The Tears of Dark Water (35 page)

Derrick took a sip of the wine. It was exceptional, but he found it hard to enjoy, given the drift of his thoughts. He pondered whether to voice them, then decided there might never be a better time.

“That’s not quite right,” he said softly. “I have let you down.”

She stared at him blankly and he took the plunge.

“I drove to Annandale the other day. I was sure someone had demolished the house, but it was still there. The only thing different was the paint.”

“Don’t,” she said, shaking her head pensively. “It’s not relevant.”

He gazed at her intently. “What if it is, though? What if we’ve been living the past twenty-five years trying to undo what happened that day?”

“Paul, that’s enough,” she said, her wine glass trembling in her hand.

But he didn’t seem to hear her. “The thought struck me out there on the
Gettysburg
. In all this time, we’ve never talked about it—”

She interrupted him. “
Paul!
That’s enough.”

Silence descended upon the table. He looked at her face, so precious to him, and saw the raw vulnerability there, the wound inside that had never properly healed.
It wasn’t your fault
, he wanted to say.
Kyle made his own choice.
But he honored her request and left it alone.

He took another sip of the wine. “This is really good. I’ll thank Simon the next time I see him.” He watched as the levity brightened her eyes. “So how much did this penance cost him, anyway?”

For an instant she looked sheepish. Then she grinned. “Guess.”

“A thousand?” When her grin broadened, he said: “Two?”

She shook her head. “Three. And we’re only getting started.”

He smiled at her and picked up his menu, thinking of ordering the antelope. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

The next morning, Derrick awoke to a text message from Megan:
Sorry for the drama last night. Thanks for always being there. I’m ready to hit the slopes whenever you are. XXOO
.

He was about to reply when his BlackBerry rang. He saw that the Caller ID was blocked. “Give me a break,” he said, taking the call with a barely intelligible grunt.

“Paul, it’s Brent,” Frazier said. “I apologize for the timing, but we have a situation. A couple of American aid workers were kidnapped from the Dadaab refugee area in northern Kenya. We think they were taken over the border into Somalia.”

Derrick leaned back against his pillow, feeling a headache coming on.
“And here I thought you were calling to wish me a merry Christmas.” He let Frazier squirm, then twisted the thumb screws. “You know I’m in Colorado? On vacation. With my sister.”

“I’m sorry,” Frazier said, sounding contrite. “But we need you. Two months ago, the Kenyans sent troops into Somalia to fight al-Shabaab, a battle the U.S. is actively supporting. If the radicals get hold of the hostages, we could have another Nick Berg on our hands.”

Derrick massaged his forehead. “Then find them and get them out. I’m sure Frank Redman would be happy to do it.”

He heard Frazier breathing. “I know the last month has been hard for you. It’s been hard for all of us. But if mistakes were made, they aren’t your fault. You did your job.”

You’re damn right
, Derrick thought but didn’t say. “I appreciate that, Brent. But it’s two days before Christmas. Book me a ticket on the twenty-sixth. If you need someone now, send Rodriguez.”

Frazier hesitated. “Gordon Tully’s the one asking. What do I tell him?”

Derrick’s reply came out uncensored. “Tell Tully I’m not his bitch. The next time he gives an on-scene commander authority to ignore my advice, I’m walking out. On second thought, don’t tell him that. Tell him I’m on vacation.”

With that, Derrick cut off the call. He went to the window and pulled back the curtains, allowing sunlight to stream in. The mountain was a winter wonderland—everything white except the sky. It was going to be a bluebird day on the slopes.

He sent a text to Megan:
Not a problem, Sis. You know I love you. I’ll meet you at the lift in an hour.

Vanessa

Silver Spring, Maryland

January 6, 2012

The examination room at Small World Family Medicine was as friendly a place as Vanessa could imagine in the world of health care. Its warm lighting and soft blue and yellow hues evoked a spring sunrise; its blown-up photographs of smiling children—one from each continent—reflected the inclusiveness of the practice; its crayon drawings, all done by child patients, set a tone of vitality and life, not disease and death. There were toys for toddlers in a bin on the floor, a frosted window admitting natural light, a fern spreading branches below the windowsill, and all of the medical implements were hidden away in cabinets. Yet she often wondered what her refugee clients thought of it. Most of them had arrived in the United States with little more than the clothes on their backs. They were accustomed to noisy clinics in squalid camps where the pressure of humanity was overwhelming. The examination room, by contrast, was a manicured oasis of tranquility. After more than a decade of practice, she still couldn’t decide whether the effect was jarring or reassuring.

What would Halima say?
she thought as she scanned the questionnaire in front of her. The girl was eighteen, the firstborn of five children, only three of whom were still alive. Born in Darfur in western Sudan, she was Muslim but not Arab, which made her a target for the ethnic cleansing perpetrated by the Sudanese government. In late 2003, soldiers had burned her village to the ground, killing her father and two brothers. Her mother had fled with Halima and her sisters to the Kakuma refugee area in Kenya, where they lived for seven years until they were resettled in the United States.

Halima had been fortunate. She was smart and industrious and had acquired a decent command of English in the camps. She was also blessed with a hardy disposition and had survived chronic malnourishment and two bouts of malaria with little sign of long-term distress. In the initial evaluation, Vanessa didn’t have time for a physical. She focused on building rapport and determining whether there were any acute issues like infections or parasites that required immediate attention.

“Your health is good,” she told the girl. “We need to run tests on the samples we took. But you should be pleased.”

“
Subhanallah
,” Halima said, her large eyes sparkling. “Thanks be to God.”

Vanessa escorted the girl to the lobby, where her mother was waiting. “I’d like to see you again in a couple of months. The receptionist can give you an appointment.”

Halima smiled. “You are very kind, Dr. Vanessa. Stay well.”

As soon as she left, Vanessa’s carefully constructed façade began to crack. She walked quickly to her office, locking the door behind her. Her grief was like a tropical squall. She never knew when it would arise and how hard it would blow. She kept tissues in her pockets for the occasions when she came unglued in public. But those moments were rare. In the past two months, she had become a virtual hermit, seldom venturing beyond her house, her practice, and Quentin’s recovery room, first at Georgetown Medical Center and now at MedStar National Rehabilitation Hospital. She knew that the sooner she returned to a normal rhythm, the sooner her heart would begin to mend. But solitude was safe. People were unpredictable. Most of the time she wanted nothing more than to be left alone.

After a minute or two, the worst of the storm passed. She looked at her watch. She had an hour before she had to be at the hospital, and the drive wouldn’t take more than thirty minutes. She closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing. She had to be strong for Quentin. The interview would be an ordeal. He had agreed to do it, and Dr. Greenberg, his neuropsychologist, had given him permission, despite the gaps in his memory. But the FBI was relentlessly thorough. Vanessa had spent two days with the investigators, and more than once their questions had left her in tears.

She opened her eyes again and saw the letter sitting beside her computer. It was Daniel’s last, sent the day they sailed from the Seychelles. Reading it had become a daily pilgrimage for her. It was a paean to Quentin and a vision of the person he could become again if only his brain would heal.

Dearest V:

We’re about to depart for Réunion. We’ve had an extraordinary week in the Seychelles. All of the islands were memorable, but La Digue was in a class by itself. It’s a paradise of sun and sand and sea worlds apart from the noisome frenzy of the modern jungle that we know so well. On La Digue, the soul doesn’t huddle in self-protection. It opens its wings and takes flight.

The place brought out the truest essence of our joy. Quentin spent most of his time climbing the endless granite boulders that line the beaches and protrude into the water, creating swimming pools in the surf. I wasn’t adventurous enough to follow him, but I had the time of my life strolling barefoot across the sand and watching him scale the monoliths and stand at the highest peak, a silhouette against the sky.

You know better than anyone how much I’ve struggled with fatherhood. You know the doubts that have haunted me, the fear that Quentin would inherit the worst of my insecurities, that I would, by demanding too much of him, turn him into a spineless drone, a people-pleaser terrified of risk, as I’ve been for most of my life. Until this trip, those fears seemed not only justified but certain to come true.

No more. The boy who once crawled like a caterpillar has become a butterfly. He is alive, Vanessa. I’ve never met anyone more alive than he is. He is beautiful and strong and intelligent and capable. He could sail the rest of the way on his own and I don’t doubt he would make it home.

I give you more credit for this than I take myself. He sees the hearts of others like you do. He feels deep empathy for pain. There once was a day when I struggled to love him. Today, I look up to him. I wish I were more like he is. Maybe I will be someday. But even if I never make it, I am comforted that in this way, at least, I haven’t failed. I haven’t failed our son.

Where will he go? Only time will tell. But I believe that the stories he will pass on to his children will be greater than the story I’m telling you now. He’s as close to bulletproof as a man can get in this life. Nothing can hold him back. He’s learned to rise above his fears.

See you soon, I hope. Perhaps Cape Town?

~ D

Vanessa set the letter down, thanking Daniel again for this talisman of hope in the blackest hours of her night. The thought came to her, as it had many times before, that it was almost as if he had known what was coming. It was ridiculous, of course. But she couldn’t help wondering if an angel had touched him that morning in the Seychelles. Someday she would read the words to Quentin. Someday he would remember the way his father was at the end. The letter was a more fitting epitaph than anything she could write.

She stood up and collected her things, saying goodbye to the staff. Aster met her in the hallway and saw the dried remnants of her tears. She gave Vanessa a long hug.

“Are you comfortable with this?” she asked. “Is he ready to answer questions?”

A few minutes ago, Vanessa might have said no. But the letter emboldened her. “I think he is.”

Aster gave her a poignant look. “Are you ready?”

Vanessa nodded. “I’ve come this far, haven’t I?”

“My mother always told me that strength is a choice. Be strong.”

Vanessa smiled.
I’d rather be bulletproof. Like my son.

On the drive into Washington, Vanessa turned on Bach’s
Brandenburg Concertos
, but her mind drifted backward across the days and weeks since Quentin had returned to the United States and been admitted to the ICU at Georgetown. It had been a long and painful road to get him to the point where he could sit for an interview with federal agents, to the point, indeed, where he could understand what happened to him and why he needed to answer their questions at all.

Vanessa had remained at his bedside for days, watching as he slowly woke up from the coma. After the full battery of tests, the neurologists had confirmed what the military doctors suspected: he had suffered temporary anoxia—or oxygen loss to the brain—as a result of cardiac arrest brought on by the tamponade in his heart. The prognosis, however, was unclear. No one had been able to say with any certainty how the injury would affect him. So Vanessa asked them not to try.

The first three weeks had been a waiting game—excruciating at times, exuberant at others. He learned how to breathe on his own, how to swallow food, how to take thoughts out of the cloud of confusion and forgetfulness and form words again. Vanessa played his favorite piano music in the background—Chopin, Liszt, Schubert, Rimsky-Korsakov, Debussy. She read him stories and poetry and Ariadne’s daily emails. To Vanessa’s astonishment, the Australian girl took his injuries in her stride, pressing in with support instead of disappearing into the woodwork. The effect her words had on him was almost hypnotic—steadying his soul and illumining his eyes.