Cam said, “If I were a vampire, I’d set Dr. Maddox the noble goal of working on changing my diet.”
Connie grinned, shook her head at Cam. “Whatever way you lean on the mortality versus the immortality issue, one thing makes me very happy. Kara has her baby back.”
Bolt said, “Amen to that.” He looked down at his watch, jumped up. “Speaking of time, I just ran out. I promised my wife I’d be home by ten. Now I’m in trouble. It’s possible I’d need all of Sherlock’s extra years to make it up to her.”
Connie rose with him. “I wonder, with two hundred years, how all our marriages would fare? Only one husband or wife for the duration, until death do us part at the end of the millennium? Bolt, I’ll check with your wife, see what she thinks about that.”
When Savich and Sherlock came back into the living room after showing out the CARD agents, Jack said, “Savich, I heard you saying you need to hit the gym, it’s been four days and your body’s yelling at you. I’ll go with you, do some lower body.”
Cam rolled her eyes at him. “Don’t be an idiot. You can’t use that arm for at least a week, doctor’s orders. There’s no such thing as only lower body, all of you would be involved. It should be weeks before you work out.” She turned to Savich. “You say your bod is yelling at you after only four days? Mine is saying, ‘Leave me alone to nap and grow fat cells’ and contemplate a new vampire diet, say peanut butter being the primary food source.”
Ollie laughed, pointed his licked fork at Jack. “My recommendation is three months, Jack, and make sure your will is in order if you’re planning on going hand to hand with him. He shows no mercy. I learned my lesson a long time ago.”
“My will? Savich is that scary? Okay, then, if he is, I should make some changes. After evaluating Agent Wittier in close quarters for the past three days, I’ve decided to leave her my most valuable possession.”
She cocked her head at him, sending a thick hank of wavy blond hair listing over her left eye. “You’ve been evaluating me? Okay, Cabot. I’ll bite. What is your most valuable possession?”
“My dog Cropper. He’s hanging out right now with my brother in New York State—in White Plains. I’ll need your muscle to help me liberate him from my brother’s wife and three boys. You can drive the getaway car.”
She pictured it, smiled. “Do you know, I’d like to have a dog. I’ve traveled so much since I’ve been out of the academy, I never thought it would be fair to have a pet. But now I’m settled here in Washington, why not? Cropper, that’s a good name. What is he?”
“Purebred mongrel. Got him when he was a puppy at the pound.”
“How big is he?”
“You need a king-size bed and ear plugs. He snores.”
“Okay,” Cam said, “I’ll take him.”
“Since this is in my will, you might not get him until his golden years.”
Ruth said, “Now that Cropper’s taken care of, Sherlock, I don’t suppose there’s one tiny piece of apple pie left, maybe hidden in the kitchen?”
Jack said, “If you’re hiding some, Sherlock, I need it more than Ruth. To get my strength back. Here’s another idea—leave this goombah and come live with me. I’ll provide the apples and the oven and endless praise.”
Cam looked at Jack. “Nah, you can forget Sherlock. If we had two hundred years, she’d sign up for all of them with Dillon.”
“I might,” Sherlock said, and waggled her eyebrows. “I’ll give it a lot of thought, let you know.” She leaned over and patted Cam’s shoulder. “You know, Cam, I’m thinking you should be our guest tonight at Hotel Savich, or maybe Hotel Savich and Infirmary. You can have the guest room, and Jack can sleep in Sean’s room and talk sports until our boy conks out. Sorry, but there’ll be no stopping Astro from licking your face.”
Jack said, “Not a problem, Sean and I can talk basketball. Believe me, I’m used to Cropper’s big tongue.” He arched an eyebrow at Cam. “Maybe if Sean wakes me up with a snort or two, I could check in to see how well Wittier’s sleeping, maybe spoon her, make her feel all safe and warm.”
Sherlock watched Cam smiling as she punched Jack on his uninjured arm. If Sherlock had to guess, she’d say Cam thought spooning with Jack could be a fine idea.
She said, “Cam, would you like another glass of wine since you’re not driving tonight?”
Sherlock handed her a glass of chardonnay, watched her chug it down, keeping one eye on Jack, a bit of appalled comprehension on her face. Sherlock looked over at Dillon, who was eyeing the two of them. He could thank her later for that very smooth move. He did want Jack to transfer out of the New York Field Office and come to Washington. And after tonight, who knew? Dillon might get his wish.
After Ruth and Ollie left, Savich walked Astro to his favorite oak tree down the block. It was clear and warm, a beautiful night, the stars vivid in the sky. His neighbors’ lights were going off, one after the other. It had been a long, nonstop week for both him and Sherlock and all the agents visiting them tonight. He looked forward to relaxing and playing with Sean over the weekend, trying to put their world back into place, life back into perspective. When Astro finished with his oak tree of choice, he gave a little bark and a hop, raised his head for Savich to praise him, which he did. Satisfied, Astro pranced back to the Savich driveway.
Two hours later, Hotel Savich was quiet, all the lights out. Both Sean and Astro were snuggled together and sound asleep. Jack lay on his back in Sean’s room on a single bed, his feet hanging off the end, his head pillowed in his arms. He got up, looked down at Sean, listened to him snort a couple of times, petted Astro’s head, and made his way quietly to the guest room.
He opened the door, looked over at the bed, and smiled. He didn’t know what had taken him so long to decide about Cam Wittier. It was time to try his hand at spooning.
EPILOGUE
ARTHUR CHILDERS’S HOSPITAL ROOM
WASHINGTON MEMORIAL HOSPITAL
WASHINGTON, D.C.
FRIDAY MORNING
Alex slept pressed against Kara’s heart, his fist in his mouth. “I’m glad you’re asleep,” she whispered, kissing his forehead, “because the milk truck is empty.” She smiled hugely, rocking him.
Kara laid her sleeping baby into his bassinet, and walked back to sit beside Arthur and started talking, so used to speaking to him she didn’t even think about it. “They told me your name is Arthur Childers. I still can’t get my brain around everything that’s happened since you burst into my house last Sunday, a crazy man I’d never seen before in my life. Can you believe what’s happened? Well, of course you can’t, you haven’t even been here. But it’s over now, Arthur. You’re safe, and Alex is safe. Everything will be all right as soon as you heal up, as soon as you wake up. The marks on your skin are fading, and Dr. Wordsworth says you’re getting better every day.
“Sherlock says you’re thirty-eight, and it’s that fountain of youth drug that makes you look younger than I am. I told you I have your whole bio now. Agent Sherlock uploaded it to my tablet. You’re a scientist, you work at NASA, officially still on a sabbatical to work with scientists at the Sondheim Institute in Stockholm, but of course you never showed up.”
She paused a moment, turned to look back toward Alex. “Imagine that, Alex, your daddy is a rocket scientist. Maybe he was working on a spaceship to Mars.” She turned back, lightly touched her fingertips to Arthur’s cheek, squeezed his hand. “You realize I don’t blame you for any of what happened. You didn’t inject your sperm into my cervix, that was Dr. Lister Maddox. As for Sylvie, I have to admit I really was a gullible fool. I fell for her instant friendship-kismet deal right away. I’m still angry at what she did, and I hope they put her in jail. As for Dr. Maddox, I hope they shove him in a black hole somewhere, forever. Yet isn’t it amazing what came out of an evil man’s plans? We got Alex. And we got each other.”
She squeezed his hand. “Sherlock told me your wife died in an automobile accident five years ago, and you don’t have an
y children. I’m very sorry about that, but now you have a son. I can’t imagine what your parents will say when they see you again. Sherlock said she’s contacting them today, and when you wake up, you and I can talk to them together. It will be difficult, trying to explain to them what happened to you. We’ll see what Sherlock recommends.”
His breathing stayed smooth and even.
“I hope you never remember too much about what happened to you. I really don’t understand it all, but I do know it all has to do with your genome and mine, and ours being somehow special.
“Did you understand what he was doing to you? Or did he keep you drugged to your gills the whole time you were his test subject, his prisoner? I have a hard time not wanting to kill him, Arthur, shoot him dead for what he did to you, and what he planned to do to Alex and me. I am so grateful you managed to escape him and come to me. To us.”
She lightly squeezed his hand, warm, alive. “It’s good to have everyone gone, to have some silence again. Are you tired of hearing my voice? Do you want me to stop? Sorry, not going to happen.
“Arthur, five days have passed and my life has changed so much. When you wake up, you’ll see that yours has changed as well, and for the better. I pray you’ll give Alex and me a chance.”
She heard Alex sucking on his fingers, the only sound in the silence.
“I like your name. Arthur Childers, well, Dr. Arthur Childers. Do you have a nickname, like Art or Artie? I think I prefer Arthur, it’s a good name, a solid name.” Kara leaned close, whispered against his cheek. “Arthur, it’s really time for you to wake up and meet your son.”
He lay so quiet, so very quiet, and he breathed slowly and steadily. She got up and picked up Alex, burped him, and snuggled him against her. She rocked him, sat down again. “Arthur, everyone wants you to wake up. There are questions only you can answer.”
Kara fell silent. She was out of words. She leaned close, lightly kissed his slack mouth. “Arthur, it’s time for you to wake up before I become permanently hoarse from talking so much. I think I’ve told you about every minute of my life, all my twenty-seven years. I hope you won’t think I’m stupid. You know I’m an artist, not a scientist.”
Alex gave a little shudder.
“What are you dreaming about, sweetheart?” She held him close, kept rocking him. He was deeply asleep. She carried him to his bassinet and tucked him in once more, then returned to her vigil beside Arthur Childers’s bed. She felt exhaustion hit her like a hammer. She fell asleep holding his hand.
She awoke slowly, aware of a man’s voice very close to her. “You’re—Kara.” He spoke slowly, his voice slurred.
She raised her head and looked into beautiful eyes as green as moss. He smiled at her.
“Hello, Arthur. I’m glad you’re back. Would you like to meet your son?”
“My son—Alex.”
EPILOGUE
THE WILLOWS
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
FRIDAY NOON
Hannah gently wiped the smear of lentil soup off his mouth, offered another spoonful, pressing down on his lower lip. He took the soup in, swallowed, turned his head away, and closed his eyes.
“That tasted good, didn’t it, Beau? You rest now while I read to you. It’s a Hercule Poirot mystery. Remember you always liked Agatha Christie?”
Hannah rose, leaned down, and kissed his forehead, ran her fingers over his beautiful face, lightly stroked her fingers through his thick hair.
He’d been whole for five minutes, not completely whole, but he’d been aware of her and Lister, and he’d spoken. She wouldn’t think about what he’d said to her. He hadn’t meant it, not really, he simply hadn’t understood. If only he’d stayed with them, Hannah could have made him see that people who love each other grow older gently and gradually, with time for them to adjust. He’d been struck with everything at once. He didn’t understand why she looked older, that was all.
She didn’t know what would happen to him now. The FBI had sent a doctor to visit him yesterday, a Dr. Wordsworth from Washington Memorial in Washington. The doctor had been amazed at how young he looked, of course. At Hannah’s questions, she said that no one could know exactly what would happen now that he wouldn’t be receiving any more of Lister’s drugs, but she was inclined to agree with Lister that B.B. would probably start aging normally once again. If that was true, Hannah might be dead or infirm before he was a seventy-eight-year-old man again. She wanted to cry. Her beautiful Beau, blank-brained, uncaring, and unaware of anything or anyone, was housed in a beautiful fifty-year-old body. She still remembered his holding her, stroking her hair, making love to her. Better if the drug hadn’t brought him back, had given him fifteen more years, only to steal his mind again after such a short time.
She was feeling sorry for herself, for him, for them and what they’d once been together and would never be again. She carried his tray to the hallway and set it on a table and walked to the balcony that overlooked the entrance hall. No sign remained of the havoc of two days before, of what had been the end of all of it. Sylvie had been arrested by the FBI agents. What would happen to her daughter? No one would tell her anything yet. At least they hadn’t arrested her, thank heaven, not that she knew that much about what Lister had done or what Sylvie had done. Had Lister paid her money? She prayed with all her might they’d leave her alone, they had to, or who would take care of Beau?
There were no more secrets in this house. Ella, the woman who’d been in charge of the infant Alex Moody, had been taken away with Sylvie. Now it would be only she and the housekeeper and two maids inside, the three gardeners outside, and Berry, who’d so faithfully taken care of Beau’s precious yacht for so many years.
She didn’t want to think about what Lister had planned to do with the infant he’d had kidnapped, it both scared and sickened her. All she knew was Lister needed the infant to test his drugs. For his father. She realized how reprehensible that was, wondered at herself that she hadn’t stopped it earlier. It was all a mistake, meant to slay Lister’s dragons, not Beau’s. Beau hadn’t asked for any of it. Would he have if he’d been able? She didn’t know, didn’t want to know, ever.
Hannah sighed and walked back into the King’s Bedchamber. She paused in the doorway, looked at Beau sitting motionless in his wheelchair, his head down, as if he was studying his slippers. There was no use lying to herself, it was time to face the truth. Lister was not coming back with any more drugs, any more promises. Beau was gone forever now. She was all he had, and she’d never leave him, as long as she lived.
She looked around his precious King’s Bedchamber. She realized she hated this room. An exact copy of a centuries-old room, faded, pathetic, really. She wanted a soft carpet beneath her feet, not the wide oak planks. She wanted that absurd harpsichord out of here, and those bed hangings, she would burn them. Yes, she would change everything.
Hannah looked toward the Hercule Poirot she’d been going to read to him. No, let him sleep. She walked to the closet and began collecting Beau’s clothes. She would donate the lot to charity.
B. B. Maddox opened his eyes, raised his head. He watched Hannah as she took his clothes out of the closet. He thought she seemed tired, noticed how thick she looked around the middle. Why was that? She’d been so slender. He opened his mouth to ask her what she was doing with his clothes, but his head fell against his chest once again, and he slept.
EPILOGUE
THE CLIFFS OF MOHER
WEST COAST OF IRELAND
FRIDAY, SUNSET
“There’s no more beautiful spot on this blessed earth,” Liam said against Elena’s hair. “And glory be, it’s stopped raining. Now, girl, get ready for the show.”
“You’ve become a romantic.” Elena leaned up, bit his earlobe, and snuggled into him as they watched the huge orange sun slowly sink into the ocean. Tourists and locals alike fell silent, watching the spectacle, and let out a collective gasp when the sun at last disappeared, falling into the ocean. Liam helped Elen
a to her feet, brushed the dirt off her jeans. He cupped her face in his hands, kissed her cheek, her mouth. “You ready for a pint at the pub and a lively fiddle? This romantic is going to dance a jig with you.”
Elena, marveling at the vagaries of fate, put her hand in his. He would have to teach her how to dance an Irish jig.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Enigma is a work of fiction. Yet in today’s laboratories the search for the fountain of youth is no longer shrouded in mysticism and legend as it has been for millennia. As our tools improve and our research continues, we may find ourselves perilously close to James Hilton’s Shangri-La, where no one ages, or to Dr. Lister Maddox’s nightmare landscape.
Will we eventually take a pill to keep our youth, our health, and live longer? Say, two hundred years? We must always be careful what we wish for.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Catherine Coulter is the author of the New York Times–bestselling FBI Thrillers The Cove, The Maze, The Target, The Edge, Riptide, Hemlock Bay, Eleventh Hour, Blindside, Blowout, Point Blank, Double Take, TailSpin, KnockOut, Whiplash, Split Second, Backfire, Bombshell, Power Play, Nemesis, and Insidious. She coauthors with J.T. Ellison the New York Times–bestselling thriller series A Brit in the FBI: The Final Cut, The Lost Key, The End Game, and The Devil’s Triangle. Coulter lives in beautiful Sausalito, California.
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