The Doll (32 page)

With the thud, with the silence in the cool empty foyer, with only postal boxes and an elevator bank for company, one world ended and another began. Munroe slumped against the wall, and for the first time since she’d felt the sting on her thigh those many, many hours ago in Dallas, she truly breathed.

She had brought Neeva to safety.

Realization settled, and against the wall, eyes closed and thumb to the bridge of her nose, she allowed the first wave of relief to reach inside. From here, she could discharge her duty and plot her own way forward.

When she opened her eyes, Neeva, looking as tired and beat-up as Munroe felt, was studying her. Munroe straightened. Pushed off from the wall and nodded toward the elevator. “Up we go,” she said.

T
HE ELEVATOR OPENED
onto a cramped foyer with a door on either side. One led to the stairwell; the other, metal-reinforced and CCTV-monitored, to the consulate.

When they stepped off the elevator, a uniformed guard waited for them.

Asked for passports, Munroe offered a modified version of the truth and presented the person of Neeva Eckridge in their stead.

The guard left them. Disappeared behind the metal door. Returned a few moments later and opened the door wide. They moved from a small foyer to an even smaller entryway, made impossibly cramped by both an X-ray machine and a metal detector, and before allowing them into the consulate proper, the guard X-rayed the backpack and requested all electronics.

Munroe handed over the bag. “Just keep it all,” she said. “I’ll get it on my way out.”

The consulate filled the entire floor of the narrow building and was itself not more than one large room, partitioned by false walls and windowed booths that made it possible for those in the waiting
area to see, if not hear, most of what went on beyond the accessible spots.

A young couple sat on one of the couches. Munroe assumed newlyweds, from their body language, and their facial expressions guaranteed that they recognized Neeva. Were it not for cell phones having been commandeered by the guard, she would have bet thirty seconds before images of Neeva hit the social networks.

The consulate’s one staff member called Neeva to the window, and after a rush of hushed conversation, motioned for her to return to the guard area and from there through the security door that would allow her on the other side of the partition.

Backing away from the window and the woman behind it, turning in the direction she’d been ushered, Neeva glanced at Munroe for reassurance.

Munroe nodded her on.

This was how it should be. The wheels would start spinning, the phones ringing, and the powers-that-be would throw their weight into Neeva’s fight. As for herself, all Munroe wanted was a phone that could make international calls. She needed to contact Bradford, and surely the consulate had one, but until the issue with Neeva was settled, until Munroe had been vetted, she wouldn’t bother asking to use it.

The last of Neeva’s dress passed around the corner, and Munroe, depleted beyond empty and with nothing more to do than allow fate to run its course, turned toward the waiting area’s smaller couch. Ignoring the accusatory stares from the couple and the disapproving look of the guard, she sat, shifting her head to the armrest, her knees dangling over the edge, let go, and fell hard into oblivion.

T
HE COUPLE LEFT
.
Others entered and were soon on their way again. Another staff member arrived to tend fully to Neeva: On the edge of sleep, Munroe was aware of all of these things, but she pushed them away and allowed time to pass and a dreamless darkness to consume her until finally the room was quiet.

She begged the use of a phone. The consulate staff member passed the handset under the glass and, on Munroe’s behalf, punched in the number for Bradford’s cell as Munroe recited it. The connection made, Munroe nodded her thanks, and while it rang,
dread and desire mixed, swirling, within a beaker of conflicted emotion.

More than anything, she craved the soothing of Bradford’s voice, craved to drop from the pressure and the pain, from death and the fractured reality of the present back to peace—the way things were when she was with him, the way they’d been before this nightmare had struck. But the call would also bring news of Logan, news she could not bear to hear, yet must.

Even accounting for the long distance connection, Bradford answered immediately.

“Michael?” he said, and that one word, her name on his lips, like fire deprived of oxygen, suffocated the adrenaline of rage and suffering, suppressed the voices and tremors rumbling in the background, and she fell instantly into a vacuum of nothingness.

“Me,” she whispered.

“Hey,” he whispered back.

Receiver in hand, the cord taut, she slid down the wall and sat on the floor.

“Did you ever get my messages?” she said. “Were you able to find Logan?”

“We got them and we found him.”

The air went out of her. She closed her eyes, breathing in the words she’d feared she’d never hear. “Thank you,” she said. Paused. “Thank you,” she whispered again. And then: “I’ve seen some nasty video footage. How is he?” When Bradford hesitated, she said, “Please tell me.”

“They fucked him up pretty bad,” Bradford said. “He’s hospitalized right now—kept sedated for the time being. He’s going to need reconstructive surgery at some point, but it’s hard to get information because I’m not a relative.”

She drank in air, one long, drawn-out breath following another.

Decompression.

Logan was safe, and the joy of that fact washed over her.

She’d given him up for dead to do what she had to do, and somehow, in the midst of everything, running blind and without options, she’d brought Neeva to safety
and
Logan was still alive.

He might be damaged, but he was, unbelievably, alive.

She wanted to shout. To dance. To scream
Fuck you
to Lumani, who by now was certainly hidden in some enclave where he could
target the consulate entrance. But her reaction remained muted as she stayed sitting, one hand pressed into the carpet, fingers playing with the fibers. “If you contact Charity, she might be able to help,” Munroe said. “She holds a medical power of attorney for him.” Charity, keeper of secrets from Logan’s previous life and mother of his daughter—a child Munroe had risked her life to save. “How are you?” Bradford asked.

“I’m okay,” Munroe said. “In one piece—no bullet holes. I’m at the consulate in Nice, and I’ve brought Neeva Eckridge with me.”

Bradford waited, and then said, “How
are you
?”

With the unspoken and valid concerns, her smile faded and she searched for words to properly give meaning and context to what he truly wanted to know.

“They killed Noah,” she said, and on the other end of the line Bradford swore unintelligibly. She lowered her voice and added, “Truthfully, I’m not well.” They both knew she wasn’t referring to mourning.

“Africa?” he asked.

“Not as bad,” she said, and then after a heartbeat, “Miles, I’ll be okay, I promise. As soon as I fix things on this end, I
will
be okay.”

“Argentina?” he asked.

She sighed and half-smiled over her failed attempt to get him to let the subject go. “No nightmares yet,” she said. “Just the darkness, and it fades quickly.”

“I worry,” he said.

“I know,” she whispered.

“Do you need help getting home?”

“Soon,” she said. “I have unfinished business, but I think there might be an APB out for me. Is there any chance Jack could poke around? See what’s out there?”

There was a long pause, the kind of pause even the worst delay on a horrible international line couldn’t account for.

“Jack’s dead,” Bradford said finally.

She’d anticipated something like this and steeled against it, and yet the news still hit hard and overwhelmingly, the rawness inside made worse by Bradford’s having fussed over her while giving no clue to the depth of his own cruel anguish.

“How did it happen?” she whispered.

“Explosion at the office,” he said.

“And Samantha?”

“ICU. It’s touch-and-go.”

“Oh, God, Miles,” she said. “I am so sorry.”

“We both have unfinished business,” he said, and his tone hardened, shifted from emotional to professional, almost as if he’d wiped his eyes and straightened his spine. He said, “What do you need, Michael?”

She hesitated, cautious of her wording. In a U.S. consulate, speaking on one of their landlines, which, even if not tapped, was still one of the least opportune places to discuss forged documents and guns and explosives. “I need everything,” she said. “Do you know a guy?”

“You’re in Nice?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Nice. You can pull from my emergency reserve, all of it if necessary—it’s no good to me if I’m dead. Can you work that?”

“Call me back in an hour,” he said. “I’ll let you know what I’ve got.”

Munroe nodded to empty space, abhorring the idea of getting off the phone, of being separated from him again when what she wanted more than anything was to crawl into his arms and feel peace once more, to forget the moment. “An hour,” she said, and added the words she wished she’d had the chance to say before she’d been ripped away. “And I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he said. “Always.” And so ended the call.

Without moving from the floor or leaning back against the wall, Munroe reached her arm up to the desk and groped until she found the hole under the glass. Shoved the receiver inward and then slowly stood. Needed to step outside into the hall for a bit, needed to be alone.

In the small security room she collected her things. “I’m just going to the foyer,” she said. “I’ll be back in about ten minutes.” The guard nodded.

Munroe turned and the side door opened. Neeva stood in the doorway, still in the doll clothes, still in the jacket, feet together and hands folded and looking more haggard than she had when they’d first arrived. “You probably want quiet,” she said. “Could I have just a few minutes?”

Munroe hesitated and then motioned Neeva on ahead.

The metal door shut loud behind them.

“Was that your boyfriend?” Neeva asked, and Munroe nodded. Didn’t want to go into any detail or explanation, didn’t really want to talk at all.

Neeva clasped her hands together and then separated them. Shifted from foot to foot. Munroe understood the body language. They’d shared almost exactly twenty-four hours, most of that time as prisoners in a car—the kind of experience that made it awkward to say good-bye, made it feel as if there should be some formal ceremony to acknowledge the moment.

Munroe said, “Did you reach your parents?”

Neeva smiled. “They cried a lot,” she said. “I cried a lot, too. Everyone says I’m really lucky. They talk about you like you’re some sort of hero but like secretly you’re in trouble or something.”

“I probably am,” Munroe said. “So.” Paused. “What happens for you now?”

Neeva turned and looked toward the metal door. “They’ve called the FBI. They’re arranging for a passport from the embassy in Marseilles. After that, flights and stuff.”

“The pretty boy is still out there,” Munroe said.

“They know. They said they can keep me safe and get me home.” She sighed. “My dad said they’re going to put me into protective custody, but I don’t know if that’s enough.”

Munroe shrugged. “Hard to say.” She slid down the wall and stretched her legs. Tipped her head back and up in Neeva’s direction. “Anything that makes it more difficult is going to help.”

“What about you?” Neeva asked.

“I’ve got a few things to take care of, someone’s got to end this mess. Where I’m going, that type of protection wouldn’t do me much good.”

“Thank you,” Neeva said.

“It’s not just for you,” Munroe said. The door opened and the guard asked Neeva to step inside to take a call.

Arben’s phone, which had remained in the backpack, went off with a text alert. Neeva, who had begun to walk toward the door, froze. Blanched. Caught Munroe’s eye with that deer-in-the-headlights look. They both knew the sound, the harbinger of evil. To the guard Neeva said, “Give me just a minute.”

Munroe didn’t move.

“Are you going to find out what it is?” Neeva asked.

Munroe pulled the phone out of the bag and turned on the screen. The text had come from Lumani’s number, and in a Pavlovian reaction, her stomach churned. She didn’t want to look, didn’t want to hurt anymore. Wanted to put off whatever news this was until it didn’t matter.

The Doll Maker’s words mocked her:
There are others who matter to you
.

Voices in her head rose in chorus, a damning reply to the men who were the cause of this turmoil.
If you had let them live, I would not kill you
.

Munroe pushed the scripture back.

The image loaded, and in response to the visual of yet another life taken from her, her throat burned and her eyes smarted.

Neeva remained motionless, her face reflecting the horror. “Who is it this time?” she whispered, and when Munroe’s only answer was to take the back off the phone and remove the battery, Neeva said, “What do they want?”

Munroe tossed the pieces of the phone into the pack and, without truly seeing, looked up at Neeva. “They want you,” Munroe whispered. “Just as they always have.”