2
He was slippery, Liz thinks with a shudder on the drive home. She lifts a hand from the steering wheel to massage the corners of her mouth, thawing slowly from its day-long grimace.
By the time they finally cornered him, after a four-hour chase, Lorenzo Carafelli reeked of sweat and grease and detergent. He cursed them—at least, they sounded like curses to her—in Italian as they pried a worn-looking carpetbag from his hands. Once he'd been pinned and cuffed, the agents paused, glancing around at each other. It was a silent question and nodded understanding. Search the rest of the building. Followed by a softer God, please.
They moved toward the rooms at the rear of the laundromat, watching and listening, each empty alcove both a relief and a new layer of agitation—until, from behind a peeling door, there came a soft scratching. They'd bottlenecked in the hallway as Ressler shouted at whatever was on the other side to move back. Then he'd kicked down the door, and through the dust Liz was able to make out a pair of wide, frightened eyes peering up at them from the far side of the room—a boy. Guns were quickly lowered, replaced by flashlights and terse calls for a medic as Liz maneuvered her way inside and crouched down in front of him.
"I know this is scary," she said slowly, remembering how many of the victims had been taken—disgustedly, she knew Mr. Carafelli would have preferred the word imported—from overseas, "but we're here to help. Do you understand?"
He nodded. Inching closer, she noticed the taught bindings on his wrists and ankles.
"May I?" She gestured to the ropes, removing a knife from her belt.
He held out his hands and she cut the ties as gently as she could—it was been impossible to overlook the blood and grime caked into his skin, and her grimace dug itself deeper. Once she'd finished with his ankles, she slipped an arm around his too-thin shoulders.
"This may sound impossible right now. You don't have to believe me; you can think it's the stupidest thing you've ever heard—but you're going to be okay."
His only response was to bury his face in the crook of her neck.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-
"Long day?" Tom Keen presses a kiss to his wife's temple.
She glances up from her wine glass. "Something like that."
"Well, you caught the bad guys, right? Or maybe I need to rough 'em up?"
Liz knows he's trying to be playful, but the words have a tinny, contrived ring. She manages to keep a sigh behind her pasted-on smile.
"No thanks, babe. I'm just tired."
"Now that is a shame," he murmurs, gliding behind her stool to drop a kiss near her neck. "Too tired for a little fun?"
She swallows a sudden impulse to gag. This is your husband, she berates herself. What the hell is wrong with you? Before she can stop herself, she's traded Tom's frosted eyes for turquoise ones in her mind, replacing his earnest stare with one of quiet intensity. It makes it easier—it shouldn't make it easier. She shakes her head, dispelling the image and chasing away her thoughts.
"I think I'm just gonna turn in." She chuckles sympathetically and squeezes his arm. "I'm still getting over that bug someone so nicely gave me."
"Aw, c'mon! I apologized!" He holds up his hands in mock defeat. "But I guess even Superwoman needs her beauty sleep."
She's halfway up the stairs when he calls her back. "Remember, I have my trip coming up next month."
"You mean the infamous 'Manly Adventures Road Trip'."
"Hey, it's a tradition. I think someone's just jealous of all our manly adventures." On cue, he flexes, blowing kisses to his lean biceps.
"Uh-huh. I should've known I could never tame such a force of masculinity."
"You got that right." He grins up at her. "So you'd better get a piece of this while you can, huh?"
"You said it's next month, right?" She's reached the top of the stairs. "We have plenty of time."
She thought by now most of the excitement would've worn off, that their trips to the park would be events of pleasant routine. But Luke, ever a source of amazement, showed no waning enthusiasm for their thrice-weekly adventures. Even the recent decision that Hudson could no longer join them—the dog's advanced age having rendered him a sweet and lethargic houseguest—didn't put him out; in true Reddington style, the boy found a dozen different ways to sneak feathers and sticks in his pockets, lovingly holding them up to the old hound's nose when they returned.
Liz knew immediately where he'd run; no sooner had she closed the car door than he dashed off to find an oak tree.
"Daddy says it's science. He says you see the shape and tell which ones float best." He was holding up two leaves for her to examine, both the orange-gold hue that was intrinsically autumn.
"Well, I always trust my instincts." She reached down and picked an old, brown leaf. Her son laughed.
"He said you'd say that too!"
"Did he?"
"Yup!" The boy was nodding enthusiastically. "He says instinct means your head knows it's science. It just doesn't tell you."
Elizabeth could easily imagine three-year-old Raymond Reddington saying something similar. She'd always considered herself a quick study, but her son's ability to absorb information was instantaneous and endless in a way she'd only seen once before. But then there was the way his eyes darted from place to place when he was excited, the way he sometimes managed to surprise the hell out of her—like last week, she remembered, when he'd stood bravely in front of her, arms stretched out to shield her from a hissing Canada goose. He'd gotten the best pieces of both of them, she realized, and he was so much greater than the sum of his parts. It filled her with pride and wonder.
They ran all the way to the bridge, prized vessels held firmly in their hands.
"On the count of three." She held up her fingers. "And no cheating this time!"
"But I never cheat—"
"One, two…three!"
They dropped the leaves onto the water below, Luke giving his a few good breaths on the way. It was clear from the moment they hit the river her old ship didn't stand a chance. As soon as the H.M.S. Goldyleaf was under the bridge—a good yard in front of hers—he took her hand.
"Next time I'll let you win! Okay?"
Liz knelt and pulled him into a hug. "Oh, I've already won. In fact, I was fighting a needle and thread last night over a pirate's eye patch, and I think I won then, too."
Luke sprung out of her arms, his eyes trained on hers.
"You fixed it? It's at home?"
She nodded sagaciously. "It's probably waiting in someone's toy chest."
Her son whooped and cheered all the way back to the car.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-
Liz set the water to boil as soon as they got home, estimating she still had a few moments of prime early autumn sunlight left. The tiny prisms on the wall from the foyer chandelier told her she'd better hurry if she wanted to work in her garden in any relative warmth.
From what she recalled, it'd begun as a challenge. Her husband, ever-confident in his own brilliance, had argued she'd never be able to partake in a fully patient, leisurely activity—like gardening, he'd suggested. The next day she bought a dozen rose bushes, brushing off his attempts to help her dig the holes or pour the potting soil. She'd done her research, bought the right fertilizer, sprayed the right insecticides, and before the month was out, she'd been able to lord over him her triumphant ability to enjoy something as quaint and bucolic as tending a garden. Since then it had become a sort of daily therapy—picking off the blighted leaves, pruning the wayward branches. It was all wonderfully symbolic, if she stopped to think about it.
There would be no reflection today, however, as Luke jumped out from behind a bush, eye patch and hook hand in place, demanding his rightful pirate treasure. She fished a couple Hot Wheels from her pockets, begging for mercy as she knelt in front of the tea roses.
"Arr, I be lettin' ye go this time!" He cried, scurrying off to the jungle gym.
The sun was just shy of setting when she felt his eyes. Turning, she found Red watching her and their son, the vulnerable smile playing on his features putting a sweet ache in her heart. She stood and brushed the dirt off her pants, sauntering over to him. His touch, as he wrapped his arms around her, was at once familiar and exhilarating.
"You know your hair turns to powdered cinnamon in the sun," he murmured, his lips on her cheek.
"I guess I'm lucky you like cinnamon."
Then he kissed her. He kissed her as though his lips were made for her, as though his whole body were some immaculate suit handcrafted to hold her—until his attention was diverted by a hand on his knee.
"Dad!"
"Dread Captain Luke, I presume?" Red inclined his head respectfully, and the boy became all business.
"I have a job for ye, landlubber! We'll steal the treasure o' the seven seas!"
"Well, if that be the case…" Red held up a hook-shaped index finger. "Happy to oblige, Cap'n!"
Together, they raced for the S.S. Reddington; Liz removed her gardening gloves and made her way back inside. The water was just coming to a boil as she finished washing her hands and getting out the box of pasta. She was no Julia Child, and no amount of time or patient and erotic cooking lessons from Raymond Reddington would change that. She had, however, managed not to massacre a couple things—spaghetti being one of them. She hummed absently as she broke the pasta and lowered it into the pot, smiling as she recognized the tune from Peter Pan.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-
Luke held his meatballs hostage and shanghaied his bath toys before she could convince him to give up a life of piracy for the night.
"How about you turn into a nice sailor for bedtime?" She sighed as she pulled the covers up to his chin.
"But pirates are sailors, Mom! They just don't wear uniforms." He protested over a yawn. "And they can be nice too."
She smiled, hearing her husband's words in a clearer, smaller voice. "Be that as it may, all sailors need their sleep. Agreed?"
Luke peered at her a moment, then held out his hand for her to shake. "It's a truce."
"All right, then." She bent over to kiss him. "I love you."
"I love you, Mom. I love you too, Daddy."
A rustling behind her brought Liz's attention to the doorway. Red padded in and sat next to her on the side of the bed.
"Just a phone call," he said before she could even ask, and his expression told her it was the truth, that they were still alright, that their past remained obediently behind them.
"Pleasant dreams, Captain," she heard him murmur as he kissed the boy goodnight.
Red stopped her in the hallway with kisses. "I think," he spoke between breaths, "our dear Captain needs a bigger crew."
"Do you, now?" She laughed as he nibbled over her collarbone.
"Think of modern medicine, Lizzie, of science. Our life expectancies are nothing short of remarkable."
She threaded her fingers together, cupping them against the back of his neck. "What are you saying, Mr. Reddington?"
"I'm saying, Mrs. Reddington," he struggled against her lips, against the magnetic pull they were exerting on his own, "that we have plenty of time."