Breaking Point (6 page)

But there was another sign on the table, too: “Only drink bottled water,” with about six exclamation points, underlined three times.

It reminded him of the puking priests. Going out there and offering to help would win him salvation points.

It would also remove him from the temptation of rifling through private papers, letters, diaries. He’d sworn to himself that he wouldn’t do that.

Or at least that he wouldn’t get caught.

And there’d be less of a chance of someone walking in on his unauthorized browsing after the camp was asleep.

Besides, it looked as if anything of interest was securely locked up in one of the larger trunks.

Trunks had locks any beginner criminal could pop in a heartbeat.

He quickly unzipped his bag and put his clothing into the one empty trunk and locked it.

His real valuables would go elsewhere. Not that he had much. His cans of “Silver Fox” theatrical hairspray—irreplaceable out here in Nowhereland—went up between the top of the tent and the fabric faux-ceiling. He hung them from the tent pole, so that they wouldn’t be seen, either from inside or out. His passport he kept with him, along with the remainder of his cash.

He went out the door and was already several steps toward the mess tent before he remembered and scrambled back inside. Jesus! It was a careless mistake, a stupid mistake. What the hell was wrong with him, after coming so far?

But no one had seen him. Thank God for that.

Heart still pounding, he picked up his cane and, leaning on it heavily, he limped out the door.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

D
ULLES
I
NTERNATIONAL
A
IRPORT
J
UNE
20, 2005
P
RESENT
D
AY

Jules drove Max to the airport.

A surprisingly lively discussion on alternatives to fossil fuel was being broadcast on NPR and that plus the wipers, slapping in rhythm as they cleared the early evening rain from the windshield, had kept them from having to speak more than necessary.

But now Max cleared his throat. “Did you call the hotel in Hamburg?”

Jules turned down the radio’s volume. “The one where Gina was—”

“Yes.”

Staying. “Yes. They haven’t touched her room,” Jules reported. “As long as you’re willing to pay for the extra nights—”

“I said I was.”

“Yes, sir, I told them that. The hotel manager said he’d put a do-not-disturb sign on the door,” Jules told him. “The room’ll be exactly as she left it.”

Max nodded grimly. “Good.” He turned the radio back up.

Jules felt compelled to turn it back down. “Her room’s not a crime scene,” he gently reminded his boss. “She wasn’t—”

Max cut him off. “I know,” he said, but Jules had to wonder.

“It was random,” he reminded Max. “Gina’s death. It had nothing to do with you. You can’t blame yourself because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Max reached over and turned up the volume on the radio again. “Just drive,” he ordered.

So Jules drove as Teri Gross interviewed Willie Nelson—of all people—about fuel made from vegetable oil.

He glanced again at Max.

His carry-on bag wasn’t much larger than an oversized briefcase. Jules took that as a good sign, that his boss truly was going to arrive in Hamburg, identify Gina, pack up her things from her hotel, and then return with her body—oh, God—on the next available flight home.

Gina’s brother Victor was planning to meet them at the airport in New York. Jules was to call him with information about their return flight. Jules had spoken to Vic on the phone several times already today—to let the Vitagliano family know that Max was going to bring Gina home.

The usually abrasive and tough talking New Yawker’s expression of gratitude had been heartbreakingly eloquent in its simplicity. Vic had told Jules that Max’s generosity would allow him and his brothers to comfort their parents during this time of sorrow.

They deserved to have Gina’s body returned to them as quickly as possible.

Jules glanced at Max again. Surely, if he were intending to do some serious terrorist hunting, he wouldn’t’ve packed quite so lightly.

Still, Jules would never dare to hazard a guess about exactly what might be in Max’s bag. It was too small for a bazooka or a sawed off shotgun. Although, a dismantled semiautomatic would fit, no problem. Along with a small arsenal of handguns.

It would be interesting to see if the mighty and powerful Max Bhagat would be required to run his bag through the X-ray machines at the entrance to the airport gate, or if he’d simply get waved through.

The rain got lighter but the traffic much heavier as they entered the airport loop. Jules followed the signs to the garage, and Max finally spoke.

“Just drop me at departures.”

It was the moment of truth.

For most of the trip, Jules had purposely focused on learning about fuel made from soybeans to keep himself from obsessing over exactly how he was going to tell Max when the time came.

“Don’t be mad,” he started, then inwardly rolled his eyes.
Don’t be mad?
Of course Max was going to be mad. The man was running on rage. Sure, he was keeping it locked inside, but Jules knew it was there. Because he was feeling it, too.

There was a reason for all those clichéd movies where the FBI agent went on a vengeful rampage after a loved one was murdered. The same qualities that made both Max and Jules good candidates for a long-term career in law enforcement naturally made it hard for them to sit back and let someone else’s team find the terrorists responsible for Gina’s death.

Jules cleared his throat and started over. “Sir, I know you’re not going to like this—”

As they rolled past, Max gazed with undisguised longing at the ramp that led to the drop-off for people taking departing flights. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“No, sir,” Jules agreed. “You don’t. You do, however, need a friend.”

Max snorted his disgust. “We’re not friends, Cassidy.”

Jules pulled up to the garage’s automated machine, and he reached out through his window to punch the button and take a ticket as Max continued, “And if you really think I want your company—”

“I think you want Gina,” Jules said quietly. “And I think everyone else in the world is going to fall way short.”

Max wasn’t done. He gave Jules his most terrifyingly disdainful stare. “You must really want that promotion.”

Ouch.

“You know I do,” Jules answered, as the gate opened and he pulled through, leaning forward to peer through the still wet windshield, searching for the sign to long-term parking. There it was. Dead ahead. He kept his eyes on it, because Max’s scary face was known to make underlings crap their pants, and the overnight bag Jules kept in his car trunk contained only clean shirts and one neatly rolled pair of jeans.

He could feel Max’s melt-solid-rock stare as he passed a sign saying “Lot Full,” and went up a ramp to the next level.

“Although, you know, I think manhandling and shouting at Peggy Ryan already did the trick,” Jules told his boss. “Impressed the shit out of her, don’t you think? I’m in. Big time. This paying out of pocket for a last-minute airline ticket to Hamburg—this is just insurance. Because I figured, you know, that you probably wouldn’t want sexual favors.”

Max made that almost-laughter sound again, but Jules couldn’t tell if that was a good or a bad sign. “I should fire you.”

“You could go that way,” Jules agreed. “But you know, Peggy would probably walk out, too. In solidarity, because she just likes me
so
much. And I’m still going to Hamburg with you, fired or not, so really what good does it do you?”

Jules found what might well have been the very last parking spot in the entire garage. It was about as far as possible from the walkway to the terminal. Still, as he pulled in he said a prayer of thanks to the patron saint of parking garages, along with his knighted brother—the hero who’d invented luggage with wheels.

Max had gone back to being silent. But now he gave it one last try as Jules took the key out of the ignition. “We’re not friends.”

Jules braced himself and met Max’s extremely evil eye. “You may not think of
me
as a friend,” he said, “but I think of you as one. You’ve always treated me with kindness and respect so I’m going to return the favor, whether you like it or not. I’m not going to pretend to know what you must be feeling right now, but Gina was my friend, too, and I
do
know how badly
I’m
hurting. So, go ahead, sweetie. Have at me. Be as rude to me as you need to be. Or you don’t even have to talk to me—I won’t take it personally. I’ll just sit next to you on the flight. I’ll handle all the arrangements. I’ll take care of the details about where we need to go and what we need to do, so you won’t have to. And whether you like it or not, I’m going with you to that morgue. Because no one should ever have to do something like that alone, especially when a friend who loves them is standing by.”

Max didn’t say a word for a very, very long time. He just sat there, trying to incinerate Jules with his eyes. “I should just kill you and stuff you into the trunk,” he said, when he finally spoke.

Shit.
Jules worked hard not to react. He just nodded, and even managed to shrug nonchalantly. “Well, I guess you could certainly
try . . .
”

Max just sat there, glaring. But then he shook his head. He got out of the car and started the trek toward the terminal, not bothering to wait for Jules.

Who grabbed his raincoat and his bag and followed.

S
HEFFIELD
P
HYSICAL
R
EHAB
C
ENTER
, M
C
L
EAN
, V
IRGINIA
N
OVEMBER
11, 2003
N
INETEEN
M
ONTHS
A
GO

“Don’t,” Max said, closing his eyes to keep Gina from taking another picture with her new digital camera, recording for posterity just how much of a wimp he was—dressed in his jammies and tucked in his bed here at the Sheffield Physical Rehab Center at four in the afternoon, ready for a nap.

“How’d it go?” she asked.

“It was fine,” he lied. In truth, the session had hurt. Like hell. He’d been discouraged, too, by how weak he was, how quickly he’d tired. How exhausted it had made him.

Gina crossed to the desk that was built into the wall beside his bed, and carefully put down her camera. She’d gotten the damn thing for her trip to Kenya. Max hoped the fact that she’d taken it out of the box and was learning how to use it didn’t mean she’d rescheduled her flight.

Kenya. God.

He’d been trying to talk her into embracing the excitement and adventure of law school. He had an in at NYU. Gina would be accepted there, based on Max’s recommendation, in a heartbeat.

“Kevin said he thought you were in some serious pain but that you just wouldn’t quit,” she told him as she nudged his legs over and sat down on the bed. “He was very impressed.”

Kevin was one of those touchy-feely physical therapists who had his cheerleading pompoms ready to wave for even the most insignificant events. Old Mrs. Klinger, recovering from a stroke, had lifted the index finger on her right hand a whole half an inch! Rah-rah-rah! Ajay Moseley held a pencil and wrote a note to his grandmother for the first time since the car accident! Whoo-hoo! Forget about the fact that the kid would never walk again. Forget about the fact that he’d suffered so much damage to his skinny little body that he needed a new kidney, that he was on dialysis just to stay alive.

Max gazed impassively at Gina. “If you already asked Kevin how it went, why bother asking me?”

“Because I love it when you do that stoic he-man thing,” she said, leaning toward him, her mouth now dangerously close to his, her hand burning his thigh. “It makes me really hot.”

She was kidding. It was supposed to be funny. A joke. He knew that, but his mouth went dry anyway.

He found himself gazing into her eyes at a very close proximity.

And wanting her. Badly. Yup, Doctor Yao was right. He was definitely starting to feel far more like his old self again.

He had to use every ounce of self-control that he owned to keep himself from reaching for her.

Every ounce.

The good news was that she was as rattled as he was by the sudden, nearly palpable sexual energy that surrounded them.

She turned away. Stood up, moving to look out of the window.

Rattled and vulnerable.

They hadn’t so much as kissed since that night before he’d been shot, that night that he’d . . . that they’d . . .

Correction—Gina had kissed him frequently, back in the hospital, both in Florida and after he’d been moved up to D.C. But they were all “see you later” kisses. Nothing like the way they’d kissed that night.

Not that they’d had the opportunity to soul-kiss while he was hooked up to all those tubes and machines. Not with the high volume of traffic in and out of his hospital room, day and night.

Now, as he watched, she leaned her head against the windowpane. His room here—a single—was small, but the view of the surrounding countryside was nice. Nicer than that grungy back-alley dumpster that he could see from the bedroom window in his D.C. apartment.

“My brother called. Victor. Just out of the blue.” Gina glanced over her shoulder at Max. “He’s flying in this evening. He’s never been to Washington—he missed his seventh-grade class trip. Strep throat.”

“Make sure you take him to the World War Two Memorial,” Max said, glad that she’d changed the subject. He’d half expected her to go the other way. Confront. Ask,
Were you thinking about kissing me just then, because I had the sense that you really wanted to.

And then what was he supposed to say?
Honey, not a moment of the day goes by that I don’t think about kissing you . . .
Yeah, that would help.

“It’s on the list,” Gina said, finally turning to face him, sitting on the windowsill, her skirt blowing in the breeze from the air conditioner’s fan. She had to hold it down. “We’ve got a whole day of sightseeing lined up. Vietnam Wall, Holocaust Museum, Korean War, Lincoln Memorial . . .” She ticked them off on her fingers. “But I’m pretty sure the real reason he’s coming is to check up on me. I think my entire family’s a little freaked. You know, because I’m staying with Jules.”

Imagine how freaked they would have been if Max had opted for outpatient therapy, if he’d moved back into his apartment instead of coming to live here. If he’d done that, Gina would have come along to make sure he had everything he needed, and ten minutes after they were alone together, they would have been back in bed. Ten minutes after that, she would’ve been unpacking her suitcase, hanging her clothes in his closet.

Because the truth was, Max had enough will power to keep his distance from her for only a very short time. If she’d persisted and tried to turn her “stoic men make me hot” thing into more than just a joke, he would have been cooked. He had zero resistance to her. He prayed she’d never figure that out. If she did . . .

Although, okay. This place wasn’t as public as the hospital, but he still had people knocking on his door at random times of the day. She wasn’t going to jump him here. She just wasn’t.

Which was the second reason he’d chosen inpatient physical rehab.

And so, instead of moving in with Max, Gina had gone to stay with Jules Cassidy. The younger agent’s condo was relatively close to this facility. Besides, there was no way Max would’ve ever agreed to let Gina stay in his place by herself. His neighborhood wasn’t safe. Not for a young woman living alone.