Джеймс Паттерсон - The Black Book

Amy thought about that for a while, her eyes dancing, chewing on her bottom lip. I could see the hint of a smile, but she was forcing it down.

“I don’t know,” she finally said. “I’ve been trying to figure that out myself.”

Forty-Five

I PULLED up in front of Amy’s building and threw it into park.

“I’ll walk you to your door,” I said.

She looked at me, an eyebrow raised.

“Just to the door,” I said. “To be a gentleman and all that.”

“Chivalry,” she said.

“There you go.”

It was cold out, but I didn’t feel it much. I was pretty charged up.

At the security door to her building, Amy turned to me. “This was fun,” she said. “I don’t do this very—”

Then I kissed her. The element of surprise, I guess, except I was as surprised as anyone. I couldn’t help myself. I’d been wanting to press my lips against hers from the moment I laid eyes on her, even when she was grilling me, trying to put an end to my career, trying to put me behind bars. I didn’t know why, and I was tired of trying to figure it out.

She let me do it. Another surprise. She parted her lips only slightly, no tongue, no major make-out session outside her building. But enough to be intimate, to let me know that it was welcome, that she wanted it, too.

She put a gloved hand to my face, and I drew her against me.

Okay, so maybe it was a make-out session. She drew a breath and opened her mouth. I kissed her deeply. Our tongues found an easy rhythm. I ran my hands through her hair and knocked her hat askew on her face until it was about to fall between our noses, at which time she grabbed it and tossed it away. She came at me even harder, moaning softly.

I mean, kissing like that was so intimate. I’d had a few flings over the last three years, including with Kate, but it was mostly greedy, horny, animal stuff—groping and grinding and thrusting—nothing like this, a galaxy far, far away, opening myself up again, letting someone in, surrendering to another person. I hadn’t felt like this since, well…

Since my wife. Since Valerie died.

The thought of her shot through me like poison. I felt myself withdraw. For a moment, I thought my heart was going to burst through my skin.

I didn’t think Amy noticed. She probably thought I was just coming up for air. She took a long breath, too, and put her face against mine. Then she quickly drew back to get a look at me.

“You’re…crying,” she said.

“No.” I wiped at my cheek. “Just the cold. Just the cold.”

She looked at me differently, like she was searching my eyes, discovering something about me.

“Just the cold,” I said again.

She didn’t buy it, but she didn’t challenge me, either. Both of us were surprised.

Get hold of yourself, Harney. What’s your freakin’ problem?

“Billy,” she whispered.

“My eyes tear up in the cold,” I said.

She nodded, still with that look on her face, trying to read me.

“I…okay, look,” I said. “There’s something you don’t know about me. I used to be married. Three years ago, there was…we…”

“I know,” she said. “I know all about it.”

I blew out air. “Okay. So it’s a little weird for me…”

We both took a moment to decelerate. But what had just passed between us—wow. It would take me hours to fall asleep tonight.

She put her body against mine. “I know what happened,” she said. “And it’s none of my business. I have no right to say this. But I’m going to say it anyway. Even though I wasn’t there. I’m just going to say it anyway.”

I was still trying to catch my breath. She drew my face to hers, as if she were going to kiss me again. But she didn’t kiss me. She just held my face in her hands and whispered the words to me.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said.

She planted one last soft kiss on my lips and walked into her building.

Forty-Six

I DROVE back to my town house in a fog. I should have been more careful. I knew that. Wizniewski was watching me closely, and I was sure that he’d just killed Camel Coat, the guy I’d met in the subway. There was no reason he would stop there. If he was trying to put the kibosh on my investigation, I would be next.

Still, I was so shaken by everything that had happened with Amy. It was just a harmless dinner and a good-night kiss, but—no, it wasn’t just a kiss. It was some kind of connection, something that didn’t come from a word or a gesture but from something deep inside of us, something each of us repressed, that we released in that kiss.

Jesus, Harney, what are you—a poet all of a sudden?

I got into my town house and dropped my keys and coat and walked upstairs like a zombie. I walked into my bedroom, saw the king-size bed, the right side of the bed (my side) rumpled, the comforter turned back, the pillow turned sideways. The left side of the bed (Valerie’s, once upon a time) immaculate.

It wasn’t your fault, Amy said to me.

A nice thing to say. But what did she know?

My hand, trembling, reached for the bottle of bourbon, half full, on my bedroom dresser. I opened my throat and emptied the bottle. It was dumb, a terrible idea, but I needed this night to end.

I dropped the empty bottle and heard it break on the floor. I took a deep breath and waited for the alcohol to kick the ever-loving shit out of me. It didn’t take long.

I staggered down the hall to the small bedroom by the hallway bathroom. Inside was a toddler bed in the shape of a princess carriage, shades of pink and purple. A pink toy box on the floor filled with stuffed animals and princess dolls. The walls painted a light green, matching the area rug, pink with green polka dots. I remember it took me an entire afternoon at Menards to match up the wall paint to those polka dots.

Lying on the bed was a tiny skirt, lavender and frilly, and a white T-shirt that read, in glittery purple letters, MY DADDY LOVES ME.

I fell against the wall and dropped to the floor. I let it all out. I couldn’t stop. I made a small puddle on the floor. I cried so hard that my lungs seized up, my stomach twisted into knots.

I cried so hard that I couldn’t breathe.

I cried so hard that I didn’t hear the front door open.

I did hear the footsteps, though, coming down the hallway. I recognized them. Funny that footfalls can have such a rhythm, such a sound, that you can attribute them to a person. I guess when you’ve heard them your entire life…

Patti walked in and tucked in her lips, folded her arms.

“Oh, my,” she said. “Okay, handsome, come on.”

I wiped at my face with my shirt sleeve. She helped me to my feet, like a parent would for a child, and walked me to the bedroom. The half bottle of bourbon had now combined with the wine I drank at dinner to turn everything upside down.

“Sleep is what you need,” she said as she tucked me into bed, pulling the comforter over me. “Everything’s going to be fine now.”

I closed my eyes and waited for sleep to come. I heard Patti go downstairs then come back up and sweep up the broken glass from the Maker’s Mark bottle. Then I felt her breath on my face.

“Everything’s gonna be fine now, little brother,” she said. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

Sleep hovering over me from all directions, swatting away images that shot before my eyes—

—a little girl in a birthday hat, blowing out a single candle on a purple cake—

—Valerie, with tears in her eyes, showing me the first ultrasound photo—

It wasn’t your fault

—the whirl of police sirens—

—my friend Stewart sitting with me in the intensive care unit, telling me to keep the faith—