The Unsung Hero (30 page)
His arms tightened around her. “Thanks.” He shifted, pushing her back so that he was holding her by her shoulders, a full arm’s-length away. “But, Kelly, look. I think—”
She knew what he thought. And it was time for him to find out what she thought. She took hold of his arms, too, all but shaking him. “It’s possible you’ve had permanent damage that’s making you misinterpret and assign some kind of negative meaning to the things you see. But it’s also possible that this paranoia, or whatever you want to call it, will fade in time—like the headaches and dizziness you’ve been having. It’s probable that you simply need more time to recuperate. Maybe even more than thirty days.”
He shook his head. “I don’t have more than thirty days.”
“Tom, if you fractured your leg, you wouldn’t be kicked out of the Navy if it didn’t heal in thirty days, would you?”
“No, of course not.”
“What’s the difference?” she persisted.
He frowned at her as if suddenly just aware that instead of holding her at a full arm’s-length, he was now gripping her by the elbows. Her thigh was pressed against his. She was all but sitting on his lap.
“Maybe you should go,” he said. “I thought if I told you everything, then you’d . . .”
She gazed at him. “What?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But there are a hell of a lot of options to choose from besides kissing me. Jesus.”
God, he was back to that again. Kelly’s temper flared. “I’m sorry if it was that awful. I didn’t think, I just did it, all right? If I’d been thinking, I would’ve just kept wanting to kiss you—without ever daring to do it. At least this way, I’ve done it. Now I know. And so what, all right? Obviously, in my memory, I exaggerated the reality. It was actually kind of pedestrian, if you want to know the truth.”
“Pedestrian?” Tom laughed in disbelief. “Well, sure. You gave me absolutely no warning, no body language clues, nothing. It was like some kind of blitz-kiss. A hit and run. It was a bad excuse for half a kiss.”
That was it. She was now completely humiliated. Kelly tried to pull away, but this time he wouldn’t let her go. She opened her mouth to say . . . what? She wasn’t sure what she intended to tell him, but she suddenly couldn’t speak.
Because he was about to kiss her.
And boy, did she see it coming. He gave her plenty of warning. He moved slowly. He even stopped with his lips the merest whisper from hers.
“Now I know I’m crazy,” he breathed.
And then he kissed her.
He brushed his lips against hers in the most tinglingly delicate caress. He kissed her again, still gently, but parting her lips with his tongue, tasting her, sweetly claiming her mouth.
Kelly melted. This was the kiss she remembered. When he would’ve pulled back, she kissed him again, wanting more. For years, she’d wanted more.
There was a knock on the door, and it swung open. It was Joe, and there was no way in hell he could’ve missed Kelly’s guilty leap back, away from Tom.
Kelly couldn’t bring herself to look at either of them.
“Sorry.” Joe cleared his throat, as embarrassed as she was. “What’s the verdict?”
Tom cleared his throat, too. “I’m fine.”
“I was asking Kelly.”
“Tom’s going to go to the hospital,” Kelly reported as briskly as she possibly could, “but not until the morning. I’m going to take him into Boston for a CAT scan then.”
“Good.” Joe looked from Tom to Kelly and back again. “Good.” He started to swing the door closed again. “I’ll walk Charles back to the house.”
Kelly nearly leapt for the door. “Oh,” she said, “no, I’ll do that. I was . . . just leaving.”
But Joe was already gone, and she was alone again with Tom.
“Why don’t we go into Boston in the morning,” she said, still trying to be brisk, still unable to look at him, “but not until rush hour’s over. About nine-thirty?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Thanks.”
She turned to leave.
“Kelly.”
“Don’t apologize,” she said. “Don’t you dare. That was . . .” God, just say it. How would he ever know how she felt unless she opened her mouth and said it? She turned to face him, looked him straight in the eye. “It was incredible. And I’m looking forward to doing it again. Maybe after we have dinner tomorrow night?”
Well, she’d surprised him again, that much was obvious. He didn’t seem to know what to say, and Kelly tried not to die inside. It was possible he didn’t think kissing her was so incredible. It was possible he’d only done it to prove a point, to make sure she knew he wasn’t pedestrian. It was possible he had no intention of kissing her ever again.
As she watched, Tom rubbed his forehead, put pressure on the bridge of his nose. “So, I guess crazy’s not a problem for you, huh?”
Kelly had to laugh at that, despite the fact that she wasn’t really sure which was worse—the idea that Tom might be imagining the Merchant, or the idea that there really was a terrorist here in Baldwin’s Bridge. “You always had the reputation for being a little crazy back in high school. Besides, side effects from a head injury don’t really qualify as being clinically crazy.”
He looked up at her. “I hope you don’t believe everything you heard about me in high school.”
“Only the good stuff.”
Tom smiled. “God, was there any good stuff?”
Oh, yeah. Not that her mother would have agreed with her definition of good. Kelly opened his door. “I’ll see you in the morning. But if you want to go to the hospital tonight, just call. I can be over here in a minute if you need me.”
“Kelly.” He stopped her again. “Everything I told you—about the Merchant? I need you to—”
“I won’t tell anyone,” she told him. “You know that.”
He nodded. “I just had to say it.”
She looked back at him, her hand on the doorknob. “What if you’re not imagining this?” she asked. “What if you really did see this man?”
“Then I figure out what his target is, and I stop him,” Tom said.
He made the near impossible sound so easy. But he said it with such confidence, Kelly found herself believing him.
Believing in him.
“Until I know for certain that I am nuts, I’ve got to act as if the threat is real,” he added. “I’ve got some . . . friends coming into town in a few days to help me out.”
“You’ve got friends here in town, too,” she told him.
“Yeah.” He smiled. “I know.”
________________________________________
Twelve
10 August
IT HAD BEEN a very bad night.
The pain had kept rousing Charles from a deep sleep, and the fact that he had kept the light on had woken him up the rest of the way.
He’d been sleeping with the light on, like a scared four-year-old, because without it, he’d been certain he could see the dark shape of Death in the shadows.
Waiting for him. Sitting silently in the rocking chair in the corner of his room.
Charles had decided last night that he hated knowing he was dying. He’d wished at least a thousand times he hadn’t gone to see that prepubescent child in a doctor’s white coat who only pretended he was old enough to shave.
Of course, if he hadn’t gone to see the seemingly twelve-year-old Dr. Grant, he wouldn’t have been given the prescription for the pills that at least took the cutting edge off his pain.
The pills that weren’t working quite so well anymore.
If Charles could have his choice, death would come in a completely unsuspecting flash. One moment he’d be there, and the next—blessedly painlessly—he’d be gone.
He was starting to become a big fan of nuclear annihilation.
At 5:07 A.M., he dragged himself—literally—out of bed. Climbing the stairs up to the attic was a pain in the ass—also literally—but once up there, it took him about four seconds to find what he was looking for.
Even though he hadn’t touched the damned duffel bag in nearly sixty years.
So now here he was, at not yet six A.M., sitting on the deck that overlooked the ocean—his ocean—cleaning the souvenirs he’d brought home with him after the Fifty-fifth had pushed all the way into Germany and crushed Hitler’s army back in ‘45.
Souvenirs. Hah.
A Luger nine millimeter. At nearly two pounds, it was almost too heavy for his illness-weakened arms, but at one time it had fit almost perfectly in his hand. It was in mint condition—well cared for by the German officer who had owned it previously.
But the Luger, as sought after by collectors as it was, had no value to Charles—not compared to the beat-up Walther PPK he’d also brought back to the States. It was lighter than the Luger, smaller, easier to carry concealed beneath clothing. But unlike the Luger, it wasn’t handmade. Side by side, the Luger was a work of art, the Walther no more than a functional tool of destruction.
But the Walther had belonged to Cybele. She’d touched it, held it, worn it beneath her clothes, close to the warmth of her skin. She’d taken it from the wreckage of a downed German plane, off the body of a German Luftwaffe officer, long before Charles had met her. She’d given it to him when . . .
Christ. He didn’t want to think about any of that.
He’d wasted a lot of money shipping these guns home. Souvenirs. Bah. He’d put them into the attic right away, after he’d returned. He didn’t need—didn’t want—to remember anything at all about the time he’d spent in France.
But lately, he’d been unable to think of much else.
And it was going to get worse when Joe gave that interview. It was all going to go in some book—everything he’d been hiding from for all these years. Everything he’d done. Everything he didn’t do. Every damn detail. Yes, it was Joe’s story, but it was his story, too. It was his life, his secrets, his failures.
His grief.
Nearly sixty years of running from himself, from all his pain, all his heartache, and here he was. Still here. Still aching.
And Joe, by stirring it all up, was just making it worse.
Charles saw the shadow and didn’t even bother to look up. He just kept on cleaning the Walther. It was either Death, looming over him again, or Joe. Who else would be up this early? And although he wasn’t one hundred percent certain, he was betting it was Joe.
“I’m getting these ready,” Charles told him crossly, “so I can shoot you if you make any more noise about talking to that damned writer.”
Joe sighed and sat down next to him, looking out at the nearly placid ocean. It was beautiful. It was the view Charles had dreamed about back in France. It was the view he’d spoken of to Cybele so many times, his words translated by Joe into softer, equally beautiful-sounding French.
Cybele had wanted to come to Baldwin’s Bridge, to see his beautiful house, his beautiful ocean, this beautiful view. Charles had promised time and again that he’d bring them all over for a visit after the war. After the war. It had a magical ring to it. After the war, all of them—even Jean-Claude, Henri, and the two surly Lucs—would come to America, as Charles’s guests. He had the money. After the war, he’d fly them into Boston, put them up at the Baldwin’s Bridge Hotel.
“We promised Tom we wouldn’t fight anymore,” Joe pointed out.
“Who the hell’s fighting?” Charles countered. “I’m merely threatening you at gunpoint.”
“Do you really want to talk about this now?” Joe asked. “We can talk about it. But we talk, we don’t shout. If you start shouting, I’ll stand up and walk away.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.” Joe took a deep breath. “You might as well know, then, that I got a call last night,” he said. “Kurt Kaufman—that author—wants to interview me at the hotel, right after the opening ceremony on Tuesday. I want to do this, so I told him yes—that I’d be there.”
The Walther slipped, clattering on the table. Charles tried to catch it and ended up smashing his finger. Dammit.
“I was hoping you’d go with me. You could help me tell the whole story,” Joe continued.
“What?” Charles said tightly. “That I not only cheated on my wife, but on my best friend as well?”
Joe just gazed out at the sunlight sparkling on the water, at the tumble of rocks that served as a breaker, at the still vibrant summer green of the trees at the edge of the lush yard.
Charles didn’t have to look up to know what Joe saw. He’d spent nearly sixty summers gazing out at it himself, drinking his gin and tonics until the ocean turned into a distant blur or the sun set, whichever came first.
“I’ve long since forgiven you for that,” Joe said quietly. “And I’ve forgiven Cybele, too. Not that I had the right to do any forgiving—she didn’t belong to me, Ashton. At least not outside my own imagination. You know that as well as I do.”
Cybele.
Charles couldn’t speak. After all these years of never mentioning her name, how could Joe speak of her so easily, so casually? And to Charles of all people. He himself couldn’t even think about Cybele without feeling his throat tighten.
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