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“And what’s my country ever done for me, huh? Or for you?” There was a slight slurring to his words, though he didn’t seem drunk. Patrick had always been able to hold his liquor well.
“We break our backs for her, punch the clock over and over, say our pledges and our prayers. And what do we get? A kick in the rear out the door, taxes, and rules that don’t look out for people like us. They tell us ‘Uncle Sam Wants You.’ Wants you to line up to die, that’s what. Not me. No, sir, not me.”
She’d never heard him talk like this before, certainly not in the days when the navy had been his ticket to freedom. Like all his schemes, that one hadn’t lasted long either.
“Why did you come here?” she asked.
Could he possibly have come to say good-bye?
The part of her that knew not to hope too soon anticipated his next words. “I needed that last haul. Bad. You don’t get a fake ID and a hidden fuel tank for free. And the people I owe aren’t patient.”
“Then you’ll have to find work elsewhere.” Legal work, she wanted to say but didn’t dare.
He shook his head, the dangerous glint, the one that had been covered up with expensive suits and flattering words, now back. “I need money fast. And you’re going to help me get it.”
Her mind turned over possible reactions and discarded them just as quickly. Maybe she could take Miss Cavendish’s thirty-dollarPride and Prejudicefrom the shelves and convince him it was a valuable first edition. No, he’d never believe her. There was no cash in the library, outside of change for overdue fines.She had the crucifix around her neck—maybe he would accept it as payment again—and most of her savings in her purse, tucked away there for the move.
But that was grocery money, fees for schoolbooks, all they had to live on until she found another position. It wasn’t Patrick’s, not for all he blustered.
“No,” she said simply, and the word felt good and right, like the fulfilling of a thousand broken promises. “I won’t give you anything.”
The anger sparking in Patrick’s eyes corresponded with his hand shifting toward his side, where a tattered coat concealed his body from view. She might have missed it if she hadn’t had every sense trained on him, ready to shout for help, back away, flee.
Patrick had a gun. Of course he did. Going on a dangerous mission on the open seas, delivering fuel to the enemy, carrying an incredible amount of cash back to port with an untrustworthy crew. He would have to be armed.
But he relaxed, didn’t reach for the gun. Why would he? This was his mousy immigrant wife, trying for once to assert a shallow independence. Even now, he thought he had the upper hand.
“Then you’d better get some from those rich friends of yours. Because once this blows over, I’ll be back. And don’t think I won’t know if you try to turn me in.”
Her throat constricted. It was happening all over again. That threat: do what I say, or I can find you—and the children—at any time. Leave if you want, try to hide. It will never be enough.
He tipped his homburg at her, all smirks once more. “Until we meet again, Martina.”
“We willnevermeet again.” She clutched at the cross beneath her blouse and prayed it was true, but Patrick only laughed cruelly.
“Oh? Who says?”
“She did.” A new voice booming into the high ceilings caused both of them to turn and see Freddy, standing in the entryway. “But we’ll back her up on it, if needed.”
Patrick recovered quickly, as he always did, taking a step behind her for protection if he needed it. “Who’re you? Her lover?”
Martina felt a blush rising. What would Freddy think of her, that her husband would suggest such a thing?
But Freddy didn’t hesitate, taking a firm step forward. “Something even more dangerous for you. We’re her friends.”
We?
Louise Cavendish stepped out beside him, her head held at an imperious angle, like the queen fromHamlet. “Friends who, you might like to know, have already called the police.”
It was likely a bluff. The telephone was at the checkout desk, between Martina and Patrick and the two newcomers. But Miss Cavendish’s voice held such unwavering authority that she could see Patrick hesitate.
“Listen, whoever you are,” Freddy said, walking forward, menace in his step, “you will never, ever, contact this woman again. Or we’ll know.”
Martina turned back to Patrick. The way his eyes slid around to her, the cocksure expression gone, she knew he understood the message they were sending.
She was not alone and defenseless anymore. And she never would be again.
“Understand?” Freddy pressed. He was at the checkout desk now, a threat in his words, his tone, his stance.
