“This is a mistake,” I said. “He’s not even here.”
Jack sat beside me, put a hand on my forehead. “ We’re here. We’ll try, Izzy If he’s not? We’ll go home. At least you’ll know you did your best. It will help you to live with all of this better; it will help you to move on.”
It was then that I realized he was humoring me. He didn’t believe that Marcus was here, or that we’d find him, or that I’d get anything that I needed in this mad enterprise. He had come because he knew if he didn’t, I’d go alone. He’d come simply to hold my hand, then pick up the pieces and carry them all home. I made the decision right then and there to ditch him as soon as possible.
“Let’s get something to eat,” he said softly into the silence that followed. Somewhere there was a little girl laughing; a light strain of music came through the ceiling from the room above us. The air smelled a little too floral; too much air freshener. I let Jack pull me up off the bed and corral me toward the door.
“And don’t think you’re going to unload me, leave me in a bar or restaurant somewhere, or sneak out of here in the night and go it alone.”
“I would never do that.”
“Sure.” There was something in his tone, maybe a little anger. I realized we were talking about something else.
AT THE BEER garden, we sipped from big mugs of rich golden ale. They’d served us a ridiculously large cast-iron pan filled with pork, chicken, and potatoes. It was almost exactly like every meal I’d eaten here with Marcus. I thought we’d eat all night and never make a dent. But Jack seemed to be plowing his way through, while I pushed a piece of meat around my plate. I had no appetite, though I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten.
“Try, Iz. You know how you get when your blood sugar is low.”
“And how’s that?” I snapped.
He raised his eyebrows at me.
It was dark and we were both exhausted when we crossed the Charles Bridge to return to our hotel. Jack went up to the room and I stopped at the single computer monitor in the lobby to check my e-mail. There were nearly twenty messages, from booksellers and fans who had seen the news, one from my editor asking if everything was okay, another from my sister. The message box was blank but the subject line was: “Goddammit, you stubborn pain in the ass… COME HOME. I love you.”
Then there was one from Detective Grady Crowe, subject “Things YOU should know.”
First of all, it’s my duty to tell you to turn yourself in, to your lawyer or to me. You are a person of interest in this case, and being unavailable to me is not in your best interest. You are out of your depth and in big trouble.
That said, much of the information you provided has proved valuable to us.
He went on to tell me about the events at the Topaz Room, Charlie Shane’s relationship to Camilla Novak, how my husband paid Shane to keep quiet about what he heard on the street and to let people into our apartment. I had been betrayed so deeply by someone I trusted completely that this small betrayal didn’t even register.
Whoever Kristof Ragan is-and we don’t know-he has no criminal record here or abroad. Whoever he is, he’s dangerous. According to what you told Erik Book, he killed Camilla Novak. If this is true, do you think he’ll hesitate to kill you when he realizes you haven’t just let him walk away with your money?
We have not been able to identify the woman you know as S. Her photograph does not match those in any domestic criminal files; Interpol will take longer. But we do know that Ivan Ragan is associated with the Albanian and Russian Mob, that he was recently released from state prison for gun possession. He was arrested after an anonymous tip was phoned into police. I’d bet money that Kristof betrayed him after the Marcus Raine disappearance-probably murder-and theft went down, which is probably why he wound up on that dock about to be fitted for a pair of cement shoes.
A question: I have been going over the banking records for Razor Tech. Every quarter there was a ten-thousand-dollar donation to an orphanage in the Czech Republic. What do you know about this?
He had a name and an address of an orphanage in a town I knew to be about forty minutes outside the city. The information caused my whole body to tingle. Was he really asking me about this orphanage, or giving me a lead?
Does this mean anything to you?
Anyway, be careful, Isabel. You’ve got a tiger by the tail. Make sure he doesn’t turn around.
The lights went off in the lobby then, making me jump, and I was alone with the glowing screen. I walked over to the front desk and saw that the clerk who’d been sitting there was gone. His computer screen was dark; he’d obviously gone home for the night. No twenty-four-hour service at this little hotel. A little sign featured a number to call for emergencies.
I went back to the computer and printed out Detective Crowe’s e-mail and the attachment, a copy of the transfer order for the money being donated to the orphanage. Then I headed upstairs to Jack. It seemed he had already fallen asleep on the couch, fully clothed, with the television on, tuned to the BBC. There was an image of my face on the screen. The sound was down but there was a ticker running beneath my picture: Person of interest wanted for questioning relating to crimes in the U.S. Notify police if spotted . It was such a surreal moment, it almost didn’t register.
One arm rested over his forehead, the other was folded over his middle. I thought about leaving Jack in that moment, my decision to ditch him coming back to me. He was a sound sleeper. I could pack a few things, leave him a note, and take off on him. He’d have to wait here or go home, not knowing where I’d gone. But the truth was I didn’t want to leave him. I wasn’t brave enough.
I don’t know how long I stood there staring at him, suddenly remembering the night we’d shared. What had I felt that night? I tried to remember. How had it compared to what I felt for Marcus? Was it any more or less real? Instead of leaving, I found myself kneeling beside him and touching his face. I felt a familiar warmth in my center, a feeling I associated only with him.
I trusted him completely and I always had, like I trusted my sister, like I trusted myself. Meaning that I understood the way his mind worked, what moved and motivated him, what was important to him. I never felt that way about my husband, I realized. I did trust him for a time, but on some level didn’t I always sense he was a stranger? Is that what kept me with him? The shadow of unknowing; the place that drew me inexorably.
Jack opened his eyes but didn’t startle. We stared at each other for a minute. He raised a hand to push the hair back from my face.
“Did you see your picture on the television?” he asked.
I nodded.
“We’re in trouble if someone at the hotel recognizes you,” he said. I’d kept my hat and glasses on. My hair, my most distinguishable feature, had been caged beneath my cap. I was hoping that was enough.
“Why did you come?” I asked.
He held my eyes, let a beat pass. “You know why. Don’t you?”
I nodded. Then: “You remember?”
He didn’t ask me what I meant. “Of course. Did you think I didn’t?”
“I didn’t know what to think.”
“You left. You were gone when I woke up.”
I thought about it a second. Why had I left him there? Snuck off in the early morning before he woke? I remember thinking that he was my only successful male relationship and I had just screwed it up for good. Maybe if I left, pretended it never happened, we could remain as we had always been.
“I didn’t know how you’d feel in the morning. If there’d be regrets. There’s never been any awkwardness between us. I couldn’t bare it.”
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