“I don’t owe anybody anything,” Ephraim said.
“You owe yourself that,” Mary said. She hoped her own lack of conviction was not communicating itself to him. “Please.”
Ephraim was still as stone. For a long moment, with the sound of an aircraft getting louder outside the church, he stood at the front of the aisle beneath the double altar and the illuminated window.
Then he lowered the gun. His face relaxed and his head slumped to one side. “I have to ask him,” he said. “I’ll ask him why he did this to me.”
Mary walked slowly toward him and tried to remove the gun from his hand. He pulled away suddenly, eyes frantic. “I’ll give it back to you but you have to promise…if I ask for it again, if I can’t stand it, you’ll let me do this thing?”
Mary pulled her hands in. “Please.”
“Promise me that. If I know there’s a way out, I might be able to take the rest. But if I have to remember forever…”
“All right,” said another voice within her. “I promise.” She shivered, hearing those words, seeing the person inside her that spoke them: tall and nightcolored. Her highest and best self. The young oriental woman remained; but like a mother become daughter to her own child, accepted her, deferred to the new.
Ephraim lowered his eyes and handed her the pistol. “Put it where I can’t see it but know where it is.”
She took a deep breath and put the pistol back into her pocket.
“Are they here?” he asked weakly.
“They’re coming,” she said. Mary embraced him, then took his shoulders and held him at arm’s length. “Stay inside. Stay here for a minute.”
Pushing through the main doors, she blinked at the bright sunshine. Soulavier and Charles stood on a bank of iceplant beyond the church lawn and the white sand and gravel drive. They looked northwest and shaded their eyes.
Soulavier turned and waved to her. “One of your own, I think,” he shouted across the distance.
Dark gray and green, the Dragonfly skipped over the blocky calcite crystal houses and buildings of Terrier Noir, wide twin blades balancing it along its center line, bugeye canopy foremost, gear rapidly and precisely falling and locking. She waved. It performed a quick circuit of the church grounds and rolled almost on its side like a banking bird. Warm air kicked against her face and hair, the low insistent drumbeat of the props comfortable and reassuring in her ears.
On the underwings USCG and a star stood out in lighter gray outlined in black.
The Dragonfly landed on the church lawn between Mary and Soulavier. The broad screwblade props slowed and elevated like swords in salute. The female pilot leaped deftly from a side hatch and ran across the grass to her.
“Mary Choy?” the woman asked breathlessly, removing her helmet.
“Yes,” she said.
“We’ve got three minutes before some Hispaniolan sparrows give us a wrinkle. Care to join us?” The pilot shifted nervously on both feet, keeping watch on the sky. Her copilot circled the craft and held a gun on Soulavier and the prêt’ savan.
“They’re all right,” Mary called out. The copilot lowered the gun a hair and motioned for the two men to come around to the door of the church.
“Federal Public Defense and the United States Coast Guard extend their greetings and invitation,” the pilot said. She smiled, still twitching all caution all alertness. “Supers told me you were transform. Boy, are you.”
Mary ignored the comment. “There’s two of us.”
“As planned. Is he mobile?”
“I think so.”
“Not one of them?” She pointed at Soulavier and Charles.
“He’s in the church.”
“Bring him out and we’ll load him.”
Mary and the copilot entered the church and came out with Ephraim Ybarra. Soulavier stood silent by the side of the church path, hands prominently displayed, watching the pilot intently.
“So you’re with the Uncles?” Mary heard the pilot ask him.
“Yes,” Soulavier answered.
“Rough go here, wouldn’t you say?”
He said nothing. When Ybarra was aboard the Dragonfly, Mary jogged across to Soulavier. “If it’s a choice of exile or punishment, maybe you should come with us,” she said.
“No, thank you,” he said.
“Let’s go,” the pilot urged, boarding the craft through the side hatch.
Charles stood behind Soulavier, enchanted by the spectacle.
“Of course,” Mary said. “You have family here.”
“Yes. I know who I am here.”
She looked him over, feeling a sharp spike of concern. “Thank you.” She took his outstretched hand, then stepped forward and hugged him firmly. “Gratitude isn’t enough, Henri.”
He smiled tightly. “Queen of Angels,” he said. “My conscience.”
She released him. “You should be in charge here, not Yardley.”
“Oh, my Lord, no,” Soulavier protested, backing off as if stung by a bee. “I would become like them all. Hispaniolans are not easy to govern. We drive leaders mad.”
‘“Bo-a-a-ard,” the pilot called from the bugeye canopy.
Mary jogged back to the hatch as the screw blades lowered and began to spin. The Dragonfly rose quickly. Mary watched through the hatch window as the seat harness wrapped around her midriff. Soulavier and Charles stood on the white gravel path leading to the church of John D’Arqueville, two toy figures beside a stylish arrangement of huge bones. She looked at Ephraim in his harness, face blank as a child’s. He seemed to be asleep again.
“No sparrows,” the pilot said cheerily from the front left hand seat. “Miami in ninety minutes.”
The valley and aqueduct of Terrier Noir, broad green and brown hills and mountains, a reservoir, the northern shore, and finally the island itself passed behind and could no longer be seen.
70
“Looks like a hotel,” Carol observed as the limousine pulled into the entry of Albigoni’s mansion. She reached out and gripped Martin’s hand. “Have we got our facts in order?”
“No,” Martin said. “Albigoni can’t expect anything until we learn more about Goldsmith.”
“Into the lion’s den, unarmed,” Carol said.
Martin nodded grimly and stepped through the car’s open door.
Again, the prevalence of dead and preserved wood oppressed him. He hurried Carol through the wide hall to Albigoni’s office and library. A tall, tan transform he had not met before led the way, opening the office door and standing aside.
Mrs. Albigoni—Ulrika, Martin remembered—stood by the window, dressed in black. He was reminded of how little time had passed since the murders. She turned her lined face on Martin and Carol, nodded curtly but said nothing, and returned her unfocused gaze to the window.
Thomas Albigoni stood by his desk. “I don’t believe you’ve met my wife,” he said hoarsely. His skin color had not improved; Martin wondered whether he should seek medical attention. His rumpled longsuit might have served as pajamas the night before.
Mrs. Albigoni did not respond to the amenities. Mr. Albigoni took his seat behind the desk. “I’ve come up with some additional facts on Goldsmith,” he said. “But perhaps nothing really helpful. He was adopted at age fourteen by a black Jewish couple in New York. He took their name and religion. I had to spend a fair amount of money to find this out. There is no record—none, anyway, that I could get access to—of his having a brother. But it’s possible. His real parents are dead. Both died violently.”
“I thought you could search out anything,” Martin said.
Mr. Albigoni lifted his shoulders wearily. “Not when New York City has screwed up important file libraries. All of Goldsmith’s childhood was lost in a programming botch in 2023. He’s one of seven thousand orphaned North Americans without a history.”