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“Maybe, but it’s not what I’m going to get. The ground’s still a little shaky under my feet, okay? Give me a chance to steady up.”
“All right.”
He reached for another tool as she went to the kitchen to program a pot of black coffee.
19
She told him all of it, from the time he’d left her that morning until she’d left Dennis Mira.
“I really did assume Mira had told him—like the Marriage Rules take over everything else after—what—three decades. I wouldn’t have . . .” She shook her head. “I wanted to reassure him, I guess, that no matter what, I’d do the job. And I ended up telling him. An abbreviated version, maybe, but all the high points. Or the low ones.”
“There’s no kinder shoulder to lean on, to my thinking.”
“I didn’t go there to lean on him. But I did.” The tears stung her eyes again. “And he was kind. I brought him grief, mine and more of his, and he was kind. I’m going to give him more grief, because everything I do is a step closer to bringing all this out. It’s his family name.”
“A man isn’t a name. Who knows that better than I? It’s he himself makes it. I’ve no worries on that count for Dennis Mira. Nor should you.”
“You’re right.” And with that came a cool wash of relief. “You’re right,” she said again, taking his face in her hands. “You’re a fine young man, and you love me without restrictions.”
“Well now, there’s various interpretations of fine, and I might hit one or two. But the second part is pure truth.”
“You’re a fine young man,” she repeated. “I have it from a good source. So . . . d
o you think that thing’s going to work?”
Roarke glanced at the old disc player, the jury-rigged cable. “I do.”
She went to the bank bag, took out the disc in its clear case. “Let’s run it.”
He put the disc in a little pop-out drawer that made a grinding sound that didn’t inspire confidence. Then he played his fingers over the keyboard of her comp, swore under his breath.
“I just need to . . .”
He sat, keyed in something else, checked the connections, keyed in more. And this produced a series of beeps.
“There we are.”
“We are?”
“We are, yes. Just give it a moment.”
She frowned at the screen. The frown deepened when it turned a deep, and blank, blue.
“What—”
“It’s coming,” he insisted, and gave a satisfied nod when the word PLAY appeared in the top right corner.
“See, there we are.” He tapped two keys simultaneously with his thumb and pinkie.
They came on screen, six young men standing in a circle in a room lit with dozens of candles. The glow flickered over their taut, naked bodies.
One of them—William Stevenson, she thought—let out a series of drunken giggles.
“Come on, Billy, cut it out.” Ethan MacNamee, Eve noted, trying to look stern, but managing a glassy grin.
“Sorry, Jesus, doesn’t anybody else think this is weird? Standing here naked. Plus, she’s out, man.” He glanced behind him. “Hot, but out.”
“She’ll wake up.” Young Edward Mira had a glint in his eyes, and not all of it came from whatever they’d ingested. “And she’ll beg for it.”
