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Kara laid her sleeping baby into his bassinet, and walked back to sit beside Arthur and started talking, so used to speaking to him she didn’t even think about it. “They told me your name is Arthur Childers. I still can’t get my brain around everything that’s happened since you burst into my house last Sunday, a crazy man I’d never seen before in my life. Can you believe what’s happened? Well, of course you can’t, you haven’t even been here. But it’s over now, Arthur. You’re safe, and Alex is safe. Everything will be all right as soon as you heal up, as soon as you wake up. The marks on your skin are fading, and Dr. Wordsworth says you’re getting better every day.
“Sherlock says you’re thirty-eight, and it’s that fountain of youth drug that makes you look younger than I am. I told you I have your whole bio now. Agent Sherlock uploaded it to my tablet. You’re a scientist, you work at NASA, officially still on a sabbatical to work with scientists at the Sondheim Institute in Stockholm, but of course you never showed up.”
She paused a moment, turned to look back toward Alex. “Imagine that, Alex, your daddy is a rocket scientist. Maybe he was working on a spaceship to Mars.” She turned back, lightly touched her fingertips to Arthur’s cheek, squeezed his hand. “You realize I don’t blame you for any of what happened. You didn’t inject your sperm into my cervix, that was Dr. Lister Maddox. As for Sylvie, I have to admit I really was a gullible fool. I fell for her instant friendship-kismet deal right away. I’m still angry at what she did, and I hope they put her in jail. As for Dr. Maddox, I hope they shove him in a black hole somewhere, forever. Yet isn’t it amazing what came out of an evil man’s plans? We got Alex. And we got each other.”
She squeezed his hand. “Sherlock told me your wife died in an automobile accident five years ago, and you don’t have an
y children. I’m very sorry about that, but now you have a son. I can’t imagine what your parents will say when they see you again. Sherlock said she’s contacting them today, and when you wake up, you and I can talk to them together. It will be difficult, trying to explain to them what happened to you. We’ll see what Sherlock recommends.”
His breathing stayed smooth and even.
“I hope you never remember too much about what happened to you. I really don’t understand it all, but I do know it all has to do with your genome and mine, and ours being somehow special.
“Did you understand what he was doing to you? Or did he keep you drugged to your gills the whole time you were his test subject, his prisoner? I have a hard time not wanting to kill him, Arthur, shoot him dead for what he did to you, and what he planned to do to Alex and me. I am so grateful you managed to escape him and come to me. To us.”
She lightly squeezed his hand, warm, alive. “It’s good to have everyone gone, to have some silence again. Are you tired of hearing my voice? Do you want me to stop? Sorry, not going to happen.
“Arthur, five days have passed and my life has changed so much. When you wake up, you’ll see that yours has changed as well, and for the better. I pray you’ll give Alex and me a chance.”
She heard Alex sucking on his fingers, the only sound in the silence.
“I like your name. Arthur Childers, well, Dr. Arthur Childers. Do you have a nickname, like Art or Artie? I think I prefer Arthur, it’s a good name, a solid name.” Kara leaned close, whispered against his cheek. “Arthur, it’s really time for you to wake up and meet your son.”
He lay so quiet, so very quiet, and he breathed slowly and steadily. She got up and picked up Alex, burped him, and snuggled him against her. She rocked him, sat down again. “Arthur, everyone wants you to wake up. There are questions only you can answer.”
Kara fell silent. She was out of words. She leaned close, lightly kissed his slack mouth. “Arthur, it’s time for you to wake up before I become permanently hoarse from talking so much. I think I’ve told you about every minute of my life, all my twenty-seven years. I hope you won’t think I’m stupid. You know I’m an artist, not a scientist.”
Alex gave a little shudder.
“What are you dreaming about, sweetheart?” She held him close, kept rocking him. He was deeply asleep. She carried him to his bassinet and tucked him in once more, then returned to her vigil beside Arthur Childers’s bed. She felt exhaustion hit her like a hammer. She fell asleep holding his hand.
She awoke slowly, aware of a man’s voice very close to her. “You’re—Kara.” He spoke slowly, his voice slurred.
She raised her head and looked into beautiful eyes as green as moss. He smiled at her.
“Hello, Arthur. I’m glad you’re back. Would you like to meet your son?”
“My son—Alex.”
EPILOGUE
THE WILLOWS
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
FRIDAY NOON
Hannah gently wiped the smear of lentil soup off his mouth, offered another spoonful, pressing down on his lower lip. He took the soup in, swallowed, turned his head away, and closed his eyes.
“That tasted good, didn’t it, Beau? You rest now while I read to you. It’s a Hercule Poirot mystery. Remember you always liked Agatha Christie?”
Hannah rose, leaned down, and kissed his forehead, ran her fingers over his beautiful face, lightly stroked her fingers through his thick hair.
He’d been whole for five minutes, not completely whole, but he’d been aware of her and Lister, and he’d spoken. She wouldn’t think about what he’d said to her. He hadn’t meant it, not really, he simply hadn’t understood. If only he’d stayed with them, Hannah could have made him see that people who love each other grow older gently and gradually, with time for them to adjust. He’d been struck with everything at once. He didn’t understand why she looked older, that was all.
She didn’t know what would happen to him now. The FBI had sent a doctor to visit him yesterday, a Dr. Wordsworth from Washington Memorial in Washington. The doctor had been amazed at how young he looked, of course. At Hannah’s questions, she said that no one could know exactly what would happen now that he wouldn’t be receiving any more of Lister’s drugs, but she was inclined to agree with Lister that B.B. would probably start aging normally once again. If that was true, Hannah might be dead or infirm before he was a seventy-eight-year-old man again. She wanted to cry. Her beautiful Beau, blank-brained, uncaring, and unaware of anything or anyone, was housed in a beautiful fifty-year-old body. She still remembered his holding her, stroking her hair, making love to her. Better if the drug hadn’t brought him back, had given him fifteen more years, only to steal his mind again after such a short time.
She was feeling sorry for herself, for him, for them and what they’d once been together and would never be again. She carried his tray to the hallway and set it on a table and walked to the balcony that overlooked the entrance hall. No sign remained of the havoc of two days before, of what had been the end of all of it. Sylvie had been arrested by the FBI agents. What would happen to her daughter? No one would tell her anything yet. At least they hadn’t arrested her, thank heaven, not that she knew that much about what Lister had done or what Sylvie had done. Had Lister paid her money? She prayed with all her might they’d leave her alone, they had to, or who would take care of Beau?
