Ashes (40 page)

She turned away from the both of them. She was cold, wanted one of those wool blankets from Gene’s boat to warm her. Even a chance for justice was bought with blood. When was it going to end?

“All I wanted was to live my life, same as any other person,” she said. “To have a job and friends. That’s not too much to ask for, is it?” Jennifer turned back to face them. “Why won’t you let me do that? What is wrong with you that you have to kill people to get what you want?”

Silence for a few moments. Then Kincaid said, “I thought you would want this.”

“No,” she said. “
I
didn’t want this.” She didn’t want it. But she had it. And what was she going to do with it? Jennifer put the gun down on the table. “I need to think about things. How much time do we have?”

“As much as you need,” Kincaid said.

* * *

S
he sat in a chair by the window. Behind her silence as Kincaid sat and smoked one cigarette after another, and Blaine merely sat. She looked out the window at the coast. During the day it would have been a lovely view, but now she could see nothing but varying shades of darkness. If not for the steady sigh of the breakers, she might have been at world’s end instead of just land’s end.

A safe house, Kincaid called it, but she did not feel safe here. She wanted to go home, to her warm house and her friends and her cat. She wanted to feel Gene’s strong arms around her, his steady presence.

But first a decision to be made.

He ruined your life,
Kincaid said, and she supposed that was true.
But I have another life now, and it’s a better one.
That was true also, and yet she could not forget those hours of terror and months of rebuilding her life.
What falls away is always. And is near.
Surely payback was owed for that.

And not just for herself. For all 361 of those lost lives, and the hundreds more those losses had touched in ways great and small. For Carlos and Nancy and their child who would never know his or her father. For Carrie and Mr. Danvers. For the others who were just nameless faces in the hall or whom she’d never laid eyes on.

What made it easy was that Blaine was not even sorry.

How could he not be? He knew about loss now, if he hadn’t before. Surely he understood the pain; clearly he had sought to punish Kincaid for that crime.
How does it feel?
she wanted to ask him.
How does it feel?

A simple decision to make. And yet. Did she have the right?

No long arm of the law throwing a switch, no grainy CNN footage of targeted air strikes. Just things at their most simple and elemental. Could she pick up the gun, place it against Blaine’s head, and pull the trigger?

More importantly, could she live with it afterwards?

And what about the other way the coin could fall? If she let him go, could she live with that? Setting free a man who had brought so much hurt and was unrepentant?

Either way, she had blood on her hands. No escaping that. And could she live with that? No answer yet.

Jennifer’s head ached with the weight of decision. She slammed her fist into the wall in frustration; behind her a startled breath from Kincaid but she paid it no mind.
I can’t make this choice. I never asked for any of this. Why has this come to me?

She had lost no one. She had not even been badly injured. She might even be a better person now than she had been. Yet she was haunted, would always be haunted, by the knowledge that chance had kept her alive. Providence and a broken photocopier. A random act of chance.

Jennifer’s eyes widened. She put her hand against the window as if she could reach out to something, touch the night. Her hand flat against the glass, but in her mind she reached toward something, found it. Perhaps not the best choice, but one she had the right to make.

One she was strong enough to live with, no matter what the outcome might be.

She stood, turned toward the men. Wearily she wondered what time it was. They looked up at her; Kincaid stubbed out the cigarette he’d been smoking. She walked over, picked up the gun from the table, and stood in front of Kincaid, who looked up at her expectantly.

“I need your help.” She pointed at the cylinder.

“It’s fully loaded,” he said.

“I know. I need this part to come out. You have to show me, I’ve never used a gun before.”

She expected him to refuse, but he took the gun from her. Did not even ask why she wanted him to do this. He pushed a small button on the side of the gun and the cylinder popped out. Kincaid handed the gun back to her and she looked at it. Six bullets. Six holes. No, not holes, chambers. It was what they said on TV.

Jennifer stepped in front of Blaine, to where both of them could see her. Looked Blaine in the eyes. “I’m going to give you something,” she said. “What you didn’t give the people in that building. What he didn’t give your wife.”

“And what is that?” asked Blaine.

“A chance.” Jennifer took three bullets out of the cylinder. The chambers were alternated. Empty, full, empty, full, empty, full.

Carefully, holding the gun so neither she nor they could see the final outcome, she spun the cylinder. Once, twice. A third time, to break the tie if there was one. Then she snapped the cylinder back into place.

She stood looking at the two men. Calm resignation in Blaine’s eyes, and something that looked like respect. In Kincaid’s eyes, more than respect. Admiration.

Jennifer walked over to Kincaid. She wanted to say something but couldn’t think of what it might be. What he had given her was not something she wanted or needed. Yet she looked into his eyes and saw that no matter what else had happened, no matter what he had done, he had truly wanted to help her. And this was the only way he knew.

“Thank you for wanting to help me,” she said.

He looked back at her with all defenses and disguises put aside. She felt a wave of pity wash over her, for the fire in his eyes had nearly gone out, leaving only ashes, and emptiness, the prospect of a long road leading into darkness. What was going to sustain him on that road?

Jennifer knew that whatever happened, empty chamber or full, she could live with it. Bear it as she had borne many things. She wondered if Kincaid could bear it, anymore.

“So strong and brave,” he said softly. “I never expected to find that.” He raised a hand, touched her hair for just a second, as if reassuring himself that she was real. Or that he was. For a moment his eyes shone with tears, and she could see the man he might once have been looking out at her. A blink and the tears were gone. “I’m sorry I scared you,” he said.

Jennifer nodded. She walked over to Blaine. He sat with his head bowed, his lips moving silently. She wondered if he was praying. Perhaps he would find some mercy, somewhere, no matter how things ended. But mercy was not hers to give. Only the chance of it.

She placed the gun against the back of his head. She pulled the trigger.

And let God sort it out.

D
eirdre Monahan tossed her purse and a bag full of dirty laundry onto the passenger seat of her truck, then sat down in the driver's seat. She'd had the truck since high school and it still ran well. The trick was getting it to run. You had to push the clutch in
just so
, give it precisely
this much
gas, and then — success.

"Good girl." Deirdre patted the dashboard. She was fond of the truck, faulty starter and all, and even more fond of it since the divorce had gone through. Her mother couldn't understand why she had let Randy have the Mustang; couldn't understand why Deirdre took as little of the things she and Randy had bought together as she could live without.

It was simple, really. She wanted to start over, on her own. Once her anger at Randy for putting them into a debt sinkhole and losing his job and cheating on her with that all-tits-and-no-brains floozy had subsided to a dull roar, once she was faced with legal papers and signatures to end the marriage, she'd found herself wondering what to do with her life. She'd said as much to her cousin Anna, who put things in perspective.

"You know what they say, Dee," Anna had said. "But everything happens for a reason. And when life closes a door, it opens a window as well. Did I miss any of the other clichés?"

"Every cloud has a silver lining."

"That too. Take your pick."

Deirdre liked the one about the door and the window best. So she had slammed the door (hoping to catch Randy's fingers in the jamb), and jumped out the window. She jumped out by herself, and that was why she'd kept the truck — she wanted to do this on her own, and she'd never been on her own before. After high school she'd lived with her folks, then with Randy, and now she was twenty-eight and had never had a life she could call hers alone.

So far it was working out all right. The job wasn't the best — she was a clerk at the new Wal-Mart over in Lakeside, but it paid the bills until she could find something she liked better. Likewise the apartment. It was threadbare and she was still living out of boxes, but she liked the freedom of eating whatever she wanted, cleaning up the house when or if she felt like it, and not having to share the TV remote with anyone.

Anna had offered her a room at their house. Deirdre hadn't known how to refuse without hurting Anna's feelings; Richard had come to her rescue. He'd seen her distress and said, "You need to sort things out and stand on your own feet for a while, don't you?"

Relieved, she'd replied that was true. They understood, but told her she was welcome at any time to stop by for a hot dinner, or use their washer and dryer, or go for a ride on one of the horses. It all sounded wonderful to Deirdre.

Deirdre had last talked to Anna on Sunday, nearly a week ago. Anna was glad to hear she was settling in. "Now that life's not too crazy you'll need to come by for dinner more often. Should we make it a standing date for Sunday?" Anna asked.

"That's not too much trouble, is it?"

"Of course not. Richard's always bringing his friends over, but they're all men. It'll be nice to have some female company for a change. Which reminds me, Dee. There's one of Richard's friends I think you should meet."

"I don't know if I'm up for meeting anyone new just yet."

"Just see if there's any sparks."

In spite of herself she was intrigued. Deirdre always felt weird going to restaurants or the movies by herself, and a date would be welcome. "Wait, it's not that Steve guy you told me about? He sounded like kind of a yo-yo."

"Have a little faith in me? His name's Sam, he's a very nice guy. A real gentleman."

"What's he look like?"

"Well, he's older than you, I'm not sure how much. Not too tall, not too short. Losing his hair."

"Sounds dreamy."

Anna never talked trash about people, and she didn't now, but she did say, "Handsome is as handsome does, Dee." Meaning that good-looking as Randy had been, as a husband he hadn't amounted to much.

"Touché."

"Not that I'm matchmaking or anything, but you need a steady guy. And he needs a nice girlfriend, not some slutbunny."

Deirdre laughed. "Nan! Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

Richard's voice boomed in the background. "Who's a slutbunny? Where can I meet her?"

"Oh stop!" giggled Anna. "Just think about it, that's all I'm asking. You'll see him at Thanksgiving, I'm sure, if not sooner. See how you feel about it then. You
will
be here for Thanksgiving?"

"Wouldn't miss it for anything."

"Good." Anna's voice dropped a bit. She sounded both shy and happy. "I may have some good news for you then."

Deirdre's heart had done a flip at these words. Anna wouldn't say what the news was, but Deirdre could make a good guess. Anna was expecting. Deirdre knew that Anna had wanted a child badly ever since she'd married Richard, but they'd had no luck yet. There had been two miscarriages that Deirdre knew of — she suspected there had been at least one more, judging by how unusually moody and silent Anna had been two Christmases ago. Deirdre was happier than ever that she'd moved close to Anna and Richard. If Anna was indeed pregnant, she'd need to get her rest, and what better way than for Deirdre to come by every Sunday to help with the housecleaning and errands, and whip up a batch of her famous Eggs McMonahan.

Now, thinking about all this, Deirdre put her truck into gear and began driving to Anna's house. It was a gloomy day, threatening to rain, but she didn't mind. It would be warm and cozy at Anna's house. It always was.

She opened the gate that led to Richard and Anna's Christmas tree farm, pausing to take a deep breath of the pine-scented air. Christmas was only a few months away; Deirdre had never been to the farm at the holidays. Anna said it was chaotic but fun, and another set of hands were always welcome. If cutting trees and tying them onto car roofs didn't suit her, there was always ringing up orders or running the snack stand.

After closing the gate behind her, she drove down the smooth dirt road to the house. Not for the first time, she felt an unwelcome twinge of envy. There was no resentment in it, no ill will. She just wondered why she couldn't have a life like Anna's — the farm, the pretty house. The husband who was not just handsome and charming but who clearly loved Anna more than anything else.

She was in luck. Richard's truck and Anna's station wagon were both in the driveway. She hated surprising them like this, but every time she'd called this week she'd gotten the answering machine. They hadn’t called her cell; they must have been busy. She grabbed her purse and walked up to the front door.

The door had an intercom; a good safety precaution, Richard had told her, considering how many visitors they got with the tree farm. She pressed the intercom button. No answer. She pressed again; although she knew her voice wouldn't carry, she called out anyway. "Anna? Richard? It's Deirdre."

No answer.