“You should come,” she called to him. “You need medical attention.”
“No. I’ll get by.” He pointed to the darkness past the twisted remains of the safety railing. “But I’d appreciate it if you told them I went over the side. With Finney.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
He faced south and took a single step before stopping and turning his head, so that he was in profile. The firelight danced across his bloodied, swollen face. “I’m sorry, you know. I’m sorry about all of this.”
She smiled faintly. “I know.”
He nodded.
Clasping his right side, he disappeared into the black ink beyond the edge of the firelight.
SEBASTIAN
3 months later
February
Sebastian (no longer his name, he reminded himself) had needed to disappear for a while.
With his talents, and connections, and newly acquired assets, he could have done so anywhere. A sandy beach in Bora Bora. Carnival in Rio. Safari in Africa, a Buddhist monastery in Tibet, a volcanic plain in Iceland. He’d considered all of these, and more, and rejected them.
So it was that he’d found himself huddled against the cold drizzle of a February in Paris.
He’d never been to Paris. He took his time. He marveled at Notre Dame, and wandered along the banks of the Seine and the Canal Saint-Martin. Drank fine wines, ate fine food. He could afford to, after all.
The Louvre.
Christ, how he loved the Louvre. He didn’t know that much about art, but he couldn’t get enough of it. One full day spent there had stretched into a week, and one week into two as he’d gazed at masterpiece after masterpiece, humbled before humanity’s creativity.
Then one morning he stumbled across it. Just as Finney had described it.
The stele of Hammurabi.
He gazed up at its obsidian surface, clutching Alfonso’s dog tag through his shirt. With his other hand he scratched his nose, which was crooked from where Cameron had broken it. He could have had it fixed. But he didn’t. He wanted to remember. Plus, he thought it went well with his thick goatee and shaved head.
Tucked under one arm was a thick package containing all of his notes: everything he’d collected about Finney, and the device, and the events at Turner. He’d been a professional, and his notes were meticulous. He’d be mailing the package that afternoon to an acquaintance in Budapest, who’d then forward it through a string of contacts in various cities across the world.
And, eventually, into the hands of one Ms. Constance “Connie” Grant of the Wall Street Journal.
The package’s contents would, he knew, fill in all the gaps the authorities hadn’t been able to—or at least those that didn’t involve him. As far as the world was concerned, the man known as Sebastian was dead.
But the world had a right to know about everything else.
He hoped (wishful thinking, he knew) that he would see Grant again, someday.
He contemplated the stele as the tourists milled around him.
There would be no more jobs, he vowed it.
No more wasted days.
His phone rang. He smiled when he saw the caller ID.
“Hi, Sis.”
“So. When are you coming home?”
He laughed. This was a running joke, the first thing she said at the beginning of every conversation. Home. She meant the new one—the nice, big house in the suburbs.
He replied as he always did: “Soon, Sis. Soon.”
This time, he meant it.
For good.
SPENCER
1 year later
November
It was a magnificent day.
But then: wasn’t it always, in Southern California?
Spencer held Rita’s hand. He walked with a small limp, which his orthopedist had warned him he might have for the rest of his life.
Bullshit.
He’d accepted the prognosis as a challenge, a gauntlet thrown. He’d be damned if he was going to let himself hobble around like an old man. He’d flung himself into his physical therapy, which was a real bitch, and lately he was encouraged: There’d been some noticeable improvement. Plus, he was twenty-five pounds trimmer. Not too shabby.
Together they strolled, fingers entwined, among the headstones. They didn’t say anything.
There was nothing to say.
When they arrived, Rita released Spencer’s hand and knelt—not such an easy thing for her to do these days. She laid a small wreath over the grave. Spencer crossed himself.
After a few moments, when she didn’t get up, Spencer said, “Penny for your thoughts.”
“Trying to decide if I’m going to accept Chase’s offer.”
“Ah, yes.” Rita’s sly, squinting mentor had not only managed to survive the robot thing, he’d thrived. The guy was Teflon. “Has he moved into his new office?”
“The CEO’s office? Oh yes. It was supposed to have been in the new wing by now, of course. But with the fire damage, that’s not going to happen until next year.”
“He’s moving quickly to, uh, consolidate his position.”
“Well, you know Chase.”
“Chief medical officer and Chase’s right-hand man. Woman—sorry. Nice offer. Second-most-powerful person at Turner.”
“On paper, at least. Yeah.”
“With a huge salary to match.”
“Yeah. I guess.”