Breaking Point (13 page)

Jesus.

“We’re trying to trace it,” Jules said, “but no luck so far.”

“So the credit card was stolen,” Max said. He didn’t want to think about what that might mean. If Gina’s passport and wallet had both been stolen . . .

“That’s what we’re thinking,” Jules said. “Although, wait, there’s more. This is extra freaky. Gina had a second card with a different company. She took a major cash advance—ten thousand dollars—on
that
card ten days before the bombing, at a bank in Nairobi.”

“What the hell?” Max said. Ten thousand dollars in
cash
?

“Ooh,” Jules said. “I’m getting that call from George. Let me call you back. It might be a few minutes—”

He cut the connection, and Max shut his cell phone. Goddamn it—what was Gina involved with?

Some lowlife scum who not only got her pregnant but extorted large sums of money from her, then stole her credit card and passport and . . .

And killed her.

No.

Please God, no.

Gina’s digital camera was lying there on the bed, and Max picked it up.

Come on, Cassidy. Call back.

And report that they’d reached the priest from the Kenyan camp only to discover that Gina had returned there, safe and sound—

Leaving all of her belongings behind?

If it was just her clothes and makeup, Max might’ve let himself hope.

But no way would she leave all those books.

His phone didn’t ring, and it still didn’t ring, so Max turned on the camera’s power—as usual, Gina had dozens of photos saved—and . . .

The very first picture that came up on the camera’s little view screen was of him.

What did that mean that she’d kept this picture of him?

Was it because she still cared?

Or had she saved it as a warning? Like, “Never forget how completely screwed up your relationship was with
this
loser . . .”

It wasn’t a particularly good picture. In fact, it was pretty embarrassing.

Sitting up in his bed, Max was in his room at Sheffield. It was the photo Gina had taken the day after he’d arrived there. He looked like crap warmed over after his very first physical therapy session, and he was glowering into the camera because he goddamn didn’t want his picture taken.

He hadn’t wanted her in his room, either.

As if that had stopped her from coming in . . .

You know what you need? A happy ending . . .

He toggled the switch and moved to the next picture.

It was another shot of Max. With Ajay this time.

Ah, God.

They were at a table in the rec room at the physical rehab center, playing cards—Ajay with a big smile on his face, despite the fact that he was sitting there in a wheelchair, despite the fact that the scar tissue on his badly burned hands had turned them into frightening-looking claws.

It was Christmas, and decorations adorned the room. Max was cracking up at something the boy had just said—no doubt some ridiculously silly fart joke. The kid had learned, right from their very first card game, that potty humor made Gina laugh. And that when Gina laughed, Max laughed.

The next photo was one that Ajay had taken of Max with Gina. She was sitting on his lap, at that same table in the rec center, arm looped around his neck, wearing the reindeer antler hat she’d brought for Ajay.

Max’s smile was forced, and he looked like he was afraid to touch her.

Afraid to let her know how much he loved touching her. Afraid to have it recorded on film, afraid . . .

Goddamn it, but he wanted to step into that photograph. He wanted to slap himself upside his head and tell himself . . . What?

Enjoy this moment. Take your time with it. Savor it. Treasure it.

Because it sure as shit wasn’t going to last.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

S
HEFFIELD
P
HYSICAL
R
EHAB
C
ENTER
, M
C
L
EAN
, V
IRGINIA
J
ANUARY
6, 2004
S
EVENTEEN
M
ONTHS
A
GO

It had become a game.

Max would try to keep Jules or Ajay around, Gina would gently try to get rid of them. To be alone with Max.

Although, truth be told, Max didn’t try very hard at all. Every other day or so, he gave in.

It soon became his favorite part of the week. Gina. Atop him.

It was interesting, too, to see how quickly sex moved from its position as an occasional luxury to a deep-rooted necessity.

An addiction.

The truly dangerous thing was that Gina knew it.

“Good morning, Debra.” Max heard her greet the nurse out in the hallway.

Just the sound of Gina’s voice was enough to get his blood pressure rising. Jules wasn’t with her today, which meant now was the time he should reach for the telephone and tell Ajay to drop over for a game of cards.

Except he didn’t move. He didn’t want to play cards today. He just sat, listening to the two women discuss the weather.

“. . . few snowflakes and everyone starts driving like my Great Aunt Lucia.”

Actually, Gina discussed. Debra gave noncommittal responses. “Yeah.” “Mmmm.” “Uh-huh.”

“I have a cousin who’s a fifth-grade teacher just outside of Boston. He told me they don’t close school for anything less than a blizzard. Is Max in his room?”

“He’s napping.”

“Thanks, I’ll be quiet.”

“Hmph.”

It was then that Gina did it. Apparently, she’d had enough. “What do you have against me?” she asked. Just point-blank.
Pow.

Her voice was low. The only reason he could hear them was because they were standing right outside his partly open door.

Debra let out a nervous laugh. Yes, Debra. Be afraid. Be very afraid. Gina could be a pit bull. She was not likely to walk away without an answer that satisfied her.

And Debra didn’t have the option of distracting her with sex.

“Don’t be ridiculous, dear. I have nothing against you.”

Not even close. Max could picture Gina crossing her arms. Sign number one that she had gone into battle.

Surrender was no longer an option—for either opponent.

“Oh, come on. We both know you’re not being honest. I know exactly what you’re thinking every time I come in here.” Gina did a pitch perfect imitation of the older woman’s voice. “Well hello, dear. Time for Mr. Bhagat’s shagging, is it?”

Now Debra’s voice was tight. “Do you deny—”

“No.”

Ah, Christ.

“Sex is an important part of our relationship. I’m not going to deny that,” Gina said. “I’m not ashamed of it—why should I be? I love him.”

This wasn’t news, still to hear her say it aloud . . .

She wasn’t done: “Can’t we start over? Or at least can’t you be civil to me? You were wrong about the whole panties on the floor thing, right? He hasn’t had a stream of women coming in here—”

“I’m afraid I can’t comment. You’ll have to ask him about that.”

“You are
such
a bitch,” Gina said, and the nurse gasped her outrage. “Why do you insist on insinuating—”

Debra’s voice got louder, talking over her. “I don’t need to tolerate—”

“And I don’t need to tolerate your narrow-minded assumptions one second longer,” Gina shot back. “You think younger woman, older man—that I broke up his happy home, don’t you? Well, guess what? Max has never been married, you’ve got it entirely wrong. Nobody wants him but me! I’m the only one crazy enough to hope for a long term relationship with him, and I’ll tell you right now that it already sucks!”

Ouch.

Gina wasn’t done. “Just because your husband left you for someone younger—”

“Where did you hear . . . My personal life is of no—” Debra sputtered.

But Gina steamrolled over her. “Deb. I’m sorry that your ex is a prick, that he hurt you that way, but Max is nothing like him. He’s lived in this total hole of an apartment, all by himself for years. He’s married to his job and if that makes me his mistress, well all right. That’s what I’m willing to be. Hey, don’t you walk away from me! I’ve endured your silent disapproval for too many weeks now! If you have something to say to me, say it!”

“You’re
not
the only woman who comes to see him,” Debra said tightly. “It’s not my place to tell you who goes in there and closes the door, but if you had any brains, you’d know that every guest who visits signs in at the front desk.”

“Peggy Ryan, Deb Erlanger, his assistant Laronda,” Gina listed them. “Frannie Stuart . . . These are all women who work for him, period, the end, and you know it. You know what? Forget it, Debra, okay? You can just go back to ignoring me. I’m not interested in making friends with someone as incredibly toxic as you.”

Max shut his eyes as he heard Gina open his door, then close it behind her. “Shit,” she said. “
Shit.
Why do I even
bother
?”

She was silent for a moment then, just watching him, and he made his breathing slow and steady.

As if he were sleeping.

She’d told him she was bringing over lunch, and he finally heard her move and set at least two paper bags on his desk.

She sat down, not on his bed, but on the chair nearby. And she sighed. “I know you’re not asleep. I know you heard every word of that.”

Max opened his eyes and looked at her. The blinds were closed in such a way as to throw a pattern of light on the ceiling. It lit her face with the softest glow, making her sadness seem to shine. He found himself wishing for her camera.

“When I said that it sucks,” she tried to explain, “what I meant was . . .” She faltered.

“That it sucks?” he finished for her.

She laughed, but there was still so much unhappiness in her eyes. His heart broke because he didn’t want this for her.

She had to be crazy to want him. It was good that she knew that. Because the next step was for her to realize that she wasn’t quite crazy enough.

As for what he wanted . . .

“I just . . .” Gina started. “I thought . . . I don’t know what I think anymore, Max. I just . . . I love you, but . . . God.”

She gazed at him and for once he couldn’t read her. She was usually filled to overflowing with hope and optimism. With confidence. But now all he could see was sadness.

Maybe this was it for them. Maybe she was going to stand up and walk out of his room.

Out of his life.

It was then that he watched himself do it. He knew he shouldn’t, that he should just sit still and let it happen.

Instead, he held out his hand to her. His message was clear: Come here.

He’d never made the first move before. She was always the instigator, so to speak.

And if the sadness in her eyes changed to something else, if she got a little misty as she took his hand, he didn’t see it. He closed his eyes and tugged her into his bed.

She was usually naked when she slipped in with him, but this time she had all of her clothes on. It was sexy in a backwards kind of way.

Of course, he thought Gina was sexy when she greeted the nurses in the hall. When she played gin rummy with Ajay. When she made a face at the pink snowball cupcakes that Ajay thought were the ultimate dessert food. When she laughed, when she spoke, when she breathed . . .

He’d intended just to hold her, to let her rest against him, in the circle of his arms, but when she drew her leg across him, she encountered his . . . enthusiastic response to her presence.

She laughed and reached up to lock his door with the remote. “Well, at least now I feel a little less unwanted.”

She kissed him, but he pulled back to meet her eyes. “I’ve always wanted you, Gina. That’s never been the issue.”

“So what is the issue?” she asked. “And if you give me some crap about how you don’t deserve me, I’m going to scream.”

“What I deserve doesn’t play into it,” he told her. “I just don’t think . . .” He corrected himself. “I know that I can’t give you what you need.”

“You want to bet?” She kissed him again and as always, he was lost.

He helped her remove just enough of her clothing, his fingers gliding against the smoothness of her skin as she reached for a condom and . . .

Yes.

“Max.”

He opened his eyes to find her gazing down at him, hair tousled, shirt half unbuttoned, black sheen of her bra barely restraining the fullness of her perfect breasts.

Face serious. Eyes filled with a question.

“Is this really just sex for you?” she whispered. “Is it all just . . . some game that we’re playing?”

He hesitated, and in the silence he could hear the earth come screeching to a halt in its orbit, as the entire universe waited on his reply.

The two obvious options were A, no and B, yes. Max chose C. He closed his eyes and kissed her, praying that she both would and wouldn’t understand something that he himself couldn’t begin to comprehend.

And apparently, even if it wasn’t the absolute right answer, it was close enough for jazz.

K
ENYA
, A
FRICA
F
EBRUARY
23, 2005
F
OUR
M
ONTHS
A
GO

“Everyone,” Gina said as Molly finished preparing the tent for Dave Jones’s visit, “okay,
almost
everybody in our line of work has had some kind of tragedy in their past.”

Molly straightened her bedspread, then checked to see if the water had started to boil. It had. She poured it into her teapot.

“Sister Helen,” Gina said. “She told me she gave her life to God after her sister was murdered right in her living room.”

Gina was still upset with Molly. It had been something of a shock for her this afternoon—finding out about Molly’s . . . extracurricular activities helping runaway girls.

“And Sister Double-M carries some pretty heavy baggage,” Gina continued. She was still trying to talk Molly into letting her help.

“I know,” Molly told her. “And I wouldn’t ask either of them to help me get Lucy to Marsabit, either.” She made sure nothing ugly had crawled into any of the tea mugs, holding them up to the flickering light from the lantern.

In Molly’s opinion, Gina would not benefit from putting herself at risk. It had only been a few short years since she’d survived the hellish experience of being aboard a hijacked airplane.

“Besides,” Molly added, “I’m not going to make the trip north myself. I have a contact who’s reliable.” She held up her hand to stop the questions she knew would come. “You don’t need to know who, you just need to know that Lucy will be taken care of.”

“So . . . What?” Gina said. “I’m just supposed to forget that I know anything about this? How about when the next girl shows up?”

“You do what you did today and you tell me. And I’ll take care of her, too,” Molly said. “Gina, look, I’m sorry. I should have told you about this a long time ago.”

“Yeah,” Gina said. “You should have.” Molly knew Gina wasn’t just angry because Molly wouldn’t let her participate. She was angry because Molly had kept a very major secret from her for the entire length of their friendship.

But now Molly had another secret. An even bigger one. But if she had anything to say about it, she’d be sharing it with Gina in just a few minutes.

After Jones arrived.

It was such an obvious solution—to tell Gina that Leslie Pollard and Dave Jones were one and the same. Then there’d be no awkward curiosity as to why Molly was painting her toenails rather than overcome with grief. And Molly wouldn’t have to bear the guilt of keeping yet another secret from her best friend.

Best of all, Jones could visit their tent for tea and it would all seem very proper to the outside world—except he and Molly would have the chance to speak openly.

In front of Gina, of course. Camp rules required a chaperone.

But it would be far better than the occasional whisper as they passed in the mess tent.

Surely Jones would agree.

“Come on,” Molly told Gina now. “Help me.”

Gina halfheartedly finished cleaning up her side of the tent. She took a pair of socks off their clothesline—socks she’d washed out and hung to dry days ago.

“You don’t really think Leslie’s going to show up tonight, do you?” she asked, tossing the socks into her trunk.

Molly didn’t just think it, she knew it. “Why wouldn’t he?” she asked.

Gina shook her head.

And Jones knocked on the frame of the tent.

Molly’s heart leapt. Except this was supposed to be a wake. She made herself look properly subdued as she opened the door. “Mr. Pollard. Please come in.”

“Thank you.” He met her eyes only briefly, but it was enough to make her want to grin foolishly.
Don’t smile.

He was wearing one of his awful plaid shirts, buttoned at his neck as well as both wrists. His sun hat adorned his head, even though it was dark outside. He didn’t smile at her, either. But he did manage to brush against her as he came into the tent.

Dear Lord. “Tea?” she asked, her voice coming out unnaturally high.

“Please,” he said, giving Gina a nod hello as he lowered himself into one of their two chairs.

Molly could feel him watching her as she poured. Suddenly it was quite warm in here.

Gina cleared her throat. “So, uh, Leslie,” she said, awkwardly—which was odd. When was Gina ever awkward with anyone? “How well did you, um, know David Jones?”

He cleared his throat, too. “Not very well, I’m afraid,” he said.

Molly gave him his tea mug and an imploring look. “I really think we should tell Gina the truth about—”

The look he gave her in return was pure warning. “The truth is that Jones incurred the wrath of some very dangerous men back in Indonesia,” he said in that Merchant-Ivory accent. “If he hadn’t died when he did, some very bad men would have caught up with him eventually—because he wasn’t cautious enough.”