by Steven James
But there was one assumption, as well as one promise, I was willing to make: I assumed he would be back. And I promised not to let him slip away next time.
As far as Sharyn, the world now knew that she was the long-lost Scarlett Farrow. It was a veritable revelation in Hollywood and the modeling industry. She’d already been offered some major contracts, roles, and a substantial book deal. Her story was dominating the tabloids.
Yes, she was in her midthirties, but she hadn’t lost her midtwenties beauty. I wasn’t sure what all of this was going to mean for her, but the last time we spoke she’d said that she couldn’t afford to put the life of her daughter at risk. I didn’t know if that meant staying with the FBI, or leaving it—since it was her previous life as an actress that’d influenced Dylan when he targeted her and her family.
When we spoke on the phone the other day, I’d asked her if Olivia’s nightmares had stopped.
“She’s doing well. Obviously, that was quite a traumatic experience there in St. Gerard’s Church, but children are amazingly resilient. I’m proud of her.”
Then, after some updates about the case and the ongoing search for Dylan’s partner, we got talking about the next steps in our lives. She told me that if she cut back her work at the Bureau, it might help her avoid the sole custody battle with Kevin. “I might do some modeling to pay the bills. I’m still trying to sort all that out.” Then she said softly, “Also, the shame I felt all these years about the abortion—it’s finally beginning to go away. Maybe confessing it all in a church wasn’t such a bad idea after all.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
After a short hesitation, she said, “Pat, honestly, I wish you and Christie all the best. You have good taste. And so does she. If, someday, things don’t work out with her, you can always—”
“No. I can’t have a plan B. It wouldn’t be fair to either of you.”
“Right.” A pause. “Good-bye, Pat.”
“Good-bye, Sharyn.”
++++
“Sit down,” the young man told her.
“Why?”
He held up his camera. “I want to get a picture with the valley behind us.”
She positioned herself on the railing. The wind whipped up over the edge and tossed her hair around her in a tiny, elegant swirl.
Right up until they’d arrived a few minutes ago, she hadn’t been certain that she was going to bring out the ring, but they were alone. The spot was perfect, and the moment felt right.
He sat beside her, she placed her head on his shoulder and, arm outstretched, he snapped the photo of the two of them.
“Careful,” he said. “Don’t lean back. It’s a long way down.”
++++
When Gaviola was confronted with the footage from his body camera, he confessed to helping Blake. He was currently in custody trying to negotiate a plea deal.
The identity of the person who’d been working with Dylan at St. Gerard’s Church and of Detective Ted Schwartz’s killer remained a mystery.
Considering the mitigating circumstances, Ralph and I were reprimanded but not prosecuted.
I told Ali’s sister that he had died a hero while killing a terrorist.
Of course, the media spread the news about his role in the attempted attack, and that was fine. It was their job, but I made sure that Azaliya also knew how much he loved her, that he’d been trying to find a way to protect her, and that his last thoughts had been of her.
“Whatever else he was, he was your brother,” I said to her. “And anyone who would go to the lengths that he did to protect someone he loves deserves to be honored for that devotion, not simply reviled because he lost his way.”
++++
She realized that she needed to do it now or she might lose the nerve.
Carefully, she scootched herself forward off the railing and knelt on one knee before him.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“You told me once that I wasn’t a girl who liked to do things the traditional way.”
“Oh.” The shock about what was happening was clear in his voice.
She didn’t know what he would say, but she couldn’t stop now.
“Listen,” he said. “I don’t think—”
“I have something to tell you, something I need to ask you.”
“Babe, I—”
“Shh. Please.” She reached into her pocket and drew out the ring, but kept it in her closed hand. “I’ve wanted to marry you since the first day I met you.”
His eyes widened.
She wasn’t a girl who did things the traditional way.
No.
No, she was not.
She looked up at him. “Did you sleep with Celia?”
“What?”
“Celia. My friend. Did you sleep with her?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You need to be honest with me.”
“I am. No, of course not. I didn’t sleep with Celia.”
“I want our relationship to be based on trust.”
“I know, Jules. You can trust me. I didn’t. I would never cheat on you.”
She peered up at him sadly, then opened her hand. Showed him the ring.
“Julianne, I—”
“She told me all about it, Kyle. About what you did. How you like it.” Now tears were forming in her eyes. She hadn’t wanted it to go like this. Hadn’t wanted any of it to go like this.
“Come here.” He began to stand, but she signaled for him to stop.
“No. Don’t.” She hesitated. “It needs to be like this. Celia told me everything before she died.”
“What? Dead? How do you—”
She dropped the ring beside her.
“I’m sorry it had to end like this.” Then she grabbed his ankle. Since her left arm had never formed properly, she had only one hand to use, but her grip was resolute and unforgiving. “A relationship needs to be based on trust.”
She drew her arm up swiftly even as she rose to her feet, flipping him backward off the railing. His gasp became a scream, long and thin and final, as he plummeted backward, his body bouncing off the rocks on its descent to the base of the cliff.
She stepped forward and watched him fall. She was far enough away so that the sound of impact traveled up to her after he hit the ground.
Then Julianne picked up the ring. Celia’s ring. The one she’d slid off her friend’s limp finger right after she killed her.
++++
Yesterday, Idris had escaped from prison during a transfer. Thankfully, no officers were killed, but it looked like he’d had help. Who it was or where they’d taken him remained a mystery.
However, admittedly, I wondered if it might’ve been Blake, perhaps calling on someone in his network of underground contacts to assist him. If so, I could only imagine the kind of punishment Blake would give Idris for killing Maria in the manner that he had.
Another case. Another day.
But this moment belonged to us.
“Looks like the rain’s picking up,” I said to Christie. “Might be a perfect night for a walk.”
“A walk?”
“Sure, under my umbrella.”
“Ah. I can think of a few other things that could happen under your umbrella.”
“So can I.”
She took my hand, and together we headed toward the elevator.
++++
So, it had been five years now since Julianne Springman had killed the boyfriend who’d cheated on her as well as the woman he’d slept with.
She still had Celia’s ring. Still wore it.
Three weeks ago she’d quit her job as a CSI tech at the Detroit Police Department, ostensibly to pursue her photography full-time.
The man she’d been working with, killing with, Dyl
an Neeson, was dead, but she couldn’t take any chances that the ongoing investigation into who his partner had been would reveal her identity.
Yes, she was the one who’d killed Detective Schwartz. She was the one who’d sent the text to Christie Ellis using Sharyn’s phone, inviting her to St. Gerard’s Church. Julianne hadn’t known the nature of their relationship, but she’d wanted someone else there as a witness, or perhaps as another victim, depending on how things turned out. Julianne was also the person who’d killed Canyon in his hospital room.
And Julianne Springman was not done killing, not by any means, and she had a whole new type of photography in mind to pursue.
++++
No, there’s nothing certain about love. It centers you by unbalancing you.
Logic doesn’t usher in attraction, it follows it—often as the prelude to breakups, separations, divorces.
Passion and desire lead to intimacy. Logic leads to justification and paves the way to loneliness. No one argues himself into falling in love, but he might analyze his way out of it.
Reason comes late to the party, if it shows up at all, and that’s not what I wanted to happen with Christie and me. I would let my feelings inform me.
And I would let my choices lead us closer to that mutual shore, no matter how illogical it might seem.
++++
Tessa watched out the window as her mom scooted under the umbrella with Patrick, and they passed down the street.
“You are thinking they are happy?” Azaliya asked her.
“Yeah. I’m thinking that,” she said.
And just maybe I am too.
“Hey, Az, my mom’s got this new nail polish and lipstick that Patrick gave her: London Reckless and Nude Velvet. Weird, I know. I prefer black, but the nail polish is actually pretty cool.”
“Then can we play ‘Exo-Skel IV’?”
“Absolutely. And I’m seriously gonna beat you this time.”
“Nyet. You will not.”
“You’re speaking Russian again, girlfriend. You do that and I’ll have to bust out the Latin.”
“That is a dead language.”
“Part of the reason I’m learning it. C’mon. Let’s go do our nails and then kill some bad guys.”
++++
Life is messy.
And beautiful.
Sometimes it’s easy to see the first part and miss the second.
But it’s vital that we don’t.
As Christie and I walked along the New York City sidewalk listening to the raindrops tap-splatter on the top of the umbrella, I said, “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a promise I made to Ralph earlier this month. Actually it’s two things. An apology and a confession.”
“Okay.” She sounded slightly worried.
Tell her you’re sorry and you love her.
And don’t forget to pause.
And so that’s what I did.
Epilogue
Blake stared out across Lake Michigan. The exquisite home he was renting for the week sat perched in a small alcove overlooking the water.
Losing his brother had been hard, but there was some poetic justice in the fact that he had died at the hand of the woman he’d raped. So Blake did not seek revenge against her. In Dylan’s case, he counted the scales balanced.
In the case of Fayed Raabi’ah Bashir, however, they still needed some adjustment.
Behind him, he heard the sizzling hiss of Mannie heating up the knife over the open flame of the gas stove.
Blake turned. Idris Kourye, otherwise known as Abdul Rashid, lay tied up on the floor, eyes wide, a gag in his mouth.
“How’s it coming, Mannie?” Blake said.
“Almost ready.”
Breaking Idris out of the prison transport had required Blake to call in just about all the favors he was owed, especially since he’d requested that no police officers or U.S. Marshals be killed during the operation.
Idris hadn’t seemed surprised when Blake showed up to deliver him from the prison van that lay crashed and smoking along the side of the road.
“You’re here because of what we did to Maria,” Idris had said to him calmly. “Correct?”
“Yes. And I’m here because of what I’m going to do to you.”
Now Blake told him not to worry. “Be assured, Idris, we’ll cauterize the wounds so you won’t bleed out. We’ll start with the fingers on the right hand, move to the left. Then on to the toes. Work our way in from there.”
“Ready,” Mannie announced. He turned off the gas and approached Fayed with the red-hot blade, but before he could get started, the doorbell rang.
Blake and Mannie looked at each other curiously, then Blake drew his 1911, started toward the door, and peered out the window.
A young Middle Eastern man was standing on the porch, whistling.
He rang the doorbell again.
Blake eased over, then all at once threw the door open, drew the man inside, and pressed the barrel of the gun against the back of his head. “Think carefully about what you’re going to say. I want to know your name and who sent you.”
“I sent myself. I’m the one who gave you the restaurant. I’m the one who told you that Fayed would be at that factory on Jefferson Avenue. I’m the one who escaped from the restaurant with this man you have tied up on the floor here. Surely, you can recognize my voice. We spoke on the phone.”
Blake said, “Oh, and don’t tell me—you’re the real Fayed Raabi’ah Bashir.”
“No.” He eyed the man who was gagged and lying on the carpet. Then the young man smiled, faintly but visibly. “No, I am not Fayed. But when you’re done with that knife, I’m ready to be. If you’re willing to work with me.”
“What can you give me that I don’t have?”
“My allegiance.”
Blake closed the door. “Would you like to watch?”
“I’d much rather have a knife in my hand.”
“How about that. So would I.”
Then Blake shot the man in the back of the head, and his body slumped clumsily to the floor.
“Tell me my new name,” Blake said to Mannie.
“It looks like it’s Fayed Raabi’ah Bashir,” his friend replied, and then reheated the blade.
“Yeah. I kind of like the sound of that. I think I could get used to it.”
When Mannie was ready, Blake accepted the knife from him.
Then, Mannie held Idris down with a firm hand as the most recently ordained Fayed Raabi’ah Bashir got to work balancing the scales on the man who was his namesake.
THANKS AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While some of my sources must remain confidential, I would like to thank everyone who assisted me in researching this book for their insights and encouragement.
For my research and fact checking, thanks to Jill, Betsy, Allan, Tracey, Michael, Timothy, Jesse, Ed, Donald, Tim, Luba, Mark, Shikina, Chris, Kim, and Werner.
Thanks to my readers and editors, Brent, Ashley, Pam, Bill, Eden, Trinity, Liesl, Lori, Daniel, JP, and Sonya.
Thanks to Dan Conaway, my agent, who believed in me from the start.
A special thanks to the Detroit Police Department and the FBI’s Public Affairs Office at the Detroit Field Office. Thank you for your assistance in my research and for all you do in protecting and serving an iconic American city as it regroups and reenvisions its future.
Thanks to the team at Berkley for working so hard to bring this book together.
And finally, thanks to my brother, Todd, whose interest in viruses is at the same time very helpful and very troubling. Brainstorming with you is always a gift, and your knowledge of the War of the Elephants gave me the premise for this book. I love you, brother, even if you frighten me sometimes by how quickly you answ
er me when I ask you for a good way to dispose of a body.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Steven James is the national bestselling author of a dozen novels, including the critically acclaimed thrillers Every Crooked Path, Checkmate, The King, Opening Moves, and The Queen. He has won three Christy Awards for best suspense and was a finalist for an International Thriller Award. His thriller The Bishop was named Suspense Magazine’s book of the year. Publishers Weekly calls him “[a] master storyteller at the peak of his game.” He has a master’s degree in storytelling and has taught writing and creative communication around the world. When he’s not writing or speaking, you’ll find him trail running, rock climbing, or drinking dark roast coffee near his home in eastern Tennessee.
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