid of the gun collection, even though she hated it. I didn't tell her, but I made sure the guns were disabled, so she wouldn't be able to do what my father had done. As soon as she was gone, I sold the lot of them. I never wanted to see them again. I never wanted to touch a gun again.”

Wisely James made no move toward me. I was afraid I would fall apart if he touched me. “Nell, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry it had to happen to you. I'm sorry that this thing brought it all back.”

“It's not your fault. Part of me was glad I knew what to do—to save you.”

James nodded once, acknowledging what I'd said. “Is it a problem for you that I carry a gun?”

“To be honest, I never really gave it much thought. I mean, I know you do, but . . .” I couldn't seem to find words that made sense. I knew James was not my father, and in his hands a gun was not an evil thing. Or maybe I cared enough about him that it didn't matter. “. . . I can handle it,” I finished. “It's part of who you are and what you do. Maybe what happened was some kind of cosmic balancing act, good compensating for evil.”

But somehow that didn't seem to be the whole story . . . until at last the pieces fell into place and I saw what had been holding me back—not just with James but with so many other things in my life. “Oh God,” I whispered, more to myself than to him.

Now he made a move to get up, to reach out to me, but I stopped him with a gesture. “No, wait, please . . . I have to work this out.” I took a swallow of wine, then another, mostly as a stalling tactic—and to keep me from hyperventilating. How could I have been so stupid for so long?

And James watched and waited, his concern etched on his face. He knew, he had always known, that I had to be ready.

Another deep breath helped. “I know what the problem is, but I never saw it before. I guess I never had a reason to look too hard before now.”
Before you.
“I loved my father, and I worked hard to get close to him. He was a complicated man, I can see that now. And then he killed himself, with no warning, and I was shocked, and hurt. He left my mother, and he left me, with no explanation. Maybe there was a reason, or maybe he was just depressed, but to me he was simply . . . gone. And then because of that my mother withdrew from me, too, although it took longer. But somewhere inside, I felt like they'd left because I wasn't good enough for either of them. That I didn't matter enough to stick around for. I know, it's not rational, but I think that's why I've never really committed to anyone since. Because it would hurt too much when they left me.”

I took another sip of wine, and I noticed that my glass was empty. I reached out to retrieve the bottle and refilled it. “You know I was married once before?”

“Yes.”

“And it ended. Not badly, but there just wasn't a lot holding us together. He was a good guy, and after we split up, he married someone else and had a couple of kids. He's happy. But the worst part was, I really didn't miss him. We'd been married for three years, and when he was gone, I felt . . . relieved, I guess. I didn't have to worry anymore about making him happy or wonder why things weren't working and if it was my fault. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but we never should have gotten married at all. I couldn't let him in. I couldn't let myself care about him too much. And there hasn't been anyone since, not anyone that mattered. Until you.”

“And that's why you've been pushing me away?” James asked quietly. “Because you do care? Too much?”

“But I didn't want to push you away! I didn't mean to. It's just that this whole thing between us has me scared.”

“And my getting injured didn't help.”

“Weirdly enough, it did. Not because I got to play heroine and save you, but because it forced me to recognize how much I cared about you and that I didn't want to lose you. But as soon as you started talking about moving in together, I started backing away.”

“I noticed,” James said wryly. Then he turned serious again. “Nell, I could say something trite here like ‘You're never going to lose me,' but you're an intelligent woman and you know I can't promise that. My job can be dangerous, as you know all too well. When I joined the Bureau, I had only myself to consider, and it didn't make a difference to me. Now it does. I don't want to inflict that on you. I can quit, find something else to do.”

“No!” I stood up abruptly, unable to sit still like a calm, rational person, which at the moment I wasn't. “I don't want that. I mean, I don't want that for
you
. It's an important job, you like it, and you're good at it. I don't want to be responsible for telling you to change your life, not because I have baggage. I don't have the right to do that, and I don't want to.”

Now he stood up, too. “What about what
I
want? What if you're more important to me than any job?”

“How can I be?” I whispered. He was standing close, so close . . .

“You are.”

We stopped talking for a while. A long while.

Later, we lay in the dark, propped up by a dozen or so pillows—this was a
nice
little hotel—finishing up the last of the wine, now room temperature. “Thank you,” I said.

“For what? This?”

“Yes, this, but mainly for not giving up on me. First Marty, and now you—you keep telling me how to fix my life, and I can't even resent it because I know you're both right, in your own ways. I'm getting a little old to be scared of messing things up. It's time I figured out how to commit.” I pulled myself up and rolled onto my side to look at James, or at as much of him as I could see in the light that trickled in from the courtyard below. “Don't quit your job. What you do matters. I know that. I understand that because I've had a little taste of it myself.”

“And given me palpitations when you do,” he grumbled.

“Look, there are idiots who go skydiving or swimming with sharks, looking for danger. You risk your life because you're helping someone else. And that's all I'm trying to do. If I have knowledge that matters, I'm going to act on it. And pass it on to you.”

“Does it have to be in that order?”

“We'll see. And I'm sorry I've been dragging my feet about finding a place—I just needed time to process the idea. You gave me time. So let's do this thing.”

“What are you doing tomorrow? Or I guess I mean later today.”

“The only thing on my schedule is meeting with Mitchell Wakeman to present Lissa's report, at two.”

“Will that include what you guess about Eddie Garrett?”

“It doesn't have to. We can simply call the bodies two unknown Revolutionary War soldiers from opposing sides, lying side by side through the centuries.”

“Good spin. What about George Bowen's death?”

“That might be trickier, but it doesn't have to go into the Society's report. If anyone asks, I'll just refer them to the police, or you.”

We drifted into sleep, entangled, and woke up the same way. “What time is it?” I asked, not that I was in a hurry. After all, I was only a few blocks from work.

James rolled over. “Looks like . . . seven something. There's a buffet breakfast downstairs—part of the package.”

“Sounds good. Can I have the first shower?”

“Go for it.”

I rolled out of bed and realized I hadn't even checked what Marty had included in the overnight bag she had so thoughtfully provided—I'd never gotten around to opening it. I assumed she'd raided what I kept at James's place and knew what was appropriate for a day at work. She had included one new item, a slithery silk nightgown—that we hadn't had a chance to try out.

We did the normal morning things, and Marty's choices were fine. I hated to leave our little universe—James's brilliant idea to get us out of our respective nests and into a place where we were on equal footing had paid off.

Downstairs, breakfast was served in a large, brightly lit room lined with bookshelves, its tall windows facing the street. A diverse array of hot and cold foods was laid out in silver-plated dishes, and we served ourselves and found a table a comfortable distance from the few other people in the room.

“Maybe we could just move in here,” I joked. “The food is good, someone else does all the cleaning, and we could both walk to work.”

“It might be a bit beyond our combined budget,” James said.

“Oh, pooh—you're no fun. Maybe you could moonlight as their in-house security and get a discount.”

“I'll take it under advisement.” I didn't hear a phone ring, but James must have set his on vibrate, because he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He looked at it, then stood up, and said, “I need to take this,” and walked into the adjoining room. He was back in under two minutes, his expression somber.

“What?” I asked.

“Eddie Garrett was found dead in his home this morning when police went to question him. He committed suicide with an old shotgun. He left a note, confessing to George Bowen's murder.”

I couldn't speak for a long moment, buffeted once again by memories of my father. But then I realized they didn't hurt as much as they had—before I'd told James the story. “Poor Eddie,” I whispered, fighting tears once again.

James reached across the table and took my hand. “Don't blame yourself, Nell. It would have come out one way or another.”

“That doesn't make it hurt less. I feel responsible.”

“I know. There's something else.”

I wiped my eyes and faced him. “What?”

“You were right—he was the one who'd been holding the gun that killed his brother. He never really got over it, and dealing with the exposure of those two early Garrett brothers was too much for him. He said all that in the note. It's not your fault, Nell.”