by Jack Rogan
Maya dropped her keys on the little table under the mirror beside the door and set down her purse as she flicked on the light.
As she turned, Gabe breathed her name.
She jumped, and might have cried out if she hadn’t brought a hand up to her mouth to silence herself. The gesture broke him a little more inside, for she had always done the same while making love, embarrassed by the noise her body wanted to make.
“Gabriel. What are you doing here?” she asked, not approaching, eyes full of questions.
He wondered if she could see the broken pieces of him in his smile. “So, you missed me then?”
Maya exhaled, walking over to the sofa but not sitting. Instead, she stood behind it as though using it as some kind of shield, tracing her fingers along the sofa’s back.
“You blame me for being surprised? Last time we talked, you made your feelings pretty clear,” Maya said, fresh hurt and the old frustrations coming together in her tone. “Now I find you sitting in the dark, and … seriously, what the hell are you doing here? Something you left behind that you can’t live without?” Bitterness had crept into her voice.
“Miguel’s dead.”
The words startled her, like someone had slammed a door. And Gabe thought maybe that was near enough to the truth. Maya paled and stared at him, her breath coming a bit quicker. Her makeup was just so, her hair perfect, her hoop earrings the perfect accent for her face. Denim hugged her legs and ribbed cotton clung to her breasts and flat belly, all propped up on expensive heels. All in all, Maya Rio had the air of a woman confident in herself, the sort of woman who would draw stares she would pretend never to see.
But her husband knew the girl she had been, and now he watched part of that fragile girl shattering.
“You’re awful,” Maya said. “That’s not even funny, Gabe. What a terrible thing to say.”
Gabe only looked at her and she stared back, her denial crumbling.
“No, no. Come on, Gabe. Please don’t … No.”
At last he rose from Maya’s reading chair, the only time he would ever sit in it, and he went around the sofa and took her in his arms. Despite all that had passed between them, bitterness and bad blood and recriminations, she did not protest as he embraced her. For long minutes he held her, the night ticking away outside but time at a standstill for Gabe and Maya Rio. For a brief moment, they were husband and wife again.
“How … how did it happen?” she asked, her head still resting on his shoulder. “I thought you were still at sea.”
Gabe tried to reply, but the words wouldn’t come. They had not given him much time. How could he speak the things he had come here to say? He had never been eloquent. But perhaps truth would succeed where eloquence might fail him.
“Maya,” he said, holding her out at arm’s length, finding her gaze with his own, making sure they connected. He fought the anger and bitterness that churned like bile in the back of his throat and twisted his gut in knots.
“What?” she urged. “What aren’t you telling me, Gabe?”
He took a deep breath and released her, leaning back against the sofa. Best to give her space now.
“I know about you and Miguel.”
Before his eyes, Maya started to fall apart. She didn’t even try to deny it. Strange sounds came from her throat, little choking gasps, and then—hands shaking—she began to cry. The tears fell without sobs or even words, at least at first. Several times she tried to speak but emotion overcame her and she could only wave her hands about, angry with herself.
“Gabe,” she said at last.
And then it occurred to her, as he had known it would, and a wave of fear and suspicion spread across her features. One fluttering hand covered her mouth again and she took a step away from him.
“No,” he said. “I didn’t kill him, Maya.” Gabe glanced at the floor a moment. “I won’t say I didn’t think about it. I hated both of you, and I wanted to hurt you both, badly. But Miguel saved my life, chica. He died to give me a chance to live, and that bought me time to think. I don’t have a lot of words for the things I feel. Never have. But I know that we drifted really far from each other, and that was at least as much my fault as it was yours. You didn’t just betray me, you betrayed us. But you’re not the only one. I can’t put it all on you.”
He took a breath, and then a risk. He held out his hand for hers.
“My brother …” he said, emotion welling up inside him, studying Maya’s eyes, searching for the girl he’d first fallen in love with. “Miguel is gone, but we’re still here.”
“After everything …” she began.
“I know.”
“We can’t just—”
“I know.”
They stared at each other, and in her eyes Gabe saw fury and shame and regret that mirrored his own. Tentatively, she reached out and took his hand, and they stood like that for a few seconds, still far apart but connected by that uncertain connection.
“Miguel’s really … he’s really dead?”
Gabe nodded.
“I’m so sorry.”
Then she stepped gingerly forward and slipped her arms around him, careful—as though afraid he might break.
“What happened?”
Gabe took a deep breath and once more released her. He turned and walked to the window, wondered how long it would be before Nadeau and Mac ran out of patience. No one had seen Gabe coming into the building, and they could not afford to have anyone see him leaving, either.
“You might want to sit down,” he said.
Maya searched his eyes for some clue to what might be coming, what other dreadful news he might have brought with him, but she did as he suggested, perching on the edge of the sofa.
“You’re going to have a lot of questions about what I’m about to say,” he explained, “but I’m not going to be able to answer them. What I tell you now is all I’m allowed to tell you, do you understand?”
“Allowed? Allowed by—”
“Maya,” Gabe interrupted, “it’s all I’m allowed to say. Do you understand that?”
Wiping at her tears, she nodded.
“When I walk out of here, I won’t be coming back,” he said, his heart heavy. “Not to the apartment, and not to Miami. As far as the world will know, the Antoinette sank with all hands on board.”
“Christ,” Maya whispered.
Gabe swallowed hard, the words difficult for him. “Miguel’s dead. And you’ll be told that I’m dead, too. If you talk about me coming here, and this conversation, doctors will say you imagined it, that grief made you see things you wished to see. The government will confirm my death. And it will be like I really am dead. I’ll be just as gone, and just as impossible to find again.
“I’m vanishing tonight, chica,” Gabe went on, his heart turning gentle, knowing how her mind must be awhirl. “And I hope you’ll come with me.”
Maya’s mouth hung open in a little O and then she looked around the room, as though the answers could be found there. She leaned back, sinking deeper into the sofa.
“Where?” she asked.
“I can’t tell you. But I won’t lie to you; it won’t be anything like Miami. Someplace they don’t speak English, a fishing village,” he said, and sat beside her on the sofa so she could see his eyes up close and maybe see the truth. “I can’t give up the sea, Maya. Not ever. But I won’t be wandering far again. I’ll have a fishing boat, and I’ll be up before sunrise, but I’ll come home every night for dinner.”
She scoffed, half-turning from him in doubt.
Gabe took her hand. “I mean it.”
Maya shook her head, gaze shifting around before at last meeting his. “Do you really think you could live like that?”
“I could if you could.”
Her lower lip trembled. “It’s all I ever wanted. You know that. But after everything …”
“I know,” he said, squeezing her hand. He reached up and brushed her hair away from her eyes.
Defiant,
she stared at him. “You really think we can forgive each other?”
“Truth? I don’t know,” he confessed. “But after the mistakes I’ve made, and all I’ve lost, and everything that’s gone on between us, I’ve got a chance to start over, and it kills me to think of doing that without you.”
Long seconds ticked by. Maya’s breaths came evenly, the way they did when she slept. Her gaze grew distant, lost in contemplation. Then she looked up at Gabe and gave him a quick nod.
For so long—all the way back to the day he had taken the job at Viscaya to help Miguel—Gabe had felt like a passenger in his own life. He could captain a ship, but his own fate had seemed out of his hands. But that Gabe Rio, the one who never faulted himself but seethed at the betrayals of those he loved, who could never have conceived of giving or receiving forgiveness … that man was dead, lost with the Antoinette. Captain Rio had gone down with his ship.
Gabe stood, and Maya rose with him, still holding his hand.
“Come on,” he said. “They’re waiting. We won’t have much time.”
“Sure we will,” Maya replied, releasing his hand and hurrying to pack some things. She glanced back over her shoulder at him. “Sure we will.”
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Alena came awake with a start, drawing a sharp breath and jerking a bit in the chair. She woke to a painful stiffness in her back and a headache that started above her right eye and spiked in deep. The sun was too bright, and she raised her head and turned away, settling down again where she had fallen asleep the night before—at David’s desk, in his office.
Memory returned, unwelcome. Then, much as she wished it, sleep refused to claim her again.
The doorbell chimed, its echo lingering too long.
“Son of a bitch,” she rasped.
Sitting up, she slid her hands across the desk and knocked last night’s whiskey glass onto the floor. It shattered on the wood, a few ounces of amber liquid dappling the boards, beading up like mercury.
Had the doorbell already rung once? Was that what had woken her?
Alena rose, pushing back the chair, and cast a baleful glance at the broken glass, as though it had leaped from the desk to its splintered doom purely to vex her. Unsteady on her feet, she paused in the open office door, surprised to find that she gripped something in her left hand. Even as she glanced down, fingers opening, she remembered clutching the thing last night, tapping the desk with it, idly passing it from hand to hand, contemplating it. As if it were some sacred talisman, she had fallen asleep with it tight in her grasp.
Now she stared at the object in her open palm—a shard of glassy, volcanic rock only slightly bigger than a marble.
The doorbell rang again.
“Goddammit!” Alena cried, and hurled the rock shard back into the room, where it struck one of the ocean charts David had pinned to the wall and fell harmlessly to the floor.
All of the charts and news clippings were still on the wall, all of the maps still spread on the table, all of the rock samples and photographs still arrayed on the shelves with her grandson’s books and journals.
Alena left them behind, hurrying down the stairs now that she had come fully awake. She ran both hands through her silver hair, unruly from sleep, and smoothed the front of the charcoal-black top she’d been wearing the night before.
When she unlocked the door and pulled it open, she found General Henry Wagner standing out on the sidewalk of M Street, his face drawn into the sorrowful grimace of a penitent child.
“Alena,” he said.
She put a hand to her head, massaging her right temple. “Hank,” she said. “Come in. I need an entire bottle of Excedrin.”
Leaving him on the threshold, she turned and strode into the kitchen. Her eyes itched and her head felt like someone had lodged an axe in her skull and just now decided to work it back and forth, trying to free it.
The general must have closed the front door and followed, because by the time she retrieved the Excedrin from a cabinet, filled a glass of water, and tossed back four of the pills, the man was standing in the kitchen half a dozen feet away from her.
Hank Wagner stood six and a half feet tall and had the build of a washed-up football star. Fifty-two or -three, he had done nothing to remedy his thinning blond hair or the failing eyesight that required thick glasses on gold wire rims. Sometimes dour, always intense, the general had always struck her as a good man who believed he had found his calling. If she would not have called him a friend, that detracted not at all from the respect she felt for him.
In the eleven years since he had taken the place of the general who had run her division before him, Hank Wagner had never once showed up at her front door. In fact, now that she considered it, he had never been to her residence.
“Alena, I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” he said.
She considered putting on a pot of coffee, but realized that would be an invitation for him to stay long enough to drink it.
“Thank you, General.”
If it insulted him that she would remain so formal, Hank Wagner didn’t show it.
“How are you?”
Alena attempted a wry smile, expecting it to come off tragic and sad, but knowing even as the expression contorted her face that she had only managed brittle and bitter.
“My daughter, Marie—David’s mother—has severed all ties with me.”
The big man shrank a little. “I’m sorry. That’s awful.”
That smile again, no better than before. “Apparently she needs to blame me. I forged him, you see, from the time he was a little boy. His passion for science and discovery was my fault.”
“Alena—”
“No,” she said, and now, somehow, she felt herself relax. Maybe the Excedrin taking effect. “It’s all right. I’ll take the credit, and the blame. If my work inspired him, I think of it as a gift. And when my own enthusiasm flagged—it does sometimes, you know. I’m not as young as I used to be. When I faltered, he’d give the gift right back with fresh insight and inspiration.”
The moment dragged long enough to become awkward. Wagner seemed at a loss, as though trying to figure out how to frame his next thought.
“You didn’t come here to ask how I’m faring,” Alena said.
The general slid his hands into his pockets. “Not exactly.”
“You’ve got a case. Let me guess, the skeletons at Mount Kazbek?”
Wagner nodded, then gave a small shrug. “I’ve got to send someone. Sarah Ernst resigned yesterday, Ridge is dead, and without you and David … well, I need to rebuild, and I was hoping you could offer me some guidance. You know everyone in this field. Any suggestions?”
Alena rubbed her eyes. Her headache had begun to recede nicely, but the whiskey from the night before had still left her feeling like her skull was stuffed with cotton.
“There’s a little bakery up the street with excellent coffee,” she said. “Would you take a walk up there, pick me up a cinnamon Danish and a massive cup of the hazelnut blend, and whatever you want?”
Confused, the general shrugged again. “Of course. And then—”
“While you’re gone I’ll shower and change, and throw a bag together.”
Wagner held up both hands. “Wait a minute, Alena, I’m not asking you to do this. Honestly, I assumed … well, I just figured this would be it for you.”
Alena Boudreau narrowed her eyes. “Eleven years, and you don’t know me at all, Hank. My daughter won’t speak to me anymore, but David would be horrified if I let that stop me. Our goals have always been clear—keep searching, keep discovering, keep drawing back the curtains to get at the world’s mysteries.”
The general smiled. “David thought this case was a waste of time.”
“No,” she said. “He just had other things on his mind. And when I get back from Mount Kazbek, we’re going to talk about those things. If there are three of these habitats out there, you and I both know there could be more. The sooner we find them, the sooner
we can destroy them, and we’ll save a lot of lives.”
“All that in exchange for coffee and a Danish?”
Alena chuckled. “Actually, you’d better make it two coffees and throw in a chocolate cruller. It’ll save me having to make David breakfast.”
“It’s a deal,” Wagner said. “As long as you’re sure he won’t mind.”
“Mind? He loves chocolate crullers.”
“That’s not what I meant. Is he going to be all right with you going away?”
Now Alena rolled her eyes. “Please. He’ll be thrilled to be rid of me. I’ve been hovering over him constantly. He says it’s very ‘un-Alena’ of me. Besides, the nurse who comes in to look after him is very cute. I’m sure I’m cramping his style.”
It was Wagner’s turn to chuckle.
Promising a swift return, he left for the bakery, and Alena let her smile fade. Everything she’d said had been the truth, but it did nothing to lighten her heart. Marie blamed her for what had happened to David, but no more than Alena blamed herself.
She climbed the stairs, but did not go to her own room. Instead, she continued up to the third floor and looked in on David, relieved to find that he was still sleeping. He needed his rest, and the painkillers helped. Though the doctors seemed confident he would walk again, the damage to his legs—the left in particular—had been substantial.
She started to pull his door closed, but then thought better of it. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully now, but his dreams had been worse than ever. If he woke from a nightmare, she wanted to be there.
When the general returned, she would rouse David and fill him in on her trip to Mount Kazbek. And then she would repeat the promise she had made to him every day since they had returned home, that when he was better, they would start over.
They would chase the nightmares together.
ST. CROIX
The Hotel Caravelle on the island of St. Croix boasted a popular restaurant called Rum Runners. With an awning that stretched across an outdoor patio, expanding the dining area, Rum Runners looked much like a thousand other waterfront restaurants in a thousand other places. But the view made all the difference.
