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"Hello?...Hello?...Hello!...Is anyone on the line?"
Jeffrey O'Neill hadn't been able to record those words. But he still played them over and over, in his mind. Whenever he did, they brought a smile to his face...and tears to his eyes.
Reva's voice. Proof that she was alive, months after Edmund Winslow claimed his henchmen had killed her.
He'd longed to speak to her. But if he'd tried to convince her over the phone that he was alive, she probably would have thought either that Edmund was trying to gaslight her, or that she really was losing her mind. He'd thought of disguising his voice, pretending he was conducting some kind of survey, so he could keep the woman he loved talking to him. But he'd decided not to, for fear he'd lose it and blurt out the truth.
I'll see her soon enough, he told himself, as he finished packing his bags in his Managua hotel room.
He'd made the same kind of call to Shayne - heard a voice he recognized, not a recorded message. So they were both alive. But he still couldn't reach Jonathan...
And he hadn't heard children in the background, with either Reva or Shayne.
Well, Henry's probably with Marina most of the time. And I called Reva on her cell phone, not the landline - she may not have been home. If she wasn't, Colin may have been with a sitter.
Why didn't I call the landline, at an hour when she'd probably be there? Now would be a good time. Maybe I should do that, listen for Colin...
No, that's silly. He might not be near the phone, anyway. And another hang-up call might worry Reva.
If Edmund had lied about Reva and Shayne being dead, he'd probably lied about the children, too.
Probably.
Jeffrey had kept himself sane all these months by clinging to the thought that there was a very good reason for Edmund not to have killed everyone he claimed.
As matters had stood, the authorities back in the States - other than, possibly, in Springfield - believed Edmund was dead, and Jeffrey had died in an accidental plane crash. But if a half-dozen of the people closest to Jeffrey had suddenly died, even in apparent accidents, law enforcement agencies would have realized who'd killed them. And Edmund would have become the object of an international manhunt - spearheaded by Jeffrey's former employers, who weren't the sort anyone would want to mess with.
He locked his newly purchased suitcase, and double-checked the tags - on it, and on the duffel bag containing evidence that he'd killed Edmund in self-defense. That point was arguable; he'd actually fired the first shot. But the evidence - very gruesome evidence - indicated self-defense.
The tags identified the luggage as belonging to one Michael Flynn, the name on the false passport he meant to use. For the last time, he vowed. No more cloak-and-dagger, ever! I can't wait to use my own name, and settle down with my wife and child.
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He took a final look at himself in the mirror.
Not bad. I've looked better, but it could have been a damn sight worse.
In bad shape to begin with, he'd struggled for weeks to make his way out of the jungle in eastern Nicaragua. He'd known that to get a flight home - really, to do much of anything - he'd have to get to Managua, on the west coast. Knowing the whole country was only about the size of New York State, he'd decided to hitchhike across it. He'd done that, mostly getting short rides in farmers' carts, before even trying to clean himself up and acquire decent clothes.
Because I was afraid of what I might see after a clean-up. Just the ruined shell of the man Reva married.
At times, in the jungle and afterward, he'd been sure he was pushing himself past his physical limits. Entertained morbid fantasies about fighting his way back to the safe haven of Reva's embrace...to die there.
He'd arrived in the capital looking like Robinson Crusoe - or more likely, a castaway who hadn't coped as well as Crusoe. But his ATM cards still worked. In next to no time, he was ensconced in a comfortable hotel, freshly bathed, shaved and barbered, and the owner of a few casual outfits. Soon, he even had a couple good meals under his belt. (Though at first, he'd been so unused to normal-sized portions that he cramped and threw up.)
He was far from a hundred per cent physically. But he wasn't at death's door, either. His own educated guess, now that he'd made it this far? Aside from not-fully-healed wounds and injuries, a doctor would diagnose malnutrition and anemia...but nothing worse. He'd lucked out, hadn't eaten anything poisonous in the jungle. And he hadn't picked up any diseases, communicable or otherwise.
Not being a hundred per cent, he couldn't expect to look a hundred per cent. He was painfully thin, and there were new lines in his face. But he could stand erect, his eyes were clear, his teeth intact, and he hadn't spotted a single gray hair.
Reva won't see me as an object of pity. And the sight of me won't scare Colin.
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The hotel wasn't modern enough to have an automated checkout procedure. So he left a tip for the maid, gathered up his belongings, and headed for the lobby.
Where he groaned at seeing the length of the checkout line.
But he'd allowed plenty of time to make it to the airport, so he was more amused than anything else. The desk clerk explained about this conference, told me I was getting the last room they had. It never occurred to me to ask when the conference was set to end!
With this bunch in line, I'll stick out like a sore thumb.
At least there wasn't likely to be any pushing and shoving. All the other men in the lobby were respectable, well-mannered...Catholic priests.
I wonder what they'd think if they knew I recently killed a man - by driving a dagger into his brain?
It was a conference, he remembered, of priests from throughout Latin America. Some were Caucasian, of course; Latinos are of all races. But the only language he heard as he waited in line was Spanish. The priests near him saw his lack of a Roman collar, smiled politely, but made no attempt to engage him in conversation. Probably pegged me as an American "tourist," he thought, suppressing a smile. So they assume I don't understand a word of Spanish!
Alas, they were all such upright, moral members of the clergy that there wasn't a single spicy tidbit in any of the chatter he overheard.
