David Baldacci - Deliver Us From Evil

She’d flown across the Atlantic on a moment’s notice to be with Shaw when he needed her. She had always been there when he’d needed her. And now she was lying in a hospital with a hole in her chest because of him. Shaw staggered into an alleyway, leaned against a dirty brick building, and wept so hard he finally got the dry heaves.

Later, at Trafalgar Square, he sat red-eyed with the pigeons, staring up at Lord Nelson until his neck hurt because he didn’t know where else to look. London was coming to life now, the pace of feet and vehicles picking up. As the sun rose, the air warmed. After all that had happened, it was hard to believe that it was still summer. Gordes, even Canada, seemed an eternity ago to him.

He rose, looked around, debating where next to go, then stopped. Across the square Reggie was staring back at him. He started to walk in the opposite direction, but something made him reverse his path and cross the space toward her.

“How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess,” she said. “And I called Frank. He told me you were back in London.”

“How’s Whit?”

“Leg’s stiff but he’ll be fine. I’m glad Katie will be okay too.”

Shaw absently nodded.

Reggie wore the white jeans she’d had in Gordes, black flats, and a blue cotton blouse. Her hair hung limp to her shoulders. She looked older, thought Shaw. Hell, they all looked older. He felt like he was a hundred.

“Tried to call you, but you didn’t answer.”

“I think my service was turned off,” he said.

He started walking and she fell in beside him.

He said, “Thanks for taking out Kuchin. It was a hell of a shot.”

“I should’ve been faster. If I had, Katie-”

He moved slightly away from her. “Don’t, Reggie, just don’t.”

She fell silent as they walked farther into the Strand.

“Did they ever find Dominic’s body?” he asked.

“No. And the worst part is his parents will never really know what happened to him.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

She looked down, seeming to search for the right words. “Frank is talking to us about working with you.”

Shaw stopped and looked down coldly at her. “With me?”

“No, I meant with him. With his organization,” she said hurriedly.

Shaw started walking again. “I don’t see how that could be possible.”

She started speaking rapidly. “We would have to change some of the ways we operate. I mean we can’t, well, finish the jobs like we used to. But he said the information network and research support we have could prove useful if we were to combine certain-”

Shaw held up a hand indicating for her to stop. “I don’t really care, okay?”

She looked crushed by this but said, “Sure. Okay. I can understand that.”

They came to a park and Shaw sat down on a bench. Reggie hesitated, seeming unsure whether he wanted her to join him or not. She finally just sat down, but kept a healthy space between them, which was difficult since Shaw was so big.

“I don’t think I ever thanked you for saving my life.”

“Shaw, you don’t have to thank me. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

“I needed to say it.”

“Fine, you said it. That’s enough.” She crossed her legs, drew an exaggerated breath. “It’s none of my business, but-”

He cut her off. “Then drop it.”

A minute of silence passed.

“We weren’t more than friends,” Shaw said, breaking the quiet. “Not yet anyway. But we were friends. And she meant… she means a lot to me. More than I realized.”

“Okay.” A tear slid down Reggie’s cheek.

“And whether we ever would be more than friends is something that…” He shook his head, stared over at a little boy with his mother, and then dropped his gaze to the grass.

“But, Shaw, she’s going to be okay. You can go and-”

“That won’t be happening,” he said firmly.

Another few moments of silence passed.

“What are you going to do now?” she asked.

“Few days off wandering around here until Frank puts me back to work.”

“You could come out to Harrowsfield. In fact, I believe Frank is traveling there tomorrow to go over some things. And we could-” She stopped talking when he abruptly stood.

“No, Reggie, I really don’t think we could.”

He turned to leave.

“Please, Shaw.”

He looked over his shoulder at her. “I’m sorry.”

“But if we can just take it slow.” Tears were starting to cluster in her eyes and this seemed to anger her. She brushed them away.

He turned to face her as she stood to do the same. “I buried the one woman who meant more to me than anyone else. And I nearly lost another woman who I care about deeply.” He paused and drew a short breath. “I’m not going to make it three. Take care of yourself, Reggie.”

She stared after him until even his tall figure disappeared into the growing crowds as London came to life.

Reggie finally walked off in the opposite direction. She could not bring herself to look back.

If she had glanced back, however, she would have seen Shaw stop and stare back at her for a long moment. Then he slowly turned around and kept walking.

TO MICHELLE, who makes all our lives work.

To Mitch Hoffman, editor extraordinaire.

To David Young, Jamie Raab, Emi Battaglia, Jennifer Romanello, Tom Maciag, Martha Otis, Bob Castillo, Anthony Goff, Kim Hoffman, and everyone at Grand Central Publishing, for all you do.

To Aaron and Arleen Priest, Lucy Childs, Lisa Erbach Vance, Nicole Kenealy, Frances Jalet-Miller, and John Richmond, for helping me every step of the way.

To Roland Ottewell, for your keen eye.

To Maria Rejt and Katie James at Pan Macmillan, for their well-timed support from across the pond.

To Grace McQuade and Lynn Goldberg, for wonderful publicity.

To Bob Schule, for world-class consultant services.

To Lynette, Deborah, and Natasha, for being a great team.

Deleted Scenes:

Sometimes an ending is absolutely spot-on the first time you write it, and sometimes it isn’t. I usually have two or three endings in mind as I wend my way toward finishing a novel. In rare instances I’ve gone back and changed the ending I wrote originally. This happened in Last Man Standing and First Family, to name two examples. It usually involves characters living or dying. In Deliver Us from Evil, it happened again. The ending was written, and I was reviewing it. I had given it to my inner circle of readers. The lobbying soon began to spare a character’s life. I am usually immune to outside influence when it comes to writing. That’s not to say I don’t listen-I do. And I’ve changed certain story elements when I think those advocating a certain point have valid arguments. But the denouement of a novel is something different. I really have to be persuaded. And this time, I was. So you can see how the novel ended in the first draft, and then in the final version. Just don’t read the draft first! I’ll leave it up to you which ending you like best. How’s that for service? Most writers only give you one ending. With me, you get a pair.

Edited Manuscript:

The editing process has multiple layers. And although typos sometimes still poke through (as readers are quick to remind me), the process is a time-tested one. The pages you’re looking at now contain my handwritten changes to them. The first section is rather early on in the writing process. As you will be able to see, the edits are both substantive and cosmetic. At this point I’m still working my way through the story, getting to know my characters. The second set of edits are set forth on what is known as page proofs. This is the last chance I will have to edit the manuscript unless some crazy error has slipped through. Or I throw a tantrum, which I never have. But I could, because you never know. After this it goes to the printer, the cover is slapped on, and the finished product is shipped to book outlets all over the country. You can tell these are page proofs because the words are typeset as opposed to printed pages off a computer. Some of the changes you see here are of the cosmetic variety, namely typos, changes in verb tense, or minor grammatical fixes. But I did include a substantive change necessitated by an issue in timing and action in a contained space. As you read through the edits you should be able to see why I made the changes I did. Or you might think, why did he do that? I liked the way it was just fine. Well, sometimes you just can’t win. But I’m showing my writing soul here so bare with me.