Fortune's Deadly Descent (26 page)

Moreau was prepared to quit the force, but with the return of his brother, he retired with full benefits. It was fitting that Benny should be his last case. Moreau had come full circle, his life’s work finally realized. Isak sent him a two-hundred-euro bottle of champagne with a note that read:
Je vous souhaite la paix pour vous et votre famille
(I am wishing peace for you and your family). He and Madame Moreau immediately opened it with Rémy and Mariska, who, for now, have moved into their home.

As for Petit, Moreau finally explained that he’d been a constant companion of Rémy and Moreau’s when they were growing up. In fact, Petit was the other boy from Rémy’s memories in the vineyard that day. But what Rémy couldn’t quite recall or comprehend was the very thing Moreau and Petit could never forget—in the mayhem, Moreau had grabbed hold of Petit, and in doing so, allowed the man to escape with Rémy. Petit never forgave himself, never stopped thinking he should have been the one taken, never stopped feeling indebted to Moreau.

Of course, Moreau’s work isn’t completely done just yet. He still has to testify at Jonathon’s trial. In the meantime, Jonathon no longer looks out onto the sculpture in the courtyard, no longer
feels the sun on his face. He was relocated to a maximum-security facility near Berne, where he will spend twenty-three hours a day alone for the rest of his life. If only this were enough to make us feel safe. Enough that we can avoid the new measures he’s forced upon us. And Jonathon isn’t the only one we worry about. Helena and her sad, wounded boyfriend, along with Pieter, are behind bars awaiting trial, but Gunari is still on the loose, as are several others whom Isak believes played a role in Benny’s abduction. Not even he can say for sure how many were involved.

Then there’s Isabel.

Turns out, she may be the only weakness Jonathon ever had. The only person, if you can grant him such a capacity, that he ever
loved
. He trusted her. He told everyone, from the start, that they’d never see a dime unless they followed his plan for her explicitly.

And this had been his plan:

Isabel and Benny would wind up in Costa Rica, along with my money. They would blend into a small village and never be seen again. Simple enough. Instead of Benny, the boy who was supposed to push the pram in the Zurich zoo was a Roma boy who looked like him and whom Jonathon intended to sacrifice—the pram was to detonate after Pieter was far enough out of sight with the money, killing both Oliver and the boy instantly.

Isabel was never going to go along with this. By the time she realized what Jonathon’s coded letters to her meant, Isak’s people had sprung her from jail. She told them everything she knew. They pretended not to believe her. But of course, her visa was immediately approved for Switzerland, after which she easily slipped into France.

Jonathon had meant for me to go on living while both my children were dead—not to mention Benicio. Isak knew all this, which is why he wouldn’t tell me
any
of it. His only mistake was
losing track of Isabel, unprepared as everyone was, that Benicio would be shot in the middle of the square, throwing the whole town into pandemonium. Still, it is a mistake I can’t bear to think about. Benny’s whereabouts hadn’t yet been revealed to Isabel. No one actually knew where he was, including Isak. If not for Gaston spotting Benny in that one split second—what then? Who would have saved him?

Isabel. After Pieter told her where to find Benny, she had no intention of letting anyone hurt him, no plans to take him away. By the time I arrived, she’d already coldcocked Helena for giving Benny way too much sedative when he wouldn’t stop crying. From the beginning, Isabel had put herself in harm’s way, knowingly pitting herself against Jonathon to save Benny. She knew what Jonathon was capable of, and, believing no one was on her side, risked her own life for Benny’s. It was I who nearly killed her in the end. I don’t remember much of what happened after she hit the floor. All I know is what I’ve been told. If it hadn’t been for the police pulling me off of her, she would not have survived.

The truth is, I would have liked to visit her in the hospital before she returned to a life of freedom in Mexico. I would have liked to apologize. But I wasn’t allowed anywhere near her. I wasn’t allowed anywhere.

People say one of the hardest things about the death of someone you love is not being able to say good-bye. Perhaps this is true. I wasn’t there when the casket was lowered into the ground; I can only imagine the scene. The September air causing mourners to stand their collars on end, the leaves rustling above the bright green lawn. How lovely the white granite tombstone with his name:
Benicio Francisco Martinez. Beloved husband and father
.

One could argue he was never a husband or a father. One could. But no matter. I don’t allow myself to grieve for the life we had. It’s gone, as surely as yesterday no longer exists. I focus on today. I have to, for Benny.

He sits flush against me in the backseat of the black sedan. I don’t know who the driver is. I’ve never seen him before and we’re not allowed to speak. Tinted windows turn the world outside an artificial green, but Benny doesn’t mention it. After being found, his first words to me were, “They told me you were dead.” He’s said very little since.

We’ve just left a safe house near Marseille, where we’ve been living a strange, dreamlike existence for nine months. We spent
Christmas alone, a morose affair, the only good to come of which was my attempt at baking Christmas cookies. Benny stepped in to correct the amount and variety of spices I was about to dump into the mixing bowl. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Riding in the car now, I feel the haze of what’s happened to us beginning to lift. Benny stretches forward to see out the window, and I kiss the back of his hand cupped tightly inside mine. He’s grown slightly taller, his features shifting toward the man he will one day become. He’s starting to look more like Isabel.

In just a few moments, we’ll be boarding a private plane. All I can think of is how very different this journey is from the one where our story began. I catch Benny studying my face when he thinks I’m not looking. I can only imagine how troubled he must be by my appearance, how tough it must be for him to trust me. I smile down at him and he reciprocates with a mournful smile, the only kind he’s shown in the months since he was recovered. It’s as if the drugs used to sedate him haven’t quite worn off. His psychiatrist says he needs more time. I want to believe this is true. There is so much I want to believe.

* * *

The plane’s wheels hit the tarmac and I rifle once more in my bag for our German passports.

“Safe and sound,” I whisper, feeling a little drunk, though I haven’t had a drop. Even so, elation blossoms beneath my skin.

I still clutch Benny’s hand and refuse to let go as we deplane down a set of rickety metal stairs. The blustery wind whips our hair, the sky above clear and baby blue. We’re immediately ushered toward the Berlin Brandenburg terminal by two men who pull our luggage along but won’t look me in the eye. We enter
through a heavy metal door that requires a code, which one of the men swiftly punches into a pad.

They steer us out around the customs lines and in through another coded door, and it isn’t until I turn around that I realize the men have disappeared. Benny and I have been deposited in the terminal as if we’d just arrived, like anybody.

Benny looks up at me, terrified.

“It’s all right.” I hold him against me, momentarily frightened myself. I don’t know where we’re going. I don’t know what’s supposed to happen next—Isak was purposely unclear. How close I came to going to prison for attempted murder, how thin the line between one life and its opposite, between losing
everything
you’ve ever cared about, and getting to keep just enough to carry on. It’s appalling, really, if you let yourself think about it.

“This way, love,” I say, mustering fake confidence as we head toward the exit, making our way past a long glass partition etched with the word
Willkommen
. And then I see his shoulders through the crowd, recognize his smooth gait. Before I know it he’s upon us, straight-faced, seemingly calm. “
Kann ich Ihnen helfen?
” he asks of our bags, and shivers coat me all over like fresh glitter. Benny jerks his head up, recognizing the voice, but then he slips behind me, untrusting, gripping my hand so fiercely it hurts.

“It’s OK,
Schatz
,” I whisper near his ear. “It’s really him.”

“
Ja. Bitte
,” I say of the bags, smiling at the offer to help. I knew he wouldn’t look the same but I didn’t know what to expect. The scruffy beard looks remarkable on him. “
Vielen Dank
,” I say, wheeling a suitcase toward him. The scars on his temple and forehead have been expertly removed. Barely a trace remains. Perhaps this is just love talking. Whatever it is, I am flush with it. His lighter, shaggier hair and green contacts are equally as attractive to me as his once dark strands and amber eyes used to be.

He briefly touches the back of my hand and I have to turn away to stifle my tears. I caress the back of my short hair, flip the choppy blond strands up and down. I like the way it feels. Fresh. Free. New. My long dark waves are a thing of the past, as are my gray-blue eyes. I’m still shocked by my own reflection, but the new look goes well with my horn-rimmed glasses and brown contacts. I feel updated. A modern version. Celia 2.0. Make that 3.0.

“After you, hot fondue,” he whispers, and I have to force a straight face as we stroll toward the exit. “You look sunny,” he adds, and I smile, thinking of my mother when I was young, my father calling her “sunny honey.” I think of Oliver too, and his endurable, upbeat, steady spirit. He and Pinto are living in Berlin under assumed names—Pinto now goes by Fido, Oliver having picked, he said, the
doggiest
name he could come up with. He’s trying his hand at writing for
The Berliner
, while Seraphina, whose aunt passed away just days after we found Benny, finishes classes at the Freie Universität. All of this came secondhand through Isak. I take it on faith that it’s the truth.

We can’t predict the future, and there’s no telling the man Benny will become. All I can do is trust that the light will return fully to his eyes. And already, look at him, hearing Benicio’s voice—there’s a flicker…

We’ll never be able to live a public life again, since we don’t, technically,
exist
. I’ll never write that book about the missing boy—not that I have the least desire to. But I
will
write again, sooner or later. I’ll just have to start over, under a nom de plume, as the French say.

“
Auf diese Weise?
” Benny asks, pointing to the exit.

“
Ja, Schatz
. This way.”

See us piling into a taxicab. A family like any other, on our way home.

My deepest and most heartfelt gratitude to you, David Long—teacher, mentor, wordsmith, editor extraordinaire. You have taught me so much about the cabinetry, and worked tirelessly to help make this novel worthy of your treasured and exclusive list of books you’ve read in 2012.

I want to thank Victoria Griffith, Andrew Bartlett, Alex Carr, Jacque Ben-Zekry, and everyone else at Thomas & Mercer for so much hard work and so many kind efforts on my behalf. You are wildly funny record-holder stellar human beings.

Thank you, Sharon Harrigan, so very much for your constant attention to my work, and to my spirit—and always on such short notice. You’re a godsend.

Thank you, Rachel Hoffman and Melissa Crisp, for so graciously combing through the manuscript with me in the eleventh hour and for giving me the courage to let it go.

Thank you, Leigh Camacho Rourks, Rima Karami, Monica Spoelstra Metz, Jessica Donnell, Stephanie Sutherland, Stephanie Howard, Jennifer Greenleaf, Stefin McCargar, Jessica Anya Blau, and Laurie Holst for reading my work, encouraging me, and remaining fast friends.

Thank you, Deanna Dorsey Smith, for getting the state of Wisconsin to buy my books, Shirley Evans for doing the same in Ohio, and Connie Brown for bringing in the Michigan readers.

Thanks, Mom and Dad, for telling everyone you know that I’m a writer, and the rest of my family for cheering me on and spreading the word about my books.

Thank you, Dylan Brown-Reed-Walsdorf (what could I do?), Kelley Burnett, and Liam Reed for being the most awesome and brilliant young people to share a life with.

And, as always, thank you, Andrew Reed, for everything, but this time especially for being so much like Benicio by helping me carry on and laugh in the face of so much madness.

Photograph by Andrew Reed, 2011

Audrey Braun is the pen name of novelist Deborah Reed, author of the best seller
Carry Yourself Back to Me
, a Best Book of 2011 Amazon Editors’ Pick. As Audrey Braun, she is also the author of the best-selling thriller
A Small Fortune
, the first in a planned trilogy featuring Celia Hagen and her family. After having lived all over the United States and in Europe, Reed currently resides in the Pacific Northwest with her family.