I put my hand in Fiona's. "Nice work," I said.
"You surprised me with that gunshot," she said.
"I surprised myself," I said. "You know, you can blind someone by hitting them directly in the face with tear gas."
"Not permanently?"
"No," I said, "not permanently."
We moved through the thickening group of gawk-ers rushing to the hotel, our pace leisurely, just a nice couple out on the promenade, unconcerned with the sounds of sirens. We'd been seen, of course, but the people who really mattered-Natalya, Dixon and Eddie-didn't have any way to roll this toward us, so being relaxed wasn't just a pose.
My phone rang.
"How'd you like that bang?" Sam asked.
"It was supposed to be a little something less," I said.
"I must have gotten carried away with gunpowder," Sam said.
"Where's Eddie?"
"I'd say about five seconds from being cuffed for good. If you don't mind, while things are under way over here, I'm going to go get my car."
"Of course," I said.
"Tell Fi I expect some recourse," he said.
"Of course," I said again, though I'd let them fight that one out. I closed my phone and squeezed Fiona's hand. "Dinner?" I said to Fiona.
"Dessert?"
"No," I said. "Not tonight." But Fiona's hand was warm, the air was brilliant, and we'd won, so anything was possible.
Epilogue
What you can never tell about people in love is how they'll react when the person they profess to hate the most-usually the person who has done them the most wrong-is right in front of their face.
In Cricket O'Connor's case, that happened on the television the day after the explosion, when Eddie Champagne was a footnote to the local news reports of odd doings at the Hotel Oro. Apparently, on the same day a significant foreign spy was arrested for espionage, a low-level grifter accidentally blew up his hotel room. She was still at my mother's then, and I was there helping Cricket negotiate the transfer of some of her money back into the U.S. Legally.
When she saw Eddie on television, she went into the kitchen and spit into the sink.
"I still feel so stupid," she said. "I've lost so much."
"It will continue to eat at you," I said. "There's no cure for shame."
"Having some security again will help," she said. She meant her money.
"What are you going to do with it all?"
"I have to pay my mortgage," she said, and it looked painful for her to say. "And then after I do that, I'll sell the house, get what I can. Get out of Miami. Help who I can help from my son's unit along the way. See if it can't erase some of this."
"There will be others, too," I said.
"I know," she said.
"No," I said, "others who will come for your money."
"I know that, too," she said. On television, Eddie was shown being arraigned in court. "What will happen to Dixon?"
"Eddie," I said.
"Right. Eddie."
"I think he's going to prison. But he'll have company."
I'd see Cricket O'Connor a few times over the next couple of days, and though she offered me money for the work we did to help her, I declined it. It didn't stop Nate from offering to help her move when the time came. But over the next few weeks, I did watch with interest as White Rose Partners fell under federal indictment, as Eddie Champagne and a stunned, and always saddened-looking, Dixon Woods were tossed to the wolves, as Natalya Choplyn was hailed as one of the biggest counterintelligence arrests of the last ten years and then, like everything else, it all disappeared from the papers and, eventually, even I stopped thinking about it.
Then, two things happened on the same day.
First, Fiona finally received a very exciting e-mail.
From Hank Fitch.
From: HFitch911@gmail. com To: RubyRedKitty@yahoo. com Subject: Up late in Miami?
I saw your profile tonight for the first time and I wanted you to know that you don't have to be alone with your sorrow. There are many of us still struggling with our grief but I've found that being together makes it easier. A little bit about me: I'm ex-Special Forces, which you've probably been told by every person online, but I play it as it lays, Ruby. Would you be interested in meeting for a drink sometime? I'm presently incarcerated, which isn't much of a selling point, but I should be out soon and I'd love to meet up when I'm out. I've attached a photo of myself on my yacht so you can see I'm not some kind of serial killer ©
"Nice," I said. We were in my kitchen. I was eating yogurt after working out. Fi was gloating after rushing over to show me her good news. "You and your uncommon breasts should go visit him."
"Maybe I will," she said.
Second: My cell phone rang.
It was a blocked number, but I took it anyway. I'd already spoken to my mother once that day anyway and was due, in forty minutes, to drive her to her thousandth doctor appointment of the year.
"You should look up more often, Mr. Westen," the voice said. It was mechanical, run through voice-changing software. It might just be voice-recognition software, no human at all on the other end. Just a program.
"Maybe I should," I said.
"There is a plan," the voice said.
"Of course. There always is," I said, but the line was already dead.
I looked out my window and saw Sam pull up in his Cadillac, the windows repaired, the rims shining, the tires fully inflated. It was noon and yet when he got out of the car, he was holding a six-pack of something in one hand and a grocery bag in the other, and I actually saw him mumbling to himself, like he was practicing a presentation of some kind, getting his words right, as if he might need to convince someone to get involved in something.
Again.