Then he reappeared, closer now. He was painfully thin; his shirt hung on his frame.
Bearded. He was protecting his right arm; he used the left to brace himself against the boulders but kept the right close to his side. She searched his face, squinting her eyes in the failing light. He was no more than a hundred yards away now. He looked up and their eyes met for the first time. They were different. The shape...they seemed a little wider and maybe more rounded. But there was a familiar light in them. A light she hadn’t seen in a long, long time.
85
BAREFOOT
The girl at Ono’s looked at the picture with her face scrunched up, twirling her hair. Picture of concentration, mostly for his benefit, Herron thought. “Yeah, maybe,” she said. “Two kids, right?” More deep thoughtful consideration. Herron was pretty sure she was a stoner. And pretty sure she was scared enough of getting busted to tell him whatever her limited intellect thought he wanted to hear. Useless in a word.
“Thanks, you’ve been very helpful,” he said, taking back the picture of Stephanie Parrish and tucking it into his pocket. The interview at the Fish Market had been much more productive. The waiter, a cocky surfer kid, deep tan, pale blue eyes with a shock of streaky blond hair that kept falling over one eye, had recognized Stephanie immediately.
“Oh, yeah, I remember her, yesterday lunch.” He’d said it with a smarmy smile that left no doubt as to why his memory was so reliable. “Pretty lady, came in with kids, barefoot, sarong and a one piece.”
That was the handy bit. Barefoot. More than likely walked. Lived close, then. It wasn’t much but it was what he had.
86
YOU’RE HERE
She had come. He wanted to run, crawl, drag himself across the lacerating rock and bury his face in her hair. All this time. How had she done it? All at once he was overwhelmed by the enormity of what she must have endured. He picked up his pace and almost immediately tripped, just catching himself on one of the razor-sharp ridged volcanic boulders. He saw her start and reach out her hand. Carefully again he carried on, judging each footstep and handhold. When he looked up again they were only twenty yards apart. His hand throbbed and his heart was hammering in his chest. And then the space was gone.
“You’re here,” he said.
“I’m here.”
He had no idea what to say—the hundreds of times he’d played this scene in his mind and he had nothing. He took in her face, the tiny wrinkles at the corners of her mouth, the clean line of her brows, the strong jaw and the eyes. Their color was indescribable, a warm green interspersed with tiny puddles of deep blue and soft brown, and they glistened as though she were about to cry but at the same time seemed so calm, serene, accepting, so full of love and patience. He reached out with his left hand; it shook slightly. He touched her temple, right at the hairline, and gently tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. Her hair was soft and light as corn silk under his rough fingertips.
And then it came, in a rush.
“Oh God,” he cried, falling against her. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” All the strength that had propelled him and kept him going since France fell away.
* * *
Stephanie’s wineglass fell to the rocks and shattered as she flung her arms around him. She felt his tears hot on her neck. She ran her fingers through his hair and held him as he sobbed. He was a baby in her arms, too weak to stand. As she held her husband Stephanie felt something inflate inside her, swelling until it must break, rising through her chest and then bursting out of her as she gasped for air. And then she was crying, too, squeezing him as hard as she could as her body tried to make sense of what her mind couldn’t yet accept.
It was several minutes before either of them could speak, before they became conscious of themselves again. Finally he straightened up and held her face in his hands.
“How did you—” she started to say.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “You’re here.”
She laughed. “You’re here.”
He was so thin. She tenderly unwrapped the bandage around his right hand and winced when she saw the melted flesh of the wound. She searched his eyes. He smiled.
“Momma!” The scream came from far away. The house. Sophie. They both froze for an instant before Stephanie started scrambling across the rocks toward the stairs. Jordan followed a step behind, oblivious to the scrapes and bruises.
87
HOME
Stephanie and Jordan finally reached the top of the stairs and scanned the yard frantically. “Sophie!” Stephanie screamed. “Haden!” There was no answer.
Alex stepped out of the sliding door. His arm was wrapped around Sophie’s neck. Her mouth had been taped with gray duct tape and her hands were taped together behind her back. Her eyes were wide with terror. He had a long kitchen knife.
“Hello, Stephanie,” he said with a smirk, then the smile froze on his face and turned into something uglier. “Oh, and the prodigal husband. This is awkward. Three’s a crowd, eh?” Sophie’s eyes swept to her father and went even wider.
“It’s okay, baby,” Jordan said. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
“I’m actually not completely sure it is, partner,” Alex said. “You should have stayed dead.”
“Exit Strategy, the number, Dr. Rosen... It was you all along, wasn’t it?” Jordan said quietly.
“Oh, wait, don’t tell me, I know. I love that movie. On the Waterfront, wasn’t it? ‘It was you, Charlie, it was you.’ Brando, right? ‘I coulda been somebody...’” Alex laughed with a forced heartiness that seemed out of place, like he was picking up a round at a sports bar. “Don’t try to pin your troubles on me, pal. I never encouraged anyone to do anything they weren’t already predisposed to.” He leered at Stephanie as he said this.
“Bullshit. I trusted you.”
“Guilty conscience, maybe. You had it pretty good for a while, didn’t you, partner? But you never appreciated any of it. Right? Too busy wallowing in self-pity. Poor, poor Jordan. Isn’t life just so fucking unfair?” Saliva was clumping thickly at the corners of his mouth and spraying as he spoke, the pitch and volume continuing to rise.
Jordan inched forward, measuring the space between them, trying to angle between Alex and Stephanie.
“But not you, right? You were Mr. Mellow, happy with the cards life dealt you.”
“Life gave me shit but I made the most of it. Shall we continue this little reunion in the house?”
Jordan flashed a look at Stephanie. He almost imperceptibly shook his head. “That doesn’t sound like the best idea. It’s beautiful out here.”
Alex forced his elbow under Sophie’s chin. “I think your daughter’s a little chilly.”
Stephanie screamed, “Stop it!” but froze when Alex tightened his grip. Sophie moaned, partly in pain and partly in fear. Her wide eyes darted back and forth between her mother’s face and the face of her father’s ghost.
Jordan’s jaw worked as he continued to inch forward, eyes fixed on his former partner’s.
“Why didn’t you just kill me?” Jordan asked.
Alex laughed. “You were too close. So close...”
“What are you talking about?”
“The models. You were better than ninety percent. We had to know how.”
Jordan froze. “What do you mean? I thought the labs were coming back random...”
“I lied. Shorted the stock. Everybody’s up your ass when you claim success, but tell them you got it wrong and no one thinks twice about it. And you, Christ, you were born ready to believe you’d fucked it all up.” Alex’s voice was shrill.
Jordan’s eyes darted from point to point, like someone dreaming, putting it all together. Years, years. His life.
“You fucking bastard... Why?”
There was a flicker of motion from inside the house.
Alex turned to follow Jordan’s eyes just as Haden crashed screaming through the open door swinging a brass poker like a baseball bat. It would have caught Alex just above the ear but the little turn caused it to glance painfully but harmlessly off his shoulder. The knife spun into the grass. Alex snarled and whipped around, releasing his grip on Sophie, and viciously backhanded the boy. Haden flew a foot in the air and was unconscious before he hit the ground.
“Haden!” Stephanie screamed and ran to him as Jordan hurled himself on Alex. He drove him back against the sliding glass door, which cracked loudly as tiny lines radiated out along the pane, but it didn’t break. As they fell to the ground, his fingers clawed for some kind of purchase but Alex’s body seemed smooth and slick like hard wet rubber. Finally he grabbed a fistful of shirt and tried to hold him far enough away to get a good shot at his face. He felt Alex’s knee drive into his stomach as his fist hit something hard. Alex cried out and Jordan felt a sharp pain in two of his fingers. As he pulled back to swing again, Alex got his legs to Jordan’s chest and kicked out hard, sending the lighter man sprawling. Then he scrambled to his feet and grabbed a folding lounger and slammed it across Jordan’s side, the aluminum frame bending easily around his hip. Jordan brushed it away and came on. The bandage had come off his hand and it was throbbing. It felt like one of the fingers was broken. He saw a flicker of fear in Alex’s eyes.
“Bastard,” Jordan spat between ragged gasps. He was crying. He didn’t know why.
Everything. He would kill him. Alex was backing away and his heel caught the edge of the grass. He put his arm out to steady himself and Jordan rushed him again. Lowering his head he hit him hard and low. They went down together, Jordan on top. Jordan hit him again and again. The broken fingers protested with each impact but the pain seemed to come from somewhere far away. He saw Alex’s nose break and erupt in a fountain of blood, then his lip split. His shoulders felt so heavy. Then he realized Alex was laughing. Staring right at him, laughing. Making no effort to defend himself.
Jordan stopped hitting him.
“I’m sorry,” Alex said. “I was just thinking.” It came out with bubbles of blood and snot and spit as he struggled to clear his lungs and speak. He coughed. He mumbled something else but Jordan couldn’t hear what it was. He leaned closer.
“I was thinking about that funny little noise your wife makes just before she comes.” Jordan turned his head to look at Stephanie. She was bent over Haden, looking at Alex.
“You bastard,” she said.
Jordan felt all the air go out of his body. Alex head butted him as hard as he could. There was a burst of blinding pain and he was falling. Then Alex was clawing through the grass. With a triumphant howl, he closed his hand over the knife and wheeled on Jordan, who was struggling to his feet.
The blade slashed through the air and cut a clean line across Jordan’s chest. Jordan felt nothing. Alex hit him hard on the cheek with the knife handle and, as he started to fall forward, he buried the knife to the hilt in Jordan’s shoulder. It felt like ice, radiating from the shoulder down the arm. Jordan turned his head to one side, quizzically like a parrot. He seemed unable to control his body. He fell to the grass. It felt cool and soft against his cheek. Alex kicked him repeatedly in the ribs and legs. He was screaming but Jordan couldn’t tell what he was saying. He heard a rib crack and felt something warm and salty fill his mouth. The grass looked so green. He realized Sophie was only feet away. She lay where she’d fallen, hands still behind her back and mouth still taped. The tape diaphragmed in and out with her frantic breathing. Sweat beaded her forehead. Her eyes were blinking furiously and wide with horror. Jordan tried to smile, to reassure her. To say “It’ll be okay, baby. Don’t worry.” But he couldn’t seem to work his face.
Alex grabbed the handle of the knife and pulled it out. The ice turned to fire, fire that burned everywhere at once, and Jordan passed out.
* * *
Panting heavily, Alex wiped the blade on the grass. He grabbed a fistful of Jordan’s hair and pulled his head back, exposing the throat. He had just raised the knife when the poker caught him between the shoulder blades. He roared in pain and ripped it out of Stephanie’s hand and flung it across the lawn.
“You are a cynical little cunt, aren’t you, Steph? You knew he was alive. You were coming to meet him? Jesus fucking Christ!” Alex laughed. “Fucking bitches. All the same. I should have known. I should have fucking known.”
Stephanie looked frantically around. He was nodding and mumbling to himself as he scrambled to his feet and advanced on her. Pink saliva streamed from his split lip and left a splotchy trail behind.
“How did you find us?” she said.
He laughed, pink bubbles foaming at the corners of his mouth. “Haden’s phone. I found my friends.”
She nodded. Of course he’d kept it. For the games. He couldn’t have understood why it mattered. She tried to circle toward the house. Drawing him away from the children.
“We would have been all right,” he said. “Why couldn’t you just let it go?”
“You’re sick,” she said, backing slowly toward the open door. They both saw the poker at the same time.
Stephanie was closer. Her eyes darted from the poker to Alex to Sophie. “Fucking bitches,” he snarled.
Stephanie dove for it, rolling as she hit the ground. Alex shifted the other way and, as she came to one knee with the weapon clutched in her right hand, he stepped hard on Sophie’s hair, pulling her head back to the ground and eliciting a muffled scream.
“Don’t, please,” Stephanie cried. She slowly laid the poker down.
Without taking his eyes off her, he reached out with his left hand and grabbed it. He stood back upright, lazily spinning the knife in his right. “You know what a male gorilla does when he defeats the silverback?” He prodded Sophie with the tip of the poker.
“Please,” Stephanie whispered.
“He kills the juveniles. Makes the females more—what’s the word?—receptive.” He used the poker under Sophie’s chin to turn her head so she faced up at him.
“Alex,” Stephanie said, “listen to me...”
He spat, red and thick. Some of it sprayed Sophie’s hair. “Too late for that. You lie. You cunts all lie.” He used his foot to roll Sophie on her back and shifted the knife in his hand.
“No!” Stephanie screamed.
* * *
The 9 mm hollow-point shell slammed into Alex’s left shoulder. The initial impact swung his body back toward the door. The shell flattened and expanded as it tore through the subscapularis muscle and shattered the glenohumeral joint. Alex felt like he had been punched hard. The poker hit the ground with a hollow thud. He swung around, confused. Herron stood up from his blind on the steps to the beach.
“Drop the knife,” he yelled, sighting down the Glock, held in two hands as if he were on the range. Alex looked at him dully and shook his head. It was too absurd. He staggered toward Stephanie, his left arm useless at his side and his right still clutching the knife, fingers convulsively clutching the handle.
The second bullet struck Alex just above the right eye. The point shattered the supraorbital ridge, then opened like a flower. The temporary cavitation caused a sudden pressure against the optic nerve that Alex perceived as a brilliant flash of pure white light. The knife fell to the cement but Alex didn’t notice.
The now-mushroom-shaped shell tunneled through the prefrontal cortex, losing velocity as it went, finally coming to rest in the middle of Alex’s parietal lobe. He felt no pain but the brilliant white light persisted. Within the light a figure took shape. She reached out to him with willowy arms. He moved toward her with no conscious effort. He could smell her skin, like cocoa butter and the sea, and something else that was uniquely her own. And then he was in her arms, his head nesting perfectly in the hollow just below her clavicle. Her breast, smooth and resilient, pillowed his c
heek. And her hair. It flowed over and around him, making a bower apart from the world. His eyes closed and he breathed her in as a sea of shining chestnut and auburn swept across his face. Shanisse’s voice was warm and humid in his ear. “Welcome home, sweet boy.”
88
MEMORIAL
At first he thought he was back in Washington, at Exit Strategy, the crisp sheets, the steady beep of the monitor, but then he saw Stephanie. Her feet were tucked underneath her on the hospital chair and her hair fanned over her shoulder in a soft wave. A collection of trashy gossip magazines spilled from her chair to his bed. She was asleep. The clock said just after two and it was dark outside the window. On the other bed in the room Haden and Sophie were sleeping curled up together. Haden was in a hospital gown and Sophie in a sweatshirt and jeans. Haden’s mouth was open and occasionally he twitched in his sleep with a little snort.
Herron was downstairs in the Maui Memorial gift shop trying to find a toothbrush among all the chocolate-covered macadamias when the man with the gray hair and horn-rims tapped him on the shoulder. He looked vaguely familiar, maybe from the plane or the rental car place.
“Detective Herron?” Herron looked up blankly as the man extended his hand. “I’ve so looked forward to meeting you. Please call me Sam.”
AFTER
Stephanie emptied the contents of her purse on the veneered wood table in the G5 as it cruised thirty-five thousand feet above the Pacific. Jordan sat beside her and Sam directly across. Sophie and Haden were sprawled asleep on the long couch that ran down one side of the jet. Sam’s fingers quickly sorted through the contents. Hair ties, wallet, makeup bag and a lone lipstick, lip balm, rubber bands, crumpled receipts, napkins from several different sources, a travel toothbrush (never used) and a collection of scraps of paper and detritus. He made a couple of piles. Then he opened the wallet and removed everything except the cash. He tucked all the cards into his pocket and sorted through the paper pile. He plucked out a picture. Stephanie and Haden on the beach. He turned it over. S&H, Paia. He smiled and folded the picture before slipping it into his pocket.
Exit Strategy Page 30