by J. B. Turner
“All good, Jon. Welcome back.”
Epilogue
Three months later, the golden leaves falling as temperatures dropped across Maine, Reznick was sitting alone in the Rockland Tavern, nursing a beer, when his cell phone rang.
“Jon?” The raspy voice belonged to Jerry Meyerstein.
“Jerry, how are you?”
“I’m sorry I haven’t had the chance to thank you.”
“Relax. You have nothing to thank me for.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Jon. I asked you to go over there. And you risked your life. So did your daughter.”
“Well, we had a good outcome.”
“It was a great outcome. You took the fucker down. And I owe you so much.”
“What’s done is done. How’s Martha?”
“I thought I had lost her.” Jerry sighed, his voice breaking with emotion. “I thought I had lost her.”
“She’s tough. Like her dad.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I haven’t got long. But I’m at peace knowing we got her back home. Flesh and blood, Jon. Nothing more valuable. It’s all we have.”
Reznick took a gulp of his beer. “All there is, Jerry.”
The man cleared his throat. “I’m calling, belatedly, just to thank you. My wife was ill when we heard about the explosion. It nearly killed her when we heard. But she’s now back to her old self since Martha’s return.”
“I’m glad.”
“I’m at peace now.”
“I’m sorry, Jerry. About your prognosis, I mean.”
“It comes to us all, Jon. Listen, the next time you’re in Chicago, be sure to come around for a drink. Make it soon.”
“I hear what you’re saying. You got a deal.”
“And bring your daughter too. Maybe catch a ball game. I believe in a month’s time the Giants are in town playing the Bears. How does that sound?”
“Sounds good.”
“Then that’s settled.”
“How’s Martha?”
A sigh. “Martha is . . . Jon, the physical scars are there, but they’re healing. The mental scars? That’ll take a bit more time. She lost her friend.”
“I know. Look, I’ve been meaning to call her,” Reznick said. “But I thought it best to wait until I knew she had fully recovered.”
“She’s been on a long vacation down in Florida. Boca Raton, I believe. But I know she’s been planning to contact you.”
“As long as she’s recovering, I’m happy.”
“Jon, thank God there are people like you. I owe you one. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.”
After the call, Reznick finished his drink and took the long way home to his isolated cabin on the outskirts of Rockland.
The moon illuminated the sodden leaves covering the path. The same path his late father had walked to and from his work at the sardine packing plant. The same path he’d walked down a million times. To the house his father had built with his own hands when he returned from Vietnam.
Up ahead, Reznick’s gaze was drawn to a car outside his home. A silhouetted figure was sitting inside the vehicle.
This time of night, it could be a few different people. Maybe Bill Eastland, the former police chief of Rockland, stopping by for a nightcap, which he sometimes did. Reznick’s mind flashed back to the surreal conversation with Moreles at Camp Peary when he got back from Mallorca. But as he got closer, Reznick could see it wasn’t Eastland or Moreles. The silhouetted figure was a woman.
The car door opened.
Wrapped up in an ankle-length coat and a scarf was Martha Meyerstein. “Hey . . .”
Reznick walked toward her. She was crying. He stood in front of her and smiled.
“Why didn’t you call?”
“Had a few things to take care of.”
“How are you now?”
“A few aches and pains, but hey, nothing to lose sleep over. Had a long vacation.”
“It’s great to see you again.”
“You too. Sorry to turn up unannounced.”
“How long have you been waiting?”
Martha took a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her eyes. “Not long. A lifetime, maybe. I don’t know.”
Reznick smiled. “I was just talking to your dad.”
“So I heard. He texted me just before you arrived.”
“Did you coordinate this?”
“A little, maybe.”
Reznick reached out and held her hand. “You’re freezing cold.”
Martha gazed at him and smiled.
“You wanna come inside? I’ll get some logs on the fire.”
Martha handed him a bottle of single malt scotch. “Strictly medicinal purposes, Jon.”
“Nice to have you back home.”
“Nice to be home.”
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my editor, Jack Butler, and everyone at Amazon Publishing for their enthusiasm, hard work, and belief in the Jon Reznick thriller series. I would also like to thank my loyal readers. Thanks also to Faith Black Ross for her terrific work on this book, and Caitlin Alexander in New York, who looked over an early draft. Special thanks to my agent, Mitch Hoffman, of the Aaron M. Priest Literary Agency, New York.
Last but by no means least, my family and friends for their encouragement and support. None more so than my wife, Susan.
About the Author
Photo © 2013 John Need
J. B. Turner is a former journalist and the author of the Jon Reznick series of action thrillers (Hard Road, Hard Kill, Hard Wired, Hard Way, Hard Fall, Hard Hit, and Hard Shot), the American Ghost series of black-ops thrillers (Rogue, Reckoning, and Requiem), and the Deborah Jones political thrillers (Miami Requiem and Dark Waters). He has a keen interest in geopolitics. He lives in Scotland with his wife and two children.
