The Tears of Dark Water (44 page)

She fingered the pages, lost in thought. Then she realized that Derrick was still standing on the porch. She gave him a sheepish look. “I’m sorry. Please come in.”

He trailed her through the foyer and into the spacious living room. The inside of the house was as manicured as the outside, balancing the earth tones of the furniture and floor with splashes of color in the artwork on the walls. There were windows all around. The house was like a prism, drawing in the light. Yet there was something missing from the scene. It was too quiet.

“Would you like coffee?” Vanessa asked, placing the chest on the island.

“That’s kind of you,” he replied. “But I’ve had enough caffeine in the past few months to keep me awake for the rest of my life.”

She gestured toward the couch and took a seat on a wingback chair. “You were out of the country?” she asked, making conversation.

“Kenya,” he replied, contemplating whether or not to elaborate.
Screw it
, he thought.
She can handle it.
“I don’t know if you saw the story of the aid workers taken into Somalia.”

She looked away and played with her hands. “You got them out.”

He shook his head. “The SEALs did.”

She winced painfully, thinking no doubt of what might have been. For an extended moment, she wavered on the edge of a decision, struggling with her emotions. He saw the question coming a mile away. He couldn’t avoid it. She had asked it once before.

“Tell me what happened out there, Paul. Please. I need to know.”

He took a breath, wrestling with the conflict between his personal feelings and professional obligations. A part of him wanted to tell her everything—Ismail’s promise on the RHIB, the faith he had invested in the pirate, Redman’s contrary instinct, the creep of the
Gettysburg
, closing the distance to the sailboat, the pirates’ delay in releasing the hostages, his sense that something had shifted between Ismail and his men, the last explosive exchange over the radio, and Redman’s fateful decision to send in the small boats. But, until the trial, he was sworn to secrecy. Besides, what purpose would his story really serve? It wouldn’t give her closure. It wouldn’t explain what had happened on the sailboat. That was what she ultimately wanted to know. Anything less would only increase her misery.

“There are some things I can’t say right now,” he told her. “But I’ll be candid. I’m not satisfied with what we know. Something happened out there, something only the people who were on the sailboat can explain.”

Her eyes glistened with moisture. “You mean Quentin.”

He saw the danger in the question—the trip wire that could send her spiraling into self-recrimination. He stepped over it gently. “There were others there, too.”

She fidgeted in her seat, her distress plain. “Have you lost hostages before?”

“Three of them,” he said. “I could tell you their names, what they looked like, who their families were. I live with them every day.”

“Did it always happen the same way?”

He answered her implicit question. “In the other scenarios, the kidnappers were jihadists. They wanted to make a statement. This case is different. I don’t think ideology has anything to do with it.”

She stood from her chair and went to the window, staring out at the yard. Seconds passed in silence, and then she looked at him again. “Why is your sister representing him?”

He spoke candidly. “Because I asked her to.”

“Why?” Vanessa asked softly.

It was the other unavoidable question. He gave her an honest answer. “I can’t tell you how awful I feel about what happened. You deserve justice. Your family deserves justice. Whatever Ismail did, he should be punished for it. That’s the government’s job. But there are flaws in the system. People in power, even good people, sometimes allow their pride to get in the way of the truth. Someone needs to make sure that doesn’t happen. That’s where Megan comes in.”

Vanessa’s face was a picture of damaged grace. “I suppose I can accept that,” she said. Then she brought the conversation to a close. “I appreciate you coming all this way. It was kind of you to bring back the chest.”

“Of course,” he replied, walking with her toward the door. He wanted to inquire about Quentin, but he had the sense that the timing was wrong, that it was too personal a subject at such a fragile moment. He decided to call Mary Patterson from the car.

It was then that he noticed the piano standing in the corner. He stopped in his tracks. “That’s a Bösendorfer. I’ve never seen one outside a concert hall.”

“It is,” she confirmed, sounding surprised. “Do you play?”

He nodded and walked toward the instrument, admiring the craftsmanship. He saw the sheet music arrayed upon the stand. It was Chopin’s Nocturne in E Flat Minor, Op. 9, No. 2. “That’s one of the loveliest pieces ever written for the piano,” he said with a trace of a smile. “Every time I play it I wonder if it came from another world.”

He glanced at Vanessa and was taken aback by her reaction. All of her guardedness was gone. She stood there looking at him until the silence became uncomfortable. Then she spoke words he never expected to hear: “Will you play it for me? I would love to hear it again.”

For a time he didn’t move, just stared back at her, bewildered by the feelings swirling inside of him. It wasn’t the request, touching as it was. It was the intimate way she had asked it, the tenderness in her voice, the way the light fell on her face, lifting the veil of her pain and revealing the woman behind it. He wasn’t prepared for the beauty he saw in her. He didn’t want to look away.

“I’d be honored,” he finally said. He took a seat on the bench and extended his hands above the keyboard. To his astonishment, he felt them trembling. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been nervous. Was it the piano? The nocturne? The way Vanessa was looking at him? He closed his eyes and shut all of it out, the way his mother had taught him to do when he was a boy. It was her gift to him, this alchemist’s instrument, these eighty-eight notes that could take the slugs of lead thrown by the world and turn them into nuggets of gold. The piano had been his escape in the darkest days after the killings. It had spoken for him when he had no words to say.

He rested his fingers on the keys and began to play. The nocturne transported him, as it always did, giving him the sense that he was floating through the clouds, liberated from all constraint. But the Bösendorfer wasn’t a passive partner. It added a crystalline clarity to the register, a feather-light touch to the action—especially in the trills and runs—that elevated the experience into a new realm. For four minutes, it was like he was somewhere else, somewhere perfect, where Daniel Parker was alive again, and Quentin was whole, and Vanessa’s heart wasn’t shattered in a thousand pieces, and Megan wasn’t driving herself into oblivion to save her clients from Kyle’s fate, and he wasn’t so lonely, a failure at everything that mattered most.

When he struck the last note, he opened his eyes and saw Vanessa’s tears. Then he saw something that took his breath away. Quentin was standing there beside her, watching him play. He had never seen the boy up close. He had his mother’s upturned nose and rounded chin, the shape and symmetry of her eyes, but his hair was darker and his irises were hazel, not green. He walked toward the piano, a slight hitch in his step, and put his hand on the case.

“You play well,” he said evenly. “I am . . . impressed. What is . . . your name?”

Derrick stood and offered his hand in greeting. “I’m Paul. It’s nice to meet you.”

The boy stared at him in puzzlement, then his eyes fell, as if he was thinking. At last he looked up again. “You were there . . . weren’t you? I recognize . . . your voice.”

Derrick nodded. “Yes.”

The boy took his hand and shook it firmly. “Thank you. I wish . . . my dad could be here . . . to thank you, too.”

Derrick heard Vanessa crying softly behind her son. Her hand was on her lips and she was staring at the floor. He blinked back his own tears. He couldn’t recall a time when he had been so moved. “You’re welcome,” he managed, not knowing what else to say.

“May I?” Quentin asked, gesturing at the piano.

“Of course,” Derrick said, stepping aside and allowing the boy to take a seat. He looked at Vanessa and saw the wonderment on her face. It came to him that this was the first time Quentin had played since the shooting.
My God
, he thought.
Let him remember. Let his notes be true.

And they were. Every single one. Quentin played the nocturne in his own way. He was a genius, his mastery of the keyboard far superior to Derrick’s own. The longer he played, the more expression he put into the music. At the end, when the long run of sixteenth notes took him into the upper part of the register, his face transformed and he began to smile in a lopsided way. It was like a light had come on inside of him. He looked different, as if his spirit had awakened from sleep.

After the last note was played, he turned to his mother and said, “Mom, I can still . . . do it. I haven’t forgotten . . . how to play.”

Vanessa started to laugh and cry at the same time. She walked toward the bench and wrapped her arms around him. “I know, honey,” she whispered. “It’s beautiful.”

The moment was so rich with private emotion that Derrick had to look away. He wandered across the living room to the glass doors that led out to the deck, taking in the yard and the pool and the forest and the boat dock and the river glittering in the sun. Soon, he heard Quentin begin another nocturne—
Clair de Lune
by Debussy. As the notes filled the air with their inimitable grace, the thought came to him:
Daniel, wherever you are, I hope you can hear this.

Vanessa

Annapolis, Maryland

March 11, 2012

When she closed the door behind Paul, Vanessa felt like she was walking on water. Quentin had moved on to Grieg’s magisterial
Notturno
, a piece she loved for its melodic texture and technical virtuosity. His touch wasn’t as flawless as it used to be—there were places in the rapid trills where his rhythm was slightly out of joint—but the imperfections didn’t matter. The sound was miraculous to her ears.

She walked slowly into the living room, hoping to preserve the moment, but Quentin was so focused on the keys that he didn’t notice her. She took a seat on the Belgian wingback and watched him from across the room. The passion in his eyes was almost as intoxicating to her as his proficiency. It had been years since he had played with such feeling. It was like he was twelve again, taking lessons twice a week and devoting every minute he wasn’t in school or on a sailboat to studying the great composers. The piano had been his first love, even before the sea. To see him rediscover it—especially now with his future hanging in the balance—was almost too wonderful for Vanessa to behold.

When the song ended, she clapped softly and dried her eyes. “You play so well. Ariadne is going to love listening to you.”

Quentin regarded her thoughtfully. “Would you like . . . to join me?”

The question caught Vanessa off guard. It wasn’t that she hadn’t considered it—as he played she had eyed the Bissolotti longingly, but she hadn’t wanted to impose. “We don’t have much time,” she said, checking her watch. “Her flight lands in an hour.”

“‘Beau Soir,’” he insisted. “It will take only . . . three minutes.”

“An appropriate choice,” she said with a smile.
How beautiful an evening this is going to be
. She walked to the violin and placed the instrument beneath her chin. “Whenever you’re ready.”

He met her eyes and nodded once. Then he began to play.

The international arrivals hall at Dulles airport was bland, boxy, and boring, but Quentin wasn’t paying attention. He stood just behind the barricade, his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, his weight distributed evenly between his sneakers, and a sloppy grin on his face. Vanessa stood beside him, feeling giddy. Something had happened inside of him, something of seismic significance. Looking at him now, she barely recognized the depressive curmudgeon she had lived with for nearly a month.
Paul Derrick
, she thought in amazement.
Who would have thought that he would bring us such a gift?

At the same time, she felt slightly anxious. She had spoken with Ariadne and her mother at length, making sure that the girl understood what she was getting into. She had described Quentin’s injuries, given her a primer on amnesia, and outlined his ongoing therapy, all in an attempt to temper her expectations. But Ariadne hadn’t hesitated. As she put it, the “medical gene” was in her DNA—her father and grandfather were anesthesiologists, and her uncle was a chiropractor. She guessed that she would end up in medical school eventually, though she was in no rush to decide. To Vanessa, Ariadne’s self-assurance and maturity were a good omen, but they weren’t a guarantee. The girl had her whole life ahead of her. Was it really possible that she could still love Quentin in spite of his disabilities?

Vanessa watched the steady steam of passengers exiting the customs area, looking for Ariadne’s face. Quentin was the first to see her. He called out to her and she turned toward him with a brilliant smile, dragging her suitcase around the barrier to meet him. She threw her arms around him and held him tightly, kissing his cheek. Then she turned to Vanessa and gave her a spontaneous hug. In an instant, Vanessa confirmed three things about her: she was a spark plug; she was her own woman; and she was real. Her outfit was as cute as she was—a form-fitting pink sweatshirt and skinny jeans. But she wore almost no makeup, and her long golden hair was pulled back in a clip.