Chapter Twelve
Henry
The footage on screen shuddered as the SWAT team encircled the four bodies, edging closer and closer, guns raised. The men lay on their backs, their limbs splayed and disjointed, like broken dolls. Glassy eyes stared up at the sky, whilst rivulets of blood oozed away from them and coalesced into a crimson pool. Elizabeth lay flat on her stomach, her face hidden by her veil of hair, soft blonde shimmering almost white in the morning sun.
A tide of bile burned through Henry's throat. His pulse throbbed, each beat empty, draining him of energy until it felt as though his legs might collapse.
He gripped the back of his chair, and his knuckles blanched as his nails dug into the cushion. Black dots pricked his vision, and he lowered his forehead until it found the cool bite of leather. He closed his eyes. Each breath shook through him. And he could still smell her—the perfume he had bought her for Christmas, the hint of coconut shampoo, the scent of her skin. It clung to him, to his clothes, to his lungs, to his soul.
"Henry—" Conrad placed a hand on Henry's shoulder.
Henry flinched. He shrugged him off, and pushing himself away from the seat, he turned to face him. Conrad's face was ashen. Every line, every wrinkle deeper now. His heavy brow shadowed his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak again, but Henry shook his head.
"No," Henry said. Then sharper—"No." He gritted his teeth—Elizabeth wouldn't have wanted this—but still the words roared out. "You told her it was clean." He stabbed a finger at the QuickStitch file that glared down at the room from the side screen. Lead agent: Sandpiper. "She risked exposing herself to ask you if anything need sanitising, and you told her it was clean." His voice cracked. "She trusted you…I trusted you." He clenched his fists and clutched them to his head. "God." He turned away from Conrad, but spun back just as fast and shouted, "You said you'd keep her safe."
I met a man today, Conrad Dalton…he wants to recruit me for the CIA. / Conrad asked me to be Station Chief in Baghdad. / I can't let Conrad down. / Conrad wants me to be his Secretary of State. I can't let him down again. / Conrad made the deal—it was Dmitri's life or the lives of thousands of others. / Conrad wants me to be his VP. Conrad, Conrad, Conrad. He had been there from the beginning. How different their lives could have been had he never approached her that day.
Conrad recoiled. He lowered his gaze, his eyes damp and glistening. "Henry…I'm sorry."
"Sorry?" Henry spat. "Sorry? She's my life." His finger trembled as he pointed towards the footage, to his wife lying face down on the concrete outside a building she never would have been in if it weren't for this man. "She's my…" Forever.
Whhh. Whhh. Whhh. The sound ruffled through the microphone, as soft as leaves whispering in a summer breeze. A shudder prickled up Henry's spine. Was that…? His chest tightened. His gaze darted over the image on the screen. Was she…?
The silence in the room was so thick that it choked the air. It robbed them of oxygen and suspended them in a such stillness that just to breathe would be blasphemy.
Russell frowned, and the ridge of his brow deepened his pallor. He leant over the table and angled his ear towards the speaker. Whhh. Whhh. Whhh. "Is…is she breathing?"
Henry's heart raced. Pins and needles tingled through his hands as he reached out and pressed one trembling finger to the button at the bottom of the microphone. "Elizabeth?" The thud, thud, thud of his pulse throbbed through him. "Elizabeth, can you hear me?" He waited.
When he was eleven, his friends from school had gotten hold of a ouija board and had coaxed him into joining them. And as they crouched around it, candles spitting licks of light into their dank hideout, his spine had prickled with fear—what if they heard from the other side? Second only to—what if his father found out? The fear that flooded his veins now made such childish dread dwindle in comparison. To fear reaching out, communicating with an unknown, was foolish. What was truly frightening was the thought that you might be met by silence.
"Elizabeth, can you hear me?"
"Henry…" Elizabeth's voice shook down the line. "…is it over?"
Henry's legs gave out, his whole body awash with the ebb of adrenaline and flow of relief. He slumped down into his chair. His fingers fumbled as he grappled for the microphone and dragged it towards him. "It's over." He let out a long breath, one that it felt as though he had been holding since the minute she had stepped inside that building. "I'm here," he whispered. "It's over."
"Get her a paramedic," Conrad shouted. "Now!"
On screen, the SWAT team nudged the hostage takers' guns aside. The weapons skidded through the pool of blood and daubed crimson smears away from the lifeless hands. Paramedics scrambled down from the ambulance parked near the cordon and dashed across the concrete towards the base of the flagpole.
But Elizabeth was already moving. She pushed herself up onto all fours and then sat back on her heels, facing away from the bodies strewn across the ground behind her. The sunshine cascaded down and shimmered on her hair, throwing off a golden halo. "Remember when you took me for picnics on the quad?"
"I remember," Henry said. And as the paramedics offered her their arms and she eased to her feet, as tentative as a foal taking its first steps, his heart swelled. She was okay. Somehow—by the grace of God—everything was going to be okay.
"I used to stuff my gloves at the bottom of my bag," she said, "and tell you I'd forgotten them so that you'd have to hold my hand."
Henry smiled to himself. "All you had to do was ask."
Elizabeth gave a soft chuckle. "That's my line, Professor."
Henry laughed, and a lightness spread through him, but the sound lodged in his throat. He swallowed. His voice was thick. "I'll always be here to hold your hand."
The television in the waiting area of the hospital blared as the news footage played on loop. Patients and relatives, even a few members of staff in their sea green scrubs, had clustered round, and they pored over the screen.
"And here is the dramatic moment when one of the hostage takers turned the gun on his own cousin, thus saving Secretary McCord's life." The clip showed the grainy image of Elizabeth knelt on the concrete, Omar's gun to her head. In slow motion, Akeem raised his own gun and shot Omar, before the snipers' bullets struck, and they all fell to the ground. "The motives of the hostage takers remain unknown, but it is understood that Secretary McCord placed herself in harm's way to save members of her staff who were being held at gunpoint inside the State Department building. Miraculously, none of the employees were hurt."
DS agents swamped the corridors that led to the treatment rooms. Matt caught Henry's eye and nodded. "She's this way, Dr McCord." He motioned for one of the other agents to take his post, and then led Henry through the streams of staff and bustle of patients towards one of the far rooms.
The telephones trilled at the nurses' station; they cut through the lilting chatter and bellows of laughter. But the voices hushed as Henry strode past, and the hum of the fluorescent lights that blinked overhead filled the lull. The smell of disinfectant stung in his nose. It felt as though the corridor was stretching, every step that he took lengthening the distance he would have to cross just to get to her. His heart beat in time with his stride, each pulse an echo of 'Elizabeth'.
Matt stopped. "Just over there." He gestured to closed door at the end.
"Thanks, Matt." Henry offered him a taut smile and clapped him on the arm as he passed. He stepped towards the door, but then froze.
There, through the panel of glass set into the wood, was Elizabeth. She was reclining against the bed, her blood-spattered clothes now swapped for a periwinkle blue hospital gown. Eyes closed, she pinched the bridge of her nose, and her wedding ring glinted in the light.
Pity coffee? I'll take that. Come on. What's the worst that could happen? At the time, the worst that could he imagine was that they would have a coffee, maybe a date or two, and things wouldn't work out. But now…What's the worst that could happen? I could fall so hopelessly in love with you, have our lives entwine so inextricably, that when the day comes that I lose you, I'll be consumed by a pain unlike any I have ever known, and my life will never hold such meaning again.
Elizabeth opened her eyes and startled, but then a millisecond later, a smile flashed across her face. She held out her hand and clutched at the air, beckoning him into the room. The door swung shut behind him, and the world outside fell away. "Hey, you," Elizabeth said, the words breathy.
"I know my family are difficult," Henry said, "but is the thought of having dinner with them really that bad?"
Elizabeth began to laugh, but then her face crumpled, and she pressed the back of her hands to her eyes. Henry rushed to her side. He climbed up onto the edge of the bed, tears smarting in his own eyes, and he rubbed her thigh through the thin cotton sheet. "Hey, I'm here."
She nodded, and let out a long, shaky breath. Then she wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. Hot tears soaked through his shirt and dampened his skin. Each sob and quiver of her breath wracked through him, and he drew circles across the small of her back as his own tears started to fall. "I've got you." He kissed the top of her head. "I'm here, and I've got you."
Elizabeth drew away enough that she could meet his gaze, her eyes still brimming with tears, and clutching the back of his neck, she pressed her forehead to his. "I'm sorry." Her voice hitched. "The thought of doing that to you and the kids…"
Henry shook his head, his nose bumping against hers. The image of her with a gun to her head still appeared each time he closed his eyes. "You're safe now." His throat bobbed as he swallowed back the clag of emotion. "You're still my forever." He brushed his lips against hers.
Her grip on his neck tightened and elicited a dull sting as her fingernails dug in. "But one day forever's going to run out."
"Not today," he said, "That's all we can ask for—that it's not today."
Elizabeth
The brakes creaked as the car pulled to a halt outside the house. It was late afternoon and the sky bore the barest blush of pink as the sun dipped towards the horizon. Elizabeth stared out the window, her forehead rested against the cool glass. Henry was sat next to her, his fingers entwined with hers in her lap. He squeezed her hand. "You okay?"
She turned to him and nodded. "For now." She offered him a small smile, no more than a twinge of the lips. "You?"
The corners of his mouth tugged, and he echoed, "For now." He leant in and bumped his lips against her forehead. "We'll get through this—together." He held her gaze, his eyes flickering as he searched her own. "I love you."
"I like you okay too." She forced her smile wider, but he shook his head—and there was a kind of desperation in his eyes. He needed to hear her say it. She cupped his jaw and brushed her thumb back and forth over his stubble. "I love you." She closed the gap between them, pausing to inhale his breath before she met him with a delicate kiss. Eyes closed, they lingered there, lips touching; so basic, so vital. She tugged at his hand. "Fall apart with me later?"
Henry chuckled. "It's a date."
Elizabeth pecked his lips again, and then drew back and opened the car door. One of the DS agents stepped forward, offered her his hand and steadied her as she climbed down. The pavement nipped at the soles of her feet, her shoes having been discarded in her office, and she shivered as the breeze swept through the flimsy material of the hospital dressing gown. When Henry joined her, he slung his arm around her waist and pulled her snug against his side; his warmth engulfed her, soothed her nerves, an antidote to the chill. The door wrenched open before they had even reached the porch, and there were their kids—their babies—crowding the hall.
"Mom?" Stevie said as she threw her arms around Elizabeth. "Are you okay?"
Elizabeth clung to her daughter and stroked her hair. As she breathed in her scent, a deep ache rippled up through her chest and lodged in her heart. She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't cry. But tears already scorched her eyes. She reached out, and grasped for Alison and Jason too. She tangled her fingers through their hair, bunched their shirts in her fists, pressed kisses to their foreheads; anything for a touch of them, anything tangible to tell her that she was here, with them, alive.
"I'm okay," she said, though her voice shook. "Everything's going to be fine."
She drew back and pulled them each to her in turn. She held their heads in both hands and planted kisses to their foreheads. Both Stevie and Alison's eyes were red and swollen, whilst Jason hid his in the back of his arm. Henry stepped forward and clutched their son's shoulder, before pulling him against his chest. The ache inside Elizabeth sharpened, splinters to the heart. How could she have done this to them?
Only then did she see Will, perched at the bottom of the stairs, watching, eyes wide and glistening. As Henry brought the girls into his embrace, Elizabeth padded over to her brother. She sat down beside him, gaze lowered to the ground, and she rested her hand against his knee. The moment stretched on and on, until it felt like he might never respond, but then he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and drew her against his side. He kissed the top of her head. "What would I have done if you'd died?"
The question bristled between them. Elizabeth swallowed and then murmured, her voice muffled by his shirt, "Told inappropriate stories at my funeral, then buried your grief in some misplaced desire to save the world one person at a time."
When he didn't reply, she lifted her head from his shoulder and pulled back enough that she could study his expression; the lines like a sketch of loss, just waiting to be inked in, and the distance that clouded his eyes. He gave a bitter chuckle, and his gaze darted sideways to catch hers. "You're probably right." He covered her hand, and his smile faded. "Seriously though, Lizzie, you complain about me endangering myself, but I've never had someone hold a gun to my head."
The back of her neck tightened and her pulse quickened as the ghost of the muzzle nudged against her skull. She pressed her lips into a firm line. "I'll admit that wasn't exactly part of the plan."
Will's hand retreated from her own. He twisted round to face her, and leaning back against the banister, he folded his arms across his chest. "See, here's the thing." His voice had barbed. "Bullets don't care for your plans."
Elizabeth arched her eyebrows at him. She snorted. "Nice aphorism, Will." She patted his knee and then eased to her feet and walked away towards the dining room. "Look, can we maybe not talk about this right now?"
"Then when?" Will called after her.
"I don't know." She shrugged. "How about never? I'm tired and hungry and need a shower." She tugged at the hospital gown as that feeling of unclean crawled over her skin.
But Will's footsteps thumped over the floorboards behind her. "So what? You're just going to gloss over this like every other time you've put yourself in danger?"
Elizabeth halted, halfway to the kitchen, and spun back to face him. Her brow furrowed. "Gloss over? You're the one who glosses over everything." She flapped her hand at him. "All those near misses in war zones, getting caught in aftershocks, that car crash back in college—"
Will's nose wrinkled, and he waved the comment aside. "That was just a bump."
"Mom." The word shot from her mouth. "You certainly glossed over the fact that she was still alive."
Silence rang out, filled only by the rush of her pulse as it coursed through her ears. Her blood felt as though it had been laced with venom, an acidic chill that trickled through her.
Will's gaze dipped to the floor. He stepped up to the chair at the end of the table and wrapped his fingers over the back, his knuckles blanching as he braced himself against it. "You accused me of having an addiction—" He lifted his gaze, and icy eyes met her own. "—but what about you?"
"I don't have an addiction—" She threw one hand up. "—I'm just doing my job."
Will snorted, and his lips twisted into a sardonic smile. "Oh really, John McClane?"
A flush of anger raged through her, and she bit down on the inside of her cheek. "You don't get to lecture me." She stabbed one finger at him, her voice lowered to a growl. "You have no idea what was going on in there."
"Maybe not, but I know what was going on out here, whilst I was with your children—" He gestured to the living room behind him, where the kids now huddled on the sofa, Henry lingering by the armchairs, poised to step in. "—watching some deranged gunman drag you out of that building, force you to your knees and put a gun to your head." He clenched his jaw. "For Christ's sake, Lizzie, we thought you'd died."
"What do you want me to say? That I'm sorry?" Elizabeth's voice hitched as the tightness in her chest took hold again. "Because I am sorry that you had to see that." She shook her head to herself. "But that doesn't mean that I need to justify my decision to go in there."
"I get that you wanted to help your staff, but at what point are you going to practise what you preach and start putting your own family first?"
That stung like a slap to the cheek. Her lips flattened. Her jaw tensed. How dare he when she had done everything in her power to hold her family together, to hold his family together, to put everyone and everything else first.
Will's expression thawed, and with one hand still anchoring him to the back of the chair, he ventured a step closer to her. "I love you, Lizzie, and I don't want to argue about this with you—"
"Then quit arguing."
Will raised his voice above hers. "But next time I'll be arguing with a wooden box." He shook his head to himself. "You're not invincible."
"And I'm not the most important person in the world either."
"You are to some people. That ought to be enough." The words surged over the room, a tidal wave that rose up and engulfed them all. Will stared at her, hard, as if he could bore the message into her mind with a look alone. Then he let out a terse sigh, and his whole body deflated. He turned away and walked back through the living room, pausing only to squeeze Henry's shoulder on the way to the front door. "Let me know if you manage to rearrange something with your family before they head back." He jerked his head towards Elizabeth. "And try to talk some sense into this one."
"That's it, Will," Elizabeth shouted after him. "Just swoop in and swoop out."
"I'm not arguing with you," Will called over his shoulder, and he continued towards the door. "We'll talk once you've calmed down."
Elizabeth's teeth ground together. Calm down? Calm down? How dare he. He was the one who brought it up, he was the one who wanted to talk, he was the one who after everything they'd been through was now claiming moral superiority all whilst he needled and jibed. Adrenaline fizzled through her bloodstream, and she stormed after him.
"Hey." Henry lunged into her path, hands held up, fingers splayed.
She sidestepped him, but he grabbed hold of her waist and pulled her against his chest.
"Henry, don't…" She shoved back and tried to wriggle free from his grasp.
"Elizabeth." He wrapped his arms around her, tight—a straitjacket of a hold.
"Henry." She wrestled against him. "Let me go."
"Elizabeth, stop."
She barged her shoulder into him.
"Elizabeth." His voice shot up. "You're scaring the kids."
She froze. The room around her strobed, everything reduced to pulses of white light and flashes of sound. One moment as sharp as a pinprick, the next as dull as a deep-rooted ache. But just like pain nursed by the passage of time, they faded, dwindled, diminished until there was nothing. Just nothing. Empty. Bereft.
Her legs crumpled beneath her. Henry caught hold of her, his arms hooked under hers as she slumped to the floor. He crouched at her side, and pressing his lips to the hairline along her temple, he smoothed circles over her back. "Shhh. It's all right. I'm here."
"I'm sorry," Elizabeth whispered. She stared up at their children—with their ashen faces and watery eyes—as they clung to one another on the couch. "I'm sorry."
Will dragged out the piano stool and sat down. He hunched forward over his knees and rubbed at the slight scruff of his jaw. "Lizzie, I didn't mean to…" He shook his head to himself. His hands opened and closed in front of him, as if fumbling for the right words. "It's normal to feel like this after…" His mouth hung open. "I just want you to be safe."
Elizabeth swallowed, and her throat caught. She leant her head against Henry's and nuzzled his cheek before bracing herself against his shoulders and staggering to her feet. She lowered herself down next to Will on the bench, whilst Henry stood up and retreated a step and then perched against the armchair, as if wanting to give them space but not quite trusting that he wouldn't need to intervene.
"Look, maybe neither of us have great perception when it comes to risks." Will's shoulders drooped, and he stared down at his hands. "Maybe because we know the truth that in life it isn't always the risks that kill you; it's the everyday, the illness that blindsides you, the Saturday afternoon trip for ice cream."
She bowed her head and squeezed her eyes shut, but still the tears leaked through. She swept them away with the cuff of her sleeve and then buried her face in the crook of her elbow.
Will rested his hand against her knee. "You have people here who love you, who will do anything to keep you around. All I'm asking is that you remember that. Okay?"
Elizabeth nodded.
He squeezed her knee. "Get some rest, and just call if you need me. Anytime." He stood up and then stooped down to press a kiss to the top of her head. He lingered there a moment, as if waiting for the trace to settle into his memory. Then he let out a deep sigh and stepped away. "Look after her, Henry. She's the only piece of them I've got left."
"Do you think Will was right?" Elizabeth whispered. The words rippled out and diffused into the shadows of the lounge as she and Henry sat on the couch, the kids nestled against them, fast asleep on either side. A veil of silence surrounded the house, and it felt as though they were the only ones still awake to witness the world.
"I think he's upset," Henry said. He brushed his thumb over the back of her hand, their fingers entangled in her lap. "We're all upset."
She leant against his shoulder, and relishing his soft warmth, she closed her eyes. But Omar's face—the anger, the hatred—flashed through her mind. Her eyes snapped open again, though they ached for a snatch of sleep, and she sank further against him. "Do you think I should quit?"
Henry paused. His throat clunked as he swallowed. "I think that's not a decision for tonight…or tomorrow, and maybe not the next day either." He brought her hand to his lips and traced kisses down to her wrist, causing her pulse to shimmer. "I would love nothing more than to keep you safe, to shield you from the world, but I know that won't make you happy. I believe this job, this work, is your calling, and I'm not going to ask you to give it up, even if it terrifies me." He turned to her and lifted her chin so that she met his eye. "I support you, Elizabeth, no matter what."
She searched his eyes. Love still laced with fear. "Are you sure? I left the CIA for you and the kids, and I'll leave this job too."
His jaw tensed. "And I wish I'd never put you in that position." He squeezed her hand. "No matter what happens, I'm not leaving you." His gaze flitted to her lips, his eyes darkened, and as he leant in, her pulse thrummed. He brushed his lips over hers, like fingertips dragging over the surface of still waters—then deeper—and threading his fingers through her hair, he drew her in.
Her heart raced, her body swam, each wave to lap the shore of her mind breathed his name. Henry, Henry, Henry. "Henry," she murmured against him. "The kids." Their babies, sound asleep around them, like cubs, seeking out their parents' protection and love and warmth.
Henry stilled. The sigh that escaped him filled her next breath. Still cradling her head, he nuzzled her nose then planted kisses to the corners of her lips. "I need you to know how much I love you." And there was something desperate in his voice, a tone that tugged at her heart. "I never meant to hurt you, I just can't stand the thought of being without you…I think about it and my mind just screams." His grip on her tightened, and he pulled her forehead to his.
"Hey," she whispered. She drew circles over his scalp until his eyes opened and the tears that had collected there spilled down. "I know." She kissed the tears from his cheeks, their salt sharp on her tongue. "If this is about Baghdad, going there would have been the biggest mistake of my life. I loved the job, but you and the kids—you're what's important to me." She stroked his cheek, and he leant into the touch, turning his mouth so that he could kiss her palm. "What happened today—my decision—it wasn't because I don't cherish you. If I thought…" The touch of the gun shuddered through her again. "…I never would have gone in." She stared into his eyes, as if she could sear the message onto his mind. "You're everything to me. Just as my staff are everything to the people who love them. I couldn't bear knowing that I was the reason that their families had to live without them."
"I just can't get rid of the image of you…" He squeezed his eyes shut, but a fresh wave of tears leaked through. Her heart wrenched, an ache so deep it struck her soul.
She held his head in her hands and swiped each droplet away with her thumbs. "Henry, I'm sorry." She kissed his forehead and then clung to him, holding him there as her lips moved against him. "I would take it away if I could. And I'll quit if—"
Henry shook his head. His breath trembled. "Just promise you won't do anything like this again." He pulled away enough that he could meet her eye. "Please."
"I promise." Her lips tweaked, a sorry smile. Dark circles hung under his eyes, and he could have aged years in a day. "Try and get some sleep."
"I can't."
"Here." She settled back against the cushions and pulled his head to her chest, so that his ear rested over her heart. "Just close your eyes." She stroked his hair, drawing idle patterns, circles and spirals, eddying currents to guide him into the lull. She kissed the top of his head. "I'm here."
