Like a Knife (4 page)

Easing open the door, he inched his way toward the street, gaze skimming in all directions. Halfway up, the drive curved. From here, Nick could see a Buick parked in front. Without warning the car's back door swung open, and out fell a large, bulky roll, like a carpet

Instantly, the Buick peeled away, tires squealing.

Dread circling his gut, Nick ran the rest of the way and skidded to his knees in front of the bundle. Hands and feet tied, a cloth sack over the head. Fingers shaking, he ripped off the bag. Rachel's braid, wild and untidy, flopped like a dead fxsh on her shoulder.

God, no.

His stomach jolted to his feet as he brushed the flyaway hair back from her face. Tape covered her mouth, and her eyes stared terrified and sightless, but she was alive, whimpering tiny distressed squeaks, Relief flooded him, so powerful that for a moment he couldn't move. Then he put his hands against the side of her face, and she jumped.

He said, "No, it's okay. It's me, Nick. You're safe; I've got you. I'm going to pull off the tape. It might hurt, so hold on. Ready?" The eyes continued to stare, so he gathered her in his arms and holding tight, yanked the tape away. "There you go. Shh, it's all right, you're all right Shh-"

He repeated die comforting sounds, stroking her hair and holding her until she came back from the dark place she'd been. As if she were waking up, sense seeped back into her face.

"Nick?"

"It's me, Rachel, I've got you, you're safe."

Tears pooled in her eyes. "They tied my hands." She sobbed quietly, as if tying her hands was the worst they could have done. "They ... they tied my hands."

Quickly, he pulled out his penknife and sliced through the ropes digging into her wrist and feet. Chafe marks scraped the skin raw in both places.

I'll kill Rennie for this.

A neighbor pulled aside a curtain to stare at them, then quickly disappeared. Ignoring the intrusion, Nick sat in the driveway, rocking and crooning to Rachel. Cloudy moonlight softened the edges of the drive and drifted over them. He held her tight against him, feeling her body shake and her tears soak his shirt

When at last only the trembling remained, he spoke. "Are you hurt, Rachel? Can you walk? I want to get you inside." He helped her stand, but her knees buckled when she started to move. In the end, he carried her like a child.

She cried again when he placed her on the couch. He put his arms around her and stroked her hair. Gradually she calmed down and, after a few minutes, pushed herself away.

"Okay." Her voice was thick with tears. "Okay, that's enough. No more crying."

"It's okay, cry all you want, you have every right."

She shook her head and hiccuped. "I can't... do it anymore. If I keep going, I'll never stop."

"How about a cup of coffee?"

She nodded. "And a tissue." She gave him a watery smile. "Make that a mountain of tissues."

"Sorry, no tissues. How about a roll of toilet paper?" He grabbed a roll from the bathroom, handed it to her, then crossed to the sink and filled a pot with water for coffee. He held up a jar of Maxwell House. "I've only got instant."

"Mmm, my favorite." She blew her nose.

He took a coffee cup out of the sink and washed it. "Want to talk about it?"

She hiccuped again. 'They were waiting for me in the parking garage at my apartment."

"Who was?"

"I... I don't know. They grabbed me from behind. Before I even knew what was happening, they taped my mouth and t-tied my-" She started to shake again, and the hysteria mounted in her voice. He was beside her in an instant.

"It's okay. You're safe. I've got you."

She nodded. "I know. It's just hard..." Fresh tears started, but she fought her way through them. 'They tied my hands then, too... when my m-mother.. ." She looked down at her hands and whispered, "I can't bear to have anything on my wrists. No bracelets watches, or anything."

"I'm sorry, Rachel, I'm so sorry." He knelt down in front of her and took the hands she was staring at Gently, he said, "Did they... did they touch you... hurt you?"

She gulped and shook her head. "No, nothing like that."

"What about broken bones, bruises?"

She lowered her head and shook it again. He tipped her face back up to his. Tears swam in her eyes again.

"Are you sure?" He spoke quietly. "I have to know. If they hurt you in any way, I've got to know."

'They... they were rough, but they never hit me or... or anything."

The water had boiled by then, and he poured her coffee. As she reached for the cup, she noticed the marks on her wrists for the first time.

"I'll go out and get you something for that," Nick said.

"No." She looked up quickly, panic in her face. "I don't want you to."

"You can come with me if you like."

Relief settled over her face. "All right"

"Do you want me to call someone? Your family maybe?"

'There's only my aunt and uncle, and-"

"What are their names?" He picked up the phone.

"Elliot and Julia Bradshaw, but don't call them."

"You should be with someone who cares about-"

"Please." She shook her head. "Don't I'll be all right"

"What about Felice, someone from school?"

"No! Don't call anyone. I... I can't even call the police. The Parish Council is already in an uproar about-" She flushed.

"About me."

She nodded and looked away. "I can't afford any more bad publicity," she said, and Nick felt sick.

She finished the coffee and sat back against the sofa, eyes closed. Her hair was still a tangle, half in and half out of the braid. She looked exhausted, and the sight twisted his heart.

Don't look, then. Take off. Get that salve. Or a drink. Find a bar. A drink is what you need.

Instead he went into the kitchen for more coffee. But when he got to the sink, his legs gave out. Bracing his elbows against the counter, he pot his head in his hands. At least they hadn't hit her. But terror was only the opening move. He raked his fingers through his hair, pulling hard. How many times had he done it himself? Talk first, then warn. Then kidnapping, broken fingers, torn ears... He knew the steps by heart. And he still had to face Rachel with it God, he didn't want to. He'd rather run, fly, anything than tell her this was his fault.

"Nick!"

"I'm right here." He stepped into the light so she could see him.

"Sit with me?"

He sat down and put his arm around her. She sighed, a huge, fluttery sound. "God, I wish I could stop crying. Talk to me. Tell me something happy."

He couldn't think of anything happy. But he told her about the hotel in Chicago where he'd gotten so drunk, he fell asleep on top of the covers and woke up in the morning with a thick, brown goop all over him. "Know what it was?" He leaned back against the couch and stroked the top of her head.

"Mm-mmm," she said sleepily.

"The chocolates. The chocolates the hotel puts on your pillow when they turn down the bed. I plopped down right on top of them, and they melted all over me during the night."

Her mouth turned up in a smile, and he smiled himself at the sight. He talked half the night. He told her about the best tapas bar in Seville and the best nude beach on the Riviera. She would sleep for a while and Jerk awake, panicked. Then Nick would tighten his hold on her and talk some more.

The one thing he didn't tell her was why she'd been terrorized and dropped at his door. While she slept, he called himself coward and swore he would tell her the next time. But the next time he always found himself telling her something else. Vincente's in Buenos Aires. The Only in Vancouver.

Early in the morning he called St. Anthony's, telling them she was ill and wouldn't be in. Then he called a cab. When it came, he knelt in front of the couch arid gently brushed the hair away from her face. "Rachel," he whispered, "I'm taking you home." She curled deeper into tine sofa, and he had trouble waking her. When he finally got her inside the cab, she snuggled up against him and slept some more.

Nick got her to her apartment, where she shuffled into the bedroom. "I'm so tired," she mumbled.

"Let me call someone to stay with you." He pulled down the bedspread and tucked her in.

She reached for his hand and managed a sleepy, "Stay. Please."

He sat on the edge of the bed. "For a little while, but then I have to go." He didn't even know if she heard him.

He watched her sleep, her face peaceful at last. Rising, he found the phone in the kitchen and called a nearby pharmacy for some salve for the raw spots on her wrists. While he waited for it to be delivered, he wandered back into the bedroom and noticed the photos for the first time. Mostly black-and-white news photographs, they ranged over her dresser in various shapes and sizes, all depicting her father, David Goodman. He stood on a makeshift speakers' stand at an outdoor rally; behind a podium at the National Press Club; in the Oval Office, shaking hands with the president. And one small snapshot, tucked into a back corner against the mirror, of a very young Rachel and both her parents. She smiled at the camera in gap-toothed happiness, nestled between the father who had yet to abandon her and the mother with Rachel's gentle brown eyes.

He glanced over at the bed, trying to feel what she must have felt. To have so much and lose it all. No wonder she was so fierce about the school and the children.

When die salve arrived, he put it on the kitchen table, where she would be sure to see it. A brief note explained what it was for, and then it was time to go. But instead of the door, he found himself in her bedroom.

Afternoon sun gilded her half-undone braid. Renegade hair lay like polished copper off the pillow. So
clean, so good.
On impulse, he eased onto the edge of the bed and smoothed back the soft wisps. She stirred, murmured, then turned on her side, one hand by her cheek. He slid his hand over hers, feeling how small it was.
So vulnerable.
For one exquisite moment, he fitted his fingers through hers, his heart thumping.
Don't let go. Don't ever let me go.
But of course, she wasn't letting go. He was. Slowly he released his hold and stood. His chest hurt, but he managed to walk out of the room. Then out of the apartment. By the time he found the subway into Manhattan, he was even breathing again.

Nick arrived at the Gramercy Park headquarters of SATCO, the Spier Advanced Technology Corporation, while Shelley's funeral reception was in full swing. Descending in the glassed-in elevator that took him from the corporate offices at street level to the lavish living quarters below, Nick had the grim notion that he was falling into hell.

Through the elevator's glass walls, Nick watched the party approach, scanning the crowd for Rennie. Most of the guests were customers, not friends. Representatives from half the developing world swilled Rennie's wine.

The elevator hit bottom, and the door opened. Nick had already spotted Rennie, surrounded by people murmuring words of sympathy. But before Nick could push his way into the circle, he was spun around and enveloped in a fierce bear hug.

"Jesus H. fucking Christ. Nicky !" A wiry man with an Irish lilt and thinning sandy hair pummeled Nick's back. "I didn't think to ever see your face this side of paradise."

"Or the other," A glance over Nick's shoulder showed Spier disappearing into the crowd. He threw Danny Walsh a quick grin. It had been years since he'd seen the
IRA troubleshooter. He must have been close to fifty by now but still looked lean and fit, sharp-eyed as ever. "Hello, Danny. What are you doing here? I'm surprised they let you in the country."

Danny smiled, laugh lines scrunching around astute green eyes. "Oh, I'm real respectable now. A peacekeeper, if you can believe it." He leaned in close. "On the trail of a rumor, in fact. An arms shipment to the Liberation Council."

The council was a loose umbrella for all the groups who didn't support the peace in Northern Ireland. Anyone who traded in arms or plastic explosives knew about it.

"Thought I'd see if anything... interesting turns up," Danny said, looking around. "And of course, pay my respects. How about you, lad? Back with Spier again?"

"Not exactly." Nick surveyed the gathering. Where had Spier gone?

"You know, every time I kick back a pint of pilsner, I think of you."

Nick couldn't help a grim smile. "Yeah, getting drunk is my specialty."

Danny's laugh boomed over the noise of the crowd. "Well, boy-o, every man has his special gift."

There he was, across the courtyard.

Danny gave Nick a hearty handshake. "If you need anything, Nicky, you whistle at me. Grand to see you-"

But Nick was already moving away. He cut through the crowd, gaze on his target. He conjured up the hole in the ground that had just swallowed Shelley, pictured Rachel, wrists bruised, sleeping like an angel.

Then he was face to face with the man who had been his teacher, his mentor, who had defined his life for over twenty years.

"You touch Rachel again, I'll kill you." Someone gasped. Nick ignored it. "You hurt anyone again, I swear I'll rip your fucking heart out"

The people around them melted away until the two of them were alone. Fury flashed across Spier's face, but only for a instant. He smiled. It was a wolf's smile, victorious, satisfied. "I don't think violence will be necessary. Do you?"

A silent message passed between them.

Leave her alone, and I'll do what you tell me.

Do what I want, and there's no reason to bother anyone else.

The deal made, Spier eyed Nick's work clothes, which were matted and wrinkled from the long night of tears with Rachel. "Go find something decent to wear. You're working for me now. Show some respect. I'll send Martin to fill you in." He put a fatherly arm around Nick's shoulders and gave a shout of laughter. "God, it's good to have you back! Welcome home, Nicky. Welcome home." A rough squeeze, and he was gone.

* * *

Frank watched the reunion with a burning sensation in the pit of his stomach. The guys had a pool going, the odds running three to one that Nick would stay away. But Frank had bet against the odds. Nicky had a soft streak that got him into trouble, got them all into trouble. And Frank didn't think it would be any different this time. Rennie tumbling down the road to disappointment, and Nicky, well, who knew where Nicky would end up? Frank had a feeling about bringing Nick back, and it wasn't a good feeling.

He thumbed a Tums from the roll in his pocket and sucked it down. Sidling up to Rennie, he drew him aside from a circle of well-wishers. "You think he'll find the kid?"

Rennie didn't ask who Frank referred to. Together they turned to watch Nick weave through the crowd and disappear out a doorway. "He'll find him."

Doubtful, Frank shook his head, and Rennie clapped him on the shoulder. "You're an old woman, Frank. You worry too much."

Frank did worry. But then, he never understood what Rennie saw in Nicky Raine.

Frank still remembered the day he'd caught Nick and Marty in Rennie's yellow Porsche. He'd hauled the two pipsqueak car thieves into the kitchen, pitching them into hard-backed chairs so he and Rennie could have some fun. Frank got out the Luger-a war souvenir, an antique that wasn't even loaded, though the kids didn't know that-and pressed the gun under Marty's chin.

"Why'd you try to steal the car?" Marty was blubbering by then, melting into the chair like a blob of butter in the sun, but Nicky... well, Nicky always wanted to be a hero.

"Leave him alone," Nicky had muttered, and when Frank continued to ram the gun under the other boy's chin, Nick scowled and spoke louder. "Fuck you, man. You want to shoot him? Go ahead, be my guest. But it was my idea, asshole. It was me who did it."

So Frank gave him his chance, cramming the weapon against Nick's throat. "Okay, big shot, you want to tell me what you think you were doing?" He could see the kid was scared enough to crap his pants, what with the gun shoved in there so tight it cut off his wind. But the boy answered fast enough.

"I like yellow," he croaked. "It's my favorite color."

Jesus, Rennie had roared. And repeated what Nicky had said, and roared again. But then, Rennie liked a smart mouth. And he was always crazy weird about having a son.

After that, reeling in the kid wasn't hard. It was like that story of the gingerbread house. All Rennie had to do was give Nicky a whiff, a taste of what he could have, and he was hooked. What was he going to do anyway- say no? He had nothing to look forward to except hustling hot watches on the street.

So it started. A weekend here, a week there, then summers, and suddenly Nicky had his own room, a key. By the time he was sixteen, Rennie had given Nick the Porsche he'd tried to steal.

And now he was back, roaming the halls the way he used to, upsetting everyone, a potential damn pain in the ass.

"And what if he finds the kid," Frank said, "and doesn't hand him back... or the rest?"

Rennie smiled, but the expression never reached his eyes. "Then he'll bleed, Frank, and so will everyone around him."

* * *

Cold settled at the base of Nick's spine as he left the reception. He moved surely, the route imprinted on his memory. Left down the hallway, then right, then down three steps. He steeled himself against all the familiar sights. The walls, the furniture... they looked the same. God, they smelled the same. White carpets hugged the floors, white silk moire covered the walls; white wool, leather, or silk swathed the furniture. It churned his stomach to see that deathly frost again.

At the entrance to what had once been his suite of rooms, he balked. He remembered the first time he'd slept there. New clothes on the chair, a TV, a phone. He thought he'd died and gone to heaven; he'd never have to cruise a dirty, noisy street again.

Safe at last.

He' d been seduced once. Could Rennie do it again?

As if in answer, a voice said, "It's just the way you left it."

Nick turned. Martin had a sly, knowing expression on his face. "It's all here. Your suits, your clothes. Rennie wouldn't let us touch any of it." He pushed past Nick and opened closets and dresser drawers. "It's a fucking shrine, Nicky. A shrine to the fallen angel."

Nick took a step into the room. He hadn't realized it, but he'd been holding his breath, waiting for a trap to spring. But no monster jumped out at him.
It's just a room. Your room.

"Here, Rennie wants you to take a look at this." Martin flipped a manila envelope at Nick, then squeezed his massive body into a leather armchair,

"What is it?"

"Open it up and see for yourself."

Nick's hands slowed when he saw what was inside. He snapped a quick look at Martin, who gazed back with thin-lipped satisfaction.
Bastard.
Clearly, he knew what the contents of that envelope would do to Nick.

Sliding onto a small couch, he pulled out the photographs and spread them on the coffee table. Eight-by-ten black-and-whites, taken with a long lens. Surveillance photos. Each one showed Shelley and a solemn, dark-haired boy in a playground. On the swings. By the monkey bars.

"What's his name?"

"Isaac."

Nick stared into the boy's face. Was Nick's own looking back at him? No, the boy was Shelley all over. He had her heart-shaped face, her mouth, and the curve of her brow. But he was dark. Dark as Rennie, whose hair had been inky before turning white.

Dark as Nick.

But Rennie's eyes were blue, Shelley's green. Whose eyes did the boy have? They looked out at Nick, serious and unsmiling. In the black-and-white photos, they could have been any color.

Nick asked, "Did you take these?"

"Why? Don't you like the play of light and shadow?"

Nick ignored the sarcasm. "What park are they in?" He noticed a gnarled tree in the background of several shots, but few other markers. Given the angle of the pictures, they could have been taken anywhere.

"I don't know. I took a lot of pictures."

"Come on, Marty, give me a little help here. You help me, maybe I can help you."

Martin snorted and rose. "You think I need your help?" He paced away, light on his feet for such a bulky man. "I know what you're up to, Nick. You're here to make trouble for everyone."

"Only if I can."

Martin turned, eyeing him with thinly veiled hostility. "Go ahead and try. We're all in the clear. Or maybe you haven't seen the police report. The night Shelley died, Rennie and Frank were at a Cancer Society fund-raiser. Rennie was on the dais. Two hundred people can give him an alibi."

Nick scoffed. "So what? Rennie's the master puppeteer, pulling the strings behind the scenes. What about his favorite puppet? Where were you?"

Martin cocked his head, gave him a don't-be-stupid look. "Sweden. Checking out a used trawler for SATCO Marine. Got the passport stamp to prove it. I didn't do it, Nicky."

"Someone else, then. Some day man. A freelancer."

"Rennie kills his wife and hires a stranger to do it? Someone he barely knows and trusts less? Come on, you know him better than that."

"Yeah, I know him real well."

"Then stick to the job he wants you to do."

"Or what?"

"Or someone will pay another visit to your teacher friend."

Nick moved so fast, he didn't realize what he was doing until he had Martin's shirt bunched in his fists.

"You touch her, you so much as breathe the same air-"

"Or what-you're going to kill me?" Martin snatched his clothes out of Nick's hold. "I don't think so. You can't. You never could."

"Well, maybe that's why Rennie wants
me
to find the kid. That way he has a chance of staying alive."

Martin stopped straightening his tie and shot Nick a lethal look. "You son of a bitch. You were in that alley in Panama, too. You had a gun-anytime, you could have stopped me."

"You should have let him go."

"He
saw
us, Nicky. No witnesses, that's Rennie's first rule. Jesus Christ, it's been six years. How many times do we have to do this song and dance?"

"You should have let him go."

"Well, 'should have' are two of the most overused words in the dictionary, pal."

* * *

That night, Nick slept in Rennie's house for the first time in six years. And just like old times, a dream woke him, as familiar and bloody as ever. He sat up, sweating in terror, heart thudding so fiercely in his chest he thought it would burst through his skin.

But something was different. The face in the dream, the eyes that hoped for nothing.
They
were different. He flipped on the bedside lamp, and the face in the dream appeared with the light, in the photographs he'd left scattered on the night table.

Isaac.

After that, Nick didn't bother going back to sleep. Once there, the dream mutated inside his head anyway, waking him several times a night. Instead he pulled on some clothes and borrowed one of Rennie's cars. By four a.m., he was parked across from Rachel's apartment building.

Would she go to work? After everything she'd been through, he wouldn't blame her if she took some time off. But he wasn't surprised when two hours later her VW drove out of the lot. She was nothing if not dedi-cated.

Following at a discreet distance, he watched for a tail but didn't spot one. But that didn't mean he'd take Rennie's word for anything either. He'd make sure she was safe, even if he had to secretly escort her to and from work every day for the rest of his life.

He held his bseath, knowing she would park the car and get out. How would she look?

He drove past her, turning Ms head away in case she happened to look up, and double-parked halfway down the. block. Standing in the open wedge of the car door, he leaned against the roof to watch. But she had already started to walk away. He saw the braid sway against her back, watched her hike up the church steps and disappear inside. Was she all right? Would she ever be all right again?