Promises to Keep (6 page)

Fifteen

After Ben came clean
about Sabrina's involvement with FSS, Michael didn't even try to pretend to sleep. He cleaned his weapons instead.

Laid out on the table in front of him, the muted gleam of gunmetal was familiar. Comforting even, in a strange sort of way. This was what he knew. What he did. Who he was. The person he'd been after Frankie's death, the one who fell in love with Sabrina—that wasn't him. Never had been.

He could hope and wish all he wanted. For a different life. To find a way clear of the two tons of shit he'd buried himself under. It didn't matter. Not when faced with the reality of what he really was. Not when he admitted that he would probably never be free of Livingston Shaw. He ran the bulk patch through the barrel of his gun and gave it a few twists before pulling it clear. It came out clean.

Besides, did he really think he'd been made to settle down? Fall in love, lead an average existence? Pancakes and crossword puzzles on lazy Sunday mornings. Walks in the park and neighborhood barbeques. He thought about Tom Onewolf, the only normal guy he knew. He had a wife and daughter and ran his uncle's diner. For a moment, despite everything Michael knew about himself, he wished he could trade places with him. Be average. Be stable.

Be someone else.

Lark was right. Sabrina had done something to him. Made him want things he couldn't have. To be a man he couldn't even imagine. He tried to be angry at her, but it was no use. He'd decided a long time ago that whatever his problems were, she wasn't to blame. He let her get too close; he had no one to blame but himself.

He swiped the bulk patch over the slide, clearing away imaginary debris before adding a few drops of gun oil here and there.

But it was possible now. She was in as deep as he was. He could finally have something, someone, he wanted. They could be together …

As soon as the thought came to him, he rejected it. She deserved better—a lot better—than him. He thought of the cop who'd had the hots for her. Nickels. Yeah, he'd be good for her. He was clean. Capable. And just the thought of Sabrina with him made Michael want to kill something.

He passed the bulk patch over the body of the gun, careful to clear the rails, and ran it over the lip of the magazine. A shadow fell over the table and he looked up, not at all surprised by who he saw standing over him.

Michael smirked and dropped his eyes back down to the gun in his hand. “Did you fall down and hit your head or something, asshole?” he said.

“Maybe, but I got enough wits to hear what Junior told you about your girl,” Lark said, still standing over him and still staring.

Michael didn't answer. He reached for his gun cloth and started rubbing away the fluid residue left on his dismantled gun. He got busy ignoring Lark; it didn't matter, he just kept talking.

“He's the one who told the boss about her, not me.”

“Technically, she turned herself in.”
For me
. His jaw clenched tight as he shot Lark a look. “Is this going somewhere, or are you looking for a shoulder to cry on?” He'd never been able to stomach Lark's bitchy little girl routine for long; time had done nothing to stretch his patience. He fixed the slide back into place and racked it back to ensure it rode the rails without catching.

“What I'm looking for is an apology.”

Michael laughed. Tipped his head back and let loose. “Yeah? Well, keep looking because you won't find one here.” He popped a fresh magazine into the grip of the gun and racked a bullet into the chamber before laying it on the table. He looked up at Lark. “You're just pissy because she beat you to the punch. I'm sure you would've loved to be the one to offer up that little gem to Shaw.”

“But I didn't.” Lark jabbed a finger over his shoulder at Ben. “He
turned
her, and he gets a pass? What's up with that?”

“He did it to save her. What you did, you did to save yourself.” Michael stood, forcing Lark back a few steps away from the table.

“I did what I did to save us both.”

“Remind me to send a thank you card.” He looked down at the gun on the table.

Lark read his mind. “Shooting me won't change anything. You can't have what you want. None of us can. We walked away from nine-to-five and minivans a long time ago. No use callin' bullshit now.”

Michael kept his expression neutral. “Has anyone ever told you that you have this annoying habit of repeating yourself?”

“Yeah, well, here's another repeat, just so we're clear: I'm here to make sure you don't get any silly ideas about riding off into the sunset with your Lady Cop—”

“Funny, I thought that's what the dirty bomb attached to my spine was for.”

“—so, just remember: She's a hell of a lot more expendable than you are.”

Michael holstered his gun and curled his hands into fists, squeezing them so hard he felt his knuckles crack. “Pushing me … it's a stupid move.”

“I'm not the one being stupid,” Lark nearly growled at him, and Michael laughed again. Lark had him there. When it came to Sabrina,
Stupid
was his middle name.

Sixteen

Cofre del Tesoro, Colombia
July 2008

“What is it?”

Christina stood at the edge of the grass, small fingers worrying against the seams of her pale pink dress. She looked up at him.

“It's a tire swing,” Michael said, jamming his hands into the pockets of his fatigues.

“What's it for?”

“It's for fun.” What seemed like a good idea this morning now felt silly. He grimaced at the old jeep tire and rope he'd found in the garage. He hadn't even thought to wipe it down before stringing it up. Jesus, he was bad at this. “Never mind. You want to go back inside?”

“No.” She said it quickly, her pigtails bouncing wildly with the forceful head shake she gave him. “I'm tired of inside.”

He smiled down at her. “Me too. Want to give it a try?” he said, cocking his head at the swing.

“Yes, please.” She smiled back, looking at him like he'd just offered her something priceless. The smile faded a bit and her fingers started to worry again. “What am I supposed to do?”

He took her by the hand and led her onto the grass. When he'd first found the tree a few months ago, he'd hardly been able to believe it. An oak tree growing on an island off the coast of Colombia. He'd been so curious that he'd asked one of the other guards about it.

“When Mrs. Reyes was pregnant,
Hefe
had it shipped all the way here, fully grown from America and had it planted so that his son would have a good, sturdy tree to climb,” the guard had told him. “
Hefe
is still waiting for his son.”

He hadn't said it, but the implication was clear: Christina was a disappointment to her father. The tire swing had been an impulsive reaction to what the guard had told him. A
fuck you
to Reyes for discarding his only daughter like a broken toy. For treating her like a thing instead of a child.

They stood in front of it now, and he gave it a push so she could watch it swing gently back and forth. “You put your legs through the hole and sit on the edge,” he said to her, brushing the black smudges touching it left on his fingertips off on his dark pants.

“I'm going to get dirty.”

“Probably,” he answered, ready to take her back into the house.

Christina watched the tire sway for a few moments, doubt
slowly being replaced by determination. She lifted her arms, looking up at him, this time with expectation, and it took him a second to realize what she was asking. Lifting her, he held her up so she could thread her legs through the hole in the tire. “Hold on here,” he said gruffly, suddenly attacked by the memory of doing almost the exact same thing for Frankie when she was little. He moved her hands to the base of the rope. “Don't let go,” he said just before giving her a gentle push, sending the tire away from him.

She came back and he pushed her again, a little bit harder this time, and she spun around on the return trip, her eyes wide with worry but also something more. Excitement—the kind of terrified joy that makes you believe you can do anything. That you are not a disappointment. That you are perfect, even if your hair is loose and your dress is smudged with grease and road dust.

He pushed again and this time she squealed, “Higher!”

He pushed her until he could barely lift his arms and her dress was ringed in black. Neither of them noticed. “Did you have a tire swing when you were my age?” she said to him, taking hold of his hand on the walk back from to the house. He didn't pull away.

“No. I didn't live in a place that had trees.” How could he explain to her that when he'd been her age he'd live in a shitty rent-by-the-week with his heroin-addicted mother? That he didn't even remember
seeing
a tree until he'd been taken to Sophia and Sean for fostering after his mother died. “But I did when I was older.”

He still remembered sitting in the front seat of his social worker's ancient VW Beetle staring out the window at the place that would eventually become his home. The tire swing looked like it was there just waiting for him, and he wanted to swing on it so bad he could taste it. He hadn't been there a week before he found a hacksaw in Sean's tool chest and cut the rope from the branch, the tire hitting the ground with a dull thud.

“Did you love it?” Her eyes were wide, cheeks still flushed by wind and exhilaration.

“I did love it,” he said. When he'd woken up the next morning after cutting it down, it'd been strung back up, as if he'd never touched it. It became a sort of game between him and his new father. He'd cut it down and then Sean would string it back up. Him telling Sean to give up. That he was hopeless and would never allow himself to be loved. Sean telling him that no matter what he said or did, he would never give up. He would never stop trying. “My sister loved it too.”

“You have a sister?” Christina stopped, her hand jerking in his. “What does she look like?”

He looked at her. She had the same curly dark hair and smooth
olive skin as Frankie, who looked so much like Sophia. On im
pulse, Michael pulled the photo of a twelve-year-old Frankie from the pocket where he always carried it and held it out to her.

Christina's gaze latched on to the photo along with her fingers. “She has curly hair too.” She traced the crazy tangle that surrounded Frankie's face with the tip of her finger. “Does she like the beach?” she said, searching for something that would connect her to the wild-looking girl in the picture.

“She does, but she's older now. In high school, but that's how I think of her.”
That's how she looked the last time I saw her.

She handed the photo back and resumed walking. “Thank you,” she said as they stepped into the looming shadows of the house.

“You're welcome,” he said, giving her hand a small squeeze before he pulled away. “Sorry about your dress.”

“It's okay,” she said, giving him a smile, wildness playing at the corners of her mouth and for the first time, she looked like what she was: a child. “I never liked it anyway.”

Seventeen

They landed at Moffett
Federal Airfield a few hours later and climbed into the standard-issue black Land Rover that waited for them inside the hangar. Michael took the back seat without protest. He preferred it actually; that way he was not only able to keep Lark in sight, he could laugh at him every time he took an uneasy look over his shoulder.

He barely paid attention until they drove by Mount Davidson Park toward the quiet neighborhoods tucked around it. One of those neighborhoods belonged to Sabrina. Michael sat up in his seat and looked at the rearview mirror, trying to catch Ben's eye, but the kid wouldn't look at him.

“The hell are we doing way over here? The FSS field office is twenty miles that way,” Lark said, jabbing a thumb out the window.

“I have other plans,” Ben said, taking a quick glance in the rearview mirror, straight at Michael. Michael didn't like what he saw.

They rolled past Sabrina's street and hooked a right to head up
the hill. When they stopped in front of the stately Victorian
painted a creamy white with French blue gingerbread detail, he stared out the window and felt like throwing up. Time had done nothing to change it. The same rosebushes with their heavy-headed blooms. The same porch swing with its deep red cushions. He hadn't been back, hadn't called. Not like he used to.

Just then, Miss Ettie, the elderly woman who owned and ran the B&B, stepped out onto the porch. He could see her wide smile and snappy brown eyes from where he was. She waved them in, but it wasn't
them
she was waving in. It was Ben.

Michael watched him lean across the seat into Lark's space to wave back before he put the Rover into park. “What are we doing here?” Michael said.

The kid cut him a look, an unreadable expression on his boyish face. “Checking in,” he said before climbing out of the SUV and making his way toward the house.

Michael retrieved his duffle and case from the cargo area of the Rover as slowly as he could. He watched Ben stride up the front walk, Lark lagging behind, and wondered again what the kid was up to. This was San Francisco; you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting a hotel. Not to mention that it was mandatory for all FSS employees to report immediately to the field office upon arrival. He learned a long time ago that the rules rarely applied to Ben, but they were on a case. This wasn't a social call. Why were they here?

Ben took a step forward and captured the old woman's hand in his before he leaned in and dropped a kiss on her cheek. Watching them, Michael felt his gut clench. Ben knew her.

He thought of all the times the kid had taken off on his own after a job. It suddenly became clear where Ben had been spending his downtime and why he'd stopped asking Michael to tag along.

He couldn't help but think of Sabrina. She lived one street over, directly behind the B&B. It's what made staying here two years ago so convenient.

Michael watched from the cover of the Land Rover's trunk as Miss Ettie reached out her hand and allowed Lark to shake it. It was a sight, seeing that massive hand swallow her tiny fingers in a handshake that was meant to be dainty but ended up looking awkward. Seeing Lark standing so close to the old woman reminded him of Sabrina's grandmother. Reminded him that Lark was responsible for her death. He'd killed Lucy Walker as sure as if he'd point a gun at her and pulled the trigger.

Michael slammed the hatch and stepped onto the curb, feeling exposed and out of place when the small cluster of people in front of him turned and looked his way. Miss Ettie moved away from the men in front of her, and her face broke into a grin that grew wider and wider with each step she took toward him.

She stopped in front of him. “I've been worried about you,” she said, shaming him whether she meant to or not.

He dropped his duffle and case on the front walk, stunned when she wrapped her arms around his middle and pressed her head into his rapidly tightening chest.

“I'm sorry.” He didn't know what else to say.

“You better be. You left quite the mess behind, and you sure as hell better be sorry about that too,” she said to him before she turned and walked toward the house, expecting the men behind her to follow in her wake.