“For how long?” he asks.
Gretchen leans over him again, this time eye-to-eye, so he can’t help but look at her, her blue eyes wide, one eyebrow slightly arched, skin glowing. She smiles and is radiant. “Until you like it,” she says.
He closes his eyes. “I’d like to sleep.”
When he wakes up, she has the X-Acto knife out again and she is cutting into his chest. It hurts, but he doesn’t care. It’s a minor nuisance, a mosquito bite. But it reminds him that he is alive.
“Do you want me to stop?” she asks, not looking up.
“No,” he says. “I’m hoping you’ll nick an artery.” His voice is frail, his throat still aflame with pain.
She puts her palm on his cheek and leans in close to his ear, as if they are about to share a secret. “What about your children? Don’t you want to live for them?”
Ben’s and Sara’s sweet faces flash before him and he wipes the image clean from his mind, until there is nothing. He turns his head toward the wall. “I don’t have any children.”
“How long has it been?” he asks her. His slide in and out of consciousness has allowed time to slip away altogether. How long have they been there? Weeks? Months now? He has no idea. He has been spitting up blood again. He knows that it worries her. Her exquisite face has become taut and she is always there, always at his side. It is the one thing he can count on. He wants to stop spitting up the blood, to please her, but he can’t help himself.
She is seated beside him. She puts a piece of blond hair behind her ear and presses her fingers against his wrist to take his pulse. She’s been doing this a lot, and he realizes that it is because he is dying. He knows that she will touch his wrist for fifteen seconds, and it is the only thing he looks forward to. There is something about her touch that consoles him absolutely. He savors those fifteen seconds, memorizing the feel of her skin against his so that he can imagine her fingers there when she lifts her hand.
“Untie me,” he says. He has to take several breaths to get enough oxygen to speak, and even then his voice is a faint rasp.
She doesn’t even think about it. She reaches down and unfastens the leather bindings that trap one wrist, and then undoes the other. He’s too weak to raise his arms even a few inches, but she lifts his hand to her mouth and kisses his palm. He feels the warm tears on her face before he sees them. She is crying. And it breaks his heart. The tears rise in his own eyes even as hers cool on his hand.
“It’s all right,” he says, comforting her.
He smiles. Because he believes it. Everything is all right. He is right where he is supposed to be. She is so beautiful and he is so tired. And it is almost over.
CHAPTER
50
A rchie called the prison from the cab, so by the time he paid his $138 fare and made his way through security, Gretchen had been rousted and placed in the interview room to wait for him. She was sitting at the table when he came into the room, hair loose, no makeup, yet still somehow put together. Like an actress made up to look unkempt.
“It’s four in the morning,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he said, sitting across from her. “Were you in the middle of something?”
She glanced warily over her shoulder at the panel of two-way glass. “Is Henry here?”
“I’m alone. There’s no one behind the glass. I told the guards to wait on the other side of the door. So it’s just you and me. I took a cab.”
“From Portland?” Gretchen asked skeptically.
“I’m a hero cop,” Archie said wearily. “I have an expense account.”
She gave him a slow, sleepy smile. “You must have caught him.”
Archie could feel himself finally relaxing. It was more of a surrender, really. He used up so much energy keeping up appearances, and with her it didn’t matter. She knew exactly how damaged he was. So he could let his muscles loosen, his eyelids fall heavy, his voice thicken. He could scratch his face if it itched. He could say what came into his head without worrying if it shed too much light on what he was really thinking. “A sharpshooter plugged him in the head about three hours ago. You would have enjoyed it.” He raised an eyebrow in reconsideration. “Except that he died instantly.”
“Well, aren’t you the serial killer bloodhound? Did you come to brag?”
“I can’t drop by and say hi without an ulterior motive?”
“It’s not Sunday.” She cocked her head and examined him, and a tiny little line formed between her eyebrows. “Are you okay?”