But his nails dug into her as they had his own flesh, making her cry out, pulling her downward until she was on her knees in front of him. She stared into his agonized face. She picked up the revolver. At once, his mouth ceased its twitching. It hung open, a dark cave, waiting. His hand left her leg, guided her hand until the short barrel was where he wanted it.

“I can’t,” she said, and pulled the trigger.

Chapter 45

45

“You might think the dragon tattoo a symbol of initiation,” Whitman said, “but it isn’t.” He looked past Charlie’s shoulder to make certain no one else was listening or even in earshot. Flix was sound asleep, snoring softly, and the putative Edmond Dantès was eating a meal up front. Whitman had given him plenty of incentive not to converse with any of the crew.

“What is it, then?” Charlie said, prompting him.

“A graduation present.” Whitman rubbed the head of the dragon, as if reacquainting himself with the beast. “From a man I hope never to meet again.”

Charlie opened her mouth, but before she could speak, all the color drained from her face.

“Charlie…”

“It’s okay.”

She fumbled in her backpack, shook out two Imuran tabs. Whitman called the flight attendant for water, but Charlie swallowed them dry. Cold sweat had broken out at her hairline, and her face looked wan and drawn. The water arrived and Whitman made her drink some. Then she laid her head against the seat back and closed her eyes.

“It’s okay, Whit,” she whispered. “I’ll be fine.”

“You haven’t been taking the Imuran regularly.”

“In that fucking hellhole? Who had the time?”

“You’ve got to make the time,” he said. “You’ve got to take the Takayasu’s more seriously.”

“What did I ever do without you, Whit?” she said with a bite in her voice.

“The color’s coming back to your face.”

“I’m feeling more myself.” She nodded. “Now, about that man…”

“Relentless doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

She opened her eyes and smiled at him. “That’s why you love me.”

He grunted. “He called himself Preach, and for him we have to go back a long way.”

Whitman was nineteen when his mother and younger sister vanished. He had already been overseas twice in Special Forces, having lied about his age and altered documents that proved he was older. His father was already dead of a cerebral aneurism incurred while building a corral. He returned from Iraq to find their apartment empty, dirty dishes in the sink, tea and cakes set out on the kitchen table. No clothes were missing. It was as if they had been plucked from the apartment in the space of a heartbeat. How was that possible?