“She’s here,” he says. “She’s here—”
“Albion?” I try to scream, but my breath’s frail. “Get out of here. Run—”
I follow Timothy’s eyes and see her. She stands at the base of the slide of bricks. Something formal in the way she stands. She’s come to meet death.
“Dominic’s up here,” says Timothy. “I promised I was with him—”
Albion scales the bricks like she’s scaling a slant of a shallow pyramid, picking a circuit that will keep her wide of Timothy.
“My God,” she says when she draws close to me, “what have you done?”
“He would be dead if it wasn’t for me,” says Timothy, voice edged with—not quite glee, but something proud, catlike, like he’s gifting his owner the body of a bird.
Albion doesn’t cry at the sight of my body—she’s blanched white, but studies each of my wounds like she’s cataloging them, keeping tally for some future reckoning. She sits next to me, takes my hand. Having her so close is like a balm—the scent of her hair, the feel of her as she caresses my face. “Poor Dominic,” she whispers as she touches kisses to each one of my eyes, “poor, poor Dominic—”
“Leave,” I tell her. “They’re coming for you. Run—”
“How did you find us?” she asks.
“My father ruined that doctor, Simka,” says Timothy. “Drugs for sex with high school girls, bullshit he knew would hit the streams. My father snared Dominic’s accounts, sent him an e-mail—it was supposed to look like it came from Simka’s lawyer. When Dominic opened the e-mail, my father could track him. We came to New Castle, found your house, but you were already here—”
“What have you done to him?” she says, her voice like someone grown weary of a long and brutal prank. “Timothy, what have you done to him?”
“Gregor,” he says. “Rory and Cormac—”
“Why did they do this?” she asks.
“They were preparing to do much worse when I stopped them,” says Timothy. “They wanted to open him up, collar to belly—they were going to hang him by the ankles and let him bleed out. I told Gregor that you were the one we wanted, but that you’d run if Dominic was dead. We needed him alive to get you—”
Albion takes the news stoically, like someone used to absorbing sudden horror.
“Are they here now?” she asks.
“Gregor and Rory are waiting for you at your house,” says Timothy. “I told them I’d bring you there. Cormac is at our camp here, waiting for me. We won’t have much time to get out of here before he comes looking for us—”
Albion removes a compact mirror from her pack and holds it up for me to see my reflection. Although she doesn’t angle it so I can view my entire body, I see enough—my chest wrapped in bandages and gauze, blood seeping through. My forehead had been slashed, almost torn from my skull, a ragged gash running from just above my right eye up across my scalp. Sloppily applied coagulant coats the stab wounds and slashes, a cloudy gel that’s hardened into a medicated carapace. My eyes are ringed with bruising, my mouth swollen. My right eye socket is crushed inward, the eye almost black with blood. She removes the mirror.
“Why are you helping us?” she asks.
“I’ve changed,” he says. “Alby, I’ve changed—”
“They won’t let this rest,” says Albion. “They’ll kill you. They’ll kill all of us—”
“There is a way out,” says Timothy. “I need to convince my father and my uncle that you’re both dead—”
“Don’t listen to this,” I tell Albion. “This man is a murderer. You showed me what he’s done. I’ve seen what he’s done to you, I’ve seen what he’s done to Peyton—”
Albion flinches at Peyton’s name.
“Albion,” says Timothy. He slides a flat white box from his backpack. He lifts the lid and reveals my Adware resting in a cushion of folded cloth. It looks like a tangle of golden wool, stained by flecks of my blood. “I removed this from him. It’s the only way—I need to send this to my father. I’ll tell him that I killed Dominic, disposed of him—as long as I have this, he’ll believe me—”
“That won’t be enough,” says Albion.
“No, you’re right—this won’t be enough,” says Timothy. “He’ll hire people to check my work, to look for Dominic’s body. He’ll want proof after proof of his death. He’ll want access to his account information, all his passwords. He’ll need to be certain that any shred of evidence that Dominic has found against him is eradicated. Dominic will need to get out of here. Out of the country, preferably—”
“Don’t listen to him,” I say. “Don’t listen to any of this—”
“Dominic needs to go to a hospital,” says Albion. “He’ll need money. You’re asking him to start a new life—”
“Money won’t be an issue,” says Timothy. “I’ve prepared everything—”
Albion turns to me. “Dominic, we can do this. There’s another place we can go, somewhere far up north—”
“You don’t understand,” says Timothy. “I can convince my father of Dominic’s death by giving over this Adware, but Dominic never mattered to him like you do. Convincing him that you’re dead without presenting your body to him will be much more difficult. I need to take you away, Albion. I need to hide you somewhere I know my father can’t look. I have a cabin in Washington State—it’s a private place. You’ll be comfortable. I’ll take you there, tell them all I killed you and disposed of you like they taught me. We’ll come up with something to show him, some images, as proof. Alby, come with me—”
“You killed her,” I tell him. “You killed her and you’re killing her again. Albion, what he did to you—”
“I remember everything,” says Albion.
“Listen to me: God changed me,” says Timothy.
“You’re wrapped up in all this death,” I tell him. “You’re trying to convince us of Christ, you’re trying to convince yourself that you’ve changed, but all you want is to take her away again, to keep her for yourself. Look at you. You’re desperate. You don’t look like a man who’s found peace—”
“I was never offered peace in this world,” says Timothy. “Every day I live with the weight of what I’ve done. I was never offered anything remotely like peace, but I am offered grace. I want to work to earn God’s grace—”
“Grace isn’t God’s to give,” says Albion. “Grace is ours to give.”
Timothy’s eyes are quavering pools, his face fatigued. He’s several inches shorter than Albion and watching them is like watching a supplicant before a queen.
“Let Dominic rest,” says Albion. “Timothy, we should talk. There are arrangements we need to make—”
Timothy injects me with medication from a clear bottle. Albion kisses my forehead, my eyes, my lips. I feel numbness beyond the numbness of the medication, like my soul has dropped through the darkness of the earth to slumber in the soil. I listen to the ringing in my ears like listening to chiming bells, straining to hear what Albion and Timothy are saying to each other, their voices at first just whispers but swelling into a clipped argument. I can’t distinguish their words—I try to listen, but the numbness swallows me just like it has swallowed every other pain.
• PART IV •
DOMAŽLICE
MID-SEPTEMBER—
Beige walls and a television stuck on Riot—Japanese horror shows and loops of backyard accidents ending in horrific injury—smashed groins, face-plants. I saw a water-skier’s legs chopped apart by a motorboat. I saw a guy decapitated when he flipped over the handlebars of his Quad. Whipped and Creamed marathons play late every night.