Where the Heart Chooses (41 page)

* * * *

Gregor opened the rear door of Quinton’s
pale gold Lexus, and I slid into it. Most vehicles driven by
Federal officers were black or dark blue. Trust my son to find such
an unusual color.

I settled onto the seat and buckled up.

Gregor tipped the attendants, climbed into
the front seat, and fastened his own seat belt. He switched on the
lights and the windshield wipers and took a moment to familiarize
himself with the car’s controls before steering it out of the
Embassy’s drive and down the road that led to the Beltway.

“Interesting evening, Portia.”

“Yes. I think having Mark in his life is
making Quinton happy.”

“That wasn’t what I—Are you sure this isn’t
a mistake, trusting Vincent of all people?”

“Didn’t we have this conversation once
before?”

“Yes, but he’s
Vincent
!”

“Gregor, he got Quinton out of the hands of
those maniacs.”

“Quinn would have gotten himself out of that
mess,” he assured me staunchly.

“Do you really believe that, my friend?”

“Portia, what I believe is that leopards
don’t change their spots.”

“I think this is one of those things we’ll
have to take on faith.”

He growled and turned the car to U.S. 1-S.
“Did you remember to tell Quinn about that lunch with Jefferson
next Sunday?”

“No, he was busy trying to keep some
distance between me and that wretched Wexler, and I forgot all
about it. I wonder why Jefferson wants a family gathering.” I bit
my lip and asked innocently, “Could it be for your birthday?”

“It had better not be! I’m too old for that
bull-stuff. Here.” He handed me the car phone over his shoulder. It
began to rain harder, and he increased the wiper speed.

“Thank you, Gregor,” I said meekly, hiding a
smile, and dialed Quinton’s cell phone number.

He picked it up on the first ring. “Hello,
Mother. What’s up?”

Of course, Quinton knew it was me. All our
phones were equipped with Caller ID. “I’m just calling to tell you
your Uncle Jefferson wants everyone to meet at Shadow Brook for
lunch next Sunday.” He and Ludovic had lived there for more than
thirteen years. “He has something of grave importance to tell us,”
I intoned in a fair imitation of my brother’s voice.

“Oh?” I could hear the smile over the phone.
“Now, I wonder what it could be.”

“That’s exactly what…Just a second! Quinton
Mann, are you insinuating that you know what it is?”

“Now, Mother…”

Instead of telling him not to ‘now, Mother’
me, I asked, “Will you be back from the Keys in time for it?”

“Yes.”

“Will Mark join us?”

“I’ll—”

Gregor spat out a curse, his reaction a
trifle overboard.

I covered the mouthpiece of the phone.
“Gregor?”

“The bas-son of a-The idiot behind us has
his brights on.” He adjusted the rearview mirror and glared at it.
“Damn halogens are hitting me right in the eye.” He turned his
attention back to the rain-slicked on-ramp to the 495. “Sorry. I’m
on it, Portia.”

“All right.” I returned to my conversation
with my son. “You were saying, you scamp?”

“I was saying I have no idea, truly I
don’t…”

The Lexus suddenly seemed to shiver and jerk
forward. A split second later came the delayed shriek of metal on
metal.

“What’s that asshole…?” Gregor’s voice was
harsh, and the fact that he made no effort to censor his language
told me he was more than irritated by the situation.

“Gregor?” I was concerned.

The Lexus swerved to the left, into the
merging traffic, and I bit back a gasp.

“Mother? What’s going on?”

“You know how it is when it rains,
sweetheart.” I kept my voice casual as Gregor wrestled with the
steering wheel, succeeding in bringing it under control, narrowly
avoiding a collision. “All of a sudden people forget how to
drive.”

But then whoever was tailgating my son’s car
slammed into the rear bumper, sending the Lexus fishtailing across
three lanes of traffic into the median. Somehow Gregor, swearing
steadily now, kept us upright.

Horns blared, brakes screeched, cars
narrowly avoided hitting us.

“Mother! What’s wrong?”

We were broadsided—it was inevitable, and
the Lexus flipped, bounced, and flipped again…

* * * *

Someone was holding my hand in both of his,
and I felt the stubble on his cheek against my fingers as he turned
his head and pressed a kiss to the back of my hand. For a second I
thought it was Nigel.

Am I dead, darling? Have you come for
me?

No,
Portia.
He stood at my bedside,
looking as strong and vibrant as the first time I’d seen
him
. You have too many people
who need you here.

But I need you.

And
I
’ll be waiting for you.
Forever. Just…keep yourself open to possibilities.

Nigel?

“I’m sorry, Portia. I’m so sorry.” It was
Gregor holding my hand. “It’s my fault…” His voice broke in a sob,
and teardrops fell to my skin.

No it isn’t!
But I couldn’t get the
words past my lips.

“You never knew why I wouldn’t go to
Arlington with you after that first time. You thought it was
because I was upset that Nigel was dead, and yes, I was. That man
meant more to me than many of my own relatives. I loved him, but it
was seeing your name on the other side of his tombstone. Oh, the
date wasn’t on it yet, but just knowing that was where you’d be
buried almost destroyed me. I’ve…I’ve always lo-” He cradled my
hand against his cheek. “I have to go. You’re not supposed to be
disturbed. If Quinn comes out of the bathroom and catches me…But I
had to see you. Please come back to me…to us.”

He kissed my hand a final time and put it
down at my side, then kissed my cheek. There was a faint
thud-step-thud-step, and somehow I knew I was alone.

* * * *

My head ached, my hip throbbed, each
inhalation burned, and my abdomen felt as if I’d been stitched
together by Dr. Frankenstein.

I hurt, and I was tempted to retreat to the
soft cotton wool that had cushioned me.

“Please, dear God. Don’t let her die. I’ll
do anything—”

Nigel had said people needed me here. I
managed to open my eyes enough to see my son sitting at my
bedside.

“Your father always said, ‘Never bargain
with the Man Upstairs. It never ends well, no matter what the
outcome.’” Was that raspy voice mine?

“Mother.” His smile was lopsided. “You’re
back with us.”

“Where else would I be, sweetheart?” I
raised my hand to touch his cheek.

“For a while there, I thought…” His voice
cracked, and then he bent over me, careful of the tubes, and I
stroked his hair and back. His shoulders shook beneath my
touch.

There was a sound at the doorway, but when I
looked, no one was there. Then I heard, “Nurse, have you seen Quinn
Mann anywhere? Oh, he’s in this room? Thanks.”

Quinton straightened and surreptitiously
scrubbed his cheeks dry.

“Mann.” Mark stood in the doorway. “How is
she?”

“Conscious.” Quinton cleared his throat and
turned to face Mark. “Where have you been?”

He grinned at my son, crossed the room, and
leaned against the side of my bed. “You’ve got a couple of shiners,
Mrs. Mann. Real beauts.”

“I imagine I look like a raccoon. What
happened?”

“What do you remember?”

I swallowed a smile. It drove Nigel wild
when I did that, but even more so my brothers. “Before we go into
what I remember, how is Gregor?”

“Better than you, Mrs. Mann. He’s got a
broken collarbone from the airbag, and his ankle is kind of banged
up, but otherwise he’s in fairly decent shape. Now that you’re with
us again, I imagine he’ll be coming to see for himself how you
are.”

I didn’t say he had already been here. Or
had it been another morphine dream? I thought of all the incidents
of my life that I’d relived. It didn’t matter. “How badly am I
injured?”

He rattled them off nonchalantly:
concussion, bruised ribs, burn from the seat belt, fractured hip
they’d repaired with a pin. “You’re going to need a doctor’s note
when you fly, Mrs. Mann, or the metal detectors will nab you.”

Bryan and I will be twins now,
I
thought giddily,
both of us with pins in our hips.

“Oh, and they had to yank your spleen.”

So that accounted for the discomfort when I
breathed, but not for the soreness in my abdomen. I wondered if
they’d had to do exploratory surgery. Oh, dear God, could I have
wound up with a colostomy? A child one of my foundations supported
had lost almost the entire length of his large intestine when a
seatbelt had cut into his abdomen as a result of an exceptionally
disastrous automobile accident.

“Not that, Mother.” Quinton heard my
whispered words and took my hand, holding tightly to it. If it
hadn’t hurt so badly, I’d have laughed from sheer relief. “Would
you like some water?”

“Please.”

He held the straw to my lips, and I was able
to take a few sips before I grew too tired.

“Can you tell us what you remember now?”

“A car hit us. Gregor did his best to…But
the car just kept hitting us, and then oncoming traffic did the
rest.”

“It wasn’t an accident, a car hydroplaning
on a wet road. It was too deliberate.”

“What did you find out, Mark?” Quinton’s
voice was flat.

I could see Mark’s face. It didn’t darken;
it didn’t really change expression, but suddenly it felt as if the
temperature in the room had dropped significantly.

“That bi- that woman Wexler is married to
was pissed that he was paying more attention to your mother than to
her. She even started an affair with his aide in hopes Wexler would
see it as a wake-up call. The other night—”

“The other night?”

Quinton continued to grip my hand. “It’s
been a couple of nights since…since you were brought here,
Mother.”

I drew in as deep a breath as I could. “Go
on, please, Mark.”

“The other night was the last straw. She was
the one who had the tires on your car slashed. She didn’t know
Quinn would offer you his car, or that his car would be shoved
across—” He bit back the words. “She told the police about it while
the paramedics were trying to get her patched up. Ever see what a
smooth, hard piece of wood shaped like an elongated dumb-bell can
do to a woman’s face, Quinn?”

“A kongo?” I mused, needing to verify my
suspicion.

“You’re familiar with it, Mrs. Mann?”

“That was the weapon of choice of someone
with whom I was very close.”

“Yeah? You know some pretty interesting
people. Mrs. Wexler is going to need serious plastic surgery.” Mark
placed something in my hand. “I was asked to give you this.”

I knew without looking what they were.
Violets. “Thank you, Mark.”

“Welcome. I dunno what kind of hospital this
is. Doesn’t even have a decent vase. I had to get a cup from the
nurses’ station. I’ll put some water in it in a bit.” He scowled.
“I’ll be damned if I know how a woman got there before I did,” he
groused under his breath, no doubt unaware he spoke aloud. “She was
supposed to be dead!”

“How did you learn Folana was dead,
Mark?”

“MI6.”

“And you took their word for it?” Quinton
snorted. “Oh, I am disappointed in you!”

“Jesus Christ, Quinn! Uh…sorry, Mrs.
Mann.”

“It’s quite all right.” I patted his arm
with the hand that wasn’t hooked up to the IV.

“Thanks.” Mark glared at my son. “Of course
I didn’t take their word for it! I hack—” He cleared his throat. “I
looked into it. And she was fu-she was dead!”

“I imagine not,” I murmured.

“Well, yeah. And some day I want to hear how
it is that one of the deadliest women in intelligence calls you her
dear friend.”

“Yes, I’d be interested in hearing that as
well, Mother.”

“Another time.”

“Mark. Where does Wexler stand in all this?”
Quinton asked.

“It was his aide driving the car that hit
your mother and Novotny. He lived long enough to talk. He said the
senator wasn’t happy that you kept getting in his way, Quinn. He
saw it as a son’s jealousy at the probability of having his father
replaced by someone else.”

“‘Probability’?”

“I don’t want to be crude about it, but he
never doubted he could get in your bed, Mrs. Mann.”

“Trust me, he would have regretted such a
moronic idea for what was left of his pathetic life.” How could he
possibly think I would go to him after having loved Nigel Mann?

“Which wouldn’t be too long?” Mark seemed
pleased with that thought.

“All he had to do was get me out of the
way,” Quinton said tightly.

“Yeah. You were the target, Quinn. You have
been for a while.” Now there was ice in Mark’s voice. “Holmes was
in on it too. That shi-garbage with your cell phone and all those
useless missions? That was to get you to screw up. He had your
orders cut and ready to go. Your next assignment was to Paramaribo.
Wexler had him in his pocket.”

“Where is the senator?” My son’s voice was
as cold as Mark’s.

“He’s lying low. The cops brought him in to
identify his aide’s body. Wexler professed profound shock when he
was told that Lapin had been behind the wheel of the car that drove
yours off the road. Said he was devastated to hear you’d been
injured.”

“Explain, if you please,” Quinton
demanded.

“Lapin left a paper trail indicating he was
the one who brought the Beemer to the shop and insisted on a speedy
repair. The cops followed it.”

“Thanks to you.”

“Me? Nope. That was just good, solid police
work, baby.” Mark studied his fingernails, apparently unaware of
how he’d addressed my son.