AN: Whoops! I'd completely forgotten about the rating when posting this chapter, I'd actually meant to tone the description at the end of this down (which I now have). Thanks, Iska, for the reminder. Certainly don't want to offend anyone on that level, and I hope it's still not too strong, but I want to give those following the story a heads up: the next two chapters get even darker and some serious violence will ensue, so after this the rating is definitely going up to R.
Chapter Seventeen
It's your fault…
Your fault…
Your fault…
Penny's words, harsh and angry, echoed through her head. She put on a rush of speed and tried to outrun the memory of her daughter's tear-streaked face, but it was useless. The words still whispered inside her, keeping perfect cadence with the pounding of her feet.
Your fault…your fault…your fault…
Somewhere along the path the old Marine Corps training kicked in, reminding her to take control. She steadied her ragged breathing, fighting back the sobs and expelling them in neat, regulated breaths. She began to pace her strides, reining in her headlong rush to a smooth, ground-eating lope. It didn't make the words go away, but at least she wasn't running from them anymore. She was running with them.
It was her fault. She had lost control. She had committed the one act she found to be truly unforgivable: She had struck her child in anger.
From somewhere deep inside her, she felt the cold dark horror well up. She'd spent fourteen years living in fear of this moment. She wasn't a fool. She knew the statistics. The cycle of abuse resonated through the generations. Children who were abused grew up to be abusers. She'd lived in fear of that fact for longer than she could remember. It was one of the things that had driven her to seek refuge in the Corps. She'd thought that if she could learn discipline, if she could learn self-control, she might be able to beat the odds and overcome her past. But now, she thought of Penny. She remembered the way Penny had reeled from the blow, the shock and pain that had crossed her features …and the tiny hint of fear that had crept into her daughter's eyes. In that instant, she'd felt the cold chill of realization sweep through her. She was no better than Joe Mackenzie.
She couldn't process it, couldn't deal –couldn't think. She had done the unthinkable. She had hit her daughter. Her breath caught on another sob. Oh, God! What was she going to do? What if she couldn't control it? Her father had never been able to. What would she do if it happened again? She already knew the answer to that:
She would lose Penny. She would lose Clay.
'But maybe… the small, insidious voice whispered inside her '…maybe you've already lost them.'
***
Which way? Right or left?
Clay screeched the Altima to a stop at the quiet intersection and felt the panic creep over him as he glanced in both directions down the empty street. There was no sign of her anywhere. God damn it! She couldn't have gone far.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Right or left. It was a simple choice, a fifty-fifty chance. If he chose correctly, he'd spot her in a matter of minutes. But if he chose wrong, his odds of success went down drastically. He tightened his hands upon the wheel. He couldn't lose her now.
His hands felt cold and damp upon the leather grips. He couldn't seem to get his breath and he was vaguely aware of the dull, leaden pain upon his chest. He fumbled in his pocket for the small vial the doctor had instructed him to carry at all times, and impatiently shook two of the tiny white pills out into his palm. Damn! He didn't have time for this! He had to find her.
He popped the pills dry, grimacing slightly as they clung to his throat and forced himself to take a deep, slow breath. He had to stay calm. He had to keep his head. He carefully surveyed both sides of the street. Right or left? Which way would she go?
'Damn it, think.'
Think.
That was it. She was upset. She wouldn't think. She would just run. She'd follow the easiest path. She couldn't go straight. This was a T-intersection. She'd stick to the sidewalk, follow the easiest path. She would turn right. He pressed his foot to the accelerator and whipped the wheel to the right, sending the Altima roaring down the street in the direction he prayed she had taken.
Eight seconds later, a blue Ford Taurus coasted to a stop in the Altima's place. The driver of the Taurus waited for a long moment, listening intently to his cell phone and watching as the small black sedan disappeared down the street. After an equally long moment of indecision, the Taurus turned left.
***
She ran until the stitch in her side brought her up short, and then she stopped, gasping for breath. She wiped fiercely at the angry tears that still streamed down her cheeks and looked about, trying to get her bearings. She barely knew where she was and she didn't have the slightest idea of where she was going. –Let alone how she would get there.
She reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out the small wad of bills –leftover change from the market. There wasn't enough for cab fare, but enough for a Metro pass. She began to walk, her pace more steady and purposeful. The Metro it was, then. The Metro to where, exactly, she had no idea.
She wasn't far from the Braddock Street Station and she began to pick up her pace as her anger started to simmer to a rising head of steam. Now that she'd had time to absorb the full impact of the events that had unfolded in the driveway, her fear was slowly churning to fury, but who it was directed at she wasn't exactly sure. Everyone, she decided at last. –Penny, Clay, Victor –everyone. Most of all, she was angry with herself. She scowled down at the crumpled ten dollar bill in her hand and felt the wave of self-disgust roll over her as she realized that she didn't even have enough money to take her home. God, she was truly pathetic.
A black car sped down the street towards her, passing her at a rapid clip and she felt her heart skip a beat as she heard the engine slow abruptly. The brakes squealed as the car was thrown into an unexpected U-turn and raced back in her direction. It was a black Nissan.
Victor. Damn.
She didn't want to face him. She didn't want to face anyone right now. Then she froze as Penny's angry accusations echoed furiously in her ears.
It's your fault! …You want him to die!
Oh. God. –What if?
The Altima screeched to a stop beside her. She forced herself to turn to it, her heart racing as the passenger window whispered down. It wasn't Victor. It was Clay.
His face was pale, his fingers clenched tightly around the wheel. His jaw was set and his expression grim.
"Get in."
"Go to hell," she snapped, and turned to stalk back down the street. He eased his foot off the brake, allowing the car to coast forward.
"Believe me, I'm already there," he retorted, and cursed softly under his breath. She refused even to acknowledge him. He let the car roll forward, keeping pace with her.
"Fine," he said at last. "If this is the way you want to play it, go ahead. But if you want to know that truth about Harm, you'll get in the damned car."
She stopped. Damn him! He always knew exactly what to say to get to her. She glared back at him. He was staring at her openly now, his eyes intent.
"Get in the car, Sarah," he said softly.
She got in.
***
They rode quietly down the Jefferson Davis Highway. Neither one spoke, neither one looked at anything but the view through the windshield before them. She didn't ask where he was taking her. She didn't have to. There was really only one place they could have this conversation. It was private, it was appropriate, and in the end, she knew that it was perhaps the only place left where they might be completely honest with each other. Their sense of honor –if not their love—demanded it. There was no place on such sacred ground for anything but truth.
The security was tight today, a dismal fact of life in a country that was no longer untouched by terrorism. National holidays were always the worst as they put much of the nation's Capitol and its treasured monuments under a protective lockdown. Still, it did not seem to dim the enthusiasm of the throngs of visitors who filled the broad sidewalks lining the grand Memorial Drive, pausing here and there to admire the impressive monuments to long-dead heroes of half-forgotten wars.
Parking was at a premium, and Clay had to flash his Agency credentials to at least three different guards at the security checkpoints before they were finally waved on to the VIP parking. Stepping out of the vehicle, Sarah closed the car door with a soft, firm thud. Slowly, she let her gaze wander up the hillside to the silent, sandstone majesty of Arlington House.
She could never quite repress the melancholy feeling that swept over her whenever she gazed upon the structure. A house was meant to be lived in and loved in. At one time, meals had been taken at those highly polished tables. Children had played through its grand halls. Parents had passed leisurely afternoons in the cooling breezes that had wafted beneath its stately portico. The venerable old house had been meant to shelter life, not to stand a silent watch over the countless thousands of a nation's dead. Arlington House had lost its soul. It had lost its family.
Now it stood silent and alone, an empty shell of what it once had been. She could empathize with the house, she thought, as she slowly followed Clay down the sidewalk. She was feeling a bit like an empty shell herself.
Throngs of tourists lined the sidewalks around the visitor center, and the congestion was only made worse by those who paused to admire the long rows of brightly colored wreaths that lined the entrance to the Roosevelt gate. She followed Clay as he forged impatiently through the clumps of visitors and cut south along Halsey Drive toward the newer section of the cemetery and away from the holiday sight-seers.
The crowds tapered off almost instantly. Larger groups soon trickled down few who had come here to visit the graves of friends or relatives rather than immerse themselves in heroes and history. They walked silently, each so lost in their own thoughts that they might have appeared to be two strangers walking in the same general direction. It wasn't far from the truth, she thought. She still wasn't quite able to reconcile the silent, brooding man beside her with the one she thought she had known …and loved.
On any other day, under any other circumstances, it would have been a lovely walk. The spring blooms hung heavy from the permanent plantings and shrubbery. Between the multitudes of wreaths and flowers and the thousands of tiny American flags that fluttered gallantly at each grave, Arlington was a riot of color. But with each step they took, the more her anxiety grew and the heavier her heart seemed to weigh in her chest. She slowed a bit, letting Clay take the lead, and for the first time she noticed the slight hitch in his breathing and the unhealthy pallor of his skin. She was still furious with him, but not enough to completely ignore the small niggle of guilt or the rising tide of concern that welled up within her. He really didn't look good. –And he was only a day out of the hospital. He shouldn't even have been going to that party, let alone out here, tramping around the grounds of Arlington …or fighting with her.
'What are you trying to do? –Kill him?'
More of Penny's words twisted at her gut, and this time it brought her up short. What was wrong with her? She snuck another small glance at him, noting the lines of fatigue in his face, then reached out and lightly brushed his arm.
He stopped. There was a faint question in his eyes, but his face was otherwise carefully schooled to avoid all expression. She tilted her head to indicate one of the red, white and blue tourist buses as it rumbled past them.
"Maybe we should ride."
He bristled slightly, his head and shoulders pulling back as he drew himself up to his full height. The hazel eyes fairly snapped to olive green and his mouth drew down in an expression of distaste as he shot a glance back to the visitor center, with its long lines forming in front of the bus stop.
"I'd rather walk."
Her mouth thinned. That was his pride talking. Still, she knew it would do no good to argue with him. Instead, she remained silent, continuing to hold his gaze. After all, she had his number –and he knew it.
His shoulders sagged slightly as the puff went out of him. He he looked away from her to take in the long expanse of open, slightly rolling ground before them. It wasn't far, but it was far enough and he shot her a rueful smile.
"Maybe we could take it a little slower," he admitted.
She said nothing, merely nodded and fell into step beside him, taking care to consciously match her pace to his.
Fifteen minutes later, they paused at the familiar crossroads of York and Marshall Drives. Clay thrust his hands into his pockets and looked up the long slope of the hillside to the place where the Tomb of the Unknowns stood its silent sentry. A small muscle twitched in his jaw, and then he turned abruptly and fixed his gaze unerringly upon the spot they had come to see: the simple stone, with its flag and the flowers she had so carefully laid out only two days before.
He shot her a sharp look from the corner of his eye, silently asking if she was ready. She was not, she realized, but now that the moment was at hand, there was no avoiding it, and she carefully followed him through the grid of stones.
They came to a stop before the grave. The arrangement of flowers was slightly cockeyed, buffeted no doubt by the brisk spring winds. Wordlessly, she knelt and carefully adjusted it until it once again stood straight and pleasing to the eye. She could feel his eyes upon her the entire time, watchful and assessing. She kept waiting for him to speak, but he didn't and she finally realized that he was waiting for her.
Sarah suppressed a bubble of frustrated laughter at the irony of the situation. After all these years, all the secrets and all the lies, they finally had reached the moment of truth, and neither one of them knew where to begin. She rose to her feet so that they stood eye to eye and he tilted his head slightly as he waited for the question.
She did not ask it.
She did not need to. She knew that Harm was dead. She had always known. She couldn't explain it, but she knew it in her heart. She believed now that she'd felt it when it had happened, all those years ago on that long ago night when her anxiety over Clay had suddenly turned to inexplicable dread and a certain knowledge of some terrible occurrence. She just hadn't understood at the time exactly what it meant. Now she did. –Or at least she thought she was beginning to. But she had to be certain. She had to know the truth of it. It was time, and she was ready.
"Tell me Clay," she said, meeting his eyes with her own direct gaze. "Tell me all of it."
He nodded slowly, but held his silence and she could see that he was struggling for the right words to begin. When he finally found them, his voice sounded dry and thin and he seemed to stumble a bit over the words.
"I –I can't tell you everything," he said. "Some of it really is classified. –Some of it, even I don't know all of what happened. But I'll tell you what I can."
His hands, still thrust deep into his pockets, balled tightly into fists and he drew another deep breath as he continued on. "There was a mission," he admitted, "but it didn't have anything to do with Rabb. I had to go into North Korea to meet an agent and give him information. Some of the information I needed the CIA didn't have access to. So we requested a briefing …from Navy Intelligence."
"And they sent Harm," Sarah guessed, feeling the eerie calm steel over her as the rest of the old, familiar scenario played out in her head. Clay would have offered Harm the opportunity for a little adventure, and Harm, tired of sitting behind a desk would have jumped at the chance. Then, as it always did whenever the two of them tried to work together, it would have all gone straight to hell.
He must have read something of her thoughts, for his face seemed to tighten with anger. "It's not what you think, Sarah," he said quickly. "Harm was never directly involved in that mission. I asked the Navy for information. He delivered it to me, and we went our separate ways. When I walked out of that briefing, his part in it was over."
"If he wasn't a part of your mission, then what did happen?" she asked, tired of his dancing around the subject.
He laughed harshly. "A lot of things I didn't expect."
"Like what?"
He pulled his eyes away from hers and stared down at the headstone. "My cover was blown …I was captured…" He drew another sharp breath, and a muscle twitched in his cheek. "I would have died there, Sarah. It was that close. I was ready for it. I was—
He suppressed a small shiver and paused, searching for the right words to explain. When he found his voice again, it was rough with emotion. "You have to understand," he grated, "I didn't expect anyone to come after me …and I never dreamed it would be him..."
***
Ten years earlier…
Somewhere in North Korea
Clay watched the thin ray of sunlight as it traveled across the worn concrete floor on its slow path from the doorway to the wall. He marked each tedious inch of its progress as it crept across the corner of his straw pallet, past the table leg, past the chair, and edged inexorably closer to the mark he had scratched into the floor with the pen.
The mark had served a two-fold purpose. It had been the place he'd chosen, out of sight of the camera, to hone the blunted end of the pen to a sharp point. But more importantly, when the tiny beam of sunlight crossed this self-described finish line, the groove would also serve to mark the hour of his death. He studied the job he had made of the pen with a critical eye and determined it would do. It wasn't going to be pleasant, but it would do the job –if he had the nerve.
He pressed the sharpened point of the pen into the ball of his thumb and fought back a bitter smile. Yi really was a bastard. –Either that or he was a master of irony. This was the same way Atef had done it –with a goddamned ball point pen. Yi had to know that. It was probably in the file. He leaned his head back against the hard, unyielding stone of the wall, suddenly tired. Even in death they would test him.
He glanced back to the sunbeam's progress. It was less than six inches from the scratch in the floor. A few more minutes, he judged, and closed his eyes to order his thoughts.
It never should have come to this. He wanted to blame Patterson. The man was a pompous fool. If he'd been even half way competent at his job, he'd have provided Webb with a reliable guide, instead of the slimly little worm that had sold him out. But the fact of the matter was that the mission was ill-timed and done on short planning at best. Even Patterson had admitted that Kwan was not his first choice, but he'd been the only one available.
Clay would have liked to strangle Benny Kwan. He wouldn't even think twice about doing it if he had a hope in hell of getting out of this, but he couldn't blame the little weasel. For Kwan, it was simply a good business transaction. The CIA had paid him to take Webb in, and the North Koreans had paid Kwan even more to leave him here. Benny Kwan might be a greedy little bastard, but in the end, Clay couldn't blame him for being what he was.
The truth of the matter was that he really had no one to blame for this but himself. He should have found another way to get to Chiang. And he had known better than to trust Kwan. He had been the one to let his guard down. He stared at his crude weapon with distaste, but he knew that there was no hope for it. Too much was at stake. Good men would die if he broke and talked, and though Yi had his own very good reasons for keeping Webb's silence, Clay knew that he couldn't afford the chance that the General might renege. He knew that he should have done it sooner, out there along the river, before they'd had the chance to catch up to him. But he hadn't. He'd still been clinging to some foolish half-hope that he might find a way out of this, that he could still make it home.
Home. His fingers tightened involuntarily on the pen. He would be home soon enough, he supposed. –It just wasn't the home he'd been planning on. It might not even be the celestial one he was hoping for, he thought ruefully. The Church of England was less rigid than some of the other catholic faiths, but there was one tenet upon which he was pretty certain they still stood firm: the taking of one's own life was still a mortal sin.
He smiled wryly at the thought. Considering the life he had led, it was pretty late in the game to be worrying about this now. Aside from the major holidays and the few Sunday mornings when he had been home and his mother could cajole him into going with her, he had spent precious little time in the pew. But enough of his upbringing had stuck with him over the years for him to remember his Anglican faith, and he closed his eyes and concentrated, pulling the Act of Contrition from the dredges of his memory. He stumbled over a word or two as he recited the prayer softly to himself, but it made him feel a little better and he added an "Our Father," and a couple others he could think of for good measure. He felt the calm steal over him as he quietly uttered the familiar words, easing the tension from his body.
When he could think of no more prayers, he straightened away from the wall and knelt with head bowed and eyes closed as he made his silent petition. He prayed for his family. It was going be hard for Sarah and Penny. They were never going to know what had happened to him. He thought of his mother. He'd never wanted to put her through this again, even though he'd always known they'd run that risk. He thought of Galindez and hoped that Victor wouldn't blame himself or get himself killed before they found all the leaks in the Seoul bureau. Mostly, he just hoped that Victor, unlike himself, could die in his own bed as an old man with a soul that was still intact. He asked nothing for himself save forgiveness, and even that he wasn't certain he deserved. He did ask for strength, but it wasn't really for himself. He knew that only his death and his silence would ensure the safety of good men like Hallowell and Carpenter. He opened his eyes and raised his head. There nothing more he could think of.
He glanced back to the sunlight. It was three inches from the mark. Just a little longer, he thought. He'd spent most of these last few hours mentally preparing for this moment, but now that it was nearly at hand, he found himself even more reluctant to meet it. He knew what it was. It was Sarah.
He didn't have many regrets for what he was about to do, but she was the only one that gave him pause. He wasn't going to be able to keep his promise to her. He wasn't going to come home this time. He wasn't even going to be able to say goodbye. If he could have asked the Almighty for anything, he would have asked for that: for the chance to see her just one more time. He would have touched her face, her hair, the long slender line of her neck. He would have held her tight to him, tight enough to feel the press of her bones against his. He would inhale her scent like a sweet anesthesia and listen to the sound of her breathing and the whisper of her voice. Most importantly, he would have told her how glad he had been to simply have her in his life.
And then –incredibly—he felt her. It was the same joy, the same gentle tug upon his heart that he felt whenever she was with him. It was almost as if she were here beside him, in this very prison, in this very cell. --Except, of course, that she wasn't. And yet he felt her. He fought the tightening in his throat and drew his knees up against his chest, hugging himself tightly and imagining it was her.
"I'm sorry, Sarah," he whispered. His voice sounded harsh and ragged to his own ears.
He imagined the touch of her hand, caressing his cheek and threading through his hair. She would wonder what happened to him. She would worry. She might even try to look. He smiled faintly at the thought. No doubt she'd give Harry Kershaw a migraine or two. His Marine didn't give up that easily. Not even when she knew she couldn't win.
"I love you," he whispered to the empty room. Even though she couldn't hear him, he needed to say the words.
I love you, too, the object of his imagination whispered through his thoughts. …I need you. Come home to us, Clay. Please …come home.
He inhaled sharply and clenched tightly to the pen. If only he could.
Raising his head, he let his eyes travel to the scratch in the floor, fully bathed by the light of the early afternoon sun.
It was time.
He flashed upon the image of Mohammed Atef's body as he had last seen it. It was not a task for the faint of heart. From somewhere outside his cell, he heard the clanging echo as the heavy outer door was opened. He froze, momentarily paralyzed by panic. What if they'd noticed? What if Yi had changed his mind? Drawing a sharp breath, he forced himself to remain calm. It might be nothing, he told himself. It might be just one of the guards bringing food. He heard the heavy echo of footsteps, slow and determined and drawing nearer. Either way, it really didn't matter. There was no more time. He had to do it now.
The footsteps came to a stop outside his cell door. Shit! Shit! Shit! There was no time! Praying that the guard would just slide the bowl through the door without looking, he fumbled with the pen, felt the pain and the hot trickle of dampness against his skin. In that moment the door swung open on its hinges and he closed his eyes, frozen in the act. There was a moment of silence so deep that he swore he could hear the pounding of his own heart echoing inside the tiny chamber. Then, incredibly, a familiar voice cut through the stillness of the room.
"I don't think you really want to do that," Harmon Rabb said.
***