The Reckoning

by Alma Katsu

  I shivered. “No, I don’t understand. I have no desire to see him—none at all.”

  “If I were in your situation, I would not want to see him, either. But I’m not afraid of Adair—not anymore.” He looked at the dark horizon, avoiding my gaze. “I thought about him a lot over the years—as have you, I would think—and I believe I’ve come to understand him. I think he is not dangerous to everyone. He is a predator, yes, but in my experience, he preys only on a certain type of person. Think on it, Lanore. None of us were good people. We were not good to our families or neighbors. We did not honor God with the way we led our lives. God put predators on the earth for a reason, and this is why I am not afraid of Adair anymore. I believe God sent him into my life to help me atone for my sins.”

  He had a zealot’s gleam in his eye, just as he always had. “Sorry, Alej, but I disagree with you. I don’t think anything I did was terrible enough to deserve what I got from Adair, any more than I believe he has the right to punish us. After everything I’ve been through and everything I’ve seen, I don’t believe in God anymore. I don’t think there’s been a reason behind anything that’s happened to us, but of course we want there to be. We want life to make sense.”

  He let out a soft snort of derision. “If that is what you believe . . . if you have truly exiled God from your life, then you should go see Tilde. She can tell you things that may change your mind. She is your best hope, I think, to find peace in your soul.”

  I hugged Alejandro and gave him a weak smile as we said goodbye. He kissed both of my cheeks and looked in my eyes as he said “Fuerza,” then gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. I climbed into the sedan, and as we cut through the city like a ray gliding through deep ocean waters, I watched the city spool away and tried to throw off the profound melancholy that Alejandro had sown in my heart.

  PART THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Alejandro told me I’d find Tilde in Aspen, Colorado, on a skiing holiday with her stepchildren. I was surprised to hear she was in a relationship with someone who had children. I wouldn’t have thought she had the patience and maybe it was a sign that she’d changed. She’d never seemed maternal, not in the least: witness the fact that she had poisoned her own children. That seemed like the kind of act from which a mother would never recover, something that would haunt her every day of her life, even if it had happened centuries ago.

  The life she was now leading was just as unexpected. Alejandro emailed articles and photos from society magazines and international newspapers that featured Tilde in her various personas over the years: 1947, 1978, 2003. I was shocked to see that she let the press write about her and, more dangerously, take pictures of her. She was out in plain sight: photographed in a slinky dark-blue gown at a political fund-raiser in New York City, written up in a news article describing her work on the board of her stepsons’ private school. Each time, she had a different name and was married to a different man.

  Tilde was a chameleon, not only in identity, but in appearance, too. Even though she couldn’t change her weight or height or the shape of her face, you’d have to look very closely at the photographs to realize it was the same woman. What gave her away—to me, anyway, who’d only lived with Tilde a few years—was her telltale stare. She had a way of looking past a person’s expression, through any mask of deception you might wear, through blood and the bone and into the mind, and quite possibly into your soul as well. Not unlike Alejandro’s ability with the camera, and it made me wonder if it had something to do with the way Adair chose his companions. Perhaps I had the gift, too.

  These days she was going by the name Birgit von Haupt, widow of the president of a multinational energy corporation. In the photos, her streamlined, catlike form was clothed in an expensive, conservatively cut suit, her lavender eyes hidden behind very dark sunglasses. She was a cipher, at least to the camera’s mechanical eye, and I could only hope that Alej had told me the truth and she was hiding a newfound compassion beneath her controlled exterior.

  The articles said she was running her late husband’s charitable foundation, which I took as a good sign, and her appearance was in keeping with what you’d expect from a woman in that position. Also, the fact that she was taking care of her husband’s children seemed to indicate that she’d reformed—though she might have locked them up in a closet at night, for all I knew. It’s funny: in that suit, standing in front of a limousine, she looked like Jackie Kennedy, too conventional to be a student of the dark arts. But, of course, appearances are deceiving.

  Looking through these photographs of Tilde filled me with foreboding, however. It was one thing to reveal myself to Alejandro, but quite another to seek out Tilde. There was no real danger with Alejandro and I’d known it when I went to see him: he had always been a facilitator and a messenger, and unlikely to act on his own. Tilde, however, had been second only to Adair in cunning and sheer wickedness, and was perhaps even better than he was at deception. When strangers looked at her, they saw only what she wanted them to see, and she was so good at it that she could live in the public eye without being detected.

  As I studied a photograph of Tilde, icy and aloof, I started to worry again that I might be walking into a trap, and put a stop to that thought abruptly. When would I learn to trust others again? After being free for centuries, probably neither Alejandro nor Tilde wanted to give up their freedom to serve Adair again. And for all my uncertainty, it didn’t really matter, since I had no choice but to trust them. I could either use every resource I had in order to try to save myself, or be on the run forever. I was already growing weary of the pursuit, feeling worn down mentally and emotionally. I was starting to hear the sirens’ call—weak and distant, but there—enticing me to surrender, to give in to the inevitable.

  Alejandro assured me that I could find Tilde in Aspen for the next few weeks. He said she kept homes in multiple locations—a timber frame house overlooking a Norwegian fjord, a chalet in the Swiss Alps—each one cold and snowy like her place of origin, a northern kingdom whose name was now lost to time. As I made my travel arrangements, I noticed that the flight would take me through Green Bay, Wisconsin, the airport closest to Luke’s family.

  I hadn’t forgotten about Luke: thoughts of him visited me in quiet moments, guilty thoughts for the cowardly way I’d left him and for cutting off all communication with him the way I did. I wanted to believe that as long as Luke had been exorcised from my life he was safe from Adair, but I was starting to see that this might not be so, especially since Luke refused to take the threat seriously. If Adair had learned of Luke and knew of his importance to me, he might go after him.

  That I was passing through Green Bay seemed like fate—at least, that’s how I wanted to view it. This was a chance to try to make Luke believe me. At the same time, I’d have the opportunity to see him again—and I wanted very much to see him again. As I typed in the change to my flight reservations, I knew by the unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach that there was more to this detour than I wanted to admit. It was my chance to tell Luke—the last man who’d loved me and asked for nothing in return—that I was sorry.

  There was a heavy chill in the air when I arrived in Green Bay in the late afternoon. I left immediately for Marquette, intending to go directly to the place where Luke’s ex-wife, Tricia, lived with her daughters, a small farm on the far outskirts of town. As I drove, I tried to formulate what I would say to him, how I would explain that I’d come in order to close that chapter in both of our lives, and to impress on him that he and his family might be in grave danger.

  The drive was long and took me through stretches of forest and farmland reminiscent of St. Andrew. The last few hours on the road took me closer to civilization, past state parks and small towns with names from the Native American tribes that lived there long ago. I drove by houses that looked as though they’d been made from giant Lincoln Logs, past weather-worn signs advertising snowmobile rentals and Sunday church potlucks. It seemed like a nice plac
e to live and raise children; there was probably a need for doctors here, too. Luke could start over here, where there’d be fewer questions, and he wouldn’t be known by the one bad decision that came to define his life.

  The sky was dark by the time I found Tricia’s home. The house was a modest split-level with a large barn and a two-car garage. A rental car was parked in front of the house, near an old but well-cared-for Camaro. The lawn between the house and outbuildings was patchy from years of children’s play, and a swing hung off the branch of a giant old oak.

  From where I’d parked, I could see into the house through a set of patio doors. The family seemed to be getting ready for dinner, a white tablecloth glowing under warm yellow lights. People passed by the tall glass doors, visible to me for only a moment. Two little girls, both with round faces and curly brown hair the same as Luke’s, ran by, chasing each other, their high-pitched girlish shrieks audible outside the house. A woman about Luke’s age, highlights in her dark-blond hair, set the table and occasionally looked up from her task to call out to someone I couldn’t see. I assumed she was Tricia, her prettiness strained by fatigue.

  Then Luke appeared, going up to his ex-wife to ask her something. I wasn’t prepared for how he’d changed, his cheeks sunken and a few days’ beard grown in. His clothing was disheveled, as though he’d slept in it. I’d done this to him. The abruptness of my leaving had overtaken him like a hurricane, sweeping him up and dropping him down in an unexpected place. You could tell Tricia was being patient with him—a nurse’s forbearance in her manner—and I could understand why Luke had never said a bad word against her.

  His daughters swooped by the door again, and his expression lost some of its melancholy as his eyes followed them. His lips moved; he must’ve said something fatherly, his mouth taking a slightly stern cast. I’d seen traces of that expression at times when he spoke to me, those times when my face had fooled him and he’d forgotten that I was so much older than him. In that scene on the other side of the glass, he looked as though he was meant to be there, in that dining room with that woman and those children, and I knew I’d made the right decision to leave.

  Luke appeared to be adjusting to life without me. I was relieved, even as I was sad for myself, sad that I would never have a family like this to love and keep me from being lonely. I could not even have the comfort of one person in my life. That was part of Adair’s curse, to be alone forever. I sat behind the wheel and started crying out of exhaustion, tired of the tussle of thoughts going on in my head, back and forth. Love, leave. Stay, go. I wanted this to be over.

  As I took my hands away from my face, wiping away my tears, I saw that Luke appeared to be staring through the glass door in the direction of my car. Did he know it was me in this thick darkness? There was no doubt: I could tell by the twist of his mouth and the painful, hopeful look in his eyes that he saw through the glare and spotted me behind the wheel. So much for precautions.

  I pulled out my cell phone and pressed his number on speed dial and watched as he reached in his pocket. He answered right away. “Don’t tell your family I’m here” were the first words out of my mouth.

  He hesitated. “Come inside and we can—”

  “I’m not staying,” I said flatly, my tone conveying that this was not to be a joyful reunion. “Can you meet me outside? Just for a minute?”

  His brow ruffled. “Uh, sure.” He turned away and slipped out of view as he walked away from his family. “Drive past the house and I’ll walk down to meet you. That way they won’t see where I’m going.”

  A few minutes later, Luke slipped into the passenger seat. Even by moonlight, I could see evidence of his devastation. He’d lost weight and his eyes were red-rimmed. He moved tentatively, blinking at me, as if asking for a sign of what to expect but bracing himself for disappointment. Luke had been through a lot in the past year—he’d lost his marriage and both his parents—and I could understand why he didn’t want to be hurt one more time.

  “So . . . what’re you doing here?” he asked slowly.

  “I wanted to see you,” I said, then caught myself. “I want to tell you how sorry I am for leaving you that way. It’s just that I didn’t know what else to do at the time. . . .” I was making a mess of this apology and trailed off before I could do more damage.

  “You still think you’re doing the right thing?” he asked, his voice tense.

  I nodded.

  “So that’s how you want it to be.”

  “That’s the way it is, Luke. I—”

  “No, listen to me. It’s my turn now. I have a few things I’ve wanted to say to you, but you wouldn’t answer my calls,” he said, turning to face me. Outside the car the blackness of the evening closed around us like a curtain. It was just the two of us at the edge of the world. It was a time for honesty.

  “Lanny . . . I thought I loved you. When you told me you needed me, I gave up everything for you. Have you forgotten that? My life is a wreck. My ex-wife thinks I’ve lost my mind, and maybe she’s right. Right now she’s not sure she can trust me with my own children. She thinks I might run off with them and disappear, like I did with you. And back in St. Andrew? I’m a wanted man. I lost my practice, my position at the hospital. . . . The only reason there hasn’t been a board inquiry is because I’ve known all my patients since I was in elementary school and none of them have the heart to file a complaint.”

  Listening to his indictment was like getting hit in the stomach with a sledgehammer. These were all things I suspected or heard slip out in his telephone conversations with Tricia, but to hear him say it aloud, and with such bitterness in his voice, brought me up short. “I’ll make it up to you.”

  “How are you going to do that?” he asked brusquely. “Lanny, I’ve been worried about you, not knowing why there was no word from you, if what you said came true and this psychopath had—” He broke off, unable to finish.

  Memories of the pain Jonathan had caused me came flooding back. “I’m so sorry, Luke. I didn’t mean—”

  He held up a hand to stop me. “There’s something else I need to tell you. You remember Joe Duchesne, the sheriff in St. Andrew? He’s dead. Tricia’s friends told her. He was killed by someone who dug up your friend Jonathan and stole his body.”

  His news sent an icy streak down my spine.

  “So I guess you were right. Adair’s on the hunt. I can’t imagine anyone else would be robbing graves.”

  “He took Jonathan’s body?” I choked back the urge to retch.

  “Maybe he’ll leave you alone, now that he’s got Jonathan,” Luke said, cautiously optimistic.

  “No. He wants revenge.”

  Luke took my hands. “If that’s the case, then I can’t let you go off by yourself. You need someone to help you, Lanny. You can’t face this alone.”

  I pulled away from him, causing him to flinch momentarily. “You can’t come with me, Luke,” I said. “Think of your daughters. If you’re with me when Adair catches up to me, he’ll kill you. Do you want your daughters growing up without their father?”

  He fell silent.

  “I can’t be responsible for that, Luke. I want you to put all this behind you and get on with your life, doing whatever makes you happy. Life is short—for most people—you need to enjoy what’s left of it. This has to be good-bye; it’s the only way. Go back to your daughters—protect them. Take them someplace where you have no connections, where no one would think to look for you. Just go and hide until things have quieted down and you don’t hear of any more strange incidents. Don’t worry about me. And I hope you can forgive me.”

  He wasn’t dissuaded. “Do you know what you’re doing to me, Lanny, shutting me out like this? Knowing what you’re up against. . . how can I let you go? What kind of man would I be—”

  “You’re a wonderful man, Luke. More than I deserve. But it’s not your decision. Go back to your daughters and forget about me.” I shouldn’t have reached for his cheek, but I did—an indulgence, given
that it was the last time we’d see each other. I fancied I felt all his love and despair in that one touch of his hot cheek. “I hope you can forgive me someday. You’ll never know how sorry I am for dragging you into this mess.”

  Luke sat dazed and I worried for a second that he would refuse to get out of the car, or that he would figure out some way to tear my heart apart worse than he already had. But he wasn’t that kind of person, thankfully, and after one more second’s hesitation, he stormed out of the car, slamming the door behind him. My tears might’ve had something to do with his departure: Luke had a hard time remaining resolute whenever I cried, and I was crying already, sorry for all the hurt I’d inflicted on him.

  Because he was right. I’d ruined his life, just as I knew I would the night I asked him to help me escape. I was rarely confronted by my duplicity. Oh, in the moment, I never believed I was hurting someone; I always tried to convince myself this time would be different, but the truth was I had been a hit-and-run artist my entire life, slipping away whenever a situation became too painful or too suffocating. I had Jonathan to thank for that. He’d taught me the art of living only for myself.

  At least this time I could make amends. I could make sure Luke was taken care of. I wanted to know he was safe with his girls, safe and warm and dry when it was cold and wet and snowy. I needed to know that Luke would never want for anything, that he and his daughters wouldn’t suffer any more than was unavoidable in this life. Because I knew from experience that a loved one’s disappearance leaves scars.

  To make this happen, I needed the help of my most trusted associate, Henri Renville, the Paris lawyer who managed my business affairs. He was famous for taking on clients in peculiar situations who demanded absolute loyalty; it was rumored he represented a few international criminals, an up-and-coming black market arms dealer, and the wayward son of a former African dictator. I figured I was among the less conspicuous of M. Renville’s customers, although we’d been together many years and Henri had yet to ask any difficult questions of me. It would just be morning in Paris, too early to call most law firms, but not Henri: he had a policy of taking his clients’ calls at any hour.