“You’re right,” said Jonathan. “A one-way ticket wouldn’t be much help. But I don’t think talking to your boss is going to make things any better.”
“Of course it would,” pleaded Meadows. He was on his feet, coming round the table, shaking his head as if this whole thing were just a friendly misunderstanding. “Talking always helps.”
“Stay there, dear,” said Pru.
But Meadows kept coming.
“I said stop!” Prudence shouted.
Meadows froze. “Damn it, Jonathan,” he said. “They only want to talk to you.”
“No, Jamie, they don’t. They want me to tell them where my wife is and then they’re probably going to kill both of us.”
“Pru, is that true?” asked Meadows.
“No, Jamie. We have no intention of harming Jonathan. We just want to talk to him.”
“See, Jonathan? You must believe Prudence.”
“I’m sorry, Jamie, but I have to leave now.” Jonathan looked directly at Prudence. “I don’t know where my wife is. Tell that to Connor. I asked where she was going, but she wouldn’t tell me.”
“I can’t allow that,” said Pru. “Just stay where you are. It will only be another minute.”
Meadows was standing by a pillar that separated the kitchen from the living room. His expression said that it was all too much for him. The gun, the confession that his wife was a covert intelligence agent, the strain of the standoff. Anger was the only refuge left to him. “Wait a second, Pru,” he said. “Are you really going to hurt him?”
“Sit down, Jamie, and mind your own business.”
“I will not,” said Meadows, gathering steam and courage. “Jonathan’s a friend. I don’t care what it is you do or whom you work for. We’ll have to sort that out later. As for now, you’re going to put down that gun and allow Jonathan to leave.”
The pistol coughed, and a chunk of plaster flew from the pillar a foot from Jamie Meadows’s head.
“Stay there and shut up, darling. We’ll talk about this later.”
But the shot only seemed to spur Meadows on. “I don’t give a damn, Pru,” he went on heatedly. “Are you going to shoot him? Are you going to shoot me, too? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Jamie, just stop!” she said.
“You stop!”
Prudence aimed the pistol at her husband. “I said stop, dammit.”
Meadows pushed Jonathan out of the way and lunged for the gun. There was another cough, and Meadows collapsed to his knees. “Pru,” he said feebly and without blame, as if the victim of a random accident. “You shot me.”
“Jamie?” she said.
Meadows slid to the floor. Blood streamed from the corner of his mouth. Jonathan knelt and rolled Meadows onto his back, first clearing his air passage. Opening his shirt, he saw a neat black hole pulsing blood an inch above the sternum. If the bullet hadn’t pierced the heart itself, it had nicked a coronary artery. “Get me some towels,” he said. “Call an ambulance.”
Pru looked down at her husband. “I didn’t pull the trigger,” she mumbled. “I couldn’t have.” Then, to Jonathan: “Do something.”
“Just call an ambulance!”
Pru rushed into the kitchen and called emergency services.
Jonathan pulled the blanket from the ottoman and used it to wipe away the blood. He pushed his index finger into the hole, feeling for an artery he could stanch.
“Keep trying,” said Meadows, struggling to raise his head. “Don’t worry about the pain. I can’t feel a thing. The bullet must have hit the spinal cord.”
“It’s a little slippery,” said Jonathan, angling his index finger through muscle fascia into the thoracic cavity. “Let me just try on this side.”
“Got it?”
“Not yet.”
“Don’t give up.”
Jonathan leaned closer, eyes narrowed. “Hang in there. I’ll get it clamped in a second.”
“I know you will.” Suddenly Meadows went into spasm. His body heaved. His head bolted forward and dark arterial blood pulsed from his mouth. “Jon… help me.”
“Lay back, Jamie. We can do this.” Jonathan lowered Meadows to the floor, took a steadying breath, and recommenced his blind search for the nicked artery.
“Christ, the girls,” said Meadows. “They’re so young.”
“You just worry about yourself. Hang tight. We’ll have you at a hospital in no time. Understand?”
“It’s just…” Meadows’s words trailed off.
“Stay with me!” Jonathan inched his finger to the right and felt a current of blood. Probing more deeply, he located the source of the internal bleeding. “There,” he said. “I’ve got it. Now lay still.”
“Thank God,” whispered Meadows, his eyes meeting Jonathan’s. “That’s a good chap, Ransom. It’s true then.”
“What?”
“Magic hands. You do have them.” Then he gasped and went still.
Jonathan watched as his friend’s pupils dilated and his face drained of color. The change was immediate and dramatic. Gingerly, he removed his finger and sat back on his knees, gazing at the still form.
Pru returned to the living room, her eyes darting between Jonathan and her husband’s corpse. “What happened? How is he? Jamie?”
“He’s dead,” said Jonathan.
“What? But the ambulance is on its way. They said three minutes. It can’t be.” Prudence laid the gun on a side table, knelt and placed a hand on her husband’s cheek. “Jamie,” she whispered close to his ear. “Come on then. Hold on for a little longer. The ambulance is almost here. Division will understand. You’re my husband. They have to.”
“I’m sorry,” said Jonathan.
“No, it’s not possible,” the woman protested. “He can’t be. I didn’t… I mean it was an accident.”
The room grew quiet, the odor of gunpowder fouling the air.
“You did this,” said Prudence, after a moment. Her eyes were wet with tears, but her voice remained flat. “You killed him. You and Emma.”
“No,” said Jonathan, tiredly.
In an instant, she was on her feet, her hand reaching for the pistol.
Jonathan reacted instinctively. There was a flash of silver, a thud, and a sharp intake of breath. He picked up the gun and moved back a step.
Prudence Meadows stared in horror at the letter opener pinning her hand to the side table, but she made no noise. Her eyes met Jonathan’s. In the distance, an ambulance’s siren wailed.