At the bottom of the glade, he made a hard turn and dropped into a tuck, flying down the slope like a ball shot from a cannon. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a skier fall in the middle of Osprey, another expert run. And then in a blink he was past and the solitude returned. He focused all of his attention on the present. He felt the sting of freezing wind on his cheeks, fought the lactic acid burning in his thighs, heard the sizzle of his skis on the snow. For a moment, a precious glimmer in time, he felt the melancholy retreat and he was glad that he had come.
When he reached the base of Grouse Mountain, he saw Megan by the lift, clad in red and white, like a cardinal in a winter forest. She gave him a little wave as he slid to a stop, spraying her boots with snow. He lifted his goggles and wiped the moisture from his eyes.
“This place is a shrine,” he said, smiling at her like they were twenty again and tearing up Snowshoe and Killington. “I’m sorry I never came before.”
“You’re here now,” she replied. “That’s all that matters.”
He poled with her toward the lift and caught an express chair to the top, sitting back against the cushions as the chair took flight. They climbed through curtains of snow, enjoying a companionable silence. His breathing slowed and his heartbeat took on a normal cadence as the rush of adrenaline faded. After a while, he spoke the question he’d wanted to ask ever since he accepted her invitation to spend Christmas with her in the Rocky Mountains.
“How is Ismail? The Bureau’s pretty much shut me out of the loop.”
It was strange but true. After sailing with the
Truman
to Djibouti and witnessing the FBI take custody of the pirates, Derrick had boarded a military transport flight back to the United States. A few days later, two agents from New York had taken his statement and then disappeared into the ether, never returning his calls or emails. The blackout wasn’t completely surprising. The Bureau was highly compartmentalized, and after his showdown with Steve Pressley on the carrier the investigators weren’t going to do him any favors. Still, it felt like an affront, as close as he was to the case.
Megan brushed snow out of her face. “The jailers tell me he’s a model inmate. He keeps to himself and does what he’s supposed to. I’m just glad he’s in maximum security. There’s a rumor going around that al-Qaeda was behind the hijacking. He’s gotten threats.”
Derrick shook his head.
The media are so gullible
, he thought. A few days after the shooting, someone in the government had leaked the Shabaab connection to the press, igniting a firestorm of speculation among reporters and pundits about terror on the high seas. It was a diversion, pure and simple. No one—neither the FBI nor the news agencies—had yet corroborated Ismail’s story about fighting for the Shabaab, and no radical group had claimed responsibility for the incident. Whoever was behind the leak wanted one thing: to keep the spotlight off the government long enough to allow some other tragedy to replace the
Renaissance
in the headlines.
“I’m glad your partners let you represent him,” Derrick said. “I was afraid they would balk.”
“The timing was right,” Megan replied. “We just wrapped up a couple of big cases.” She grinned. “It wasn’t that hard to convince them. Trials like this don’t come along very often.”
Derrick heard the undercurrent of enthusiasm in her voice. Ever since law school, she had been a passionate opponent of the death penalty, for reasons both moral and personal. Of all the offers she had received after her Supreme Court clerkship, she had accepted the position at Mason & Wagner because they supported the Innocence Project—an organization working to exonerate wrongfully convicted individuals—and handled death penalty appeals on a pro bono basis. Ismail’s case, although expensive to try, was a win-win for the firm, with massive media exposure and the prospect—always enticing to defense lawyers—that there was more to the shooting than the government claimed.
Megan knocked her skis together, sending puffs of snow into the air. “I was more concerned that Ismail wouldn’t agree to it. I expected him to be suspicious, but he just seemed surprised. The judge asked him about my relationship to you, but he didn’t blink. He took the offer.”
Derrick glanced at her. “He didn’t have much choice. It was either you or the public defender.” He paused. “Does he talk about me?”
Her eyes glimmered. “You know I can’t answer that. But I heard from the jailers that he drinks a Pepsi every day now. He likes it better than jailhouse tea.”
Derrick laughed wryly. He had never felt more conflicted about a human being than he did about Ismail. The thought of the pirate evoked a witches’ brew of perplexity, sadness, curiosity, and rage, along with a subliminal sense of guilt. Part of him wondered whether, in referring the case to his sister, he had betrayed the Parker family.
Megan seemed to read his mind. “How is Quentin?” she asked gently.
He looked out at the mountain. “Mary says he’s making progress. They moved him over to rehab after he started breathing on his own. His faculties are coming back, but the doctors don’t know if he’ll make it all the way. It’s impossible to tell with a brain injury.”
Megan nodded slowly. “And Vanessa?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to her since Daniel’s funeral.”
The Parkers had held the memorial service the Sunday before Thanksgiving, and Derrick had almost not attended. For days, he had debated with Mary Patterson whether it would disturb Vanessa more to see him in person or to know that he hadn’t come. At the last minute, he deferred to his colleague’s intuition and joined her at St. Mary’s Parish in Annapolis. The sight of the closed casket surrounded by pictures of Daniel nearly wrecked his composure. He sat in the back of the sanctuary and tried not to think about the way the mural of stars on the ceiling reminded him of the
Gettysburg
.
He first glimpsed Vanessa across the sea of pews. She was younger than he expected and prettier, her skin as pale as porcelain and her red hair partially hidden by a wide-brimmed hat. She received the condolences of the mourners gracefully, but he saw the strain on her face, the sheen of tears in her eyes. When she took her seat, he couldn’t contain his anger.
All of this was avoidable
, he thought
. If only Redman had listened to me, if only Ismail hadn’t pulled the trigger, Daniel would be alive, Quentin wouldn’t be in the hospital, and this woman wouldn’t have to put on a brave face and pretend she isn’t shattered.
After the service, he escaped the church before the receiving line formed and drove with Mary to the cemetery. They arrived at the gravesite before the others and stood in the shadow of an oak tree as a cold rain started to fall. In time, Vanessa appeared and took her spot beside the grave with Curtis and Yvonne—Derrick knew their faces from the photos he had seen in the media. The priest made brief remarks and then the mourners fled the soggy knoll to take shelter in their cars.
It was then that Derrick approached Vanessa.
“You’re Paul, aren’t you?” she guessed, searching his face with her green eyes. “I wondered if you would come.”
The emotion of the moment nearly rendered him mute. Both of them had crossed continents and oceans to save Daniel and Quentin. Yet all of their efforts had come to nothing in the end. He took her gloved hand in his and allowed his pain to show. No words were adequate; none even seemed appropriate. He spoke because he had to, and because she deserved it. She deserved so much more.
“Your husband was a courageous man,” he said, struggling to steady his voice. “I came to honor him. I also came to tell you that I’m sorry.”
She wiped a tear from her cheek. “You gave us a chance. You didn’t pull the trigger.”
Her pardon sounded hollow in his heart. It didn’t matter if she didn’t blame him. He blamed himself. “If there’s anything I can ever do for you or Quentin,” he said, leaving the offer open-ended. He couldn’t imagine why she would take him up on it, but he made it to show that he cared.
She managed a small smile. “Thank you,” she said, squeezing his hand before turning away.
Megan’s voice snapped him out of his trance. “We’re at the top.”
He shook off the memory and skied off the lift, sliding to a stop. He took a breath and exhaled a plume of vapor. The snow-filled air smelled of spruce and pine. “What’s wrong with Simon?” he asked, trying to lighten the mood. “How can he spend a day like this at the lodge?”
Megan gave him an ironic look. “What can I say? He’s a photographer. He wanted to take some shots in black-and-white.”
“His loss,” Derrick said. “Where to?”
“Let’s do something together. How about Raven Ridge?”
He looked out at the valley below, veiled by the falling snow. “Beat you to the bottom,” he said, digging in his poles and pushing off.
Her laughter sounded like chimes in the quiet air. “Not a chance,” she replied and kept pace with him all the way down.
That evening, Derrick dressed in gray jeans and a dark cashmere blazer—his attempt to blend in with the Beaver Creek elite—and took the elevator to the hotel lobby to meet Simon and Megan for dinner. They were staying at the Ritz Carlton in Bachelor’s Gulch—a paragon of neo-rustic luxury chic with the exposed beams and stacked stone of a hunting lodge and the cozy intimacy of a Swiss chalet. As with most things in Megan’s orbit, it was out of Derrick’s league, but he had declined her offer to pay for his room. He might be a public servant, but he wasn’t a pauper.
He walked down the hallway toward Buffalo’s, expecting to see Simon chatting with the hostess and Megan checking her watch.
Strange
,
he thought when he didn’t see them. His sister was nothing if not punctual, and he was a few minutes late, as he intended. Despite Megan’s assurances that he didn’t look out of place, he felt like Jack at the banquet in
Titanic
, an ordinary Joe in a better man’s outfit thrust into a world of privilege he despised and admired at the same time.
He took a seat at the bar and ordered a martini. Five minutes passed, then ten. He checked his BlackBerry, but she hadn’t called or texted him. He finished his drink and ordered another. He caught a few glances from an attractive woman at the other end of the bar and worried that the bartender might pass him a note with a room number. It had happened before, and once he had given in to the temptation. It was an experience he didn’t wish to repeat.
After fifteen minutes, he decided something must have come up. He asked for the check, thinking he would order room service, but then he heard her voice. He looked up and saw Megan walking toward him, dressed in a sleeveless black shift and high heels.
“Where’s Simon?” he asked, greeting her with a kiss on the cheek.
“He’s not coming,” she replied in a tone that made plain her distress. “Let’s sit down.”
The hostess led them to a table by a plate-glass window overlooking the snowy patio. A waiter soon followed with their menus. He told them the special for the evening—something with antelope that sounded extravagant—and handed Derrick the wine list.
“Bring us a bottle of Romanée-Conti La Tâche, 2005,” Megan said.
“An excellent selection, madam,” the waiter replied and then left them alone.
Derrick raised an eyebrow, studying her closely. “Why do I get the impression that you just ordered the most expensive wine on the list?”
“Because I did,” she said simply. “I’m putting it on the room. It’ll go on his card.”
Derrick set his menu aside. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” he said, though his words were a formality. She was an open book to him, as he was to her.
She fingered her napkin, and he noticed she wasn’t wearing her wedding ring. “There was another reason he didn’t want to ski today,” she explained. “I caught him Skyping with one of his students. I asked if he was sleeping with her. He didn’t deny it. I blew a gasket. I told him I would leave him unless he ended it. He went home this afternoon. I don’t know if he’s coming back.”
Derrick’s stomach clenched. “I’m sorry, Meg.”
She took a sharp breath. “He promised me he’d never allow his . . .
recreations
to interfere with our relationship. I was foolish enough to believe him. It’s
Christmas
, for God’s sake.”
Derrick nodded, at once infuriated that Simon could hurt her so blithely and glad that she had finally rebuked him. “You can always stay with me,” he said with a touch of humor. “It’s just a step below this place.”
Her lips curled into a smile, but the sorrow didn’t leave her eyes. “Seriously, though, are we just a couple of misfits, or is marriage impossible today?”
He looked at her reflectively. “Nana and Grandpa Chuck wouldn’t have won an award for marital bliss. But they built a life together. They were there for us.”
Megan looked out the window at the still-falling snow. “It’s funny. I always thought their relationship was boring. Now I envy them. They made it fifty years. Can you believe it?”
The waiter appeared with their wine. Megan’s eyes lit up when she tasted it. “Exquisite,” she said. When their glasses were full, she made a toast. “To you, Paul. You’re the only person in the world who’s never let me down.”