Chapter Twenty-Four

“Jeanne?”

“Graves.”

“Is he all right?” he asked. His voice sounded dull and tired.

“Yes. You gave him a nasty scare, mon cher.”

“Jeanne—I’m dying over here,” he said.

“What do you want me to tell you, Graves?” she asked, exasperated with both of them.

“That I haven’t ruined everything?”

“Oh darling…”

“I don’t know what to do, Jeanne.”

“He wants you, Graves,” Jeanne sighed, rubbing her eyes. “But he doesn’t know what to do now.”

“Is he going to turn me in?” Graves asked.

“No,” Jeanne said. And if I said yes? What would you do? Kill him?

“Why not?”

“I don’t know! Why don’t any of us turn you in? Why don’t I? Why doesn’t anyone?”

“Jeanne, his face. He was closed off. He didn’t want anything to do with me,” Graves said. “I need to see him again.”

“You cannot go to Hong Kong, Graves.

“Don’t tell me what to do, Jeanne,” Graves snapped.

“You are being such a fool! Hong Kong is not safe for you! That police station bombing saw to that. You cannot go there!”

“I know, I know— Where will you go after Hong Kong?”

“I will put that boy on a plane back to the US. That is how it has to be,” Jeanne said.

“I don’t think I can stand it. Will he let me see him?”

“We are leaving today, Graves.”

“How could I have been so stupid?” Graves asked quietly.

“I have been asking that for weeks,” Jeanne snapped.

“I have to go back up the mountain,” he said.

“That is an understatement,” she replied. “You needed to be gone ages ago.”

“I have to see him,” Graves said softly. Jeanne’s heart sank. He is going to do something stupid. He always has to get his way. What will it cost us this time?

*

In Hong Kong, Nick was totally alone. Jeanne dragged him to meetings, introduced him everywhere they went, but Hong Kong was not Singapore. It was a closed community, not interested in the random American trailing behind Sang Soe Jeanne Kyaw. Slowly, Nick slid into the background, becoming more and more withdrawn. He could see Jeanne was worried. But there was nothing else that could be done.

Almost nothing. Nick took the little tram that snaked up the mountain behind Hong Kong to the top of Victoria Peak. He was numb, as numb as he had been in the months after the accident. It was better than the pain in his sternum, somewhere in his gut… He rubbed the spot absently. It was time to make some changes.

“I can’t live like this anymore,” he said. At the top, he leaned against one of the red pillars of the little gazebo below the visitor center. It had been raining, and he had the place to himself. The city swirled in and out of view below him, the clouds obscuring all but the tallest buildings. They appeared and disappeared in the fog, looking otherworldly and strange.

“It’s a big world,” Nick said. He glanced around. There was no one to see him talking to himself. He snorted. And who cared if there was? Who cared?

“I killed three people. I tried to hide it and couldn’t. I got run out of my hometown, run out of the States. I got run out of Singapore. Talking to myself is not a big deal.”

He breathed in deeply and closed his eyes a moment.

“I’m not a murderer,” he said. He kept his eyes closed, let the words hang in the wet air. “I’m not a murderer. But the world doesn’t care about the distinction.”

He waited a moment, to see if the world would have anything to say about that.

“And that isn’t my fault.” His words were muffled by the fog. “That isn’t my fault.”

It was time to change. It was time to stop trying to hide. The world was vast and wide and most of it didn’t care about Nicholas Erickson’s past. It was time to stop hoping someone would rescue him. He had no power over how other people saw him. And it didn’t matter.

“There is a place for me,” he said. “I can go where I want. I don’t need to make some big crazy change. I can just…go live. Maybe I won’t have him. But I can live. I think that’s good enough.”

He heard the high-pitched chatter of children. A school group. Their voices came and went in the mist and Nick shivered. Suddenly, it felt like one of his dreams. The hair stood up on the back of his neck. He turned and the boy in the red jacket was looking at him. Nick’s heart stopped, fear seizing up his spine. But the boy grinned and waved, shouting something in Cantonese. He laughed and ran back into the fog. Nick sank down until he was sitting on the wet stone, hand clenched over his heart.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, making him jump. He fumbled it out eagerly.

“Graves? I saw—” But then he remembered. He saw the number. The embassy. He pushed End and stood, making his way slowly back to the tram.

It wasn’t him. Why does that hurt so badly? That does remind me though. I am still a federal employee. As the little tram wound its way down he wrote an email to Peterson, to Lena and Morris, to the HR department and everyone else. Fuck them. Fuck them all.

I quit. Effective immediately.

He sent it without bothering to elaborate or write anything else.

*

He told Jeanne about it that night. They were eating while seated on the floor of her lavish suite, surrounded by photos of art and yards of red fabric, planning the room for New Year’s.

“What Roger did…” she said. She rubbed her face and let out a string of what Nick assumed were curses in Malay. “What Roger did was so… I do not know the word in English, but it was cruel and stupid and has likely cost him any chance of working in Singapore.”

Nick hung his head. Even with Jeanne firmly on his side, he was still ashamed of the scandal.

“It doesn’t affect me,” Jeanne said, intuiting his worry and putting a hand on his knee. “If anything, it adds to my reputation as an eccentric.” Nick snorted. He could see that. Jeanne Kyaw was her own force of nature.

“I will settle you either here in Hong Kong or perhaps at home in Mandalay,” she said.

“You make me sound like a puppy you need to find a home for,” Nick muttered. He didn’t like how that made him feel. “I want to make my own way. Take care of my own life.”

“Like what?” she asked. And here it was. Time to tell her.

“I was thinking I’d go somewhere cheap,” Nick said slowly. “Like Thailand or Vietnam. Get a job tending bar and live a quiet little beach bum life.” Jeanne looked at him like he had suggested jumping off a cliff. He shook his head before she could say anything.

“Jeanne, listen. I can’t just be your pet American,” he said. She gasped and shoved at his shoulder. “No, seriously!” Nick continued. “I’m twenty-eight, and the whole world is out there. People won’t care if the bartender at their beach bar is a murderer.”

“You are not a murderer,” Jeanne snapped. “Did being with Graves teach you nothing?”

She meant well, and Nick nodded, taking it the way she intended.

“I learned…a lot with Graves,” Nick said, ignoring how that name twisted his heart. It hurt. It hurt, dammit. He shook himself. “But it doesn’t matter.” He saw she was getting angry and took her hand.

“Listen to me,” Nick said and waited until she settled back. “It really doesn’t matter. When the world treats you…like a murderer…you might as well be.” He felt the old flare of anger immediately followed by the wash of guilt. Those two emotions were so tied now, their rise and fall through his body followed a path he could recite by heart. But they didn’t have the power they did. A murderer loved him. A real one.

“That family,” Nick said quietly. “They’re dead. They. Are. Dead. They were alive and then I came along and now they are dead. If I didn’t murder them, then who did? There is nothing I can do to change that. My point is that I can’t live in terror of people finding out. Like somehow people knowing is worse than what actually happened. I have to live a life where…I dunno…where there is room for people like me. And that isn’t up here.” He gestured to the suite.

Jeanne hung her head and brought his hand up to her lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. A tear slipped free and splashed on his wrist.

“I understand,” she said. “I hate it. It makes me sad, but I understand.”

“You shouldn’t be sad,” Nick said. “You gave me so much confidence in myself, Jeanne. You made me feel like I had something to offer again. You showed me a whole world I didn’t even know existed. I’ll be having art shows in my tiki bar in no time.”

She wiped her face on a piece of fabric and Nick laughed.

*

They had converted Graves’s bedroom on the owner’s deck into a hospital room and once the surgical suite had been dismantled it was quite cozy if you ignored the hospital bed and the mound of bandages covering Graves’s hip and groin. They left him doped to the gills and as comfortable as possible.

Nick was there when Graves woke up.

Graves eyes fluttered open, and he stared at Nick a moment before a slow smile touched his face.

“Hello there,” he said, his voice barely audible. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“Hey, big guy,” Nick said. He held out a clear glass with a nasty piece of twisted metal in it. It was black and about the size of the end of Nick’s thumb. “Here is your friend. Bishop says you have a collection of them.”

Graves gestured vaguely.

“I have thirty, thirty-f-four, I think,” he said. His words were slurred and distant. “Thatssa b-big one though. Big…bigger than…I thought.”

His eyes closed.

“Nick, you’re here. That is kind of you. Such a good man,” he said, his voice still thick with sleep. “Such a good man. I wanted you so badly. Too bad…”

“I’m not really here, you know,” Nick said. It was true. Nick was gone. All the way in Hong Kong already. Gone away.

“I miss you, Nick,” Graves said to the version of Nick in the room: sweet, smiling Nick. “Should marry you maybe.”

See Sir Ian’s face. His son, the drug dealer, marrying a man, ha. Bastard. Well he never wanted me, anyway. Maybe he wouldn’t care.

He held still, not wanting to break the illusion. A sure sign that he had been smoking too much opium. Hallucinations, no matter how handsome, were never a good sign. But, oh, this one was so sweet.

“He didn’t want me,” Graves slurred to Nick. He gestured vaguely at his face. “Threw me away. I’m not really Lord Graves, you know, he is. I use it—just to make him angry.” This version of Nick understood. A sympathetic illusion.

“He stole me—you see? He was a judge in New Zealand. My mother…lost custody. We were three boys. Too big, too hungry. I don’t remember this—but Sir Ian took me away. Left my brothers. Left them. Made me—a proper little English gentleman…”

Nick faded. Graves groaned.

“Stay,” he said. “Stay, Nick. I don’t want to be by myself. I hate hospitals. Spent…so much time…in hospitals. Please…”

“Graves,” Nick said, fading, fading…

“Lord Graves?”

Simpson. Bloody hell. Graves rolled to his good side, away from them. His face was wet with tears.

“Get out,” he rasped.

“Just to tell you it went well, my lord. We pulled out a few extra pieces as we came across them. We put them in a jar by your bed. We’ll be back next week to take the—”

“Out!” Graves snapped, squeezing his eyes closed. “Get out, you bastards. Leave me alone.”

The room faded and Graves let it go; there was nothing to be awake for, anyway.

*

When he woke again, the windows and doors were open, and the air was cool and damp. Dawn was breaking. And they were out to sea. Graves rubbed his face.

“This isn’t my ship,” he rasped.

“No, but we are on our way to her now,” Bishop said. The old soldier was sitting in a chair by the bed, his feet propped up and tablet on his lap. He was in an old Auckland jersey and sweats, his short hair scrunched off to one side. The jersey made Graves think of Nick and his heart sank.

“Have some coffee,” Bishop said softly. He waited for Graves to haul himself up and handed him the cup. It was strong and sweet and Graves let his eyes sink closed again.

“How do you feel?” Bishop asked. Graves rubbed his face and rolled his shoulders.

“Better,” he rasped. “I woke up, and Nick was there. A hallucination.”

“A sweet one,” Bishop said.

“Yes. But I admit now I’m a little disoriented.” Graves took a deep breath. “Hip is better. Much better, by God.”

He pushed the sheet down and saw the bandage over the incision. It was much smaller than the one he had woken with at first. He blinked in confusion.

“Here you go,” Bishop said and handed him the little jar. Graves shuddered. It was the one Nick had showed him. Or… No. It must have been Simpson?

“Ugly,” he said, looking away. He hated seeing the shrapnel. It made him feel ill. For a man who supposedly waded through blood he was quite squeamish when it came down to it. He kept the shrapnel in a box at home. Home.

“Did you say we are rendezvousing with Scimitar?”

“Aye, I took the initiative,” Bishop said. “We’ll rendezvous with her in the Bay of Bengal. The lads and I were sick and tired of Singapore. If we never go back, it will be too soon.”

“I agree,” Graves said. “Let’s deal with this business in Sri Lanka then go. It’s time to go home.”

“Poor Alex. That won’t take long. Home, home?”

“Yes,” Graves said. He stared out the window. Home was Scimitar. But what Bishop meant was back to Myanmar. Back to the hills in Shan state. Home, home. “Christ, yes. Let’s go home.”

They drank their coffee in silence. The idea of home. Graves closed his eyes at the thought. His piano, his books. His dogs. Titi the elephant! And an empty bed. Everyone off with their wives and children. And Graves up in the big house, watching the mist move over the valleys…

“We can’t go to Hong Kong,” Bishop said flatly.

“Who said anything about Hong Kong?”

“Your face did,” Bishop said. “You’re thinking about home. And you want our Nick to be there too.”

“He’d like it,” Graves said. He shook his head. “Damn it all.”

“Sonny,” Bishop said. He seemed to choose his words carefully. “Do you ever think about…retiring?”

Graves flinched. The silence stretched.

“God, yes,” he whispered. “Since Colin.”

“What if,” Bishop leaned forward and Graves turned sideways so they could be eye to eye. They were best friends. They were brothers; they were almost the same person. They were thinking the same thing.

“We take care of our people,” Graves said.

“We let Roma and Anatoly manage the guns,” Bishop said.

“We grow only enough dope for our own selves.”

“Keep the ruby mine.”

“We dig a little jade. Set up some artists, maybe.” Graves thought of the little pipe from Chiang Rai. Jeanne would know who to support.

“Sell the docks in Yangon, liquidate the shipping line.”

“Is that enough?” Graves asked seriously.

“Yes,” came a voice from the door. It was Russ, with Charlotte and Tony coming in on his heels.

“Off the top of my head, it’s more than enough.” They didn’t question Russ. No one else knew the logistics anyway.

“I want to go home,” Charlotte said. “This has been…” she shrugged, didn’t finish the thought. They understood. Tony came and curled in Bishop’s lap.

“I want to go back to Tangiers,” he said. “With Fatimah and Jules.”

“Will you still run the cyber center?” Graves asked. Bishop had his face in Tony’s hair. His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t going to try to talk Tony out of it. The boy wanted to be back in the sun.

“Yes,” Tony said. “If I don’t bother the CIA, then who will?”

“Indeed,” Graves said, his voice rougher than he wanted. He put his face in his hands.

“What should I do?” he asked. “How do I get him back?”

“I have a plan,” Bishop said. “But it bound to get messy, eh.”