"c34" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burt Andrew - Noontide Night)

2:35 P.M., Monday, March 20, 2000
Washington, D.C.

Nate could see the Mall and the Washington Monument as the plane circled in for landing. He thought he could see protesters, but discarded the idea; surely they'd be too small to see. He touched Desiree lightly on the arm and pushed himself back so she could see out the window, but she absently shook her head. She'd been quiet the entire flight. All Sam had said, when he'd come to fetch Nate from the jail, was that she was a remarkable woman, and he'd arranged for him to escort her to D.C. Assuming he promised to return to face his charges. Nate agreed. Not that he could really escape anywhere, as Sam well knew. Roving from Shearwater to Andrews by Air Force jet and then to Fort Meade, Spook Central, he'd never really have much chance for escape. He appreciated Sam's confidence in him nonetheless. "She's pretty fragile," Sam had said. "Take care of her for Morgan's sake." Nate was glad to oblige, whether it cut a link off his ponderous chain or not. They were met by a fast-talking Italian after they landed. Nate told him to can it; he was poutingly quiet the rest of the way, though he drove like the devil. Outside the tomb-like silence of the HUMVEE the trees were green from the recent rains and snows. Nate rolled down the window to breathe in their fresh scent. Nate lost himself in thought the rest of the drive. How could he best present this to Morgan? Morgan wouldn't know that Desiree held him responsible for Jeremy's death. Nate had to get to him first, prepare him, give him a chance to approach his wife in the best way. Nate would remember afterwards that nothing went according to plans. Morgan's roommate had been there, Nguyen Nguyen. He'd been off duty, but kindly waited with them, chatting. They'd had no rooms available for Nate or Desiree. Nate had piled their bags on Morgan's bed; Nguyen had insisted they bring them in rather than leave them at the front desk, saying he would get himself reassigned so Morgan and Desiree could have the room to themselves. Since there was only one small chair in their room, he'd led them to the small waiting area outside their group of rooms and brought them coffee. He'd talked excitedly—who would win the Oscars that night? Star Wars' Phantom Menace? Would they really be shown? Wasn't it a shame Star Wars hadn't won for 1976? Nate had gone to the reception desk to find out where Morgan's post was. They'd refused to say; they informed him in rock-like tones that Morgan had been notified, and that was that. Nate waited in the lobby for some ten minutes, before a sinking feeling set in that perhaps Morgan had come in another door. He dashed back, taking the steps three at a time. He saw Morgan coming down the corridor from the other way; Desiree and Nguyen between them. Morgan looked like shit. Baggy, puffy eyes, hollow cheeks, pale skin. He walked with a dispirited gait. Nate saw Morgan's eyes the moment Morgan saw Desiree. Instant and infinite sadness welled up in them; resignation. He knew. In that invisible language lovers share, Morgan had read in Desiree's eyes, or posture, or set of her mouth. She knew Morgan had killed their son. Morgan knew she knew. Nate sensed this somehow relieved Morgan greatly. That he'd planned for this. Nate rushed over to prevent—what? But he was too late. With a hollow smile of recognition and half-hearted wave at Nate, Morgan and Desiree retreated into Morgan's room for privacy. Nguyen offered him more coffee. Nate angrily refused, pacing up and down the hall for a moment, hitting his palm with his fist. Then he remembered the gun he'd seen Desiree put in her purse back in Agate. He glanced around the waiting area in case she'd left her purse there. No. He rushed down to the front desk. "Quick, call the MPs. I think—" He stopped. He didn't want to say anyone would definitely shoot someone; that might land them in terrible trouble. "I think my friend may have a gun in his room. He's really depressed." The girl behind the desk looked at him for a calculating second, then placed a call. Nate began to run off. "Wait, wait!" she called after him. "Come back." "What?" He edged back. "The MPs want to talk to you. That phone over there," she pointed to a phone on a waiting table by a couch. They had a seemingly endless set of questions for him. What room number? Who was in danger? Was it really himself he was calling about? What were the details? Interminable minutes later he rushed upstairs. Nate asked Nguyen if Morgan had come out, or if he'd heard anything. Nate would remember forever how his whole body went numb when Nguyen said he might have heard a couple thumps, but they could have been from any room. And was he sure he didn't want more coffee? Tea? Nate had raced to the door, feeling as if he ran through molasses. He put his ear to the door, praying to hear a loud argument. Silence. The knob twisted without opening. Nguyen showed him the bruise later where Nate had grabbed him by the collars and demanded the room's keycard. Inside, as Nate opened the door slowly out of terror at what he would see, Morgan and Desiree sat on the edge of his bed. They held each other tight, crying softly, stroking each other's hair, rocking each other gently back and forth. There was something healthy to the sound of their sobs. They were the sounds of release, catharsis; the tears their ablution. The white curtains at the window swayed imperceptibly; a cool, crisp breeze caressed Nate's face. The aura in the room had been purified. Nate knew, like a minister recognizes a heartfelt confession, that Desiree had forgiven Morgan. Cleansed, they would heal; healing, they would be free. Beside them, two tote bags had been dumped—thumped—to the floor to make room on the bed. Nate closed the door silently. Tears began streaming down his cheeks, and the catharsis was complete.

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Chapter 34

2:35 P.M., Monday, March 20, 2000
Washington, D.C.

Nate could see the Mall and the Washington Monument as the plane circled in for landing. He thought he could see protesters, but discarded the idea; surely they'd be too small to see. He touched Desiree lightly on the arm and pushed himself back so she could see out the window, but she absently shook her head. She'd been quiet the entire flight. All Sam had said, when he'd come to fetch Nate from the jail, was that she was a remarkable woman, and he'd arranged for him to escort her to D.C. Assuming he promised to return to face his charges. Nate agreed. Not that he could really escape anywhere, as Sam well knew. Roving from Shearwater to Andrews by Air Force jet and then to Fort Meade, Spook Central, he'd never really have much chance for escape. He appreciated Sam's confidence in him nonetheless. "She's pretty fragile," Sam had said. "Take care of her for Morgan's sake." Nate was glad to oblige, whether it cut a link off his ponderous chain or not. They were met by a fast-talking Italian after they landed. Nate told him to can it; he was poutingly quiet the rest of the way, though he drove like the devil. Outside the tomb-like silence of the HUMVEE the trees were green from the recent rains and snows. Nate rolled down the window to breathe in their fresh scent. Nate lost himself in thought the rest of the drive. How could he best present this to Morgan? Morgan wouldn't know that Desiree held him responsible for Jeremy's death. Nate had to get to him first, prepare him, give him a chance to approach his wife in the best way. Nate would remember afterwards that nothing went according to plans. Morgan's roommate had been there, Nguyen Nguyen. He'd been off duty, but kindly waited with them, chatting. They'd had no rooms available for Nate or Desiree. Nate had piled their bags on Morgan's bed; Nguyen had insisted they bring them in rather than leave them at the front desk, saying he would get himself reassigned so Morgan and Desiree could have the room to themselves. Since there was only one small chair in their room, he'd led them to the small waiting area outside their group of rooms and brought them coffee. He'd talked excitedly—who would win the Oscars that night? Star Wars' Phantom Menace? Would they really be shown? Wasn't it a shame Star Wars hadn't won for 1976? Nate had gone to the reception desk to find out where Morgan's post was. They'd refused to say; they informed him in rock-like tones that Morgan had been notified, and that was that. Nate waited in the lobby for some ten minutes, before a sinking feeling set in that perhaps Morgan had come in another door. He dashed back, taking the steps three at a time. He saw Morgan coming down the corridor from the other way; Desiree and Nguyen between them. Morgan looked like shit. Baggy, puffy eyes, hollow cheeks, pale skin. He walked with a dispirited gait. Nate saw Morgan's eyes the moment Morgan saw Desiree. Instant and infinite sadness welled up in them; resignation. He knew. In that invisible language lovers share, Morgan had read in Desiree's eyes, or posture, or set of her mouth. She knew Morgan had killed their son. Morgan knew she knew. Nate sensed this somehow relieved Morgan greatly. That he'd planned for this. Nate rushed over to prevent—what? But he was too late. With a hollow smile of recognition and half-hearted wave at Nate, Morgan and Desiree retreated into Morgan's room for privacy. Nguyen offered him more coffee. Nate angrily refused, pacing up and down the hall for a moment, hitting his palm with his fist. Then he remembered the gun he'd seen Desiree put in her purse back in Agate. He glanced around the waiting area in case she'd left her purse there. No. He rushed down to the front desk. "Quick, call the MPs. I think—" He stopped. He didn't want to say anyone would definitely shoot someone; that might land them in terrible trouble. "I think my friend may have a gun in his room. He's really depressed." The girl behind the desk looked at him for a calculating second, then placed a call. Nate began to run off. "Wait, wait!" she called after him. "Come back." "What?" He edged back. "The MPs want to talk to you. That phone over there," she pointed to a phone on a waiting table by a couch. They had a seemingly endless set of questions for him. What room number? Who was in danger? Was it really himself he was calling about? What were the details? Interminable minutes later he rushed upstairs. Nate asked Nguyen if Morgan had come out, or if he'd heard anything. Nate would remember forever how his whole body went numb when Nguyen said he might have heard a couple thumps, but they could have been from any room. And was he sure he didn't want more coffee? Tea? Nate had raced to the door, feeling as if he ran through molasses. He put his ear to the door, praying to hear a loud argument. Silence. The knob twisted without opening. Nguyen showed him the bruise later where Nate had grabbed him by the collars and demanded the room's keycard. Inside, as Nate opened the door slowly out of terror at what he would see, Morgan and Desiree sat on the edge of his bed. They held each other tight, crying softly, stroking each other's hair, rocking each other gently back and forth. There was something healthy to the sound of their sobs. They were the sounds of release, catharsis; the tears their ablution. The white curtains at the window swayed imperceptibly; a cool, crisp breeze caressed Nate's face. The aura in the room had been purified. Nate knew, like a minister recognizes a heartfelt confession, that Desiree had forgiven Morgan. Cleansed, they would heal; healing, they would be free. Beside them, two tote bags had been dumped—thumped—to the floor to make room on the bed. Nate closed the door silently. Tears began streaming down his cheeks, and the catharsis was complete.


back | next home