“Raz!” Alex yelled to him.
He raised a hand to say he was still alive. Alex crawled on her hands and knees to Y. Her eyes were blank and blood flowed from one of her ears.
“Y? Yvie?” Alex felt her pulse. “Yvonne!”
She began CPR on her friend. She did chest compressions and breathed in her mouth for what seemed like three lifetimes before Y sputtered and coughed. She moved her hand in front of her face and smiled at Alex. Y opened her mouth to speak.
Her body twitched and then twitched again. In rapid motion, her eyes flicked back and forth, and then stared straight ahead.
Even knowing her friend was gone, Alex started CPR. She would have continued forever, but Raz reached her. He pulled her away.
“She’s gone,” he said.
“I brought her back! I . . .”
A stranger, probably a neighbor, dropped a dark brown blanket over Y, and the sky began to weep cold rain.
Raz pulled Alex onto his lap. Too stunned to do anything but stare, they sat in the rain on the sidewalk. The police and the French military and the CIA and the US military and French Intelligence arrived on the scene.
They sat on the sidewalk in the rain.
No one could convince her to get off his lap.
No one could convince him to let her go.
No one could get them to move.
They sat on the sidewalk, next to where Y had died, in the rain, until eventually, a US Army private stood over them with a large umbrella.
“Come with me,” a child’s voice broke through Alex’s fog.
She opened her eyes to see Claire Martins’s six-year-old daughter Camille kneeling in front of her. The little girl’s dark ringlets had been cropped for last summer’s swimming lessons. They stood in a tight, dark halo on her head. Camille’s precious “real school” uniform was wet and dirty.
Alex stared at the girl while she tried to work out the child’s presence at the scene.
“Maman will make us real cocoa to warm our souls,” Camille squatted down and kissed Alex’s cheeks. “Love you, Alex.”
She kissed Raz’s cheeks.
“Love you, Uncle Artie.”
She looked at them for another moment before she took an orange Tootsie Roll Pop out of her pocket. She took off the wrapper and stuck it in Alex’s mouth. Alex’s eyes flicked to look into the child’s face. Camille took another orange Tootsie Roll Pop out of her pocket, pulled off the wrapper, and stuffed it in Raz’s mouth.
“Let’s go home,” the child said.
Camille put her hand in Alex’s and gave her a tug. Alex moved off Raz’s lap. Camille put her hand out to Raz. He looked at the child’s hand and then at her face. His other hand reached for Alex. She squeezed his hand.
Camille held out her hand to Raz again. Raz took the child’s hand. When Alex stood, she saw Claire standing at the barricade. She had Becky tucked into a baby sling and held the toddler Gerard’s hand, but her entire focus was on Alex and Raz.
“Dépêchez-vous,” Claire waved her hands for them to hurry.
Alex looked for the place where Yvonne had died. The sidewalk was bare. The ambulances were long gone.
She looked at the scene. The police and French military had closed off the entire street. She nodded to a military inspector she knew. He waved his cell phone to let her know that he would call her. She nodded.
She felt a blanket go around her shoulders and saw one go around Raz’s. The police escorted them to the entrance of her condo. Once inside the secure building, Camille tugged on Alex until she picked her up. This child, the one who’d loved her unconditionally since the moment she was born, tucked her head under Alex’s chin and held on tight. They took the elevator to the top floor.
When the elevator opened, Camille ran out and Alex took Raz’s hand. His face bore the same stunned look that she was sure her face held. Much to Camille’s distress, Claire led Raz and Alex to Alex’s bedroom and closed the door.
They stood like statues staring at opposite walls.
“I thought . . . ,” Raz said.
Alex turned to look at him.
“I thought you were . . . ,” he shook his head, “ . . . wrong.”
His eyes flicked to her face.
“Last night,” he said. “When you said they were going to kill you. But Alex . . . They’re going to kill you.”
“I know,” she said.
“Trece’s your bodyguard,” Raz said. “That’s why he’s . . . why he’s . . .”
“Yes.”
Shaking his head, Raz dropped to the bed. Alex’s mind struggled to form a coherent thought.
“Charlie is right,” Raz said. “You need to lean on me to find the light. We’ll find the light together.”
He took the orange Tootsie Roll Pop out of his mouth and looked at it. He pointed to the one in her mouth. She took the candy out of her mouth. She smiled at the orange candy.
“Camille’s cure for everything,” Alex said.
“She learned from the best,” he chuckled.
He walked to her. She looked up into his face. He gave her a soft smile and wrapped her in his arms.
In his safety and warmth, she began to cry.
F
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Tuesday morning
November 16 – 10:21 a.m. EST (4:21 p.m. CET)
Pawtuckaway State Park, New Hampshire
Troy parked his rental car next to another parked car. The gravel parking area wasn’t marked, but he figured it was probably a good place to park. He put the hang tag the guard at the gate had given him on the dash of the car and stepped out into the cool day.
When his sister, Helen, suffered a full-scale mental collapse last year, his father was in jail, his mother was on house arrest, and his elder brother was dead. Troy was the only person available to help her, and the last person on the planet she wanted to help her. The paramedics had checked her into the Psychiatric Institute of Washington. She was not getting out.
She needed help. But Troy was caught up in the overwhelm and despair of losing Dahlia. He’d left his sister in a drug-induced fog for months. Finally, he gathered up his courage and asked the one person who might be able to help, Alex’s mother, Rebecca Hargreaves. She listened to his entire story, blinked, and said, “Good idea.”
The next thing Troy knew, his sister had moved to this psychiatric equestrian treatment facility tucked into the Pawtuckaway State Park in New Hampshire. She was weaned off most of the heavy medications and, according to the monthly reports he’d received, she was healing from the decades of use and abuse by his narcissistic father and sadistic brother.
He was paying the bills, so he had a right to be there.
He wondered if he should leave.
“Homer?”
His sister’s voice came from the direction of the building that housed the offices. Troy walked up a grassy hill toward her. Nearing the porch, he saw his elder sister sitting in a rocking chair with a huge grey cat on her lap. Her brown eyes were clear, and her lips turned up in a bright smile. Her curly hair, which was usually tied up in a tight bun, lay in long grey streaked waves on her shoulders. She wore jeans and a heavy sweater he recognized from his last gift box to her.
“I’d get up but . . . ,” Helen pointed to the cat. “This is Sir Galahad. He’s very special and almost never stops for a pet. You understand, don’t you?”
Troy smiled.
“Did you bring the boys?” Helen’s voice rose a notch with anxiety.
“They stayed with Mom in Washington,” Troy said. “I thought they might be too much.”
“Thanks,” Helen nodded. “That’s considerate of you.”
Troy sat in the rocking chair next to her. The morning sun was beginning to peek through the cold, grey mist. The forest that bordered the wide open pasture seemed to dance in the light. The porch was warm, and they settled into a quiet companionship.
“I’m thinking about joining the dark side and becoming an Oliv
as,” Helen said.
“Oh?” Troy asked.
“Mom told me she’s changing her name back to her maiden name,” Helen said. “I don’t want to be the only Jasper.”
“Makes sense,” Troy said. “You’d be welcome to join the dark side with me.”
“That’s it,” Helen said. “That’s all I came up with to talk to you about.”
“Really?” Troy laughed.
Helen had always been a chatterbox of opinion. She glanced at him and laughed.
“It’s nice to see you, Homer,” Helen said.
“Troy,” he said.
“Ah shit,” Helen said. “I was going to remember. I’m sorry.”
Tears sprouted in her eyes. Troy smiled and kept rocking. Her psychiatrist said she was extremely fragile and extraordinarily tough. If Troy pursued the fragile, he’d get the fragile. If he allowed her to be tough, she’d be tough. Her psychiatrist said that Helen wanted him to see the tough.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
He looked away while she wiped her eyes. The grey cat stood and kneaded Helen’s thighs. He gave Troy a haughty look and jumped off his sister’s lap. Helen chuckled.
“I’ve been so anxious about your visit,” Helen said. “I don’t . . . I don’t . . .”
Troy held his hand out, and she took it.
“I’m so sorry about Dahlia,” Helen said. “I was always so jealous of her. I never saw how beautiful she was or that H . . . H . . .”
Unable to say their brother’s name, Helen stopped talking. She looked at him.
“He did to me what he did to her,” Helen said. “I thought it was because he loved me, but . . .”
Helen’s head moved up and down in a tiny nod.
“Did you know?” she whispered.
“I should have,” Troy said. “When I think about it, the whole thing makes sense. I was so focused on surviving that the details of your life, Mom’s . . . they escaped me completely. I’m sorry.”
They fell silent.
“I truly am sorry, Helen,” Troy repeated. “I will wish for the rest of my life that I had done something, anything, but . . . My entire focus was to get as far away from there as fast as humanly possible.”
She looked at him for a moment. Feeling her gaze, he looked up. She gave him a slight smile.
“Would you like to go for a ride?” Helen asked. “I asked this morning. They got my Gennifer ready and have a stallion you can ride.”
“I’d like that,” Troy said. “I’m glad you have Genni here with you.”
“Yes,” Helen nodded. “She’s been my friend and confidant for almost twenty years.”
Troy smiled. He’d fought hard to keep his sister’s brown mare out of his parents’ bankruptcy proceedings. But they had purchased the horse originally; she was one of their precious few remaining assets. When it looked like the mare would go to auction, and surely wind up in a dog food plant, he’d borrowed money from Alex and bought Gennifer for four times what she was worth. The mare had arrived a month after Helen moved in to this facility. According to her psychiatrist, it was Gennifer who broke through Helen’s madness. Troy thought old Gennifer was worth every penny.
“Do you want to talk to my shrinks and stuff?” Helen asked.
“If you’d like,” Troy said. “I have some questions for you.”
“I know,” Helen said. “I have some answers.”
“You do?”
“Alex called my counselor with the questions about Dahlia,” Helen said. “We went over them together so I’d be ready.”
“She did?”
“She’s been trying to help me,” Helen said. “And I . . . I used to hate her so much. Mostly, I was jealous of her freedom. But she’s been very good to me.”
“She has?”
“You don’t know?” Helen smiled. “She comes by when she’s on this coast. I see her and that handsome Art every other month or so. They don’t stay very long, but they always tell me stories of the fun places they just left. It helps me remember that there’s a whole world out there. She pays for flowers in my room every week. It sounds small, but it means a great deal to me.”
Not sure what to say, Troy smiled.
“So I have answers to your questions, brother,” Helen said.
“Okay.”
“Here goes,” Helen stopped talking. Tears welled in her eyes. She cleared her throat and said, “Our brother killed your beloved because she knew he was a fraud. I knew too.”
“Helen, you don’t have to . . .”
“Actually, I do,” Helen said. “My counselor has been saying for months, ‘Helen you have to choose your own side,’ but I didn’t want to pick a side that wasn’t Dad’s or Hector’s because . . . because . . . And my side is definitely not their side.”
“They seemed so powerful,” Troy said.
Helen nodded.
“They seemed that way to me too,” Troy said.
“Really?” Helen asked. “I thought you were . . . free.”
“Running away from horror only means you’re forever tied to it,” Troy said. “The horror of Dad, Hector, and our life as kids, it’s been like a bungee cord that wrenches me back if I get too . . . happy.”
Helen nodded.
“I’m in therapy too,” Troy smiled.
She swallowed hard and took a breath for courage.
“And yes, our brother killed your beloved because she left him,” Helen said. “Both answers are yes. But I think, mostly, he killed her because she was beautiful and light. She was living proof against the need for the global meltdown.”
“Global meltdown?” Troy covered his surprise with a lazy look.
“Oh come on, little brother,” Helen said. “You have to remember.”
“Vaguely,” Troy said.
“Our father talked about the necessity of global meltdown all the time,” Helen said. In a dull, almost numb voice, she said, “‘Human beings are weak and inferior. We must create enough environmental pressure to kill off the weak and give rise to a new breed of humans.’ I would lie in bed at night shivering with fear at the idea of the entire world burning – Mom, you, Hector, our house, Gennifer, my cats. I could see everything going up in flames. You really don’t remember?”
“It sounds familiar,” Troy said. “Mostly, I thought he was completely nuts. Hector too.”
“They were,” Helen laughed. She caught her breath mid-laugh, “They were mad; I wasn’t. They were crazy; I wasn’t. It was them; not me.”
“That’s true,” Troy said.
Surprised, Helen turned to look at him. He nodded.
“Dad was crazy,” Troy said. “We were caught in the web of a madman. And Hector was . . . just wrong, backwards, mentally deformed. Mom was working all the time and had no idea what they were up to.”
“Her career was more important to her than we were,” Helen said.
“Sometimes,” Troy said. “I think she thought she would prove to Dad that he was wrong. And honestly, someone had to keep us afloat. But . . . I get angry with her too.”
Troy shrugged.
“You haven’t spent a lot of time with the boys, have you?” Troy asked.
Helen shook her head.
“They are real and brutally honest. They won’t put up with crazy,” Troy smiled. “They help remind me that I can be brilliant and not crazy. You’d like them. Their best friends are these wild Irishmen, Cian and Eoin. They know the meaning of being trapped and being free. They’ve been teaching the boys how to cook.”
Troy reached in his pocket and pulled out a bag of chocolate crinkle cookies.
“The boys made cookies for you,” Troy said.
Helen took the bag and looked at the cookies inside.
“They made them for me?” Helen asked.
“They’re excited to see you again.”
Helen nodded.
“When you’re ready,” Troy said. “We’ve found a place in Colorado that’s like this one. You’d be close enough so we ca
n see you once in a while, as much as you can handle. When you’re ready, we can talk about moving.”
“I need to work,” Helen said.
“Honestly, Helen,” Troy said. “I think you’ve done enough. If you spent the rest of your life recovering, that would be all right.”
“I loved teaching,” Helen said.
“When you’re better, maybe you’ll want to teach . . . horseback riding, or gardening, or advanced applied theoretical physics.”
Troy smiled, and Helen laughed.
“Your job, now, is to recover,” Troy said.
“And if I never do?” Helen asked.
“I’ve learned that recovery is not a destination,” Troy said. “And really, this isn’t such a bad way to spend your life.”
Helen smiled. They watched the sun on the pasture for a while.
“Hector stole your work,” Helen said.
“I found that out just the other day,” Troy said. “Any idea if they ever armed those nanodrones?”
“I doubt it,” Helen said. “Hector was terrified that people would find out that they didn’t do anything.”
“I don’t really get that,” Troy said. “Wouldn’t people know they weren’t getting video or . . . ?”
“You bought a satellite package,” Helen said. “The drone vibrates so the satellite can pick them up. The drones are sticky. They stay with the person they’re tracking. You can follow someone by satellite via imagery or get the GPS location. That’s how Hector knew where you were.”
“One of those bugs was on Dahlia?” Troy asked.
Helen nodded.
“Did they ever arm them?” Troy asked.
“Fire,” Helen said. “That was the talk last year. ‘Flick a switch, and everything burns.’ That’s what Hector said. But I doubt they ever figured it out. Everything they added made the drones crash. Of course, Hector was supposed to figure it out. If he’d designed them, he probably could have. But he didn’t.”
Troy nodded.
“Would you still like to ride?” Troy asked.
“Yes, but I have a question for you first,” Helen said.
“I’m happy to answer anything,” Troy said.
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