"I wanted to waste him." He shook his head. "When I think of him in Michael's house, talking about killing Billy."
"I wouldn't have let you."
"That wasn't what stopped me."
"What did?"
He paused. "He was a chess piece." He sat down beside her, bangs falling in wet clumps across his forehead. "Killing him, it just…"
"Wouldn't have made any difference?"
He nodded, staring straight ahead.
"We're screwed, you know."
"Yeah."
"Maybe…" She scratched at the back of her neck. "Maybe it's time to look at leaving."
"Where?"
"I don't know. Rent a cabin somewhere. Get out of sight."
He shook his head. "You were on the news, remember? You run, it's all over."
"I didn't mean me."
He gave her a measuring sort of gaze. She met his eyes. Even with all the grime, he looked good, a strong jaw, nice features, something boyish in his energy. For a long moment, he just stared. Then he took her hand, weaving his fingers through hers. Sighed. "They never caught the sniper."
"What?"
"The one who shot my friend." His voice was thin and soft. "I remember that day so well. Scarlet sunset, broken concrete, the brown eyes of the kid in the ambulance. But I can't – I just – I don't know where the sniper was. He could have been on a rooftop blocks away." He shrugged. "I picture him sometimes, try to imagine what he looked like, what he thought when he squeezed the trigger. A man about to get lucky with a thousand-to-one shot. He would have thought of himself as a soldier too, I guess. Defending his country. Sometimes I think everybody sees themselves as soldiers."
She traced the rough pads of his fingers.
"You want to know the real reason I didn't tell anyone about what happened? Because I'm afraid of the questions." His nostrils flared, and his tone changed. "No, not even that. Not questions, plural. One question. The obvious one." He turned to look at her. "You know the one?"
She said nothing.
"Sure you do. The question is how in the world did I get discharged for what happened. Yes, I took my men off-mission, and that's not good. But I was a noncom, a squad leader. We're expected to react to changing situations. That was my job. And losing a man, well, it's tragic, but Martinez was shot by insurgents. Maybe I made a questionable call, but it wasn't negligent or malicious. So how would that get me discharged? I mean, you're a smart woman – didn't you wonder?"
She tried to keep her face noncommittal. "Maybe a little."
"There you go."
"Do you want me to ask?"
He moved his teeth like he were chewing gum. Held the silence. Then, "I used to tell myself that it was my lieutenant's fault. That he didn't back me. But that's not true. The truth is I fell apart."
"What do you mean?"
"I froze up. Couldn't stand the possibility of losing someone else under my command. I'd dream about Martinez, and then when I had to take the squad out the next morning, I'd be a wreck. A walking panic attack. I'd abort a mission for the tiniest reason, or no reason at all. Hell, I even managed to start drinking, which isn't easy in a Muslim country. It's not like the old days, privates sucking dope through their rifle barrels. I got scared of the responsibility, and I got selfish." He sighed. "And it put lives at risk. I deserved to get discharged. It was the right call. That's the truth."
She opened her mouth, closed it. A thousand possible answers paraded past her, and none sounded right.
"I know what you're offering to do," he said. "And I appreciate it. But I'm not quitting. I can't."
"I'm not saying-"
"It's not you." He shook his head. "I messed up so many things. Not just in the war. I've been running from responsibility all my life. Hell, if I'd taken a little more responsibility for Michael, he might still be alive."
"There's no reason to believe that."
"I think there is. Anyway, it doesn't matter. I'm tired of dodging what I know needs to be done. I owe better to myself. To Michael. And I damn sure owe more to Billy."
The bus hit a bump in the road and set off dull firecrackers behind her eyes. With ginger fingers she explored her forehead. The skin felt tender and swollen, warm meat. She didn't remember hitting the steering wheel, didn't even remember the car falling. Just the impact that threw them, and then the water, cold, cold, her head throbbing and Jason gone. That had been her first thought as she started to pull herself together – a complete lack of surprise to find him gone.
Then he'd appeared at her window and pulled her free, and in the process sacrificed the thing he needed most.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?"
"Let's do it." She put all her meaning into her eyes. The betrayals, and the jokes, the loneliness. The months – years – of not letting anyone in, not being able to. It was a lot to convey with a look, but sometimes words murdered ideas.
He held her gaze, then smiled slowly. "Okay."
Outside the bus windows, neon burned, advertising taquerías and Currency Exchanges. The drizzle was letting up. "So what's our plan? We're back where we started."
"Not quite. We know what's happening now."
"But it doesn't do us any good. Without evidence, telling the media won't make a difference. They'll just see us as crazies."
"What about the alderman?" Jason rubbed at the stubble on his chin. "You said he's a good guy."
She shrugged. "What are we going to do, just march into the alderman's office and tell him what we saw?"
He stared at her like she'd said the secret password, a strange light in his eyes.
"No," he said. "Not his office."
CHAPTER 39
"Make yourself at home," Jason said, pushing open the door. His studio was as he'd left it, the blinds open and bedding tangled. The cereal bowls still sat on the table where he and Billy had left them after breakfast. He saw a flash of his nephew grinning about being allowed to leave the plates on the table, instead of having to wash them and put them in the dishwasher like he did at home.
"You sure it's safe?"
"I doubt they know where I live. It's month-to-month, cash. Like I said, dodging responsibility."
She nodded, looked around. "It's nice."
"It's a hole," he said. "I rented it when I came back. I wasn't sure I was staying in Chicago."
"Where would you go?"
"There's the rub." He dropped the keys on the table, plugged his cell phone in to charge. "Bathroom's that way. I'll see if I can find a clean towel for you. And we need to get you some clothes if we're going to pull this off. Something swank."
"They'll be watching my apartment."
"You have a girlfriend, someone who can lend you some things?"
Cruz cocked her head. "My friend Ruby lives over in Wicker Park. She made me wear a fuchsia bridesmaid's dress with dyed-to-match shoes for her wedding. I figure she still owes me."
"Can we borrow her car?"
"So long as I don't tell her what happened to the last one."
It ambushed him when he opened the closet.
Cruz had let him shower first, saying she wanted to take a bath while they waited for her friend. He'd felt kind of awkward, not sure if he should close the door or what. Whatever had happened in the river, and on the bus, it had changed things between them. Bound them together. Door closed, he'd decided. But not all the way.
In the shower he'd scrubbed hard, the soap stripping off what felt like half an inch of grime and sweat. Stepped out reborn, knotted a towel around his waist, and opened the door. Elena had smiled as she breezed past him, and run a hand along his bare stomach. She'd drawn a bath, humming something, a high, sweet song, and he'd thought how he might not mind hearing it for a long time.