"Okay. I love you."

Her voice cracked and she struggled to keep it from shaking. "I love you too."

She hung up and sat on the couch in the living room, sipping her coffee. The very couch where they had met Jade time and time again, she realized, where he had helped them in his own guarded way.

She had come to care greatly for Jade. She had come to respect him and almost love him. She knew that some part of her emotions had to do with his role in protecting them, and some part had to do with her son. Though she didn't understand, entirely, her feelings for Jade, she sensed them, as if through a fog that wouldn't lift. It saddened her that they would never see Jade again. There was too much there for her, too much there for them. He had freed them, finally and painfully, from a lifelong ache, but she could never forgive him for it.

She heard the soft rattling of the mail truck outside and she rose and went to the door. It was a splendid morning, she thought as she moved down the walkway to the mailbox.

Turning to face the sun, she fanned through the mail. Mostly bills and mailers. At the bottom of the stack was a plain white envelope, her name and address written neatly in black.

Opening the envelope confirmed it: a single earring.

Placing it back in the envelope, she crumpled them together into a ball and walked over to the trash can at the end of the driveway. She lifted the lid and tossed the small ball of metal and paper inside.

She whistled softly to herself as she headed back inside, closing her eyes and tilting her face to the sun. It was a splendid morning.

60.

T H E room was dark, as always. Once again, Travers sat in the gloom, across the desk from Wotan. She held a thick folder in her lap.

She inhaled deeply and continued. "Well, sir, that just about covers it."

"Very well," Wotan said softly.

"We've placed Marlow's money in an account that he can claim when he gets out of the hospital." Travers cleared her throat. "Although we're not really sure when he'll get out, sir. I put in an order to cover his full medical expenses."

"Very well."

"He did . . ." Travers tilted her head back a little, biting her bottom lip. "He did a good job, sir."

Wotan nodded once, running his fingertips over the dry socket of his eye. "Put the file to rest," he said, turning his attention back to some papers on his desk. A long silence ensued as Travers watched him work.

"I didn't understand it before, sir. Your faith in him. Marlow. How did you know?"

The room was quiet for so long that she began to wonder if Wotan was going to respond. Just as she was rising to leave, he looked up from his desk. He picked the bullet slug from the ashtray and held it up in the dim light.

"Do you know what this is, Agent Travers?"

She shook her head.

"It's a slug. Early in my marriage, when my wife was still alive, my girl was kidnapped. She was my . . . our only child. Four years old. She had just learned to ride a bicycle with training wheels alone to the end of the street." He spoke with no emotion at all, as if reciting a memorized pa.s.sage.

"Marlow was a young agent at the time, fresh out of Quantico. It was his first kidnapping case. He pursued her kidnapper with such determination and vengeance that I could have sworn the burden was his instead of mine."

Travers listened tensely. "And he saved her, sir?"

"When he found her kidnapper, my child had already been raped and killed." Wotan stared directly into Travers's eyes, refusing to flinch.

Travers finally looked away.

"When they meet the devil, they always bring something back," Wotan said. "Marlow brought this back to me." He held the slug between his thumb and forefinger and then gripped it tightly in his fist. He looked back down at the papers on his desk. "Do you think we'll be seeing him again, Agent Travers?"

Travers looked down at her hands, in her lap. "I hope so, sir. I hope so," she said, then stood and walked to the back wall. She twirled the combination lock through a series of numbers, then used a key that she'd removed from her pocket. She swung the metal door open and rolled out a tray with raised edges. It protruded into the room like a small morgue slab. Laying the file carefully inside, she tapped it once with an open hand and then slid the vault shut, slamming the door.

She walked across the room to turn the large metal wheel of the exit door, and left without saying a word.

Wotan sat alone, the darkness settling around him like a cloak. In the dark, he cracked the knuckles of his right hand with his thumb. They snapped loudly, the sound echoing off the hard walls. He made a fist with his thumb inside and tightened it, cracking the joint. He repeated the same ritual with his left hand. Then he stood and walked to the door.

The light cast from the small fixtures in the room did not touch him. He did not maneuver to miss the light, but it seemed the shadows came to meet him, laying themselves over his body and across his path. He turned the wheel and the lock disengaged with a click.

He stepped out into the corridor, and just before the thick metal door closed behind him, his hand crept back through the small gap into the empty room. It groped on the wall for a moment, then found what it was looking for. He flicked the wall switch and the room was flooded with light.

61.

W I T H his lower body wrapped in a hardened cast, one leg in traction, st.i.tches threaded through his left cheek, and an incessant hammering in his temples and ears, Jade looked at the bare white walls of his room and the single plastic tray before him, and wondered why he was alive.

So far, his only happiness during his days in the hospital had come from his recollections of the case. He had heard the shattering of Allander's skull, he had felt it in every muscle of his body, and he still heard the gory crunch and felt the dull vibration in his dreams and his drugged hours awake.

He knocked the tray across the room with a hand wrapped in a soft bandage and winced in pain as it clattered on the tiled floor.

This room was his new home, it seemed. He pictured his house sitting empty, an occasional breeze blowing through the back screen and shaking the pictures taped to the walls. It seemed so far away.

He thought that Travers had come to see him, but now he wasn't sure if it had been a dream. It had seemed real; he thought he remembered her oddly sad face looking at him, the lingering touch of her fingers across the scar on his cheek.

She had smiled at him, though her eyes remained sad. "You beat yourself up pretty good, Marlow. Guess you don't need me around to do it for you."

And he had tried to answer her, but his voice had been thick with sleep and drugs. It was so hard for him to turn to face her, to shift out of the indentation his body had pressed into the mattress. After what seemed an eternity, he made the words come out: "Maybe I didn't handcuff you just to p.i.s.s you off."

But having spoken, he realized that the room was empty, that Travers had left long ago, maybe hours, maybe days, and for the first time that he could remember, he felt like crying.

He gazed through the metal screens that guarded his window, looking out at the night sky and the trace of a moon-the same moon upon which he and Allander had once fixed their eyes. It seemed that a lot of time had pa.s.sed since the dance, and now more time would pa.s.s with him here alone, trapped with his thoughts and with Allander in the shadows.

Full fathom five.

He saw Allander's grown face on a child's body, popping out of a jack-in-the-box and dancing around the room. Allander sang to him through red-painted lips that stood out starkly against the pasty white of his cheeks.

Full fathom five thy father lies.

He skipped around the room and Jade saw that he was dressed in the baggy pants of a clown. Big red suspenders with large b.u.t.tons stretched across his skinny, little boy's chest.

Jade's bed creaked as he shifted his body. His right-lower eyelid twitched slightly. It was just from the pain and the painkillers, the nurse had said, and it would go away when he got better. When he got better.

The boy-Allander stopped at the foot of the bed and stretched out an arm, a disproportionately large, white-gloved hand directing Jade's eyes to shift to where he pointed. Jade followed the arc of the hand and looked at the bare tiles of the floor, and as he watched, they dissolved into a garden scene. A small group of people stood before a rectangular hole in the ground: a man and a woman with their arms around each other, and a row of people sobbing into handkerchiefs.

Alone, under a tree on the far side of the grave, stood a boy in an awkward black suit with a cap worn backward on his head. He looked angry; he looked mean. The parents did not look to him and no one stood near him. He did not cry.

The boy-Allander stepped into the scene on the tiled floor and walked past the open plot in the ground to stand next to the lone boy under the tree. Taking the boy's hand in one white glove, he led him slowly away from the other people. They did not look back, and gradually, they faded from view.

end.