Eric Lustbader - The Testament

Bravo, in his own way resigned, took it, and together they went up the cement walk to the front door. Just before it opened, Dexter said, "You love your grandfather, don't you?"

Bravo nodded.

"That's all you need think about, okay?"

Bravo nodded again, not trusting himself to reply.

The smell inside the nursing home was unspeakable. Bravo tried to hold his breath, just as he always did, but it was no use. He inhaled and felt himself gagging before he was able to settle his system down.

They found Conrad Shaw in the solarium, amid bright sunlight and the unnatural humidity of hothouse flowers and potted plants. As usual, he'd ordered his wheelchair to be set as far away from the other patients as possible. He was bald now, though up until ten years ago he'd had a thick shock of white hair of which he'd been inordinately proud. His thin flesh, speckled as a robin's egg, was carved by age and disease so close to the skull that it had taken on the color of the bone beneath. Once, he'd been a big man, robust and reckless, dapper and possessed of a raucous laugh he dispensed with great generosity.

The pity was that these gifts had been snatched from him all at once. The stroke that had felled him had been a serious one. Now his heart was damaged and he wore a pacemaker. His legs were useless, as was the right side of his body. His features sagged horribly, as if he was subject to a gravitational force of extraterrestrial virulence.

He had not adjusted well to his altered circumstance. It was as if all joy had been squeezed out of him. If he was pleased to see his grandson there was no way for Bravo to tell. His grandfather fixed him with his one good eye, gripped him with his one good arm in what Bravo came to think of as a death grip, as afterward he regarded the bruise.

"How are you, Grandpa?" Bravo asked.

"Where's my pipe, boy? What did you do with my pipe?"

"I haven't seen your pipe, Grandpa." Bravo wiped a bit of spittle from the flaky corner of his grandfather's mouth.

"Don't do that!" Conrad let fly the back of his good hand. "Broke it, did you?" He pinched Bravo's arm hard, his fingers like steel pincers. "Deliberate disobedience, knowing you."

"Dad, Bravo didn't take your pipe. You lost it last year," Dexter said, gently extricating his son.

"Lost, my ass," Conrad snorted. "I know when something of mine's been stolen."

Dexter closed his eyes for a moment, and Bravo could almost hear him silently counting to ten. "Forget the pipe, Dad, you know you can't smoke anymore." Dexter affixed a smile to his face and using his most diplomatic voice, said, "I know you're happy to see Bravo, you asked for him this morning."

"I asked for coffee with half-and-half this morning," the old man said irascibly. "If you think I got it you don't know a damn thing about this hellhole. It's a toilet masquerading as a hotel."

Every time Conrad saw Dexter, he begged his son to end his life. This was why Dexter had taken to bringing Bravo with him. The old man would never consider voicing his request while Bravo was around.

Bravo didn't react so much to the frighteningly swift decrepitude that had come upon his grandfather as to the terror, unvoiced but felt as only a child can feel it, of the old man's death wish. He deeply hated being dragged here against his will, having to see the waste that disease inflicts on even the strongest, most capable of men, of being hauled into close proximity with death when he did not even understand what death was.

"I don't want to go back there ever again," he said on the way home.

"That's what you say every time." Dexter's voice was deliberately light, as if they were bantering about some beloved topic.

"This time I mean it, Dad," Bravo said as forcefully as he knew how.

"Your grandfather doesn't mean any of those things he says, Bravo. You know that inside he's happy to see you."

Bravo looked away.

"What is it?"

Again, silence.

"C'mon," Dexter urged. "You can tell me anything, you know that."

"I don't want to die."

Dexter gave him a quick look full of fatherly concern. "You're not going to die, Bravo. Not for a long, long time."

"But Grandpa will."

"All the more reason for you to see him, as often as possible. I want you to remember-"

Bravo, in a sudden rage fueled by grief and frustration, shouted, "Remember what? A walking skeleton, something out of a nightmare?"

Dexter signaled and pulled over into the breakdown lane, where he stopped the car. Turning to his son, he said, "No matter how your grandfather looks now, he's the same inside, he's a man who has accomplished great things. He deserves your attention and your respect."

With a child's clear access to the truth, Bravo said, "I don't think he's the same inside."

This brought Dexter up short. He turned his head, one arm draped over the wheel, watched the lines of cars and trucks whizzing by. The car rocked in the fluted edge of their slipstream.

"You're right." Dexter Shaw sighed. "I've been fighting against it, but my father isn't the same inside, he's been brought low."

It was the first time Bravo had seen his father cry. It wouldn't be the last.

Bravo put his hand on his father's shoulder. "It's okay, Dad."

"No, it's not. I shouldn't be taking you every week. It's selfish."

"Hey, Dad-"

"My father was everything to me. To see him like this…" Dexter shook his head. "But these are the consequences of life, Bravo. One has to own up to them, take them like a man."

"Then we will."

Dexter Shaw looked at his son.

"I mean, we're together, right?" The nine-year-old Bravo flashed a courageous smile. "We're men, right?"

Like a cool breath on his cheek, Bravo felt his father's departure, and he opened his eyes. The light had lowered, the lengthening shadows were the color of lapis. Still no sign of Khalif, and now Bravo knew that he wouldn't come. His coffee was cold and he called for another, along with something to eat. "Anything but pulpo," he told the waiter. He was up to here with octopus.

It was a mistake to have picked a fight with Mikhail Kartli. The imprudence of it shocked him even now. But there are times when control goes out the window and then you simply have to make the best of a bad situation. Take the consequences like a man.

His coffee came and he drank a bit of it, burning the tip of his tongue. With a clatter, he put the cup down and called Emma. He was eight hours ahead of New York. By all rights, he should have woken her up, but she answered immediately and there was no trace of sleep in her voice.

"My God, Bravo, where have you been? I've been trying you for the better part of a day."

"Out of cell range, obviously. Listen, I found the mole."

"You did? Who is it?"

"Was. Paolo Zorzi. He's dead."

"Zorzi?" There was silence for a moment, then Emma said, "I don't know."

"What d'you mean? He was one of the names on the list Dad made. Father Mosto showed it to me in Venice."

"Ah, Bravo. That list was one of Dad's ploys, nothing but disinformation, in case it somehow fell into the hands of a Knight."

He sat up straight. "You're joking, right?"

"Think about it a minute. This is Dad we're talking about. Do you really think he'd leave a list of suspects lying around, especially an unencrypted one?"

Bravo's head had begun to pound. "But Zorzi had me beaten, captured… Are you telling me he wasn't the traitor?"

"No. What I'm saying is we can't be sure. The only list Dad compiled was in his head."

"But you were doing research for him. You know all the suspects. Was Zorzi one of them?"

"At one point, yes."

A cold ball of fear was congealing in Bravo's stomach. "What does that mean?"

"About a month before he was killed Dad had me stop all the background intelligence I was digging up."