The wheels of American Airlines Flight 268 landed on the runway at JFK, and the large jet skidded to a stop.
Kate stared out the window from her seat in business class, her right arm cradled in a sling. In the distance she could see the familiar control tower, along with the old saddle-shaped Saarinen terminal that now housed JetBlue.
She was home.
Two U.S. Marshals sat across the aisle. They had accompanied her from the hospital to the airport in Seattle where Kate had spent three days. Her shoulder was okay—the bullet had passed cleanly through. They had treated the wound for infection and put her on an IV sedative for shock until she was ready to make the trip back. For another week or so, she’d have to wear the sling.
But all the morphine and Valium in the world couldn’t dull the real pain.
The pain of reliving the horrible scene over and over, every time she had to go through it for the investigators: Staring blankly at the hole in her shoulder as she turned toward her mom, not understanding. The sight of Sharon’s head pitched slightly forward, her glassy and unresponsive stare, the ring of blood widening on her sweater. The shock taking over her system. Mom!
And the questions. Kate’s brain was not picking through them clearly. What if she’d never gone out there? What if she’d listened to the warning on the river as Greg had begged her to? What if she’d just gone up to the house on the lake and knocked on the front door? They would’ve had to let her see her family. What if she hadn’t bent to reach for that glass?
Her mother would still be alive.
Justin and Emily had flown home the day before. They were staying with their aunt out on Long Island. The funeral would be Thursday. Then, after that, who knew? Maybe this was it. The damage had been done. The insurance paid.
They’d found something horrible in a plastic bag along with the discarded sniper’s rifle on top of the hotel where the shots had come from.
A severed tongue. A dog’s tongue. This time Mercado’s message was chillingly clear: This is what we do to people who talk.
Goddamn you, Daddy. Kate closed her eyes as the jet pulled up and docked at the Jetway. Look what the hell you’ve done.
A wheelchair was wheeled up to the door. One of the agents got Kate’s bag, helped her out of her seat, and wheeled her down the Jetway. Her heart was almost bursting with anticipation.
Greg stood at the end of the hall. He was in jeans and his Rice University sweatshirt. His hair was mussed, his eyes watery, and he was shaking his head a little sadly.
“Pooch …”
Kate pushed up from the chair and melted into his arms. For a minute they just held each other. She was unable to look him in the face, afraid to lift her head from his shoulder.
“Oh, God, Greg.” She pressed into him. “Mom’s dead.”
“I know, baby, I know.…”
He slid her back into the wheelchair. She was still weak. Greg knelt and checked out the sling.
“I’m okay.” The government agents were huddled around. “Tell them to go away, Greg. Please. I just want everything to go back to how it was before.”
“I know.” He nodded, leaning his face into hers.
“Why did they do this?” Kate asked. “What do they want from us?”
Greg brushed her cheek with his knuckles. “I don’t know—but I’m not going to let them hurt you ever again. I promise. I’m going to take care of you, Kate. We’ll move. We’ll do whatever we have to do.”
“He’s cost us everything, Greg. And I don’t even know if he’s dead or alive.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he said. “I’m just glad you’re home, Kate. And safe. We’re all that matters now.”
He took her chair and wheeled her through the terminal. A government car was waiting by the curb. A couple of agents hopped out as they approached. Greg eased Kate from the chair and into the backseat, and the agents climbed in front. A siren sounded as the car pulled away from the curb.
Greg smiled as they drove off. “Fergie’ll be glad you’re back. I think he’s about fed up with my cooking by now.”
Kate shook her head. “All you have to do is pour it in his bowl, Greg.”
“I know. I guess I’m not sure he likes the way I pour.”
Kate smiled, resting her head against Greg’s shoulder. The skyline of Manhattan came into view. She was going home.
“You’re right,” she said, “it really doesn’t matter anymore.”
“What, pooch?” Greg answered.
“Nothing.” Kate closed her eyes. In his arms it all seemed a million miles away. “He’s probably dead.”