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She laughs. “You’re ridiculous.”
“That’s no way to talk to the future father of your children.”
“I’m not giving up my job,” she says.
“Christ, I hope not. Somebody has to make the money. I’ll stay home and do the cooking. I look damned good in an apron.”
“I bet you do, English.”
They smile like conspirators and finish their drinks.
He takes a deep breath. “That was fun, Webster. But we both know this is as far as it goes. I can’t risk it.”
She rolls her eyes. “Youcan’t risk it? If we broke the rules, which one of us do you think they’d bounce out on her pretty ass? I haven’t proven myself yet. I’m expendable and I know it.” She pauses. “You’ve never had this problem on a job before?”
“My last job was with a six-and-a-half-foot-tall Irishman with halitosis and a fondness for milkshakes, which do terrible things to his digestive system.”
“He sounds dreamy.”
“I’ll give you his number when this is finished.”
He drops a few bills next to his empty bottle and pushes away from the bar as he tucks his wallet into his hip pocket. “I’ll knock when I stick the file under your door. Don’t answer it, whatever you do, and destroy the file after you’ve read it. We’ll meet up again tomorrow morning.”
He hesitates, then puts out his hand. She takes it and it feels exactly like she knew it would, warm and strong. Lifeline hands, the kind you hold on to when everything else in the world is spinning away. The only surprise is the calluses on the tips of his fingers.
“Garrote wire?” she asks quietly.
“Guitar,” he says. “I play a little.”
“Of course you do. Now tell me you have a motorcycle so I can eat my heart out completely.”
He holds her hand a minute too long, giving her that lopsided grin that makes her heart do calisthenics in her chest. “Tomorrow. Nineamsharp in the coffee shop across the street. Sleep tight, Webster.”
“Good night, English.”
He moves behind her, stopping just long enough to bend near, his mouth grazing the curve of her ear. “And I ride a Norton 850 Commando.”
She groans aloud as he leaves, laughing the whole way out the door. Bastard.
The following day they carry out the mission, posing as newlyweds in order to get an appointment with a crooked judge and his clerk. They are two hours out of town before the bodies are even discovered, and in another four hours they finally stop and check into separate rooms at a highway motel.
Billie lies awake for a long time, watching the passing lights of cars on the highway and thinking about a strange phenomenon the French call l’appel du vide, the call of the void. It’s when you stand up high, staring into an abyss, and have a strong desire to throw yourself into it. It can take other forms. You might be driving and suddenly think about jerking the wheel, sending your car into oncoming traffic. Or you might be out for a hike and fantasize about hurling yourself off a cliff. It is not a suicidal impulse. In fact, it is the opposite. Psychologists say it’s actually about how much a person wants to live. They perceive a nearby threat to themselves and they think about that threat because they want so much to survive.
Billie throws back the covers and goes outside before she can change her mind about hurling herself into the abyss. She raises her hand but he opens the door before she can knock. He is shirtless, his jeans slung low on his hips.
“I don’t want you here,” he says hoarsely.
“Good,” she says, pushing him back into the room. “Because I don’t want to be here.” It is the last thing anybody says for a long time.
She jumps up, wrapping her legs around his waist as his arms come up to catch her. He kicks the door closed and slams her up against it. It is an hour before they make it as far as the bed.
The next morning they go their separate ways. Billie has a plane to catch and Taverner has a man to kill. Before she leaves, he puts his chain around her neck—the St. Christopher medallion, still warm from his skin.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Making the decision to leave New Orleans was a no-brainer. The Museum knew we were there, and we’d never be able to make a plan and keep ourselves safe if we were always looking over our shoulders. Besides, two of the three board members lived in Europe. We had a pretty good idea of where to find Carapaz and Paar and decided to take them out first. Vance Gilchrist was a little more elusive, but we figured we’d deal with him when the time came. The first order of business was to strike Carapaz and Paar and do it fast, before they realized we were coming for them. That meant getting across the Atlantic and finding a safe house from which to plan and execute three missions. We needed a place that would be out of the way but with decent transport links, big enough for the six of us—and Kevin—and with enough privacy that we could plot a few murders without attracting unwanted attention. None of those things are particularly hard to find on their own, butall together? And with a limited budget? It seemed like a tall order until Helen spoke up.
“We could go to Benscombe,” she offered.
