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She wasn’t sure that she should believe him; Manny’s paranoia might be a convenient disguise some of the time, but it was also a fundamental truth about who he really was. It was important to never forget that if he thought it was prudent to lie to her, he’d lie without a qualm. He’d want a holdback weapon against her.
And he was probably right about that, given what she’d become on this trip. What she’d done. What she was capable of doing.
She didn’t press him, just nodded and settled back for takeoff.
That was when she heard a bark and a scrabble of claws, and her gorgeous pet bulldog Mr. French appeared at her feet, panting and gazing up at her with big, dark, adoring eyes. She picked him up and cuddled him as he wiggled and whined and licked tears from her face. “How—?”
“You keep asking that question,” Manny said. He sounded amused. “Ask the butler. ”
“I am not a butler,” Liam said, but he sounded more resigned than offended. “I thought you might want to see him, Bryn. And I was a bit afraid that Jane . . . Well, you understand. The rest of the estate dogs were moved to a new kennel, but Mr. French seemed to be missing you quite a bit. I thought it was worth bringing him. He’ll stay on the plane, of course. ”
“Did you have to put down a pet deposit?” she asked, and laughed through her tears. “Oh God, thank you, Liam. Thank you. I—I really needed him. ” Because Mr. French’s unwavering love was one thing that hadn’t become complicated, although she knew that he could tell she was . . . different. But he was sensitive to her, and she knew that he was an excellent judge of character—her character. If she found him looking at her with doubt, she would need to check herself.
And if he growled . . . she’d need to stop.
“Stupid dog,” she whispered, and rubbed his ears. He made a contented sound in the back of his throat, almost like a purr, and flopped limply across her lap. “God, I missed you, mutt. ”
He opened one eye to look at her, as if to say that he hadn’t missed her at all.
Liar.
The takeoff was bumpy, but once the plane was in the air the ride was smooth as glass. Below, the late-summer landscape of Anchorage still looked clear, but as the plane moved north, snow appeared—patchy at first, and then solid, then hardpacked. Not winter yet, but winter was coming fast, and in this part of the world, coming with an iron, icy fist to smash all the unprepared fools who tried to cross it.
Like her.
This will be fast, she told herself. We land; I find this scientist; I grab the stored sample; we’re gone and headed for San Francisco. She had no doubt that Manny was right that his trail was clear—he was a past master of evasion and misinformation—but they’d left Reynolds behind, and Reynolds could be a fatal problem.
“Patrick,” she said, “Dr. Reynolds . . . we should have brought him with us. Just in case. He’s a liability. ”
He gave her a long, unreadable look, and then put his head back against the seat and sighed. “Do you want me to say it?” he asked. “All right. I gave the order. I didn’t want you to be responsible for it. You . . . bonded with him; I could see that. You felt sorry for him, and I understand that. But I couldn’t leave him there, with all the knowledge he’d gained from us along the way. ”
She sat upright, pulling against the seat belt. Mr. French huffed in agitation and had to adjust his comfortable slouch on her lap. “What did you do? Patrick?”
“What you would have done if you’d been thinking straight,” he said. “The driver has what he needs. ”
“You had him killed?” She didn’t know why that felt so wrong, or like such a betrayal; it shouldn’t have, really. She’d meant to do the same on returning; it was exactly what she knew Reynolds wanted. What he’d asked for. But somehow, having it taken out of her hands enraged her, and she glared at him with so much fury that she felt Mr. French stir in her lap and put his paw on her hand, clearly trying to get her attention. She patted him, and felt some of the fury recede. “Patrick, why didn’t you—”
“You think I had him killed? Why would you think that?” he asked her, and gave her a very strange look. “I made sure the driver had a supply of Returné and took him to a secured lockdown. Nobody’s going to hurt him. We might need his information about the San Francisco meeting. What I meant was that I arranged for him to live. ”
He was right, of course, and in retrospect she couldn’t understand why she’d thought so intensely about ending his pain, instead of getting him a palliative treatment—another shot of Returné. It wasn’t a cure, but it would stop his suffering.
But she knew that just delayed it, and that was the problem. It felt . . . futile. Useless. Another day of staving off the inevitable.
“I just wanted it to be over,” she confessed, and concentrated on petting Mr. French’s warm, short fur. “For him. ”
“Don’t you mean for you?” Patrick’s voice had turned gentle and soft, and was almost lost in the sound of the plane’s engines. He took her other hand. “Bryn . . . ”
“Maybe,” she whispered. “Maybe I did mean that. I just—it’s so much. At first it’s adrenaline; it’s determination; then it just becomes adaptation, I suppose. But then you get this moment, this moment where you see it all clearly, your future, what you’re going to become, and . . . I don’t want to be that. I love you, but I can’t be that. We’re fooling ourselves that this is some kind of . . . disease that can be managed. Death isn’t a disease, Pat. It’s what cures it. ”
He’d paled during that short speech, and his hand had tightened on hers. “Don’t,” he said. “Please don’t. ”
“I’m not going to get better, Pat,” she said. “I wish I could, but we both know how this will end. It isn’t just the PTSD that accumulates from all this . . . resurrection. It’s more. It’s worse. It . . . twists what I am, inside. Like it did Jane. Promise me—”
“No. ”
“Promise me that if—”
“I said no, Bryn. I mean it. ” He did. She could see the haunted look even in her peripheral vision, feel his distress like heat against her skin.
