Atone (21 page)

Later, when it's quiet and she's tucked up against me the way she likes, it hits me what all that shit was about the wedding. I haven't done my job. I haven't told her how I feel about her. I'm shit at the touchy-feely stuff. That was always a complaint of Cassandra's. I clearly haven't learned anything since then. Vera deserves to know that my world hasn't been the same since she walked into it. That I spend almost every waking second thinking about her and reliving moments with her. That when she's not with me I
feel
it, absently looking around like I misplaced something and can't remember what the hell it was.

I've heard lots of talk about soulmates and
the one,
but I never really knew what that shit meant. I'm still not sure I do. Those terms are inadequate for what I feel for Vera. I suppose they're close. And if I had to choose a label,
the one
would be closest, because I can't imagine ever feeling like this again. I've never felt it before. Not in the same way, that's for sure. I try not to make comparisons, but it's like driving a car. If you've only ever driven a Mercedes and then you suddenly get handed the keys to a Porsche, you're going to automatically compare the similarities and the differences. And it will be the differences that stand out the most.

So it is with the only two women I've ever slept with and loved.

My mom always used to say that relationships always work out better when the man loves the woman a little bit more. That was certainly true of my parents' relationship. And I'm pretty damn sure it's true of Vera and me. That's okay if what my mom said is true. Although it's hard to make that assertion with the way things are between my parents now.

Even though I wore her out pretty good, Vera still isn't sleeping. I wish I could fix things for her. Losing Marie was a blow I'm not sure she can come all the way back from. She hasn't been the same since Carter showed her that photo. Always before she'd eventually bounce back. Not this time, and it scares the fuck out of me. I know a little something about grief and guilt and how the two wrap around you and squeeze until you can't feel anything else. They eat at you until that's
all you are.
I could tell her a thousand times in a thousand ways that it's not her fault, but she's never going to believe me.

I didn't believe Cora or Vera when they told me the same thing. It wasn't until I was able to work through the grief that I was finally able to let it go.

“We should have a memorial service for Marie,” I tell her quietly.

“Who's going to come?”

“You and me.”

“There's no point.”

“Of course there's a point.”

“Who's going to choose her casket and headstone? Who's going to put flowers on her grave? Who's going to visit it on holidays and her birthday?” Her voice gets a little louder with each question. Now we're getting to the bottom of what's been keeping her up.

“We'll talk to the agents and see if they can help us with her arrangements. If we choose cremation, we can take her with us wherever we go. Then, when we're settled, we can do something permanent for her and you can visit her whenever you want.”

She's quiet so long I wonder if she might have fallen asleep. Or she's plotting my death.

“You're always way ahead of me,” she grumbles. “It's annoying.”

I snuggle in deeper next to her. “But not as annoying as my snoring.”

“Definitely not.”

“I love you.”

There's nothing from her for quite a while, and I start to get the feeling that I'm way ahead of her on this too. That's okay. She'll get there. Eventually. I hope.

“No one's ever said that to me and actually meant it.” There's shame in her tone, as if it's
her
fault no one's ever loved her before.

“Well,
I'm
saying it.
I love you.
You don't have to say it back. Just try to get used to it. Okay?”

“I'm not sure if I will.”

“Then I'll just have to keep saying it.”

“What if I can't ever say it back?”

“Then you don't say it.” I'm not worried about this. I don't need the words to know how she feels about me. It's in everything she does and thinks and says. She just needs to figure that out like I had to figure it out.

“You don't have to say it if I don't say it.”

“Oh, but I do,” I say, tickling her. “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

She squirms around, giggling and trying to push me away. It's the freest and easiest I've seen her in too long. The silliness and laughter give way to a very serious kiss. She's quiet after, stroking my face. I'd give anything to know what she's thinking. Maybe she's working on that I-love-you. Then again, maybe not. She's got more than my twinge of insecurity to deal with right now.

“I think maybe I do love you,” she says, thinking out loud.

“Please don't humor me. And don't you dare say it during sex. I'll never believe it.”

“I
definitely
love you during sex.”

“See, now, that's just wrong.”

“I'm serious,” she goes on. “I think I love you.”

“Jesus. Why are you torturing me? Next you're going to tell me you
think
I make you come.”

“Oh, no. There is no
think
on that one. You
definitely
do.”

“Love is like an orgasm. You either come or you don't. Once you have an orgasm you know for sure when you don't. There is no kind-of-sort-of-maybe in climaxing.”

“That's beautiful. You should write poetry.” She makes a motion like she's writing in the air. “Love is like an orgasm…Barreling toward a chasm…It's so very taxing…When you're climaxing…Once you come…You know you're done…Love is like an orgasm.”

I groan. “That's awful.”

“I'm going to find a way to put it in our vows.”

I tighten my hold on her. “
God,
I love you.”

“I'm never going to get to meet my dad and brother, am I?” I ask Beau out of the blue.

We've been cooped up in this apartment for almost two weeks. There's nothing to do. We can't take a walk. We can't make phone calls. We can't use the computer or watch TV. The only thing we can do is have lots and lots of sex, which we've been doing pretty much nonstop night and day. The marshals assigned to watch over us have gotten to where they don't even roll their eyes anymore when Beau picks me up and takes me to the bedroom. I'm pretty sure we're on our way to setting some kind of world record.

“Probably not,” he answers my question grimly.

He doesn't like it when I point out all of the negatives of our situation. This is pretty much when he tosses me over his shoulder, throws me on the bed, and makes me scream his name. He'd be doing that right now if we hadn't just collapsed on the bed after some pretty strenuous doggie-style sex.

“I wonder what they look like,” I say. “I don't look very much like my mom. At least, from what I can remember. I lost the pictures I had. There was one of her and me, one of her alone, and one of her and me and Marie taken right before Child Services took us away. I wonder if he has any photos of my mom. Like from their wedding.”

He doesn't answer. This is one of those conversations I have, one-sided, while he broods over how to fix it for me. There's no fixing my family. Half of them are dead and the other half are lost to me.

“I wonder if I look like my brother,” I continue. “Like how you and Cora look so much alike.”

“You think we look alike?”

“Oh, yeah. Totally. Your personalities are similar too. I wonder—”

A commotion from the living room makes me halt midsentence. Beau and I exchange looks, then we bolt out of bed and start throwing our clothes on. Something's wrong. The voices are agitated and growing louder. Beau upends the table in the corner, rips two legs off, and hands one to me. They're not very big, but they'll do some damage if we have to.

Beau jams what's left of the table under the doorknob. There's no lock, so this is the only barrier against us and whoever's out there. Beau goes to the side of the door that opens and signals me to go to the other. If they have guns, we don't have much of a chance, which is why I motion for Beau to crouch down low. We at least have the element of surprise and the possibility of knocking their legs out from under them and maybe the gun from their hands if they should get past our barricade.

Someone knocks on the door. “Beau! Gwendolyn!”

“Carter,” Beau whispers.

“I thought he wasn't supposed to know we're here,” I whisper back.

“Come on out,” Carter says. “I have some good news for you.”

“Do we trust him?” Beau asks.

I shake my head. “He's not using my right name.”

Beau motions with his head toward the window. “Just a minute!” he answers Carter.

This isn't right. Something is very wrong here. I go to the window and look out a crack in the blinds. We're two stories up, so I have a good view of the street. One of Javier's men waits by a car. He's here. He's come for me. I shake my head like crazy for Beau not to open the door. My heart is hammering double-time. He's come for his revenge. I tighten my grip on the table leg. Sweat drips in a slick line down my back.

The doorknob turns, but the table keeps the door from opening.

Someone pounds on the door. “Eeeeden. It's meee,” Javier taunts. “Let me in, precious. I've missed yooouu.”

That voice crawls out of my worst nightmares. He's talked me into and out of so many things with that voice.

Beau swings his gaze away from me and toward the door. He knows who's on the other side, and now he knows my
other
name. My past and my future stand on either side of the door. Javier will kill Beau. What he does with me after that I don't care. There won't be anything left of me to matter.

Something solid hits the door, shaking the whole wall. There's no way out. There's only Javier coming in. The door is slammed again. This time the table makes a terrible noise. Beau hunkers down next to the door, balancing on the balls of his feet. I take up my position on the other side. He squeezes my arm briefly as I pass. The door is hit again and again. The table gives way and a guy in black breaks through the door. Debris flies at me. I'm hit with chucks of wood and knocked to the floor.

The guy turns toward Beau, gun drawn. I whack him in the back of the knees and he goes down, howling in pain. His head hits the bed frame with a sickening
thunk.
His gun clatters against the wood floor and disappears under the bed. Beau rears up, going for the guy. He doesn't see Javier coming in through the door, but I do. I leap between them. My back explodes in pain. I fall…

Javier swings the gun toward where Vera is on the floor. I charge, catching him around the waist, and push him back through the door. We hit the floor with me on top. He strikes me in the head hard enough that my vision darkens. I reach out blindly, wrapping my hand around metal. We grapple for the gun. Behind me, another fight breaks out. All I can think about is Vera. This asshole's strong, but I'm stronger. I straddle him, gaining the upper hand, and twist his hands toward his face.

Vera's moan from the other room is all the boost I need. Pushing hard, I jam the gun under his chin. For a split second I see the terror he inflicted on so many innocents reflected in his black eyes, then
BOOM
. The top of his head blows off, splattering the wall behind him. I twist the gun from his hand and go back for Vera. The guy Vera hit is down, his head bleeding. Carter leans over Vera. She's sprawled on her stomach. There's a black mark on the back of her shirt. Blood oozes out around her.

I aim the gun at Carter. “Get the fuck away from her!”

He puts his palms up and backs away from Vera. “She needs an ambulance.”

“Call one!”

He reaches into his coat pocket. I pull the trigger before I know what I mean to do. Carter spins back. The gun he pulled drops with him. I look around. The marshal is on the floor next the couch. I didn't see him before. I need a fucking phone. Digging in Carter's pockets, I find his, but it's fucking password-protected. I toss it and search the other guy. His lights up. I punch in 911 and go to Vera. She's out. It's bad. It's
so
fucking bad.

“Nine-one-one. What's your emergency?”

“She's shot. I need an ambulance.”

“Sir, where are you?”

I glance around the apartment. “I don't fucking know!”

“Can you find an address?”

“I can't leave her.”

“Sir, I can't help her if I don't know where you are. Can you help me?”

I stagger to my feet and out the front door. A guy is coming up the stairs.

I point my gun at him. “Not another fucking step.”

He puts his hands up.

“Where the fuck are we?”

“No hablo Ingles.”

I search below, looking for something I can give the dispatcher. A small crowd of neighbors gathers. They shrink back when they see the gun in my hand. The guy on the stairs goes for the back of his waistband. I fire. He tumbles down the stairs. The neighbors scream and scatter.

“Sir!” the dispatcher demands. “Where are you?”

“I don't fucking know. He was going for his gun. I had to shoot him.”

There's some mumbling on the other line.

“Can't you fucking trace my call?”

“We're trying to find you.”

Sirens scream, but they sound too far away. There's a number on the door, but it's only the apartment number. I don't know what the fuck street we're on or even what city we're in. I go back into the apartment, looking for something—some mail, a flier, anything—that will tell me where the fuck we are. There's no landline. No fucking papers or notepads. Nothing.

Vera moans. I go to her. I'm shaking so fucking bad. There's so much goddamned blood.

“Help her!” I scream into the phone. “Please. Somebody help her.”

“I need your location, sir.”

I drop the phone on the bed. So fucking useless. I lie down next to Vera. Her eyes are barely open, but I know she sees me. I take her hand. The sirens get louder and louder until it sounds like they're in the next room.

“I love you,” I tell her. “You're going to be okay. He's dead. He can't ever hurt you again. I love you.” I keep repeating it over and over.

Her eyelids close, but there's a faint smile around her lips. I know she hears me. She can't fucking die. She can't.

There's noise in the living room.

I start to get up to get her help.

“Freeze,” someone shouts. “Don't move. Drop the weapon.”

I toss the gun away from me. “Please. You have to help her. She needs an ambulance.”

“Hands behind your head. Don't move. Don't
fucking
move.”

I do as I'm told. I don't want to leave Vera. Three of them pile on top of me and cuff me. They're rough, but I take it. They haul me up by my arms.

“Please. Help her. Don't let her die,” I tell them as they're hauling me out. “Vera! I love you!”

Outside, the crowd is back. A woman, talking to an officer, points at me coming down the stairs. At the bottom we have to navigate around the guy I shot. All I can think about is Vera. I beg and beg for an ambulance for her, but none come. They can't just let her die. I can't lose her. I can't lose her.

They shove me into the back of a car and take off. I don't give a fuck where they take me or what they do to me. All I care about is Vera.

They keep me cuffed and bring me into an interrogation room, dumping me in a chair. I lean back, resting my head on the wall, and close my eyes. All I can see is the small smile on Vera's lips. I hold on to that image.

A detective comes in and introduces himself. I don't tell him shit. I've been here before. I tell them I want my lawyer. When they ask for a name I give them Shayla Reese's name. She's the only one who can help me. She knows why we were in that apartment and who Javier is. She knows Vera's story. I ask for updates on Vera, but no one's telling me shit. They think I shot her. I can't stop shaking. I killed people. I blew Javier's fucking brains out. I'm not sorry about it, but I'm not coping too well with it either. I shot three people, including an FBI agent. I'm going down this time.

I can't be still. Banging my head on the wall, I try to get the image of Vera lying in a pool of blood out of my head. If she dies I don't care what they do to me. They can toss me back in prison until I fucking rot. I don't care. I'm dead if she's dead. No one's telling me anything. They just stare at me. They know who I am. They know I escaped prison once. They don't want me to escape again. I see the contempt in their eyes.

It's hours or days—who can fucking tell?—before the door finally opens and Shay walks in. I bolt up straight in my chair. She's my link to the outside and to Vera. There's a grim set to her mouth. Her gaze doesn't quite meet mine.

“How's Vera?”

She waits until the detective closes the door to speak. “She's in surgery. That's all I know right now. You, however, are in some very serious trouble until we can get this sorted out. What the hell happened in that apartment?”

I give her all the details I can remember. When I'm done, I ask the other question I've been anxious for the answer to.

“Are they all dead?”

“The marshal, Javier Abano, Agent Carter, and the guy you shot on the stairs are. The other guy they found in the bedroom with Vera is in grave condition. They don't expect him to survive his head wound.”

I lower my head. “Fuck.” I'm not sorry Javier's dead, but I don't feel good about it. I killed three people today. I don't know how to reconcile it. That's not who I am. That's not who I want to be.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“You did what you had to do to save yourself and Vera.”

“But still…”

“I know.” She pats me on the shoulder. “I know. I'm sorry.”

“What the hell went wrong with Agent Carter?”

“I don't know. Ed's beside himself. He trusted Carter. The cops are still trying to sort it out with the Feds. Only Carter and the special agent in charge knew about your situation. With Carter dead, it's up to the SAC to work it out for us. I'm doing my best to try to be in the loop, but no one's talking to me. This is such a clusterfuck for the marshals
and
the FBI. They each lost a man, and the FBI doesn't want to admit that their agent was corrupt and compromised your situation. They're trying to pin some of it on you. They won't get to, though. I won't let them. But you might be in here for a while, until it all gets sorted out.”

“I wish I could see her.” I'm having a hard time focusing on what Shay's saying. I honestly don't give a fuck about me, except that as long as I'm in here I can't be with Vera.

She squeezes my shoulder. “I know you do. Let's talk to these detectives and work on getting you out of here so you can do that. Are you up for it?”

“Whatever it takes.”

“Let me see if I can't get them to uncuff you while we're at it.”

“Thanks.”

She goes out into the hall. I'm trying real hard to hang on and not lose my shit. That would only make my situation worse. I can't believe I'm in cuffs, sitting in a police station, being accused of murder. Again. I'm not at all comforted by the fact that I actually did the crime this time. I'm not proud of what I did. I'm fucking torn up. I can't stop replaying what happened, wondering if I could've done
something
different. If I should've been on the other side of the door instead of Vera. Then I could've been the one to take the bullet instead of her. Then what? I would've been down and Javier could've taken or killed Vera. I keep running the what-ifs through my head, trying to figure out how it could've gone down differently, but I don't see how.

Damn, Vera.
Why did she have to jump in front of me?

She
thinks
she loves me.

If taking a bullet for someone isn't love, I don't know what is.