She closed her notebook and glanced up to see Gabriel Dean walking toward her through the trees. Although her heart lifted at the sight of him, she greeted him with merely a nod, a look that said, Let’s keep it business.
He understood, and they faced each other as two professionals, careful not to betray any hint of the intimacies they had shared only two days before.
“The driver was hired six months ago by VIP Limousines,” she said. “The Yeagers, the Ghents, the Waites- he drove them all. And he had access to VIP’s pickup schedule. He must have seen my name on it. Canceled my scheduled pickup so that he could take the place of the driver who should have been there.”
“And VIP checked out his job references?”
“His references were a few years old, but they were excellent.” She paused. “There was no mention of any military service on his resume.”
“That’s because John Stark wasn’t his real name.”
She frowned at him. “Identity theft?”
Dean gestured toward the trees. They moved out of the clearing and started walking through the woods, where they could speak in private.
“The real John Stark died September 1999 in Kosovo,” said Dean. “U.N. relief worker, killed when his Jeep hit a land mine. He’s buried in Corpus Christi, Texas.”
“Then we don’t even know our man’s real name.”
Dean shook his head. “Fingerprints, dental X-rays, and tissue samples will be sent to both the Pentagon and Central Intelligence.”
“We won’t get any answers from them. Will we?”
“Not if the Dominator was one of theirs. As far as they’re concerned, you’ve taken care of their problem. Nothing more needs to be said or done.”
“I may have resolved their problem,” she said bitterly. “But mine is still alive.”
“Hoyt? He’ll never be a concern to you.”
“God, I should have squeezed off one more shot-”
“He’s probably quadriplegic, Jane. I can’t imagine any worse punishment.”
They emerged from the woods, onto the dirt road. The limousine had been towed away last night, but the evidence of what had transpired here still remained. She looked down at the dried blood where the man known as John Stark had died. A few yards away was the smaller stain where Hoyt had fallen, his limbs senseless, his spinal cord turned to pulp.
I could have finished it, but I let him live. And I still don’t know if it was the right thing to do.
“How are you, Jane?”
She heard the note of intimacy in his question, an unspoken acknowledgment that they were more than merely colleagues. She looked at him and was suddenly self-conscious about her battered face and the lump of bandage on her scalp. This was not the way she’d wanted him to see her, but now that she stood facing him there was no point hiding her bruises, nothing to do but stand straight and meet his gaze.
“I’m fine,” she said. “A few stitches on my scalp, a few sore muscles. And a really bad case of the uglies.” She waved vaguely at her bruised face and laughed. “But you should see the other guy.”
“I don’t think it’s good for you to be here,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s too soon.”
“I’m the one person who should be here.”
“You never cut yourself any slack, do you?”
“Why should I need to?”
“Because you’re not a machine. It will catch up with you. You can’t walk this site and pretend it’s just another crime scene.”
“That’s exactly how I’m treating it.”
“Even after what almost happened?”
What almost happened.
She looked down at the bloodstains in the dirt, and for an instant the road seemed to sway, as though a tremor had shaken the earth, rattling the carefully constructed walls she had put up as shields, threatening the very foundation upon which she stood.
He reached for her hand, a steady touch that brought tears to her eyes. A touch that said: Just this once, you have permission to be human. To be weak.
She said softly, “I’m sorry about Washington.”
She saw hurt in his eyes and realized that he had misunderstood her words.
“So you wish it never happened between us,” he said.
“No. No, that’s not it at all-”
“Then what are you sorry about?”
She sighed. “I’m sorry I left without telling you what that night meant to me. I’m sorry I never really said good-bye to you. And I’m sorry that…” She paused. “That I didn’t let you take care of me, just that once. Because the truth is, I really needed you to. I’m not as strong as I like to think I am.”
He smiled. Squeezed her hand. “None of us is, Jane.”
“Hey, Rizzoli?” It was Barry Frost, calling to her from the edge of the woods.
She blinked away tears and turned to him. “Yeah?”
“We just got a double ten fifty-four. Quik-Stop Grocery Store, Jamaica Plain. Dead store clerk and a customer. The scene’s already been secured.”
“Jesus. So early in the morning.”
“We’re next up for this one. You good to go?”
She drew in a deep breath and turned back to Dean. He had released her hand, and although she missed his touch, she felt stronger, the tremor silenced, the ground once again solid beneath her feet. But she was not ready to end this moment. Their last good-bye in Washington had been rushed; she wouldn’t let it happen again. She wouldn’t let her life turn into Korsak’s, a sad chronicle of regrets.
“Frost?” she said, her gaze still on Dean.
“Yeah?”
“I’m not coming.”
“What?”
“Let another team take it. I’m just not up to it right now.”
There was no response. She glanced at Frost and saw his stunned face.
“You mean… you’re taking the day off?” Frost said.
“Yeah. It’s my first sick leave. You got a problem with that?”
Frost shook his head and laughed. “About goddamn time, is all I can say.”
She watched Frost walk away. Heard him still laughing as he headed into the woods. She waited until Frost had vanished among the trees before she turned to look at Dean.
He held open his arms; she stepped into them.
TWENTY-SIX
Every two hours, they come to check my skin for bedsores. It is a rotating trio of faces:
Armina on day shift, Bella on evenings, and on the night shift the quiet and timid Corazon. My ABC girls, I call them. To the unobservant, they are indistinguishable from each other, all of them with smooth brown faces and musical voices. A chirpy chorus line of Filipinas in white uniforms. But I see the differences between them. I see it in the way they approach my bed, in the various ways they grasp me as they roll my torso onto one side or the other to reposition me on the sheepskin cover. Day and night, this must be done, because I cannot turn myself and the weight of my own body pressing down upon the mattress wears away at the skin. It compresses capillaries and interrupts the nourishing flow of blood, starving the tissues, turning them pale and fragile and easily abraded. One small sore can soon fester and grow, like a rat gnawing at the flesh.
Thanks to my ABC girls, I do not have any sores-or so they tell me. I cannot verify it because I can’t see my own back or buttocks, nor can I feel any sensation below my shoulders. I am completely dependent on Armina, Bella, and Corazon to keep me healthy, and like any infant, I pay rapt attention to those who tend me. I study their faces, inhale their scents, commit their voices to memory. I know that the bridge of Armina’s nose is not quite straight, that Bella’s breath often smells of garlic, and that Corazon has just the hint of a stutter.