I nodded, somber. Rachael and I allowed ourselves many luxuries: dinner out, damned good beer, feeding our creative needs for more art supplies and techno-gizmos. But this life didn’t come cheap.
“I know, babe. And I don’t know. The old man knows a lot. A helluva lot, stuff from well beyond The Brink. I don’t know how he got it all. Guess he’s not as daffy—or removed—as we Morlocks think he is.”
I pulled her close, sighing. Bliss hopped from my lap.
“Listen to me. ‘We Morlocks.’ Let me put it this way: I’d fire me.”
“Not good,” she whispered. “But you saved Drake.”
“In a way,” I agreed, and this was true. I kissed her head. I inhaled her scent and closed my eyes, wanting nothing more than more, more of this, for as long as I could. “He needed the blood washed from his hands. The blood of a Russian and his family. Eye for eye, punishment, remorse. Paid in full. I hope.”
The silence between us now was both comforting and anxious. His past had been put to rest. My future was in tatters. Had it been worth it?
“Yes,” Rachael whispered, as if reading my thoughts. “I hope so, too.”
We held each other, silent again, surrounded by our glowing chili pepper halo.
“Did you see it?” she asked. “Did you really see it?”
The Dark Man. Chernobog.
“I’ll tell you what the therapist saw,” I said. “Paranoia. Superstition saturation. My fear of the dark, cranked up past ten. But if you want to know what Z saw… and felt… yeah. It was as real as it gets.”
“Mmm.”
Her breathing became softer, as did mine. Sleep, finally. Sleep.
Bzzzzzz.
We perked up, confused.
My cell phone vibrated against our steamer trunk table again, then stopped. Skeleton song chimed from its speaker.
I pulled away from her, already missing her warmth, picking up the phone. A text message, from…
“Dr. Peterson?” I said.
We leaned against each other, shoulders touching, as I slid open the phone’s tiny keyboard. The message blinked to life on the LCD screen.
LEAVE OF ABSENCE CANCELED. NIGHT SHIFT R.N. REPORTS ERRATIC BEHAVIOR IN YOUR PATIENT, JAMES VAN ZANDT. REPORT TO BRINK, TOMORROW AM. IT WOULD BE PRUDENT…
There was more to the message. I clicked the keypad’s “down” arrow.
…TO BRUSH UP ON YOUR MONOPOLY, it read.
“Jimmy Van Zandt,” I said. I turned to her, grinning. “They call him ‘Park Place.’ Autistic, impenetrable, obsessed with that board game.”
She smiled back, and leaned in. We kissed.
“So, ‘James Bond Will Return,’” she said, quoting the line at the end of nearly every 007 film. “What’s this adventure going to be called, hottie artist?”
I chuckled. “I’ll tell you in the morning, geek goddess,” I said, and we kissed again, more passionately this time.
We stumbled through our apartment, a tangle of rushing hands and half-kisses, far too tired for lovemaking, too far in love to care. The cats scattered, leaving us to the bedroom and our impatient romance. We needed this, this closeness, this being.
The bed was cold, but not for long, and when it came time to dim the bedside “Zach light,” I twisted its knob further and further, until I could barely see her exquisite face.
“Are you okay?” she asked, gazing down at me.
“I’m learning to live a little dangerously,” I said. “I’m okay. I’m… I’m okay.”
And for now, this was also true.
The light clicked off. We glowed bright, in the darkness.
Copyright
Copyright © 2009 by Smith & Tinker, Inc. All rights reserved. Manufactured in China. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
eISBN 9781429989367
First eBook Edition: April 2011
First Edition: June 2009