Firebird (38 page)

I’m dancing alone
.

CHAPTER 39

“He who shall hurt...”

William Blake

Christ, thought Garcia, what was the matter with him?

In the small lightening cabin of the Vaya con Dios, he shook his head, uncomfortably aware that he’d said too much.  Way too much.  How could he have let his guard down?   If only she hadn’t called him ‘Jon.’  If only she hadn’t been standing there looking at him with those damned listening eyes…

No.  He was shaken because some deep part of him had
wanted
her to know.  He turned his back on her.  “This wasn’t a good idea,” he told her in a cold voice.  “I don’t give away much of my private self.”  He opened a drawer, found grey sweats and tossed them on her bed.  “These should do for now.  Get dressed, we’re out of here.”

She held out her hand, moving toward him.  “I’m not going anywhere just yet.”

“Dammit, Red, I don’t want this!”  His hand closed on her shoulder to keep her from coming closer.

She flinched as if slapped.  He saw the stricken look in her eyes, cursed himself as he dropped his hand.  “You don’t have to shy away from me, Red.  I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know that.”  He could see that she forced the small smile.  “Somewhere along the line, in spite of myself, I’ve begun to trust you.  You’ve been honest with me, Garcia.”

His stomach tightened. 
No, I haven’t
, he told her silently.

“We’re not so different,” she said quietly.  “I know what it’s like to have terrible images in your head, playing over and over, until you want to run from the nightmares and just keep on running.  Like you, there’s a reason I don’t let anyone get close to me, Garcia.”

“You’ve built yourself quite a wall, Alexandra,” he acknowledged with a faint smile.  “But you don’t owe me any explanations.”  But suddenly, looking down at her, it all fell into place - her skittish need for space, the braced wariness of her body, the haunted look glimpsed too often in the bright eyes.  He’d known,
oh yes, he’d known
, from the very beginning.  He’d seen it in too many courtrooms, too many women’s eyes.  He just didn’t want to believe it had happened to her.

“My husband beat me.”

Her words were low, stark and flat, and fell like stones into the silent cabin. 

He looked down at her.  “I’ve seen it in your eyes, Red.  I’ve heard it in the words you didn’t say.”

She nodded, not surprised.  “The soul is not as resilient as the body,” she said quietly.  “Just after our honeymoon, the first night in our new apartment, when I’d forgotten to buy eggs...  he hit me.  Such a simple thing, really.  I thought, ‘this can’t be happening, I must be doing something wrong.’”  She shook her head in bewilderment, her voice fading away.  “I’d never been exposed to abuse, didn’t understand.  I thought he just had a bad temper –”

She took a deep steadying breath and squared her shoulders.  “My ex-husband is a very big man, like you,” she went on.  “I came to dread the sound of his key in the lock.  Would his dinner be too cold?  Too spicy?  Would he be upset by the weather, a newspaper forgotten on a chair?  Or a phone call, a voice asking for me?”

Fear shimmered in her eyes, primal, like a child hearing a growl in the darkness.  “Don’t do this, Red.”

She went on as if she hadn’t heard him, trapped in the memories.  “He was a musician.  He would drink good scotch, and play his music.  Dark, brooding cello pieces.  When the bottle was empty, the music would stop, and he would come upstairs for me.  I can still hear the sound of his leather belt as he pulled it from his waist.  He would slap the buckle on his palm.  And then he would – ”  Her hands flew up to cover her face.  “Oh, God.”

He clenched his own hands at his sides, overwhelmed by her pain.  “Couldn’t you tell anyone?”

“A cop, once.  He told me to learn to duck.”  She made a small, mirthless sound.  “And there was an ER doctor.  He looked at my husband, wrote, ‘Woman walked into door’ on his chart, and left the room.”

He stared at her, chilled by her words, trying to understand.  “But - you are a very intelligent woman, Alexandra.  Strong, independent, talented.  Beautiful.  You don’t strike me as the ‘stand by your man’ type.  Not the type to let a man use you like that.  Why didn’t you just leave him?”

“It’s complicated.”  She was staring into the distance.  “He couldn’t threaten me with income or lifestyle.  I was one of the lucky ones who could earn a living.  It should have been so easy to say, ‘I’m out of here.’  But the truth is, the first thing women do is blame themselves.  The
last
thing they do is leave.  And - I thought he loved me.”

“He hit you.”

The Lab nuzzled against her, pawed gently at her knee, gave a low woof, and she reached down to smooth his furred head.  “When I got married,” she said suddenly, “I had a beautiful Golden Retriever named Sunny.  God, I loved that dog.  The first time I threatened to leave my husband, he told me no women’s shelter would take Sunny.  He said he’d drown her if I left.  He made me uncertain, sick, afraid.  Different.  Sometimes emotional abuse is just as paralyzing as physical pain, Garcia.  I didn’t think I had a choice.”

“You can choose to be happy, Chica.”

“Yes, easy to say, isn’t it?  But there was no choice where no one gets hurt, no choice that would let me feel like a good person…  I needed to make my marriage work, Garcia.  Even though, each time he hit me, it got worse.  But then he would promise to change.  And he would, for awhile.  I made excuses for him, I’d say, ‘It’s the holidays’ or ‘his work isn’t going well.’  I learned to wear extra make-up, and he would be sweet and charming and so damned sorry.”  Her voice was barely audible and aching with sadness.

“Nothing wrong with wanting to be loved, Red.”

“What’s wrong is that he took my life away from me, piece by bloody piece, until there was nothing left.  And
I let it happen
!”

She closed her eyes as if haunted by the images.  “When he put me in the hospital the first time - ”  she shook her head slowly – “I kept thinking I could change him.  A year went by.  He didn’t want me to work, didn’t want me seeing my friends, my family.  He controlled the money, and my life.  He isolated me.  Finally, I realized I was losing
myself
.  And then one morning…  Sunny, my beautiful Golden, my best friend, was just
gone
.”  Sick shock flared like fire in her eyes.  “I hated him then.  I was packing my bags when the doctor called.”

Christ.  It all began to make sense.  “Little Red?”

She nodded brokenly.  “I’d been told I could never have children.  But I was
pregnant
!  It was such a gift - a miracle, really.  My husband was actually gentle during those months.  I thought, okay, this baby is making all the difference - and I wanted my child to have a
family
.  But God punished me for
my
pride,” she whispered.  “I was barely seven months along.  Rick had been drinking.  The music stopped.  He came for me, up the stairs.  So slowly.  He began to kiss me on the landing - demanding, brutal kisses - and I pushed him away.”

She didn’t even know she was crying.  Very gently, he brushed a tear from her cheek.

“He grabbed me by the hair.  He dragged me into the bedroom, threw me down onto the bed.  We fought, and he…  he…!”

He felt his hands clutch into fists.  “Alexandra, don’t –”

“No!  I have to say it out loud.  My husband
raped
me!  Seven months pregnant and he raped me.  When it was over, when I thought he was asleep, I tried to slip from the bed.  He lunged for me.  I hit him with something, I think it was a lamp, and I ran.  He caught me at the top of the stairs.  He – oh, God, - he punched me in the abdomen.  Punched our
baby
!”  Her voice shook with horror.  “And then - I was falling down the stairs.  I went into labor, of course.  Ruby was born prematurely a few hours later.”

“Bastard,” he whispered, wanting to slam his own fist into the wall.

“Our marriage ended at the top of those stairs.”

“Good.”  The muscles in his jaw bunched.  “Where is he now?”

“On the other side of the world, with his beloved cello.  I pressed charges, but he had money – and a legal dream team.”  She shot him a look.

“Hemingway wrote that healing is stronger at the break.  That’s
you
, Chica.  You fought back, you made a choice not to be a victim.  You won.  You’re free of him now.”

“Free?  I’ll never be free of that night.  I waited too long to leave him, Garcia.   And because I stayed… my beautiful Ruby is deaf.”

CHAPTER 40

“In silence and in tears...”

B. W. Procter

A moment of stunned silence.

Then Garcia heard the small galley clock striking seven a.m. as her words seared into him.  “Dios.  Deaf?  Your Little Red is deaf?”  He was ambushed by the unexpected wave of tenderness that washed over him.

She nodded brokenly.  “It was the fall. 
I didn’t protect her.
  It’s all my fault.” 

“You’re carrying something that isn’t yours to carry, Red.  The fault lies with the monster who hit you!  Don’t you get it?  You
stopped
being a battered wife and became a protective mother.  You’re a
survivor
, not a victim.  Christ, you put yourself in harm’s way last night because you’re determined to keep Ruby safe.  You’re wearing that damned sling because you stood up to a wild stallion for your niece.  A stallion!”  He shook his head back and forth in disbelief.  “I’ve never met a mother more fierce in protecting her kids.  It’s the sick bastard who beat you who’s to blame.  Not you.  Never you.”

“You’re wrong, Garcia.  A child with a profound loss changes who you are.  When I learned that Ruby was born deaf, I despised myself
.”

“I can’t believe that such a fall would cause deafness,” he said.  ‘Injuries, surely, but –”

She raised an eyebrow.  “The doctors told me the same thing.  But a Preemie can have all sorts of serious problems.
 I didn’t walk away when I should have
!  So I’ve been living in a world of silence, too.  An artist who loves color, living in a world of cold grey rain.”  She shook her head at the irony.  “Until…”

He pictured her the first night she’d showed up on his boat, looking as if she’d fallen into the sea.  Vibrating with loss, fear, grief, fury.  Totally alive.  “Until your sister died,” he said, suddenly understanding.

“Yes.  You appreciate the irony.  Eve’s death is forcing me back to life.”

She turned from him then, gathering the sweat clothes with her good hand.  “I can’t do this.  I’ll meet you up on deck in ten minutes.”

* * * *

It was cold up on the deck.  He fingered the wool scarf around his neck, watching her.

She’d turned off her cell phone, dropped it into her purse.  Now, still as a painting, she was perched on the deck railing and staring out at the sea, her hair lit by the new morning sun, the Lab asleep at her feet.

He was oddly moved by the tableau. 

He moved to her, gently looped the soft blue scarf around her neck, watched her eyes widen.  It was a good color for her.  “It’s cold out here,” he said into the silence. “And…”

“And?”

“I like watching you think.”

Her fingers gathered the scarf closer.  “I was thinking about Ruby.”

“You’ve found a way to communicate with your daughter on the phone.”

“The wonders of technology.  All kinds of help are available.  But mostly we use Skype, or Facetime, or I talk through her nanny Olivia, and Liv signs to Ruby.”

“Signing to a child not even two?”

“It’s controversial, but, yes.  Even mothers of hearing children use signs with their babies.  I’m just trying to cover all the bases right now.”  The Lab stirred, dreaming, and she squinted up at the sun.  “What time is it?”

“Airport’s just over the bridge, if we leave here in thirty minutes you’ll make the ten a.m. shuttle easily.”  He gestured toward a computer bag and small black suitcase sitting on the edge of the dock.  “I called Rhodes.  He had your things sent here.  So we have just enough time for you to tell me what happened when you met the Lions.”

Back to business, he thought, his eyes on the blue scarf around her neck. 
Safer
. 

“I spoke with all three of them,” she told him.  “Senator Rossinski, Rens Karpasian and Zee Zacarias.”

“A Senator, a Professor and a Playboy…” he began.

“Crazy, isn’t it?  But one of them could be a spy.  And a
murderer
.”  She looked away.  “I spoke with Yuri Belankov as well.  He asked to see me again, in New York, to discuss my upcoming Russian art exhibit.  There is just something about him...”

“Alexandra –”

She waved a hand in the air at his frustrated reaction.  “I know you don’t trust him, Garcia, but he
brought
the Firebird file to Charles Fraser.  And he’s
too young
to be the mole.  So what troubles you?”

He gave a ‘stranger-things-have-happened’ shrug.  “Belankov was one of the ruthless, powerful, highly secretive Russian businessmen who came to power after the collapse of the Soviet Union.  The Oligarchs.  Just a polite word for thieves who looted the assets of their country.  In the chaos, they gained control of Russia’s crown jewels – oil, gas, steel, communications, weaponry.”

“And became wealthy investing
outside
of Russia,” she guessed. 

“Si.  Beyond wealthy, thanks to currency speculation.  Microsoft, Amazon, you name it.  Belankov has a villa in Cap D’Antibes, a fifteen room apartment overlooking Central Park, a home in Vail.  He’s a leading funder of La Scala, a benefactor of the arts…”