Vendetta (43 page)

They did a strange dance as his hands slipped from her wrists and one of her hands snapped round his lower arm. She swung in the unforgiving, cold night breeze. Her bracelet on his wrist slipped down and the edge of the rabbit charm touched her skin.

‘Just keep looking at me. Hold on . . .’ Mac shouted.

‘I never did tell you the end of the Russian nursery rhyme about the rabbit and the hunter and how it ended happily,’ she said between quick puffs of breath as her face contorted with fear. ‘Everyone thinks the rabbit is dead because the hunter shoots her. But when he gets her home, he realises she was never really dead at all, but alive.’

Then the rhythm of her body changed as it went slack, dragging against him like a dead weight.
What the fuck was she doing?
Her fingers started loosening.

‘Elena?’ he shot out.

A tiny smile hitched up one side of her mouth. ‘Me living through my father, you living through your son . . .’ Her smile died. ‘Why couldn’t we find our own paths to happiness?’

She let go of his arm. He closed his eyes as she disappeared into the bleak blackness of the water below.

one-hundred

One year later

‘My boy was the best son a man could ever have. He liked a laugh, a beer, and all he wanted to do was help people . . .’

Mac and Rio sat next to each other as they listened to DC Martin’s father talk to the packed congregation at the memorial service for his son. The police from The Fort had turned out in force, all decked out in their uniforms. Most of the top brass were in attendance as well. Mac could see Rio’s hands trembling in her lap, but her face remained stony. Emotionless. He knew she was hurting, had been tearing up for the last twelve months, but he couldn’t get her to talk about it. She’d refused to take time off, refused to see the in-house shrink. She’d been there for him two years back to shoulder some of his pain, but she wouldn’t let him do the same now.

‘To all of you who are parents,’ Mr Martin carried on. ‘To all of you who have sons. To all of you who have daughters – cherish them. Guide them. Lend them a hand to help them reach their dreams. We thank you all for taking the time to join us in remembering our beautiful boy.’

Abruptly Rio stood up and hustled past Mac, her legs banging against his knees. No one said anything as she rushed down the aisle and out of the church. Mac got up and followed her.

Mac found her by a tree on the other side of the road, smoking. She’d given up the vice a number of years ago, but had taken it back up soon after Jamie Martin’s death.

‘Cry,’ he said softly when he reached her.

Rio flicked her eyes up at him. Then back down. She dropped the cigarette and ground her heel into it. ‘Yeah, well, crying and praying to the Lord aren’t going to bring him back.’

‘Funny, I thought the same back in the clinic. I kept holding on and holding it in and then one day it just burst out. I couldn’t stop.’ He blew out a long pulse of air. ‘That was the first step on my journey back. Sure, I’ve got a long way to go, but I’m getting back into my groove.’

His mind swam back to that fatal night at the dock. The police had dredged the water but no sign of Elena’s body had been found. An unrecovered body meant it had likely been drawn downriver and swept out to sea. Case closed. Mac had spent four months inside Springfield Clinic, detoxifying both his body and mind. He still had flashbacks and that feeling of being held down in a locked box, but not as much any more. Healing took time, and he had all the time in the world.

He opened his mouth again, but Rio violently waved her hand, anticipating what he was going to say. ‘And don’t say it wasn’t my fault . . .’

‘You told him not to come in, to wait in the car . . .’

‘But I should’ve dragged him by the scruff of his neck and dumped him in the car myself.’

The cold wind circled as spots of rain tumbled around them.

He took a step closer to her. ‘Why don’t you come back and talk to . . .’

She shook her head. ‘His parents? I can’t face them. Don’t know what to say to them. Look, I’m out of here.’ And before he could say anything else, she was gone.

Mac swore as he watched her figure growing smaller in the distance. She never said it, but he wondered sometimes if she blamed him. If he hadn’t gone loco over some woman who’d been tagging him along by his eager nuts, maybe Jamie Martin would still be alive? Maybe, maybe, maybe . . . ? No, he’d stopped living that type of life. He’d been back on the job for a couple of weeks now, this time as a suit in Phil’s team. Surprisingly, he liked being tied to a desk. Strange, he never thought he would. Instead of going back to the church, he headed back to The Research Unit.

Mac was grateful that there was no one around back at base, just the quiet hum of the old-fashioned central heating system to keep him company. He sat at his desk and picked up the framed photo of Stevie he now kept there. Now when he gazed at his son’s face, there was still guilt, but it was slowly fading. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get rid of it, but he felt a kind of peace he hadn’t before, and maybe that was going to have to be enough.

As he placed the photo back, he noticed a padded envelope on the floor, near the corner of his office door. He must’ve not noticed it on his way in. Mac got up. Walked over. Picked it up.

His name was written on the front in large black letters. No name or address on the back. He peeled the envelope open. Peered inside. Small, rectangular piece of paper. Drew it out. A photo of a smiling baby. Confused, he kept staring at it. Why would someone send him a picture of a baby? Maybe it had been delivered to the wrong address; the wrong Mac. He turned the photo over. Writing. He read it, rocking his whole world.

‘I named him after you. His name is John Mac . . .’

No, it couldn’t be . . . Quickly, he flipped it back to the baby. That’s when he saw them – the baby’s eyes. His Stevie’s blue, blue eyes. And a tiny bracelet round the baby’s wrist with a small metal blob that Mac couldn’t make out. He didn’t need to see it to know it was a bunny-rabbit charm.

Mac staggered to the wall. Leaned against it. His legs gave way as he slid down.

acknowledgements

It’s traditional for authors to thank their agents but in this particular case, without the help of Thomas Stofer and Amanda Preston at LBA, this book wouldn’t have happened. Massive thanks to them, especially Thomas devising new plots as he cycled into work. And good luck Thomas in all your new adventures.

Another shining light in the Vendetta venture is the amazing and wonderful Kate Howard and her team at Hodder.

Special, special thanks to Lee Child for always being only an email away from giving advice and his ever precious time to read Vendetta.

And of course, to mine and Tony’s long suffering and ever supportive families.