He swam hard until his muscles let him know they’d had a good workout, then eased over onto his back, past the breakers where the water was calm, sculling along the surface, feeling the morning sun bake his skin. When his skin got hot, he flipped over and kicked his feet and dived down into the cooler water, swimming a few feet down for a while, then breaking the surface again, facing shore. The colorful little hillside town of Bathsheba beckoned him back, coconut palms waving at him in the tropical breeze. He headed back in, thinking about lunch and the afternoon ahead.
For the last nine weeks, this had been his life. Breakfast of papaya and pineapple and coconut and coffee in his rented seaside cottage, followed by meditation on the beach and a long swim. Some days he’d bicycle down the coast to the calmer waters and more secluded beaches at Skeetes and Kitridge and Harrismith. He’d buy fish from the Rastas at the open-air markets, sometimes stop at a rum shop for a drink and a game of dominoes with the regulars, sometimes he’d hike into the hills and share his food with the friendly green monkeys that were ubiquitous in Barbados.
When he didn’t feel like cooking, he’d visit the nearby Round House or the Atlantis Hotel, or Merton’s Place up in St. Lucy.
He bought a small car with a snap-off canvas roof and no doors—locals called it a Moke—and when he felt like it, he’d drive across the island for the more pampered lifestyle and placid waters on the west coast, stopping at Mullins or Holetown, eating at The Tides or Sandpiper or Coral Reef Club, scuba diving with the dive shop there.
Most evenings were spent back in Bathsheba on his front porch with a book and a cigar and a glass of good rum, chatting with neighbors, listening to reggae.
It was a beautiful life. A sane life. Daniel loved the routine, the sameness of the days, the consistency of his mood, the peace he’d found. He loved his bronzed skin and the salt in his hair, which he’d let grow out a little longer. He loved the pace of life here and the ease with which people smiled and laughed. He loved the music and the rum and the green monkeys and the ocean and the nocturnal symphony of tree frogs.
But he had no idea how long it could last.
Raoul Aharon had come to visit three weeks after Daniel killed Conrad Winter. Raoul told him the Foundation considered this a paid leave of absence, told Daniel to take his time and come visit New York in about six months. And sure enough, his salary continued to accrue in his bank account every two weeks.
But Daniel had no intention of returning to the Fleur-de-Lis Foundation. Not in six months. Not ever.
He’d had a few bad nights dealing with what he’d done, a few bad dreams about murder—the kind of nightmares where you’re battling a monster, only in these dreams Daniel was the monster—but the dreams had faded recently.
And it was murder—he didn’t try to tell himself otherwise. But even so, he found that he could live with it. He wasn’t sure what that said about him, but as the days passed, he thought about it less often.
Daniel showered the salt away and dried off under his bedroom ceiling fan. He dressed casually and combed his hair with his fingers, then checked his watch—something he did less often these days, but today was not the usual routine.
It was time.
He removed the Moke’s ragtop and drove under the afternoon sun, all the way down the Atlantic coast past Crane Beach, turning west into Christ Church.
He pulled to a stop at the curb in front of Grantley Adams Airport, checked his watch again.
Ten minutes later, Kara walked out of the airport pulling a wheeled suitcase. She wore a floral sundress and big Jackie O sunglasses.
Gorgeous.
Daniel took her slowly into his arms . . .
They lay naked on top of the sheets under the ceiling fan, covered in a sheen of perspiration, catching their breath, unable to speak.
After a few minutes Kara said, “That was acceptable.”
They both laughed.
Daniel ran his finger along the raised scar between her ribs. He leaned forward and kissed it, tasting the salt on her skin.
After dinner they sat on the wicker loveseat on Daniel’s front porch and watched the waves roll in under the moonlight.
Kara sipped her rum. “I can’t think of a more beautiful place.”
“Even more beautiful since you arrived,” said Daniel. “You could stay, you know.”
Her expression darkened a little. “Daniel, let’s not do that. I don’t even know who I’m going to be next. I don’t want to plan ahead.”
“Yeah, okay. I just mean, stay as long as you like.”
Kara smiled. “You’ve got me for two weeks.” She leaned forward and kissed him softly, then reclined and put her bare feet up on the coffee table. “Kara Singh is dead, the Foundation gave me a whole new identity. My name is now Maya Seth. I was born in Montreal, I’ve got a medical degree from the University of Toronto, and I’m licensed to practice medicine in Ontario and Quebec.”
“But that’s not what you’re going to do next?”
Kara shook her head. “Next, I’m going to volunteer for a few months with Doctors Without Borders in India. I’ve made no decisions beyond that. Frankly, I’m still trying to get used to the silence in my head.”
“The voices never came back?”
“No. I have no idea why they came or why they left. I thought maybe because I flatlined again after Conrad stabbed me, but the voices were gone a few days before that . . . which also doesn’t mean much, since they would often disappear for days at a time during the six years I had them. I guess I’ll never know.”
Daniel said, “The voices abandoned my uncle, too, a few days before he died. Like you, he fought against them for a long time, then fought to define them, interpreting them, misinterpreting them . . . until finally he accepted them. Embraced them even, and found some peace when he did. And then they just went away. It was as if they’d accomplished what they needed to.” He smiled. “But of course, that goes back to intention, and we don’t know if there’s intelligence behind them, do we?”
Kara thought for a minute before speaking. “I think there is. I don’t mean a god, but I can’t believe they were totally random, either. Remember what you said before? It’s like the universe was trying to tell us something.” She brushed it aside. “Anyway, I’m glad they’re done with me and I hope they never come back. For the first time in six years, I’m the sole inhabitant of my own head, and it feels terrific.” She laughed. “You should’ve seen me in the Atlanta airport, though. I passed one of those places that sells cinnamon buns, and when the smell hit me I just about freaked out. If I never taste cinnamon again, it’ll be too soon.”
They made love again, gently this time.
Kara fell asleep immediately afterward, and Daniel enjoyed watching her sleep.
He had her for two weeks; he wouldn’t ruin a second of it wishing for more. Maybe after she’d decided who she wanted to be next, they’d reconnect. Maybe not. It didn’t matter.
What mattered was right here, right now.
This very moment was all that mattered, all that existed.
And in this moment, Daniel was happy.
A storm rolled in sometime during the night, while they slept.
Daniel dreamed the fury of the storm, rain lashing the metal roof, thunder booming so close it shook the little cottage. In the dream, it wasn’t just a storm. It was a malevolent force, and it wanted to kill Daniel.
In the dream, he jumped naked from the bed and ran to the window, forcing the storm shutters closed, latching them as lightning flashed outside. The front door banged open and he ran to the living room. Wind howled through the open door, blowing the rain inside. Daniel ran to the door, the wind so strong he had to lean into it. He got to the door and started to close it.
And that’s when a bolt of lightning hit him right in the chest.
Daniel woke up, gasping for a
ir, covered in sweat. He looked across the room, through the open window to the tropical rain sheeting down in the moonlight outside.
The storm outside was just a storm, that was all.
He got out of the bed, careful not to wake Kara, who slept peacefully beside him unaware of the storm.
He crossed to the window and looked down to the sea.
Just a storm.
He reached forward and closed the shutters, and a woman’s voice behind him said:
Daniel. Pay attention.
He turned around. Kara was still asleep.
Daniel’s mouth filled with the taste of cinnamon.
THANKS AND PRAISES
Life occasionally throws you a curveball. This one came in the form of injury (I really need to fall down less often). So the first thank-you goes to the many readers who stuck by me during the long wait and even sent e-mails to remind me they were eager for the next book. You guys rock.
Dan Conaway never wavered in his support, both as an agent and as a friend. I couldn’t ask for better, on either count. Thanks also to Simon Lipskar, Maja Nikolic, Taylor Templeton, and everyone at Writers House. And to my film agent, Lucy Stille, at APA.
Alison Dasho is both an incredible editor and one of the finest humans I know. Alan Turkus was steadfast in his support and a joy to work with. Jacque Ben-Zekry may in fact be superhuman. Really, the whole team at Thomas & Mercer is beyond amazing. Gracie Doyle, Tiffany Pokorny, Timoney Korbar, Dan Byrne, Kim Bae, Andy Bartlett, Terry Goodman, Mikyla Bruder, Daphne Durham, Jeff Belle—I feel lucky to know you all.
Marjorie Braman, editrix extraordinaire, brought her usual keen eye and sharp intellect to the dance, for which I am very grateful. And Lindsey Alexander’s copy edit was simply terrific. Thanks also to Bethany Davis, Karen Parkin, Paul Barrett, and Marc J. Cohen. And special thanks to Luke Daniels.
Early readers are often acknowledged in these pages, but these three people are more than early readers—they are early collaborators. Without them, this book would not exist. Marcus Sakey (bosom buddy and lifelong pal), Agent 99 (love of my life, apple of my eye, gorilla my dreams), and Barbara Chercover (best mom and friend in the history of moms and friends).
Knut Holmsen is more than just an awesome father-in-law. He and his extended network of Norwegians provided invaluable assistance. If I messed up the Norwegian stuff in this book, blame them (kidding—any mistakes are my own).
Jeff Abbott provided the gift of music when I needed it most.
Paul Guyot and Keith Snyder (great people and great writers, both) got me back on the bike. I owe them for that, big time.
Greg Seldon, my oldest friend, has done much to keep me sane (or happily insane). Love to you, my brother.
A whole bunch of talented people helped put me back together and enabled me to avoid major surgery. Dr. Jayne Davis, Dr. Doreen Campbell, Nicole Westlake, Dr. Vanessa Nobrega, Dr. Mark Ellingson, and the whole team at Balance Fitness.
Jon and Ruth Jordan exemplify the love of the crime fiction community—to know them is to consider yourself lucky. I am more than lucky; to me, they are family. Thank you, Jon and Ruth, for keeping the home fires burning during my absence. It’s great to be back.
Finally, to Agent 99 and Firedog. You are the reason I get up in the morning.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2013 John Keatley
Sean Chercover is the author of the bestselling thriller The Trinity Game and two award-winning novels featuring Chicago private investigator Ray Dudgeon: Big City, Bad Blood and Trigger City. After living in Chicago; New Orleans; and Columbia, South Carolina, Sean returned to his native Toronto, where he lives with his wife and son.
Sean’s fiction has earned top mystery and thriller honors in the US, Canada, and the UK. He has won the Anthony, Shamus, CWA Dagger, Dilys, and Crimespree Awards and has been short-listed for the Edgar, Barry, Macavity, Arthur Ellis, and ITW Thriller Awards.
You’ll find him at www.chercover.com or @SeanChercover on Twitter.
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