The music was louder now, the source a yellow glow. It wasn’t until he had reached the end of the driveway that Ben realized that the yellow glow was the big twelve-pane window of the living room, and the music was someone playing the piano.
He knew that living room well, as he knew all the rooms of the big mansion. He’d wandered them all, for hours. He knew that the huge living room always smelled faintly of woodsmoke from the big fireplace. He knew that the couches were deep and comfortable and the rugs soft and thick.
He walked straight up to the window. The snow was already filling in the tracks his shoes made. No one could see him, no one could hear him.
He was tall, and could see over the windowsill if he stood on tiptoe. Light had drained from the sky, and he knew no one in the room could see him outside.
The living room was like something out of a painting. Hundreds of candles flickered everywhere—on the mantelpiece, on all the tables. The coffee table held the remains of a feast—half a ham on a carving board, a huge loaf of bread, a big platter of cheeses, several cakes, and two pies. A teapot, cups, glasses, an open bottle of wine, a bottle of whiskey.
Water pooled in his mouth. He hadn’t eaten for two days. His empty stomach ached. He could almost smell the food in the room through the windowpane.
Then food completely disappeared from his mind.
A lovely voice rang out, clear and pure, singing a Christmas carol he’d heard in a shopping mall once while he helped his dad panhandle. Something about a shepherd boy.
It was Caroline’s voice. He’d recognize it anywhere.
A frigid gust of wind buffeted the garden, raking his face with sleet. He didn’t even feel it as he edged his head farther up over the windowsill.
There she was! As always, his breath caught when he saw her.
She was so beautiful, it sometimes hurt him to look at her. When she visited him in the shelter, he’d refuse to look at her for the first few minutes. It was like looking into the sun.
He watched her hungrily, committing each second to memory. He remembered every word she’d ever spoken to him, he’d read and reread every book she’d ever brought him, he remembered every item of clothing he’d ever seen her in.
She was at the piano, playing. He’d never seen anyone actually play the piano, and it seemed like magic to him. Her fingers moved gracefully over the black and white keys, and music poured out like water in a stream. His head filled with the wonder of it.
She was in profile. Her eyes were closed as she played, a slight smile on her face, as if she and the music shared a secret understanding. She was singing another song even he recognized. “Silent Night.” Her voice rose, pure and light.
The piano was tall and black, with lit candles held in shiny brass holders along the sides.
Though the entire room was filled with candles, Caroline glowed more brightly than any of them. She was lit with light, her pale skin gleaming in the glowing candlelight as she sang and played.
The song came to an end, and her hands dropped to her lap. She looked up, smiling, at the applause, then started another carol, her voice rising pure and high.
The whole family was there. Mr. Lake, a big-shot businessman, tall, blond, looking like the king of the world. Mrs. Lake, impossibly beautiful and elegant. Toby, Caroline’s seven-year-old brother. There was another person in the room, a handsome young man. He was elegantly dressed, his dark blond hair combed straight back. His fingers were beating time with the carol on the piano top. When Caroline stopped playing, he leaned down and gave her a kiss on the mouth.
Caroline’s parents laughed, and Toby did a somersault on the big rug.
Caroline smiled up at the handsome young man and said something that made him laugh. He bent to kiss her hair.
Ben watched, his heart nearly stopping.
This was Caroline’s boyfriend. Of course. They shared a look—blond, poised, privileged. Good-looking, rich, educated. They belonged to the same species. They were meant to be together, it was so clear.
His heart slowed in his chest. For the first time, he felt the danger from the cold. He felt its icy fingers reaching out to him to drag him down to where his father had gone.
Maybe he should just let it take him.
There was nothing for him here, in this lovely candlelit room. He would never be a part of this world. He belonged to the darkness and the cold.
Ben dropped back down on his heels, backing slowly away from the house until the yellow light of the window was lost in the sleet and mist. He was shaking with the cold as he trudged back down the driveway, the wet snow seeping through the holes in his shoes to soak his feet.
Half an hour later, he came to the interstate junction and stopped, swaying on his feet.
The human in him wanted to sink to the ground, curl up in a ball, and wait for despair and then death to take him, as they had taken his father. It wouldn’t take long.
But the animal in him was strong and wanted, fiercely, to live.
To the right, the road stretched northward, right up into Canada. To the left, it went south.
If he went north, he would die. It was as simple as that.
Turning left, Ben shuffled forward, head low, into the icy wind.
One
Summerville, Washington
Christmas Eve
Twelve years later
She was here.
He could feel her, he could smell her.
Walking into the small bookshop with the old-fashioned bell over the door, the man now known as Jack Prescott knew he’d found her.
He was exhausted, having traveled for forty-eight hours straight, on a pirogue from Obuja to Freetown, via Air Afrique from Lungi Airport to Paris, Air France from Paris to Atlanta, Delta from Atlanta to Seattle, then a rickety puddle jumper he could have flown better himself to Summerville.
Even through his exhaustion, though, his senses were keen. Twelve years later, he could still recognize her touches. The candles on the windowsill, the gentle harp music playing faintly in the background, a smell of cinnamon, vanilla, roses and her. Unmistakable, unforgettable.
Coming in from the airport, the news that she was still in Summerville and, astonishingly, still single had blown him away. He hadn’t been expecting that. He hadn’t been expecting anything but difficulty and frustration in tracking her down.
He had all the time in the world to do it in, now.
Colonel Eugene Prescott’s death had freed him from bonds of loyalty and love. The day after the Colonel’s death, Jack had sold ENP Security and flown to Sierra Leone to take care of the last of his responsibility to the man who’d become his father.
It had cost gunfire and bloodshed, pain and violence, but he’d taken care of the mess as his father had asked on his deathbed. Jack had done what had to be done, salvaged his father’s reputation, punished the fuckers who’d mounted a rogue operation, and was finally, finally free from all responsibility for the first time in twelve years.