Like a Knife (17 page)

He is mine. My son. My own.

Across the table, Rachel grinned at Nick and moved a drink out of Isaac's reach.

"How about eating a little of mat hamburger," Nick said. Isaac slid the toy over a french-fry hill, and a couple of ketchup packets fell on the floor. Nick picked them up. "Why don't you eat before you spill something?" The engine noises grew louder. "Eat up." Gently, Nick took the toy away. "You can play with mis later."

Quickly and deliberately, Isaac knocked over the drink, soaking Nick.

"Goddamn it!" Nick sprang to his feet.

Isaac stared straight ahead, his lips clamped shut. Rachel picked him up; his body was stiff and unyielding as she carried him out.

Hours later, they crossed the causeway onto Long Beach Island. They'd long ago given up talking. Isaac was asleep in the back, Rachel numb with fatigue in the front. Next to her, Nick retreated further and further into his own separate darkness. As the moon rose and the car zoomed over the miles, Rachel felt him freeze up beside her. Her own icy wall grew thicker with every foot of blacktop they traveled.

She didn't begin to relax until they drove over the low-slung bridge that separated the island from the mainland. Traversing the causeway was like crossing into another world. Security washed over her like a fresh, green wave, as if the bridge were the last link to danger, and once they were on the other side, no one could touch them. A fantasy maybe, but one she eagerly embraced.

On the other side of the bridge, neon lights and motels greeted them. They passed grocery stores and movie theaters, water parks and miniature golf courses. It looked so safe. So easy to hide among all these people.

Nick stopped to fill the car with gas. Rachel glanced back at the sleeping child and said, "Maybe we should find some place to stay and worry about the car in the morning."

"We may need to get away in a hurry."

Even that didn't jar her. She looked around at the gas station, at the rows of chips and cookies she saw through the window, at the signs hawking fishing gear and boat rentals.

Normal. It was all so normal.

After the fill-up, Nick drove on, scanning motels and residential streets. They rode for a long time; it turned out that Danny's rickety, weather-beaten cabin was located at the far end of the island.

Nick examined the place from the car, cataloging its advantages. For a start, it was off the road, almost on the beach, so they'd have few prying eyes. The path leading to it was well lit. Even in the dark, the streetlights provided a good view of the road.

He got out of the car along with Rachel. She stretched, raising her arms so her breasts were tautly outlined against her shirt.

Don't do that.
He looked away, found a rock to stare at. Leaning into the backseat, he scooped up the sleeping child. Isaac stirred but didn't wake.

Nick took a minute to reconnoiter around the cabin, noting with satisfaction that a bent screen and wooden door were the only way inside. If unexpected visitors dropped by, they'd have plenty of warning.

Danny had chosen well.

Inside, the place was as tiny as the basement apartment Nick had left behind. Only a kitchenette, bathroom, a single bedroom.
Good.
The small cabin would be easier to defend than a multistoried beach house with levels of hiding places and a variety of entrances.

He carried the child into the bedroom, gently placing him on the bed. Rachel brought his knapsack inside and laid it next to the bed. She stood beside Nick as he gazed down at the boy.

"He'll be okay," she said.

Nick nodded, not at all sure, and returned to the other room. Opening the refrigerator, he saw that Danny had been true to his word. A carton of milk stood square in the center of the upper shelf, along with orange juice, English muffins, butter, jam, and a cantaloupe.

Rachel wandered out of the bedroom. Nick glanced at her pale, tired face. She looked drained.

He was tempted to go to her, hold her. Tell her everything would be all right. He tore his gaze away.
Don't be an idiot
He couldn't afford to start thinking about holding her, comforting her.

"Keep the cabin doors closed," he said. "The screen and the wood one. If someone wants in, let him work for it." He found the phone and pulled it out of the wall, stuffing it into an empty cabinet. "And no phone calls."

"Are more bad men coming?" Isaac stood just outside the bedroom, watchful eyes on Rachel.

"No, honey, we're safe here." She took his hand and walked him back inside. Nick followed, stopping in the doorway.

The boy looked down at the bed. He picked at the coverlet. "Will you... will you stay with me?" His voice came out small and pinched.

"As long as you want me to." She hugged him, and though he didn't resist, he didn't hug her back either.

She helped him take off his clothes, then pulled down the covers for him.

"Don't close the door." He crawled into the bed.

"I won't." She spoke with complete understanding, and Nick wondered if she was remembering her own nightly ritual after her mother had been killed.

Sitting on the bed next to the boy, she smiled. "Would you like me to sing to you before you go to sleep, or read a story? I brought in your knapsack, and I think there's a book inside."

"Where's my bear?"

"Here." Nick picked it up off the lumpy sofa and entered the bedroom, holding out the toy.

Isaac looked at the bear and then at the man. He hadn't said a word to Nick since he'd spilled the drink on him.

A nod from Rachel gave Nick the courage to take a step closer. He dropped the bear in the boy's lap. Isaac grabbed it and slid farther down in the covers. Nick stood a moment longer, looking at him.

Say something. Do something.
"I'll be outside," he said at last.

Rachel grabbed his hand, keeping him a moment longer. Gently, she said to Isaac, "Why don't you say good-night to Nick?"

But the boy only stared at the ceiling.

Nick absorbed the rejection in silence, then left Rachel to sit with the boy.

Back in the kitchenette, Nick opened the long, slender broom closet Danny had described. A metal pail with a dried-up mop sat inside. Underneath the mop, Danny had hidden the Uzi Nick had requisitioned.

He took it out, relearning the feel of it. He could have requested a standard size, but this little mini would be easier to conceal. It was a good weapon; Nick had brokered thousands of them. He felt around inside the closet for the ammunition and stopped in mid-reach.

A lullaby floated into the room.

The back of his throat sealed up as Rachel's voice reached him, pure and sweet. He looked down at the weapon in his hand, staring at it as if it were some living, breathing thing, an extension of his arm. His soul.

Killer.
The word whispered inside his head, an accusation voiced by a thousand tongues. That's what he was, what he'd always be.

Closing his eyes, he leaned his head against the edge of the closet and blotted out the haunting melody. Erased the picture in his mind of the gentle woman and the troubled boy. Bit by bit, he iced himself up, obliterating tenderness and regret, toughening himself until he could stand straight. Until he was ready to do what he had to do. Then he walked out the cabin door, firmly holding the Uzi.

By the time Isaac fell asleep, the deepest part of the night was upon them. Rachel walked through the darkened cabin and out the front door, listening to the lazy rhythm of the water. The moon polished the ocean, turning the white tops of the waves into iridescent slivers. She-took a deep breath, smelled the salt and the seaweed. Soon she was going to have to tell Nick what she'd done with Spier's document. But not now. Now all she wanted was a little peace and some space to breathe.

Behind the cabin, an old picnic table leaned into the sand. Nick sat on a bench, holding something between his knees. Rachel's heart stopped.

Sports Coat's gun.

"I'm leaving this for you." He put the weapon on the table. It lay between them, its blue-black barrel glinting in the moonlight, an unspoken message of what was still to come.

"It's a Ruger. Mark II model. Designed to be used at very close range." He put a finger to his head and mimed a gun. "But it's lighter than the Magnum, so you'll be able to handle it easily."

She nodded wordlessly. The thought of holding a gun, let alone shooting someone, was so far removed from her experience she hardly knew what to say.

He rose. "I'll be back tomorrow or the day after. If not, I left a number inside you can call."

If not?
Her heart thudded. "But... what about Isaac? I promised him you wouldn't go away."

"You'll be here."

"I'm not his father," she said. "You can't abandon him, Nick. Not now. He's lost so much already."

He threw her a pointed look. "He's not you, Rachel. And I'm not David Goodman." He started toward the car, and she chased after him.

"Could've fooled me. You're leaving, aren't you?"

"I have to. Rennie-"

"Forget Rennie." She ran ahead to block his way. "Someone else needs you now."

He raked fingers through his hair. "I'm the last thing that kid needs. You saw what happened today. What kind of father do you think I'd make? Instead of teaching him how to hit a baseball, I could teach him how to hit a target."

She spoke quietly. "You can teach him what you know, Nick. Teach him about the goodness that's inside you."

"Goodness?" He swore and sidestepped her, rugged face furrowed in scorn.

"It's there, Nick," she called to his retreating back, "I've seen it."

"You've seen it?" He whirled and descended on her. "You've seen me kill a man, but then, that's what I'm 'good' at."

"I've seen you risk your own life to protect mine. And only a good man moves heaven and earth to save a. child."

He stopped as if she'd punched him, and despite the shock on his face, she plunged on. "You did those things. You saved my life today. And Isaac's."

"You don't know what you're talking about." He was rigid, his hands white-knuckled into fists. "You don't know the first thing about me."

"Yes, I do."

He grabbed her shoulders and shook her, nearly shouting. "How many 'good' men trade guns for cocaine? Or sell missiles on the black market? Do you know how many times I've intimidated, coerced, even hurt people? And not just grown men, but-" He clamped his jaw down and shoved her away. "You think I'm 'good'? Christ, you don't know the half of it." He wheeled and strode off again.

She found him leaning his head against the top of the car's open hood, staring hard at the engine.

"Go back to the cabin."

She ignored his curt command. "You say I don't know you, but you're wrong. I know what you did for Spier, but your life is different now. You're different."

He straightened and met her gaze. Beneath the night sky, his face was shadowed, the black brows a harsh line across his forehead. "No, Rachel, I'm exactly the same."

"Nick..."

"I can't be anyone's father!" He slammed down the hood, then braced his two hands against it, visibly fighting for control. "'I can't be Isaac's fattier. There's things about me ... things I've done."

"What things? What have you done?"

"I can't... I can't tell you." He shuddered, and she rubbed his back softly, gently, soothing him.

"Yes, you can. You can, Nick. You can tell me anything."

She understood his fear. For years, darkness had wrapped around her soul like a twisted vine, invading her heart, choking her breath. But the darkness had been familiar, hers. Trusting someone else with it was the hardest thing she'd ever done. She'd been fifteen when she finally told Chris about her mother's murder, and he'd held her and cherished her, and helped her take her first real steps toward healing.

"You're safe. Whatever you say, I promise, you're safe."

Nick stared into the night and swallowed the boulder caught in his throat. He swore he'd never tell her, but it was the only way for her to see. The only way to make her understand why he couldn't stay with the boy.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, "I... I brokered mis deal-" A wave of nausea went through him, and he stopped to battle it, then started over. "Six years ago, I brokered an illegal buy for Libyan-" Unable to face her, he stared at the car, trying to keep his voice flat. Trying to pretend the words were about someone else. "Spier bankrolled the deal in Panama, but our contact got cold feet at the last minute, so Rennie sent me and Marty to take care of the trouble. We ended up in this alley. I had the gun out, I was all set to finish him Only suddenly ..." His voice wobbled, but he cleared it and pushed through. "Suddenly something moved in the shadows. A kid. A boy. Skinny little thing, dark hair, big eyes. He was living in a cardboard box." Sweat trickled down his back.

"Marty thought I'd gone nuts. I stood there forever, eyeballing that kid in the darkness. My gun is out. Marty is croaking, 'Do it, do it,' like some bullfrog in heat. And me, I'm still as a statue, staring at that kid."

He lifted his head and gazed into the night, but instead of the battered car or the moonlit beach or the woman he cared about more than life itself, he saw a boy whose eyes hoped-for nothing. "God, it was like staring at myself..."

He didn't move, his gaze fixed on the shadowy Panamanian alley and a dark-haired boy. "Marty took out his knife, pushed me aside, and-" He stabbed the air, twisting the imaginary knife. "He gutted our man, right there in the alley. Jesus, I never saw so much blood. Neither had the kid. He stared at me, at Marty, the dead guy ..." He uncurled his fist and dropped his hand. "No witnesses, it's Rennie's first rule. Marty didn't even clean the knife off, it was still so ... bloody." He gave a shaky laugh. "I don't know why that always bothers me so much. What difference does it make whether you die from a clean knife or a dirty one? Dead is dead, isn't it?"

Something wet dribbled down his cheek. Not sweat this time.

"I tried to stop Marty, I swear I shouted at him." His throat tightened. "I should have shot him. I should have done whatever. I needed to stop him. But I didn't," He clenched his jaw, forcing the words out. "I didn't... and he slit the kid's throat."

Silence stretched. Was it shock or repulsion that kept her from speaking? He didn't know. He didn't want to know. He only wanted to get the hell out of there, before he had to look at her again.

"So you see now." He scoured the moisture off his face with the heel of his hand. "You see why I can't stay." He turned and walked away.

"Nick, wait!"

Christ, leave me alone. Just let me get out of here.

Afraid to face her, he plodded to the picnic table like a man carrying a dead weight. He retrieved the Uzi and the ammo, then the Magnum.

"What are you doing?" She ran up behind him.

He imagined her eyes cold as mirrors, the warmth gone from them forever. He kept his back to her.

"Don't you understand yet? People, die for Rennie. Not just bad people. Kids die, wives die, even sons. I'm not letting it happen anymore."

He checked the clip on the .44 and rammed it home. Picking up the Uzi, he started toward the car.

She ran after him. "Wait, you can't go now. I want to talk to you."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"There is Nick, you're wrong."

He threw the guns into the VW. "Put the Ruger somewhere safe, where the kid can't get hold of it. If I'm not back in a few-"

"I don't care," she burst out. "I don't care what you did."

Slowly, he turned around and looked at her. She stood in the moonlight, her face pale and tearstained, her chin jutting defiance.

"I don't care, Nick."

And that hurt almost more than anything. "Ah, Rachel. You should care. You should care very much."

"The past is past, Nick. It's over. Now is all that counts. And now, it only matters that you're here. If you failed one boy then, you didn't fail this boy now. Because we're here, aren't we? We're together. We're safe. And it's because of you, because of what you did today. Please, Nick. Please don't go."

Her loose hair blew in the breeze, and more than anything he wanted to touch it one last time. "I have to. It's the only way to keep you both safe."

"But what about you? What about keeping you safe?" Her voice caught

"God, Rachel, don't."

"You can't leave us here alone." He could tell from the way she said it that she wasn't worried for herself. It was only an excuse to keep him there.

"You'll be fine. You have the Ruger."

"For God's sake, Nick, 1 don't know the first thing about guns. I don't know how to load it or aim it. I don't even know where the damn safety is or how to take it off."

"It's easy, Rachel. It's the easiest thing in the world."

He took her back to the table and put the gun in her hand- He showed her the clip and how to load and unload it. He put her finger on the trigger and explained It all to her. But she shook her head.

"I can't-"

"Yes, you can," he said patiently.

"Please, Nick. Don't go. Give us a day. Just one day." She put her hands on his chest and looked up athim with wide, pleading eyes. His throat was suddenly dry. She was close, oh so close.

"It's better if I go now." But he didn't move.

She touched him then, her beautiful ringers tracing his mouth. Her breath was in his face, her hands in his hair. She drew him down, closer and closer still.

"Stay, Nick. Please. I want you to," she whispered.

Suddenly he knew that of all the things on earth, she had found the only one that would keep him there.

And then her mouth was on his.

He sank into her kiss like a doomed man, as if falling from a great height.- Unable to control himself, he wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off her feet, and all his hunger burst through. He kissed her eyes and her mouth and her chin, he buried his face in her hair. He smelled her-God, she smelled so clean-he couldn't get enough, would never get enough. He felt the skin on her back and the warmth of her breast, and it was like sweet absolution.

They fell to the ground, barely waiting to undo snaps and zippers. Everything was fierce and furious, as if they were each afraid the other would vanish into smoke if they didn't hurry. It was finished in minutes, each one panting from the pace and the ferocity.

And when it was over, she lay in his arms and kissed him, and it began again, slow this time, a gentle waltz on the sand. They spread out their clothes and lay on top of them. Her body was silk, like velvet under his hand. He stroked her belly and her breast, and she stretched, meeting the plane of his palms.

And when she moved on top of him and let him slip inside her, it was smooth and easy. Every stroke was heat, every movement a slow, slick flame.

She enveloped him in a haze of pure feeling, an ecstasy so thick he felt he might die from it. He lay on his back, his arms outstretched to take in more, more, he only wanted more. Above him, she moved like an ocean.

Wave after wave of forgiveness washed over him.

* * *

Rennie Spier stared blindly at the bank of TV screens in his office. From every set a CNN reporter stood on a Belfast street. He'd turned off the sound, but it was easy to guess what the story was about.

The British had found Martin's ship, and its capture dominated the news.

File footage of Northern Ireland replaced the reporter, and Rennie turned way. He had to stop thinking about Nicky. They would find him soon enough. This constant, angry burn would fade, and things would return to normal.

But now, visions of blood occupied him. Visions of Nicky naked and spread-eagled beneath the knife, sexless for all time.

Rennie's hand began to shake, and he gripped the curved edge of the desk. He had loved Nicky, had truly loved him. Rennie pictured the boy he'd brought into his home twenty years ago. The luxuries given him over the years, the money spent, the trust bestowed. But the pictures melted into one of his pretty, young, faithless wife. For six years he'd been patient. He*d made friends with suspicion, been partner to doubt. Now he knew. Nicky had proven himself a viper. And proven himself guilty once and for all.

Why else take the boy? If Isaac had truly been Ren-nie's, Nick would never have stolen him.

Besides, they'd all seen the child. He looked like his God-cursed mother, but his eyes were Nick's. No one had said so out loud, but Rennie had endured endless sidelong glances.

Did they think he was blind? Did they think he couldn't see the sly perception in their eyes as they looked from the boy's face to his and back again?

I'll take your balls, Nicky, and bury you screaming.
The heat of fury burned Rennie's eyes. But first he'd take Nicky's woman. In front of him, so he could see what it was like. Spier shook with anger.

Ah, Nicky, Nicky. I gave you everything.

Just then the phone rang. It was Frank. "We have a problem."

"Fix it."

"I think you better see something."

"Then why do you bother me with useless phone calls?"

When Frank came in, Rennie didn't hide his irritation. "I don't want to be harassed with idiocies."

Frank laid a set of rumpled, curling papers in front of him. "Nicky traded the kid for this. Take a look at it."

Rennie turned the pages to one in the middle and glanced at it. He turned to the next page, and the next He looked up at Frank, rage boiling through his veins. "What is this?"

Frank shook his head. "Looks to me like a double-cross."