Bloodstream (43 page)

It would be instant extinction of the species, except for the surviving specimens now being nurtured in the labs at Anson Biologicals. The hormone these worms secreted was worth a fortune in Defense Department contracts, but only if it stayed out of the hands of Anson’s competitors.

With the destruction of this cave, only Anson would possess the species. To the rest of the world, the reason for this epidemic of violence, and for all the epidemics that came before it, would remain a mystery.

He crawled up the passageway leading to the exit, dribbling a fine line of accelerant as he backed toward the opening. Crouching in the entrance chamber, he lit a match and touched the flame to the ground. A line of lire licked all the way down the tunnel, and then there was a
whoosh
as the cavern below exploded in flames. Groome felt the inrush of air as oxygen was sucked in to feed the conflagration. He turned off his headlamp and watched the fire burn for a moment, imagining the worms turning black, their charred carcasses dropping from the ceiling. And he thought of Max’s corpse, reduced to unidentifiable bone and ash.

He backed out of the cave, his feet dropping into the icy stream, and pulled the branches over the opening. Beyond these thick woods, the glow of the fire in the cavern would be invisible. He waded to the streambank and stumbled onto land. His eyes were still dazzled by the fire, and he had not yet readjusted to the darkness. He turned on his headlamp, to light his way back to the car.

Only then, as his beam flared on, did he see the policemen standing among the trees, weapons drawn.

Expecting him.

Warren Emerson opened his eyes and thought: At last I have died. But why am i in heaven? It was a discovery that greatly surprised him, because he had always assumed that if there was existence after death, he would find himself in some dark and terrible place. An afterlife that was merely an extension of his despairing existence on earth.

Here there were flowers. Vases and vases of them.

He saw blood-red roses. Orchid blossoms like white butterflies fluttering on stalks across the window. And lilies, their fragrance sweeter than any perfume he had ever inhaled. He stared in wonder, for he had never seen anything so beautiful.

Then he heard a chair creak beside his bed, and he turned to see a woman smiling at him. A woman he had not seen in years.

Her hair was more silver than black, and age had left its deep engraving in the lines on her face. But he saw none of this. Looking into her eyes, what he saw instead was a laughing girl of fourteen. The girl he had always loved.

“Hello, Warren,” whispered Iris Keating. She reached out to take his hand in hers.

“I’m alive,” he said.

She heard the question in his voice, and with a smile she nodded. “Yes. You most certainly are alive.”

He looked down at her hand, grasping his. Remembered how their fingers once had entwined all those years ago, when they had both been young, and they had sat together by the lake. So many changes in our hands, he thought. Mine are now scarred and leathery; hers are

knobby with arthritis. But here we are, holding hands again, and she is still my Iris.

Through his tears, he looked at her. And decided he was not ready to die after all.

Lincoln knew where he would find her, and there she was, sitting in a chair at her son’s bedside. Sometime in the night, Claire had climbed out of her own hospital bed, had shuffled down the long hallway in her robe and slippers, and found her way to Noah’s room. Now she sat hugging a blanket to her shoulders, looking very tired and pale in the afternoon sunlight. God help the soul who dares to come between a mother bear and her cub, thought Lincoln.

He sat down in the chair across from her, and their gazes met over Noah’s sleeping figure. It hurt him to see that she was still wary, still untrusting of him, but he understood the reason for it. Only a day ago, he had threatened to take from her the one thing in the world she loved most. Now she was watching him with an expression that was both fierce and, at the same time, afraid.

“My son didn’t do it,” she said. “He told me, this morning. He swore it to me, and I know he’s telling the truth.”

He nodded. “I spoke to Amelia Reid. They were together that night until after ten. And then he drove her home.”

By which time, Doreen was already dead.

Claire released a breath, tension melting from her body. She sank back in the chair and placed her hand protectively on Noah’s head. At the touch of her fingers stroking his hair, his eyes flickered open, and he focused on Claire. Neither mother nor son spoke; their quiet smiles conveyed everything that needed to be said.

I could have spared them both this ordeal,
thought Lincoln. If only he had known the truth. If only Noah had come right out and confessed he’d spent the evening with Amelia. But he had been protecting the girl from her stepfather’s wrath. Lincoln knew of Jack Reid’s temper, and he understood why Amelia would be afraid of him.

Afraid or not, the girl had been ready to share the truth with Claire. Last night, just before J.D.’s rage had exploded in murder, Amelia had slipped out of her house and walked through the clear, cold night,

toward Claire’s house. Her route had taken her along Toddy Point Road.

Right past the boat ramp.

The girl’s fortunate journey had saved Claire’s life. And in the process, Amelia had saved her own.

Noah had once again fallen asleep.

Claire looked at Lincoln. “Is Amelia’s word going to be enough? Will anyone believe a fourteen-year-old girl?”

“I believe her.”

“Yesterday you said you had physical evidence. The blood—”

“We also found blood in the trunk of Mitchell Groome’s car.”

She paused as the significance of that fact sank in. “Doreen’s?” she said softly.

He nodded. “I think Groome meant to implicate you, not Noah, when he smeared the blood on your pickup. He didn’t know which car you’d been driving that night.”

They were both quiet for a moment, and he wondered if this was how it would end between them, with silence on her part, and longing on his. There was so much he still had to tell her about Mitchell Groome. There’d been the items they’d found in Groome’s trunk: the jars of specimens and Max’s handwritten log books. Both Anson Biologicals and Sloan-Routhier had denied any connection to the two men, and now Groome, angered by that disavowal, was threatening to drag the pharmaceutical giant down with him. Lincoln had come to tell Claire all this and more, but instead he remained silent, his unhappiness weighing down on him so heavily it seemed a burden just to take a deep breath.

He said, hopefully, “Claire?”

She raised her eyes to his, and this time she did not look away

“I can’t turn back the clock,” he said. “I can’t erase the hurt I caused you. I can only say that I’m sorry I wish there was some way we could go back to He shook his head. “The way we were.”

“I’m not sure what that means, Lincoln. The way we were.”

He thought about it. “Well, for one thing,” he said, “we were friends.”

“Yes, that’s true,” she admitted.

“Good friends. Weren’t we?”

A faint smile touched her lips. “Good enough to sleep together, anyway.”

He felt himself flush. “That’s not what I’m talking about! It’s not just the sleeping together. It’s—” He gazed at her with painful honesty. “It’s knowing there’s
a possibility
for us. A possibility that I’ll be seeing you every morning when I wake up. I can wait, Claire. I can live with the uncertainty. It’s not easy, but I can stand it, as long as there’s a chance we’ll be together. That’s all I’m really asking for.”

Something sparkled in her eyes. Tears of forgiveness? he wondered. She reached out and stroked his face. It was the gentle caress of a lover. Even better than that, it was the touch of a friend.

“Anything’s possible, Lincoln,” she said softly. And she smiled.

He was actually whistling when he walked out of the hospital. And why shouldn’t he? The sky was blue, the sun was shining, and the ice— encrusted branches of willow trees clacked and glittered like hanging crystals. In two weeks would come the longest night of the year. Then the days would open up again, the earth cycling back toward light and warmth. Toward hope.

Anything’s possible.

Lincoln Kelly was a patient man, and he could wait.