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He'd told the navy to go to hell when they suggested a military ceremony with honors. Too late for that. Didn't matter that no one there had participated in the inexplicable decision not to search for NR-1A. He'd had enough of orders and duty and responsibility. What had happened to decency, righteousness, and honor? Those words seemed always forgotten when they really counted. Like when eleven men disappeared in the Antarctic and no one gave a damn.
He made it to the top floor and switched on a few lamps. He was tired. The past couple of weeks had taken a toll, capped off by watching his mother burst into tears as the coffin was lowered into the ground. They'd all lingered after and watched as workers replaced the dirt and erected a tombstone.
"You did a wonderful thing," his mother had said to him. "You brought him home. He would have been so proud of you, Cotton. So very proud."
And those words had made him cry.
Finally.
He'd almost stayed in Georgia for Christmas but decided to come home. Strange, how he now considered Denmark home.
Yet he did. And that no longer gave him pause.
He walked into the bedroom and lay down on the bed. Nearly eleven PM and he was exhausted. He had to stop this intrigue. He was supposed to be retired. But he was glad he'd called in his favor with Stephanie.
Tomorrow he'd rest. Sunday was always a light day. Stores were closed. Maybe he'd drive north and visit with Henrik Thorvaldsen. He hadn't seen his friend in three weeks. But maybe not. Thorvaldsen would want to know where he'd been, and what had happened, and he wasn't ready to relive it.
For now, he'd sleep.
Malone awoke and cleared the dream from his mind. The bedside clock read 2:34 AM. Lights were still on throughout the apartment. He'd been sleeping for three hours.
But something had roused him. A sound. Part of the dream he'd been having, yet not.
He heard it again.
Three squeaks in quick succession.
His building was seventeenth century, completely remodeled a few months ago after being firebombed. Afterward, the new wooden risers from the second to the third floor always announced themselves in a precise order, like keys on a piano.
Which meant someone was there.
He reached beneath the bed and found the rucksack he always kept ready-a habit from his Magellan Billet days. Inside, his right hand gripped the Beretta automatic, a round already chambered.
He crept from the bedroom.
