Out of Range: A Novel
Page 33
Charlie took the man in for a beat, appreciating his candor.
Hopkins rose. “I’ll have our Foreign Minister make the call himself.”
“I know guards inside that prison,” Charlie warned. “They’ll let me know when Salim is released.”
Hopkins regarded Charlie for a long moment, trying to gauge whether he was bluffing.
In fact, he was. But Charlie had a damn good poker face.
And apparently Hopkins couldn’t afford the risk. He walked to the far end of the plane, picked up a handset and made the call.
Charlie watched him for a beat, then turned to Julie. “For the record, next time you decide you want to save the world, I think we ought to talk about it first.”
Julie smiled and they both allowed themselves to laugh. Then she laid her head on his shoulder. He kissed her hair and she closed her eyes.
Charlie smiled and felt himself melt against her. It would be good to see the kids again. It would also be kind of fun to walk into the homicide bureau of the LAPD and watch Reamer’s and Alvarez’s faces when he introduced them to the woman they thought he had murdered.
Chapter Sixty-eight
As Charlie pulled into their driveway and came to a stop, Julie burst out of the car before he’d even had a chance to put it in park.
By the time he did, Meagan and Ollie were rushing from the house.
“Mommy!”
Meagan leaped into Julie’s arms while Ollie attached himself to her leg. Julie was laughing and crying at the same time, hugging and kissing both children in turn.
For a moment Charlie didn’t move, his entire body sagging into the upholstery of the car. It was done. He’d brought her back and saved his family.
As Charlie climbed out of the car to join the homecoming, the front door of the house opened again and Becca appeared. He knew she was taking in the cuts and bruises on his face when she smiled ruefully at him, a silent acknowledgment of what he had endured.
“Am I gonna have a makeup birthday . . . ?” Ollie squealed, “Since you missed my real one?”
Julie wiped her eyes on her sleeve and kissed him on the forehead. “I think that can be arranged!”
“With more presents?” Ollie jumped up and down with excitement.
Julie looked at him with mock sternness. “We’ll see.”
They ran inside, Ollie sprinting to be first, Meagan tugging Julie’s hand. Julie turned and flashed Charlie a broad, thankful smile then disappeared inside.
Charlie looked around the yard. He noted with a mix of fondness and annoyance that the grass needed mowing. Most of his neighbors hired lawn services, but Charlie had always enjoyed doing the work himself. There was something about coming inside for a beer late on a Saturday afternoon, the smell of new-mown grass and sweat clinging to his body that reminded him of his old man. And of Youngstown.
Becca was still standing on the porch, holding the door open for him. He walked slowly toward her, still soaking in what it meant to be home.
When he reached the door, he paused and spoke softly to her. “Thank you. For holding down the fort.”
Becca nodded stoically, then allowed herself to break down, clinging to Charlie’s neck and silently sobbing. After a few moments, she pulled away from him, seemingly embarrassed by her outburst.
“I made us a good English breakfast,” she said.
“Well let’s get to it,” he replied.
Without another word, she hurried into the kitchen, where she bustled around making final preparations for the meal.
Charlie walked into the dining room, listening to the clatter of plates and pans, the laughter of the children as they competed for Julie’s attention, the strains of an old Simon & Garfunkle song that Becca had put on the stereo.
Later that day, after a long and luxuriant nap, Charlie got up and checked his email. The only message he was interested in came from an unidentified mailbox. There was no note, no subject, just an attached video file.
Charlie clicked on the attachment and a short movie popped up.
A painfully thin boy of nineteen looked into the camera. Salim.
Palonchi Ursalov sat silently next to him with her usual unblinking, stoic expression.
“Hello, Charlie,” Salim said. “I wanted to thank you. I know there is no way they let me out of jail unless you help. I am home now with my mother. We try to make new life here. Maybe you can send us picture of your wife and family. So we can remember you. Good luck in California!”
Salim grinned and waved joyfully, like an excited boy. There was a brief, somewhat awkward pause as he and his mother continued to stare at the camera. . .
Then the screen went blank.
Charlie quickly downloaded several pictures of Julie and the kids and composed a quick note to Salim: “I’m happy you’re home. And thank you for everything. We wouldn’t have made it without you. Your friend, Charlie.” He fired off the email and closed the laptop, experiencing a satisfaction he hadn’t felt in years.
While Oliver cued up his favorite music video in the den, Julie sat near Meagan on the couch and looked around the house, trying to imagine how it ever could have felt so small. Becca had left a few minutes earlier, after a long hug at the door and a cautionary whisper in Julie’s ear: “You have a beautiful family.”
This was not something that Julie needed to hear. She’d always known how fortunate she was to have these children, this husband, this life. But why had this never felt like enough for her? Was it because she truly wanted to give something back to the world? Or was it because she felt the need to leave some kind of mark on things? Perhaps a little of both. One way or another, she had gotten her wish.
And now she was home. Within a couple of days she would return to fixing the kids’ lunches, running the fund-raising drives at Meagan’s preschool and driving Oliver to soccer and baseball practice.
And it all sounded better than she ever could have imagined.
But would it be enough?
She supposed that was something she would need to figure out in the weeks and months ahead, but she knew that no matter how it went, she and Charlie would work it out together. Because they were kindred spirits once again.
Charlie bounded down the steps and could hear Meagan nagging her mother in the den, “I want to see him now!”
“Your father’s taking a nap,” Julie insisted. “And you’re going to let him sleep.”
Charlie slowed as he approached the den, hovering in the doorway, wanting just to watch them. Meagan was dancing around in front of Julie, and Ollie was playing with a pair of action figures on the floor. Sitting on the countertop was a homemade birthday cake (blue and white for the Yankees) that Julie must have whipped up while he was napping.
Charlie had never quite been able to wrap his head around the fact that Oliver’s birthday and the anniversary of the massacre would, for eternity, fall on the same day.
But it occurred to him—now—after all this time, that this was the nature of life. That the agony and suffering and pain were almost always situated too closely to the joy and love and redemption. That it was man’s best hope to make peace with that idea and to somehow go on living. Moving toward the joy and love and redemption no matter the risk, no matter the price.
“Daddy!” Meagan squealed, as she ran toward him and grabbed his leg.
Charlie lifted her into his arms. “Well, it’s certainly nice to be wanted.”
He came toward Julie, kissed her long and hard.
“Eeeeew!” Meagan cried and squirmed out of his grip.
Charlie leaned down to Ollie and affectionately mussed his boy’s hair. “How’s it going, tiger?”
“Good,” Ollie said without looking up from his Power Rangers.
Charlie’s eyes met Julie’s. She shrugged and gave him a little smile.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
“Good,” she said. “Really good.”
He ran his hand gently down her back and moved into the kit
chen to inspect the eats.
“Sal called while you were sleeping,” Julie said with a hint of suggestion. “He said he needs an answer about Shanghai. Guess he didn’t hear about the last few days.”
“What are you talking about?” Ollie asked, barely looking up from his toys.
“Just work stuff,” Charlie answered as he pulled out his cell phone and scrolled down to Sal’s number.
Julie watched him, a look of nervous expectancy in her eyes. He got the impression that she was actually holding her breath.
He waited a beat, made her suffer for as long as he could manage, then cracked a smile. “You okay with me being gone a couple of weeks?”
Julie grinned back. “I think we can work it out.”
Charlie dialed Sal. It was a quick, unremarkable conversation—a few dates, a few details and a last benediction from his boss:
“You’re doing the right thing, Charlie.”
“I know, buddy. I know.”
As Charlie set his phone on the table, he felt as though a giant wall between himself and Julie had just melted. A sense of happiness—of rightness—coursed through him.
“Hungry?” she asked.
“Starving!”
“Then have a seat, my lord.”
“I think I shall, my queen.”
He sat down as she put a loaded, steaming plate in front of him. It was his favorite meal.
“Pepper steak medium rare,” she said, “lyonnaise potatoes, creamed spinach, corn on the cob with extra garlic butter.”
“Guess we’re not too worried about my cholesterol today,” Charlie said with a smile.
“We’re not worried about anything,” Julie replied.
Charlie waited until everyone was seated, then cut himself a forkful of red meat.
He regarded Julie for a long moment, remembering everything he had ever loved and respected about her, from those first moments when they met in Tashkent until this last, crazed adventure.
“Of course, if I’m going to Shanghai, we’re gonna have to figure out your next move,” he said. “Spunky girl like you, you gotta get back out in the world, huh?”
Julie reached out, resting her hands on Ollie’s shoulders as if they were a life raft. And a parting of her lips revealed a grateful, almost knowing smile.
“The world can wait,” she said. “For now.”
Acknowledgments
This book would never have been written without the prodding and support of Richard Abate, Erwin Stoff and Walter Sorrells. To my wife, who reads every draft of everything I write, I owe a debt of gratitude for her invaluable feedback and her constancy. To my parents, thank you for engendering in me a love of stories and for always being such unabashedly biased readers of my material. I also must thank my editor, David Highfill, for his patience, optimism and guidance throughout this process. And to all the fans of Without a Trace, whose enthusiasm and support gave me the opportunity to hone my craft, I really hope you enjoy reading this. . . .
About the Author
HANK STEINBERG was the creator, executive producer, and show-runner of the award-winning hit TV series Without a Trace, and screenwriter of the acclaimed HBO film 61*. He has been nominated for an Emmy Award and a Writers Guild of America Award for screenwriting as well as a Humanitas Award. He is currently at work on the screenplay for Out of Range for Paramount Pictures and writing and producing the TNT pilot The Last Ship. He lives with his family in Los Angeles..
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Credits
Cover design and illustration by Cabo Graphic Design
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
OUT OF RANGE. Copyright © 2013 by Hank Steinberg. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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