Chapter 37 (One week later)
Jack indifferently flipped through the pages of his in-flight magazine and then stuffed it back into the seat pocket in disgust. His shoulder ached, but no matter how he rearranged himself he was unable to find a comfortable position. Discreetly he rubbed it.
"Shoulder bothering you, Dad?" came the voice from the next seat over. "Can I get you a pillow?"
"No," he said grumpily. He leaned back and closed his eyes to avoid any more conversation.
Sydney looked at him shrewdly out of the corner of her eye. Of course it hurt. She knew from personal experience. But she suspected that wasn't the problem.
Sydney glanced in the rearview mirror and sighed. After a flurry of phone calls by Irina on their sat phone, there had been only silence from the back seat of the jeep on its journey back to the airport. The silence had grown more oppressive with each passing minute; the faces of her parents, creased with pain, more impenetrable. It was with relief that she finally pulled up to the private jet, loading supplies, fuel, and medical gear, and helped each of them board. It was only once each had been sedated, however, that the palpable tension finally disappeared.
If only she could have kept them sedated all week, she thought to herself irritably. She looked over at her father, the stillness of his expression a tip-off that he was only pretending to sleep. "Dad," she prodded, "when will you be seeing Mom again?"
Jack grimaced, but kept his eyes closed. "When she needs me," he replied evenly. "As always."
He awoke in a large four-poster bed, the rays of sunlight streaming through the window warming him where he lay. His arm, he noticed, was in a sling; the large wad of bandages swathing his shoulder suggested that surgery had come and gone. He observed gratefully that whichever painkiller had been used was still functioning well.
He scanned the room and realized he recognized it - a spare bedroom of Irina's villa. He had used it occasionally until… his mind shut down the thought. There was much he and Irina had to discuss; he would wait for her to come to him. She owed him that.
But she never had. And really, what was there to discuss? All of them now knew the whole story. Her love for Sydney had caused her to take repeated risks to allow their daughter to reclaim her life; he would be forever grateful. And rather than betraying him, she had undoubtedly saved his life by assisting Sloane in sending him to prison. He supposed he should be grateful for that as well, although it had clearly cost her nothing but a few pictures to execute.
He remained in his room the entirety of the first two days. A nurse made several brief appearances to change his bandage and bring him some easy to digest and impossible to identify meals, and Sydney had stopped by once. Her eyes had been dark, her expression troubled; as the week progressed he grew to recognize the signs when his daughter was struggling with her own demons. Julia had assassinated five different people over the two-year period; Sydney was devastated. No stranger to moral ambivalence, Jack had comforted her for over an hour.
The third day, famished, he had made his way down to the kitchen. Rummaging through the refrigerator he had found what he needed; awkwardly he attempted to make himself a sandwich with his right hand. When it had come time to slice the meat he paused, momentarily at a loss.
"Hold the meat. I'll slice." Jack jumped as Irina appeared next to him, wielding a knife. Her other arm, like his, was in a sling.
"Careful," he grumbled, as her knife came close to his thumb at one point.
She sniffed and made no reply.
"Thanks." He looked at her warily, but could think of no safe topic of conversation. He'd be damned if he'd talk about the weather. "Where's Sydney?" he finally asked.
"Out running. Working things out. She's finding the blending of her memories… difficult."
Jack nodded and hesitated again. "Thank you. . . ,"
A light flared in Irina's eyes.
". . . for helping Sydney," he said formally.
And was just as quickly extinguished. "Of course," replied Irina evenly. "She's my daughter."
Jack waited a moment to see if Irina would say anything else; when it was clear she would not, he picked up his sandwich and left, feeling somewhat aggrieved. He had given her an opening; she hadn't taken it.
Perhaps she had nothing to say.
He had lasted for four more days of stilted conversations and covert side glances. They mutually agreed that it was safe to discuss Sydney, and did so, albeit cautiously. They were both worried about her; each successive day appeared to bring a new revelation about Julia's life. Some she discussed with her father, some with her mother. Sometimes Sydney would return from one of her frequent runs hard-edged and brittle; other times fragile and weepy.
Jack watched through the conservatory window as Sydney set off once again. He envied her. He felt like a caged animal; much of the day was spent pacing. If only…if only…if only she had told him that Sydney was alive…if only she hadn't abandoned him, yet again, as soon as he stopped being useful…if only she hadn't allowed him to play the fool for the last year-and-a-half, wandering in the dark…if only she'd come to him then…now…if only she'd trusted him.
He slammed his glass down on the table. Whatever he was waiting for was not going to happen. It was time to leave.
Jack's mind drifted as the engine from the plane droned in the background, and he fell into an uneasy sleep.
**
Irina wandered aimlessly through the first floor of her villa. They were gone; she had her life back again. Just what she wanted, she thought mirthlessly to herself.
"This would have gone better if you hadn't waited a week to see me," said her doctor reprovingly. "If you had contacted me sooner, the damage would not have been as extensive."
Irina waved her good arm airily. "I was. . . tied up for a while. How long in the cast?"
"Two months."
Irina scowled. "Fine. And your other patient?"
"It took a while, but we found the bullet. Intact, fortunately. Mostly soft tissue damage, although he lost a lot of blood. He should be back on his feet in a day or two, out of the sling in a week."
"Thank you." She watched the doctor as he left her room. It was good to be back, she thought as she surveyed the familiar surroundings. Infinitely better than some of the hellholes she'd been hiding in over the past three months. She leant back against the pillows of her bed, momentarily pampering herself. The bed was large. And, she added to herself with a spurt of honesty, looking empty. The last time it had not been empty… firmly she clamped down on her thoughts.
There was much she and Jack had to discuss; she would wait for him to come to her. He owed her that.
But he had not come. Annoyance had been followed by hurt, closely followed by anger and then, finally, resignation. He had thanked her for taking care of their daughter. That, itself, had been a stretch for him she could see. In the end, the only thing they had been able to agree on was Sydney.
Irina had observed her daughter's struggle that week with sorrow. The restlessness, the volatility, the urge to drive herself relentlessly on her long runs to the point of exhaustion. More than ever, she saw herself in Sydney. Or, more accurately, in the parts of Julia that Sydney retained. It was not a heartening thought.
"You shot Simon Walker?"
Jack looked up from the chair in which he had been sitting, pretending to read a book. "Yes," he said briefly.
"Good."
Jack's eyebrow raised fractionally.
"Without. . . revealing things Sydney asked me to keep in confidence," said Irina, a minatory look in her eye, "if you hadn't, I would have."
For a brief moment a look passed between them of complete understanding. And then Jack had bent his head down again, to reread the same page yet again.
Perhaps they had had too much to say to know where to begin. Or perhaps. . . with Sydney safe. . . there was nothing left to say.
She stepped into her study and paused. As instructed, the chess sets had been set up again in the corner where they had resided for the past 15 months, unless she had been traveling. A reminder of a time when he had trusted her. Even if it had been anonymously. She approached the nearest and picked up the black king, gently rubbing it between her fingers, as she studied the board. Zugzwang, she thought to herself absently. No matter what they did, they lost.