Gerry cocked his head and frowned. A question was rising to his lips when Dax Blackwell said, “It was this,” and then there was a clap and a spark of light that seemed to come from within the kid’s black hoodie, and suddenly Gerry was down on the floor, hot blood pumping out of his stomach. He put a hand to the wound and let out a high moan that brought the taste of blood into his throat and mouth. He looked at the counter and saw his gun sitting there, out of reach.
Dax took a black revolver with gleaming chrome cylinders out of his hoodie pocket and waved it in the air like a taunt. Or a reminder.
It was this. Gerry saw that gun and remembered where he’d seen it before: Jack Blackwell’s hand.
Of course, he thought, the pain not yet rising, the panic not rising, nothing rising but the taste of blood and the sense of inevitability. Of course Jack would have told the boy to trust the gun above all else.
Dax knelt beside him and brought his face down low. This close, Gerry could finally see his eyes beneath the shadows of the baseball cap. They were a light blue, and the expression in them could almost pass for compassionate. Gerry needed some compassion now. Just a trace of it. He needed the kid to understand that they could make this right. They could get Gerry patched up, could save his life, and if that happened, he would never turn the kid in, would never try to get revenge for this. He’d never even speak of it. If the kid just gave him life, there would be no end to Gerry’s kindness.
He opened his mouth to speak, to convey his promise, but all that left his lips was a warm stream of blood.
Dax Blackwell looked down at him sadly, and then he leaned even closer, his eyes still on Gerry’s, his gaze unblinking.
“I want you to know,” he said, “how much I’ve appreciated the opportunities.”
When Gerry opened his mouth to beg for his life, Dax shoved the gun between his lips and pulled the trigger once more.
Gerry Connors died on his kitchen floor, three thousand miles and thirty years from the place where he’d first met the Blackwell family.
Part Five
The Long Way Home
45
Abby had succeeded in lifting the headrest to its fully extended position, which required bracing her feet on the front of the seat and arching and twisting her back like an Olympic diver attempting a half gainer. She could feel the release buttons, but removing the headrest entirely required more pressure and a lifting motion, a feat that was not easy to execute when you were tied to the damned thing and each lift strangled you and each push at the release buttons numbed already clumsy fingers.
She was close, though. She was very close, and she was so intent on the task that she’d almost forgotten about the scene playing out on Dax’s phone.
Then came the gunshot.
She spun at the sound and slipped, and the headrest slid back into place. She could hear it clinking down, level by level, lock by lock, like an extension ladder closing.
“Shit!” she cried, the cord tight against her throat, her swollen fingers numb, all of her gains lost. She could see the display of the phone again, though, and so she was looking at it when a man’s horrified face came into view, the man Dax had called Gerry. Gerry’s lips parted, and blood ran over them and down his chin. Abby stared at the image in horror, and when the revolver appeared from offscreen and slipped between the man’s bloodied lips, she closed her eyes, a reflex action.
“I want you to know,” Dax said, “how much I’ve appreciated the opportunities.”
She didn’t see the second shot, but she heard it. The sound was loud on the phone, but out here in the driveway, beyond the walls of the brick house, it was softer, swift and insignificant.
That was how a human life could end. Neither with a whimper nor a bang—just a muffled pop that wouldn’t turn any heads in the neighborhood. The night didn’t pause for the kill shot. The night carried on.
The night always would.
Abby sat in the passenger seat, breathing hard, eyes squeezed shut, sweat on her brow from the exertion of her work on the headrest. She’d been so close. A fraction of an inch away, a few more seconds, that was all she’d needed, but now she would have to start over, and without even opening her eyes to check the phone display, she knew that time was short.
It was. She opened her eyes in time to see the kid moving for the door, and then she didn’t require the display anymore, because she could see Dax emerging from the shadows. He was walking at a leisurely pace, no sign of panic or even concern. There was a brown paper bag in his hand. The gun he’d just killed with was nowhere to be seen.
He used the key fob to unlock the Challenger, and too late Abby wondered whether there was any sign of her nearly successful effort to free herself. Dax opened the door, dropped into the driver’s seat, and looked her over quickly but carefully, but if he saw anything that troubled him, he didn’t show it.
“Sorry you had to watch that,” he said, apparently attributing Abby’s sweat to fear over what she’d seen play out on the phone. “Remember, the man was going to kill you too.”
When Abby didn’t answer, Dax lifted a hand in an It’s all right gesture and said, “No thanks needed. Happy to help.”
He tossed the brown paper bag into the backseat. It landed heavily, and Dax registered Abby’s response to the sound.
“There’s a wallet, a watch, a gun, a phone, and two hundred thousand dollars cash in there,” he said. “I’m afraid Gerry was robbed. But good news—if anything happens to me, all of that is yours.”
He picked up the phone from the center console and closed out of the concealed-camera application. The video disappeared, and audio replaced it—the feed from Tara Beckley’s hospital room. Abby recognized Shannon’s voice and a lower, male voice that she thought was the doctor who’d been with them previously. They were making small talk now, long pauses between comments.
Dax listened thoughtfully, then said, “Killing time.”
It was a common expression, and yet when it left his mouth, Abby thought he meant that the hour of murder was upon them again.
“They’re waiting on the cavalry to arrive,” Dax said. “Which means we can get there first.”
With that, he backed out of the driveway. This time, the gates opened automatically. Abby still hadn’t spoken. She stared at the gates as they closed again.
“Onward!” Dax said jauntily, and he pulled onto the street. “It’s your time now, Abby. Are you ready to own the moment? A lot of people will be counting on you.”
He had a heavy foot on the gas pedal, was doing forty-five in a thirty-miles-per-hour zone and gaining speed. The Hellcat’s power could sneak up on you if you were distracted, and the kid was distracted. The cheerful mask was a false front, and his voice was no longer his natural taunt but something he was ginning up because he needed to feel that old confidence. Abby was confused. She had no sense that killing bothered Dax, and yet something about this one had rattled him.
“Who was he?” Abby said.
“No one of significance to you.”
“But he knew your father.” This much Abby had heard while she strained at the cord around her throat. Talk of a father and an uncle. That had mattered to him in a real way, one that his masks could not fully conceal. The car was still gaining speed, roaring down the residential street at more than fifty, and he had no idea.
“You’re going too fast,” Abby said.
He registered the speed with surprise and eased off the accelerator.
“Good eye,” he said, the forced cheerful demeanor back. “You’re a fine partner, Abby. Don’t ever let me forget to acknowledge that.”
The weakness is family, Abby thought, watching him, and then: One of them was named Jack. That person matters to him. And this last murder wasn’t like the rest. For a reason involving family, it was different.
Had he killed a family member back there? It seemed possible; with him, any horror seemed possible. But Abby didn’t believe that was it. The dead man had been import
ant to him, but he wasn’t family.
The kid hooked a left turn and then they were on a four-lane street, leaving the neighborhood, and up ahead, the lights of the interstate showed.
Abby leaned back against the headrest to let the cord loosen as much as possible and felt the thrum of the big engine work into her spine. Only hours ago, that had driven panic through her, but now she felt the connection again.
She knew that the headrest would come off. She’d been close to getting it, and she would be faster the next time.
If she survived until the next time.
“Where are we going?” she asked. “Or have you killed enough people for one day?”
“We’re not done,” the kid said. His voice was a monotone, as if he couldn’t muster the energy to do his typical upbeat act. “You’re going to see Tara. If things go well, you might live a little longer. So might Tara.”
When Dax shifted onto the interstate ramp, the Pirellis spun on the wet pavement, and the Challenger fishtailed briefly. He got it under control fast, and he didn’t react with fear or even surprise. He might not understand the car, but he understood power, and he learned quickly.
46
Boone wanted her own car, but asking for assistance from her employers would break the silence around Tara Beckley, and adding more actors to the mix, even a simple driver/bodyguard who understood rank and wouldn’t ask questions, felt risky right now. The operations protocol around Oltamu had been silence, and though he was dead, she didn’t think that protocol should be.
The rental counter would waste time, and Uber would not, so when she made it to the ground, she went against her strongest instincts and sacrificed control for speed. The plane had circled for twenty-five minutes while the storm lashed the New England coast beneath it, but it had finally landed, and now all that was left between her and Tara Beckley was fifteen miles. She summoned the Uber, and when it arrived, she stepped off the curb, got into the car, handed the driver—a too-friendly chick with dyed-pink hair—a hundred-dollar bill, and told her to start moving fast and keep moving fast.
“I don’t want to get a ticket,” the girl protested. She had approximately twenty piercings and fifty tattoos, but she didn’t want to challenge a speed limit?
“If you get a ticket, I’ll pay it,” Boone said.
“It still affects my Uber status! They’ll know if I—”
“Then you won’t get a ticket,” Boone snapped. “I can make it disappear. Trust me on this, would you? Any cop who stops us will let us go in a hurry.” The girl, mouth open, looked at her in the mirror, and Boone said, “Keep your eyes on the damned road.”
Boone texted Pine while they pulled away from Logan. She told him she was en route and asked if anything had changed. Pine said no. Boone asked where the family was. Pine said the sister was present but the mom and stepdad were in their hotel room; did she want them? Boone said no. She just wanted the girl. Tara might or might not have the answers, but the parents definitely didn’t.
Get rid of the sister, Boone texted.
Can’t be done, Pine replied.
What do you mean, it can’t be done? Boone wrote.
You’ll learn, Pine responded.
47
Tara rests while Dr. Pine and Shannon talk about inconsequential things; everyone is waiting on the arrival of the investigator who will make sense of it all. Tara knows that will require conversation again, the exhausting process on the alphabet board. Dr. Carlisle has promised they’ll experiment with computer software soon, but that’s not going to help Tara now. She’s got to rely on her eyes, nothing else, and she’s got to call up the stamina to make it through. Last mile, running uphill. She’s been here before.
But she hasn’t, of course. She has never had to face that last mile suffering the relentless pain of tubes jammed into various orifices or the maddening cruelty of paralysis. There is no analogy in the world that applies here. She’s not invisible any longer, but she’s also no closer to leaving this bed or even making a sound than she was when she woke up.
Don’t let yourself think that way. Be strong.
She’s tired of being strong, though. Tired of how much everyone cares about Oltamu and his fucking phone. He’s dead, but Tara isn’t, and maybe she’s worse off than him. Endless days like this, endless expenses…what if there’s no finish line? What if this is it?
Remember your thumb.
Yes. Her thumb. Capable of spasmodic twitching. What a win!
You take your wins where you can find them, though. Water could erode rock, drop by drop.
She tunes out the conversation around her and focuses on the channel between brain and thumb. Visualizes it, imagines it like a river, sees her force of will like a skilled rower pulling against the current, forcing her way upstream. Brain to thumb, no turning back, and no portages around treacherous water. You had to beat the current.
The visual takes clearer shape, and she can see a woman who is like her but who is not her, a different version of Tara, more dream than memory, but so tenacious. The rowboat becomes a kayak, and though real Tara is awkward with a kayak paddle, dream Tara is not. She’s strong and graceful, fighting a current that flashes with green-gold light just beneath the surface. As she paddles, the river widens, and the current pushes against her, and then, impossibly, it reverses direction and begins guiding her downstream, an aid rather than an enemy now.
Make it to the thumb. Make it there, and once you know the way, you will make it again. Once you know you can go that far whenever you like, then try another river in another direction. We’ll explore them all, run them to the end. We have nothing but time.
She could swear she feels a tightening in her thumb, a faint pulse of muscle tension.
Yes, it can be done. It’s long and hard but it can be done. Keep riding the current, keep steering, keep—
“She’s on her way,” Dr. Pine says, and at first Tara is convinced that he’s speaking about her, that he’s somehow aware of her journey downriver. Then she sees that his eyes are on his phone.
“Fifteen minutes,” he reports. Then he looks at Tara. “Do you want your parents here?”
The two eye flicks are necessary, but they also take her away from the river, and she feels a loosening of tension in her hand. She was so close. Why did he have to interrupt?
No matter. She’s found the way once, and she will find it again. Over and over, however long it takes. The water was not so bad. Eventually the current had shifted to help her, and whatever produced that green-gold hue beneath the surface was good. She’s not sure why she’s so sure of that, but she knows beyond any doubt that it is a good sign.
I’ll be back, Tara promises herself, and then she gives Pine her attention again. He smiles in what is supposed to be a reassuring fashion, but she can tell that he’s nervous. Who can blame him? It’s not enough to be tasked with bringing a patient back from the dead; now he’s supposed to see that the patient provides witness testimony to some sort of government agent? Even for a neurologist, this can’t feel like another day at the office.
She’d like to smile back at him and let him know that she’s grateful for all he’s done and that she felt better the moment he walked into the room, looked at her with those curious but hopeful eyes, and introduced himself. And used her name. Sometime soon, when she has the computer software that makes all of this less of a chore, she will let him know how much that mattered. Small things, quiet things, but he gave her dignity when others did not.
Shannon isn’t offering any smiles. She’s not even offering her attention. She’s glued to her own phone and seems distressed. Tara watches Shannon tap out a text message and send it, but she can’t read the message because Shannon is shielding the phone with her free hand. It’s an unsubtle way of making it clear that she doesn’t want Pine to see it. Once the message is sent, she stands up, her chair making a harsh squeak on the tile.
“I’ll be right back.”
Pine turns and stares at her. “
Where are you going?”
Shannon gives him an icy look. “Is that your business?”
“Right now, I feel that it is, yes. We’re fifteen minutes away from—”
“I know! Trust me, I am aware. I just need to…breathe for a few seconds. Okay?”
Pine doesn’t like it, but he decides not to fight it. He seems to think Shannon is on the verge of a panic attack, which would be a logical assumption if he were dealing with anyone other than Shannon. Tara knows better. Shannon has no fight-or-flight response; it’s only fight with her. If she were flooded with adrenaline, she’d refuse to leave the room. So what in the hell is going on, and why won’t she meet Tara’s eyes?
Then she’s gone. Without a look back.
48
Inside the Challenger, Dax and Abby listened to the exchange in the hospital room. Dax nodded, pleased, and said, “Attagirl. Way to stand your ground.”
Abby, still bound to the passenger seat of her dead friend’s car, said nothing. They were parked on the fourth floor of a five-floor garage attached to the hospital, and most of the spaces around them were empty, as were many on the third level, which connected to the hospital through a walkway. There should be little if any traffic up here.
When Dax had parked, he’d sent a text message to Shannon Beckley, making sure that Abby saw each word. He identified himself as Abby, and from there the text was simple: he told her the car he was in and where it was parked in the hospital garage, then said he would give Shannon Oltamu’s phone provided she came alone.
It was, Abby had to admit, a smart choice. Shannon wanted the phone, and she knew Abby had it. Any other tactic—threatening her, for example—might not have rung true. But the promise of the phone was tempting, particularly with the DOE agent on the way, and the situation made sense. As far as Shannon knew, Abby was doing what she’d said she would: reaching out to her from another phone number and offering what help she could from her own perilous position in the world.
If She Wakes Page 28