“For either of us.”
“I want to work, at least another hour or two.”
“Okay, but don’t push it too hard. We’ve got a barbecue tomorrow.”
“Oh, but—”
“It’s easy, and it’s normal, and it’s a break I figure both of us can use. A couple hours away from all this.” He stroked a hand down her hair. “It’ll be fine, Abigail. Trust me. And we’ve got news. We’re engaged.”
“Oh, God.”
On a laugh, he gave a tug on the hair he’d just stroked. “My family’s going to do handsprings, I expect. I’ve got to take care of getting you a ring,” he added.
“Shouldn’t you wait to tell them? If something goes wrong …”
“We’re going to make sure nothing does.” He kissed her lightly. “Don’t work too late.”
Work, she thought, when he left her alone. At least there she knew what she was doing, what she was up against. No turning back, she reminded herself, as she sat at her station. For either of them, from any of it.
And still she felt more confident at the prospect of taking on the Russian Mafia than she did attending a backyard barbecue.
27
She jolted out of the dream and into the dark.
Not gunfire, she realized, but thunder. Not an explosion but bursts of lightning.
Just a storm, she thought. Just wind and rain.
“Bad dream?” Brooks murmured, and reached through the dark for her hand.
“The storm woke me.” But she slid out of bed, restless with it, to walk to the window. Wanting the rush of cool air, she opened it wide, let the wind sweep over her skin, through her hair.
“I did dream.” Through another sizzle of lightning, she watched the whip and sway of trees. “You asked before if I had nightmares or flashbacks. I didn’t really answer. I don’t often, as much as I did, and the dreams are more a replaying than a nightmare.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“I suppose it is, basically.”
She stood where she was, the wind a gush of cool, the sky a black egg cracked by jagged snaps of lightning.
He waited for her to tell him, she knew. He owned such patience, but unlike her mother’s, his offered kindness.
“I’m in my bedroom at the safe house. It’s my birthday. I’m happy. I’ve just put on the earrings and the sweater John and Terry gave me as gifts. And in the dream I think, as I did then, how pretty they are. I think I’ll wear them, for the good, strong feelings they give me, when I testify. Then I hear the gunshots.”
She left the window wide as she turned around to see him sitting up in bed, watching her.
Kindness, she thought again. She hoped she never took his innate kindness for granted.
“It happens very slowly in the dream, though it didn’t happen slowly. I remember everything, every detail, every sound, every movement. If I had the skill, I could draw it, scene by scene, and replay it like an animated film.”
“It’s hard on you to remember that clearly.”
“I …” She hadn’t thought of that. “I suppose it is. It was storming, like tonight. Thunder, lightning, wind, rain. The first shot startled me. Made my pulse skip, but I didn’t fully believe it was a gunshot. Then the others, and there could be no mistake. I’m very frightened, very unsure, but I rush out to find John. But in this dream tonight, it wasn’t John who pushed me back into the bedroom, who stumbled in behind me, already dying, blood running out of him, soaking the shirt I pressed to the wound. It wasn’t John. It was you.”
“It’s not hard to figure out.” She could see him in a snap of lightning, too, his eyes clear and calm on hers. “Not hard to put in its place.”
“No, it’s not. Stress, emotions, my going over and over all those events. What I felt for John and Terry, but particularly John, was a kind of love. I think, now that I understand such things better, I had a crush on him. Innocent, nonsexual, but powerful in its way. He swore to protect me, and I trusted him to do so. He had a badge, a weapon, a duty, as you do.”
She walked toward the bed but didn’t sit. “People say, to someone they love: I’d die for you. They don’t expect to, of course, have no plans to. They may believe it, or mean it, or it may simply be an expression of devotion. But I know what it means now, I understand that impossible depth of emotion now. And I know you would die for me. You’d put my life before yours to protect me. And that terrifies me.”
He took her hands in his, and his were as steady as his eyes. “He had no warning. He didn’t know the enemy. We do. We’re not walking into an ambush, Abigail. We’re setting one.”
“Yes.” Enough, she told herself. Enough. “I want you to know, if you’re hurt during the ambush, I’ll be very disappointed.”
She surprised a laugh out of him. “What if it’s just a flesh wound?” He caught her hand, tugged her down.
“Very disappointed.” She turned to him, closed her eyes. “And I won’t be sympathetic.”
“You’re a tough woman with hard lines. I guess I’ll have to avoid flesh wounds.”
“That’s for the best.”
She relaxed against him, listened to the storm blow its way west.
In the morning, with the sky clear and blue, and the temperatures rising, she worked for another hour.
“You need to give that a rest,” Brooks told her.
“Yes. I need to fine-tune. It’s close, but not perfect. I don’t want to do anything else until I consider a few options. I’m checking something else now. Unrelated.”
“I checked in with Anson. He’s meeting Garrison and Assistant Director Cabot in about ninety minutes.”
“I estimate I’ll need another day on the program.” She glanced back briefly. “I can’t divulge to the authorities what I plan to do. It’s illegal.”
“I got that much. Why don’t you divulge it to me?”
“I’d rather wait until I’ve finished it, when I’m sure I can do what I hope to do.” She started to say more, then shook her head. “It can wait. I’m not sure of the proper dress for this afternoon or—” She broke off, horrified, spun around in her chair. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What?” Her sudden and passionate distress had him bobbling the bowl of cereal he’d just poured. “Tell you what?”
“I need to take a covered dish to your mother’s. You know very well I’m not familiar with the rules. You should have told me.”
“There aren’t any rules. It’s just—”
“It says right here.” She jabbed a finger at her screen. “Guests often bring a covered dish, perhaps a personal specialty.”
“Where does it say that?”
“On this site. I’m researching barbecue etiquette.”
“Jesus Christ.” Torn between amusement and absolute wonder, he dumped milk in the bowl. “It’s just a get-together, not a formal deal with etiquette. I picked up extra beer to take over. We’ll grab a bottle of wine.”
“I have to make something, right away.” She flew into the kitchen, began searching her refrigerator, her cupboards.
He stood, watching her and shoveling in cereal. “Abigail, chill it some. You don’t need to make anything. There’ll be plenty of food.”
“That’s not the point! Orzo. I have everything I need to make orzo.”
“Okay, but what is the point?”
“Taking food in a covered dish I’ve prepared myself is a courtesy, and a sign of appreciation. If I hadn’t checked, I wouldn’t have known, because you didn’t tell me.” She put a pot of water on the stove, added salt.
“I should have my ass whipped.”
“You think it’s amusing.” She gathered sun-dried tomatoes, olive oil, black olives. “I may not know precisely how this sort of thing functions, but I understand perfectly well your family’s opinion of me will be important.”
“My mother and sisters already like you.”
“They may tend in that direction, until I rudely attend the barbecue without a covered dish. Just go out and pick a small head of radicchio out of the garden.”