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But she was not so easily duped. She was in far more control of her emotions than he could know. There was a job to do, she could see it so clearly now, see through all the bullshit men threw at her as smokescreens. At last, she had seen the path through the bullshit to, once and for all, make her way to the other side.
Always imprisoned.
She stepped over the threshold and entered Don Fernando’s bedroom. He lay on his back on the side of the bed nearest her, veiled in deep shadow. Moving to the window, she pulled back the drapes. His patrician face was illuminated by Paris’s mellow glow. Returning to him, she reached out, touched him on the shoulder, and he gave a snort and rolled over on his side, facing away from her. Perfect.
She lifted the strangler’s filament, concentrating solely on her purpose. When her vision narrowed to a pinpoint, when all she could hear was the rhythmic beating of her heart, purpose became action.
She moved with perfect, deadly intent.
23
THE MOMENT DR. SANTIAGO removed the drain from the side of her head and bandaged the wound, Soraya felt as if she had returned from the gray land of near-death to a world full of color and promise.
Everything looked sharp-edged. Her acuity of vision and hearing was like that of a hawk. Every surface she ran her hand over felt new, different, and exciting.
When she remarked on this to Dr. Santiago, he broke out into a wide smile. “Welcome back,” he said.
For the first time since she had been admitted, she was free, untethered by lifelines to fluids and monitors. She moved around her room on legs made unfamiliar and shaky by her ordeal.
“Look at you,” Delia said. “Look at you!”
Soraya embraced her friend, held her tight, aware of the baby between them. She did not want to let go. Brushing tears away, she kissed Delia on both cheeks. Her heart was full.
Only one thought clouded her return from the back of beyond. “Deel, I need to go see Peter. Will you help me?”
Without another word, Delia went and got a wheelchair into which Soraya lowered herself. Hours before, on his last visit, Hendricks had told her that Peter had been shot. “We don’t know how badly yet,”he had said, “but I want you to be prepared. The bullet lodged near his spine.” “Does he know?”she had asked. Hendricks had nodded. “Right now he has no feeling in his legs.”
Before he left, Hendricks had signaled to Delia, and they had walked out of Soraya’s room together. Now, as Delia pushed her along the hospital’s hushed corridors, Soraya asked, “What did you and Hendricks talk about outside my hearing?”
There was a telling hesitation. “Raya, concentrate on Peter. I don’t think this is the time—”
Soraya put her hands on the wheels, stopping them. “Deel, come around where I can see you.” When her friend had complied, she said, “Tell me the truth, Deel. Does it have something to do with my baby?”
“Oh, no!” Delia cried. She knelt in front of Soraya and took her hands in hers. “No, no, no, the baby’s fine. It’s...” Again the telling hesitation. “Raya, Charles is dead.”
Soraya felt the shock of disappointment, nothing more. “What?”
“A
Soraya shook her head. “I don’t...I don’t understand.”
“There was an altercation. Charles came at her and she defended herself. That’s not the official story. He was shot during a B and E, that’s what the news outlets are being fed.”
Soraya said nothing for some time. Nurses squeaked by on rubbersoled shoes, phones rang softly, doctors’ names were called, some urgently. Everything else was still.
“I don’t believe it,” Soraya breathed.
Delia searched her friend’s face. “Raya, are you okay? The secretary left it up to me to tell you, but I don’t know whether this was the right time.”
“There is no right time,” Soraya said. “There’s only the present.”
Searching through the corridors of her mind, she could find no feeling for Charles Thorne other than disappointment that their business relationship was at an end. Conduits weren’t easy to find, especially one so perfectly placed at the center of the information superhighway. But, on the other hand, if Charles was right about the impending investigation, his usefulness would have been at an end anyway. What she felt most was relief. It had been distasteful to her to lie to him about the baby. She could absolve herself, at least, of that sin. “Raya, what are you thinking?”
Soraya nodded to Delia. “Let’s go see Peter.”
He had been out of surgery for over an hour and he was awake. He seemed happy to see them.
“Hey, Peter,” Soraya said in an overbright voice. He looked ghostly, arms pale, pierced by needles whose tubes ran up and out of him. His face was contorted by pain though he tried his best to hide it. His lopsided smile broke her heart.
“You look good,” he said.
“You, too.” She was standing, clutching the railing of his bed for support.
“I have to get going,” Delia said. She and Soraya embraced.
“Later,” Soraya whispered into her ear.
“You’re full of shit,” Peter said when Delia was gone. “As always.”
Soraya laughed, touched his knee beneath the overstarched bedclothes just to reestablish the link between them that she found so important. “I’m glad you’re still here.”
He nodded. “I wish I could say I’ll be as good as new when I get out of here.”
Her heart turned to ice. “What do you mean? What have the doctors told you?”
“The bullet didn’t hit my spine.”
“That’s good news!”
“I wish it had.”
“What d’you mean?”
“The impact shattered it. Pieces lodged everywhere, including my spinal column.”
Soraya felt a sudden dryness in her throat, and she swallowed convulsively. She met his gaze head-on.
“I have no feeling in my legs,” Peter said. “They’re paralyzed.”
“Oh, Peter.” Soraya felt her heart beating faster, a certain churning began in the pit of her stomach. “Are they sure? It’s early yet. Who knows what will happen next week, or even tomorrow?”
“They’re sure.”
“Peter, you can’t give up.”
“I don’t know. The president going after our asses, you talking about leaving, then this happens.” His laugh sounded weak and hollow. “That’s three, isn’t it? It’s the end.”
“Who said I’m leaving?” It was out of her mouth before she had a chance to think about it.
“You did, Soraya. Remember our walk in the park, you said—”
“Forget what I said, Peter. I was just shooting my mouth off to a friend. I’m not going anywhere.” Much to her astonishment, she realized she meant it. While moving to Paris sounded great, it was a pipe dream. Her life was here with Treadstone, with Peter. Looking into his face, she knew she couldn’t leave him in this state, perhaps she never would have, even if this hadn’t happened to him.
“Soraya.” He smiled.
He seemed more relaxed now. She could see how heavily the thought of her leaving had weighed on him, and she was sorry she had ever mentioned it.
“Take a pew.” Blood had come back to his face; he seemed more himself again. “I have a lot to catch you up on.”
In his dream, Don Fernando walked at the edge of the sea and the shoreline. The odd thing was that he was walking on the water, not on the sand, which seemed to steam and bubble, as if it were being stirred in a vast cauldron. His feet were bare, his trousers rolled up to his calves. His feet looked pale and indistinct, as they would if viewed underwater. He walked and walked, but the curve of the landscape never changed, he never seemed to get anywhere.
In the next heartbeat, he was awake, a shadow like a giant bird passing over him, so close he could smell it. It had Martha Christiana’s scent. For the instant she was above him, and he felt paralyzed, as if stuck between two dreamworlds, one where he walked on water, the other where Martha spread her wings, flying above him.