"Go? Try it and I'll chain you to the bed," he said with a smile.
As though with a will of their own, his hands started moving across her back, down her sides to her hips.
She gently pushed back. "Later. When Manfred is not here."
The first lust he had felt in longer than he cared to remember had not made Lang forget the boy. "No harm in him seeing his parents' affection."
Gurt cocked an eyebrow. "Affection'? Another minute and you would have had me across the bed."
The growing discomfort from the catheter made Lang painfully aware of how right she was.
He leaned back into the pillows. "Exactly what do you have in mind? I mean, I better be planning on you staying this time."
He was afraid to bring up any arrangement that smacked of permanence. She had left his life twice before when he had.
"Manfred and I will be here at least until the hospital releases you. Longer if you wish."
Lang's eyes were riveted on his son, the child he was beginning to regard as miraculous as any held by one of Rubens's Madonnas. "I can't wait that long. Whoever blew up my condo is going to try again. I'm a sitting duck here."
"What do nesting birds have to do with it?" She was looking for a place to stub out her cigarette. She finally settled on a glass beside the bed before she returned to the chair. "There are men outside that look like policemen."
"They are, City of Atlanta. You lived here a year or so. Would you trust your life to the Atlanta police?"
She gave a toss of the head. "You do not have to. That is one of the reasons I came."
It was not bravado. She had saved his life more than once. After winning the agency's women's shooting competition, she had demanded a face-off with the male champion. She had humiliated him.
"You have a weapon?"
"I had no plans to protect you with a nail file."
"Manfred?"
"He will stay with Francis for the time being."
Francis, keeper of Lang's dog and now Lang's son. The priest was making his bid for sainthood.
Or institutional confinement.
Francis.
Lang recalled his friend's reaction when he had told him he thought he had dreamed of Gurt. "Francis, he…"
"He called me hours after you were admitted to the hospital. The doctors were not, er, optimistic."
Lang realized Francis had kept in touch with Gurt, maybe even knew about Manfred. He should feel annoyed, piqued that his friend had kept this information to himself.
But he was far too happy.
And too tired. His first few days back in the world had fatigued him far beyond anything he would have anticipated. He fought the gravitational pull of his eyelids as long as he could.
Then he slipped into sleep.
VI.
Park Place
2660 Peachtree Road Atlanta, Georgia A Month Later
Today was the first time Lang had seen his previous home since the blast. He had decided to rebuild section by section, starting with the tiny kitchen. A new wall oven was to be delivered from Home Depot today. So far it had not arrived.
The condominium association had replaced the exterior glass through which was a magnificent view of the city's premier avenue, a long stretch of pavement lined with blossoming trees that pointed like an arrow to the high- rise office buildings of downtown. That was the only thing unchanged. Today was also the first time Lang had had Manfred to himself. There had been moments when Gurt had been running errands or absent for some other reason but never far away. Lang's anticipation of the event had been more disturbing than the prospect of seeing his condo for the first time since the explosion. Lang was a newcomer in his son's life. What if the kid suddenly decided he wanted his mother? What if he suddenly got sick, developed one of those childhood diseases that seemed to come and go with the irregular suddenness of summer thunderstorms? There wasn't any Parenting for Dummies on the bookstore shelves.
Lang had fabricated a dozen excuses, some very good, why taking Manfred along was not a good idea. He was relieved when Gurt had dismissed them all with an arched eyebrow, an observation that children were not breakable and a reminder Lang had a lot of catching up to do.
The uncertainties evaporated as soon as Manfred put his small hand in Lang's, looked up with blue eyes expressing only pleasurable expectations and asked, "Where are we going today? Can Grumps come?"
How hard could fatherhood be?
Hadn't he been the closest thing to a father his nephew Jeff had? And Jeff had been only a year or so older than Manfred when Janet had adopted him. They had become instant buddies. Manfred would be fine. So would Lang.
Smelling of burned wood and mold, the condo resembled nothing more than some primeval cave. The walls were blackened as though from years of cooking fires. Glass crunched underfoot as he poked at this and that with one of his crutches while holding both the other and Manfred's hand.
The boy made an exaggerated show of holding his nose. "It stinks, Vati."
"Daddy," Lang corrected gently. "In America, I'm your daddy."
He had only about three years to make sure the boy spoke perfect English before he started school.
And it would be the city's best private school His son was bright and Lang had influence. He would also attend the best of colleges, maybe Harvard. No, someplace more interested in education than politics. Maybe something somewhere in the South. Vanderbilt or Duke, perhaps. Then law school and a partnership with Lang. Or maybe a year or two with one of the mammoth law factories where he'd learn a little humility as well as how to crank out twenty-five billable hours a day. Then…
If Gurt would stay that long.
Bobby Burns's comments on the plans of mice and men came to mind.
The boy's face had clouded with the gentle reprimand.
"You're right, though, it doesn't smell so good." Lang agreed with a grin.
Lang was regarding what had been a secretary, a rare remainder from the Charleston workshop of Thomas Elfe, one of pre-Revolutionary America's finest cabinetmakers. It was one of the two or three items he had not sold after Dawn's death. It had housed his collection of antique books and a small group of antiquities. He and Dawn had found it in one of the shops along Queen Street, paid far too much for it and given it a prominent place in the small house he had also sold. Now it was all just so much ash.
He sighed.
Stuff, Francis had said, just stuff, objects that, after all, we only rent during the course of our lives.
Lang had at least pretended to be comforted.
But he wasn't.
Even though he would have gleefully swapped a dozen condominiums at Park Place to learn he had a son, an heir, whoever had done this was going to regret they hadn't killed him.
"Vat… Daddy, why did the bad people burn your house?"
A good question. Lang steered his small companion toward what had been the bedroom. "I don't know. Maybe because they were just that, bad people."
Manfred took in the destruction in the bedroom. "Shit!"
Lang's eyes widened. One of the things he had learned quickly: small children cannot remember to say "thank you" or "please" but they never forget four-letter words.
He couldn't bring himself to rebuke the boy. Instead, he would have smiled had he not been looking at the twisted wire that had been his bedsprings. Squatting sent an electriclike shock of pain from ankle to hip but he wanted to sift through the ash and debris. Sure enough, the SIG Sauer was there, its plastic grip melted into some form of modern art. The heat had set off the bullets in the clip, destroying the firing chamber.
He dropped it, his eye caught by another shine of metal. The small snapshot of Dawn in its silver frame. Miraculously, the glass hadn't even cracked. He blew the dust away and slipped it into his pocket.