Beating Ruby (16 page)

The car was still moving, getting closer and closer.

A cold sweat broke on my back. “A-Alex . . . isn’t it supposed to slow down?”

“Oh
shit
.”

That wasn’t the answer I expected, not when I could see and hear the cables vibrate under the weight of the car racing toward us without giving any sign of stopping. Alex pulled me out of the way, dragging me with him. The metallic noises coming from the car were getting louder and louder. We rushed away from the departure ramp, desperate to escape the tram station. My heart was beating painfully fast, and I had this petrifying feeling that I was racing against the limits of my own body, that I wasn’t running fast enough, like I was struggling in quicksand.

If you think the Lexus exploding was bad, wait until you sit on the front row while a ten-ton cable car crashes at thirty miles per hour against a concrete-and-metal hangar. My last clear memory is a threatening rumble and a few seconds of weightlessness, before the car hit the ramp, destroying everything in its wake with a terrifying din. Metal bent with long howls, the wall supporting the control room collapsed, sparks and debris flew in all directions, some hitting the police cars that were coming from Main Street and surrounding the tram station. Alex and I crashed face-first into the wet patch of grass in front of the hangar; I felt the weight of his body on mine, crushing me as much as he was shielding me from flying fragments of concrete.

Praise French technology after all—the eight-cable ropeway didn’t rupture . . . entirely. I registered the low, ominous moan of the cable structure when the tram’s engines stopped and the tension became unbearable. One of them did give, snapping with a loud noise and lashing at the lampposts and trees around us like a several-inch-thick whip, before ending its course on the hood of a police car.

After it was over, thirty seconds or so passed during which I was shaking so much I couldn’t move. The rain was seeping through my clothes, cold and wet, and in contrast, Alex’s breath burned against the nape of my neck, his stubble rasping my skin. His embrace finally loosened; I rolled away in panic.

“March! March!
Oh God
—”

“I’m good, biscuit.”

What the . . . ?

Okay, he wasn’t good. This time March looked ruffled. Really ruffled. Like a man who had taken a twenty-foot jump off a tram car in extremis. A few yards away from us, he was trying to sit up with slow movements. There were bruises on his face, and his jacket was a mess. I scrambled to him. I got close, but I didn’t dare touch him. You always hear that people need air and space and all that stuff when they’re wounded. “Oh my God, are you sure you’re okay? Your
shoulde
r
!
”

That I didn’t dare to touch either. I gathered he had landed on his side, thus sustaining the minimum possible damage, but his left shoulder looked . . . wrong. Like it was slumping. Dislocated, very likely. Behind me, policemen had gotten out of their cars and were running toward us, some asking if we were okay, another talking in his radio about a possible terrorist attack. I heard sirens. “March, there’s an ambulance coming, don’t move!”

“It’s all right, biscuit. I just need—”

“Allow me.”

I looked up to see Alex’s frame hovering over us. His own shoulder had stopped bleeding. A faint smirk twisted his lips as he looked at March. “I’m probably in no condition to do this, but it’s gonna be my pleasure entirely.”

The muscles in March’s jaw tightened. “I’m certain it will.”

I stared at the two of them in confusion. Alex had knelt by March’s side; he circled him with his arms as if he was going to hug him, positioned one hand on his shoulder, the other under his armpit, and pulled, eliciting a low groan from his nemesis. It was over in a second, and afterward March massaged the area, his eyes closed under a creased brow. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan.”

I dusted grass and gravel from March’s hair gingerly. “Let’s get you both to the hospital.”

“All right,” he said, a tender expression softening his previous grimace.

Above us, Alex sounded almost amused. “Mr. November, you destroyed the Roosevelt Tram. I’m afraid I’m gonna have to report this.”

March’s features hardened into a poker smile. “Make sure Mr. Erwin enjoys every single detail, Mr. Morgan.”

I froze. This was something I knew already, but hearing March pronounce the Caterpillar’s name suddenly gave me a new perspective. This job, me, Alex . . . The Ruby case was a battlefield for these two, a clash between the Caterpillar’s intention to retain control over his precious “South African” and March’s equally strong will to turn that page for good.

Except I stood in the middle, and given my unfortunate family tree, I feared I was a pawn the Caterpillar wouldn’t let go of so easily.

Before I could further my descent into such gloomy thoughts, March fished a small object from inside his jacket. Alex knelt again, and I scooted closer to look as well. It looked like a bloodstained medal in the shape of a shield, depicting a parachute with a sword in its center and some details I couldn’t make out in the dark. There was also something engraved.

“Numquam Retro,”
Alex read out loud.

I translated with a frown. “
Never retreat?
What is it? Was it on that guy?”

“Yes. You might want to translate it as
‘Niemals Züruck,’
in German,” March explained.

“You know German?” I asked, still trying to figure out where he was going with this.

His eyes narrowed at the bloody medal. “Not that well, but I know the Jagdkommando—the Austrian special forces.”

Alex took it from his hands to examine it. “Austria . . . interesting. A stone’s throw from German-speaking Switzerland—”

“And Zürich,” I concluded, pulling out from my pocket the micro SD card we had found hidden in Thom’s apartment. “Whoever manipulated Thom was ready to kill anyone for this, so let’s go find Ruby and discover what that code does to it.”

SIXTEEN

The PJs

“There’s only one treatment I can inject you with, Peyton: love!”

—Izzie Shepherd,
The Cardiologist’s Christmas Surprise

I’ve never been a fan of hospitals. The medicinal smell, doors slamming, hushed voices—it reminds me of my mom’s accident, of that split second when I woke up in a foreign bed with tubes lodged in my throat, and my dad was smiling at me while I thought I was dying.

For ten years after that, it was the only memory I had of the day of her death, until Rislow tried to extract my kneecaps on an operating table in an abandoned French hospital. There, suffocated by the most intense terror I had ever experienced, I remembered her murder. I saw it all over again: her body going limp in front of the wheel after a single bullet had traversed her skull, her long auburn curls matted with crimson blood against the white of her blouse. I heard my own screams, in that car that wouldn’t stop.

I remembered the crash, how everything had become loud and white.

Then tearing through the mist, through the flames rising from the hood and the panicked shrieks of onlookers, had been March, the little black knife he had used to cut the seat belt, his arms around me for the first time. The scent of the mints.

Him
, in the shadows. Since that day, and for all those years.

And even now, ever present in my thoughts.

I was sitting on a bed in a room at Bellevue Hospital, facing Murrell and that older blond agent I had seen with Colin the day prior. March and Alex had been taken to different rooms to be examined, and my own doctor had left ten minutes ago with a statement that I was fine, save for a few bruises and the promise of some degree of PTSD.

I don’t think Murrell cared about such issues, though. At the moment he looked pissed. Or maybe it was just his normal face. He adjusted the cuffs of that (really) classy trench coat, speaking in a slow baritone voice. “Once again, so I’m sure we get this right:
at no time
did you see Mr. ‘November’ engage in
any kind
of reckless behavior that might have precipitated this collision, Miss Chaptal?”

I cleared my throat and avoided their unwavering gazes, my fingertips rubbing the kind of cool, scratchy sheets hospitals seem to specialize in—no idea where they got them. Was there a place that specifically sold scratchy linen? Could you apply for a refund if it was too soft after all? “Well, he did climb in the car at the same time that Austrian guy did. But it was only to stop him. Then those little wheels on the cables started rolling backward and the car was coming down toward us. That guy must have touched the tram’s buttons, sir.”

Murrell’s eyes narrowed. “Now, did you see him do that?”

“Not exactly, but he was there first. Also the tram was French, so—”

That seemed to catch the attention of the stoic blond agent. He scratched his sort hair, and a frown deepened the creases around his mouth. “French?”

“Yeah. They had it renovated by Poma. Everything was French in there: French cables, French cars . . .”

He seemed appalled. “
Damn!
Even the little wheels?”

“Yeah.”

Murrell raised a doubtful eyebrow at his colleague, who kept mumbling something under his breath about this shocking news. A southern drawl had insinuated itself in the guy’s expletives, perhaps due to the emotion. Murrell sighed. “Miss Chaptal, security cameras contradict your version.”

I gulped. “Oh God. This time it’s Guantanamo, right?”

“Do we have orange PJs that small?” the blond guy asked Murrell, with what sounded like genuine curiosity.

He rubbed his eyes between his thumb and forefinger in response. “I don’t know, Stiles. I don’t know . . . Why don’t you go get yourself a coffee while I finish with your soul mate here.”

The guy’s perplexed stare traveled back and forth between me and his partner for a couple seconds, and he eventually headed for the door, flashing me the hint of a smile before closing it behind himself.

My eyes slanted toward Murrell. “What was that supposed to mean?”

“Did you think about the PJs?”

“Of course not!” Of course I had.

He seemed to be fighting a smile. “I think we’re done for tonight. You remain under the supervision of Agent Morgan. You’re not permitted to leave this hospital without him.”

Knots formed in my stomach at the memory of Alex’s injury. “Where is he? Is he okay?”

Murrell pointed to his left with his thumb. “Next room.”

“And . . . Mr. November?”

“He seemed well enough. We had a few questions for him as well,” he said, his tone suddenly a notch cooler.

My chest tightened. “What’s going to happen to him? To me?”

“That’s something you should ask Agent Morgan.”

Murrell gestured for me to follow him with a little jerk of his chin. I hopped down from the hospital bed, grabbed my sweater and bag that a thoughtful nurse had gathered for me on a chair, and we exited the room together. In the dimly lit hallway, the clock on the wall indicated ten fifteen; I gathered patients were sleeping. He opened the next door and ushered me in before closing it behind me.

The room was very similar to mine, with muted lights and a large window overlooking the East River and the Queens skyline under a starless night sky. Alex was sitting on the edge of his white hospital bed, shirtless. On his left shoulder, a thick bandage now covered the wound inflicted by the Austrian guy. Remembering the wisdom of those old Wonderbra ads, I struggled to focus on his peaceful smile rather than the ripped torso I was seeing for the first time. I tried. I really tried. But the various material I had gathered on my favorite research subject was quickly filling my mind and rewiring my neurons. I
had
to study Alex’s androgenic hair.

So here goes. Alex was a CS (circumareolo-sternal), which is accept
able, but somewhat underwhelming. My eyes scanned the faint brown line
between his pectorals and those questionable little rings of hair around
his nipples. There was also a pencil-thin dusting of hair under his navel, but overall the skin covering his muscles seemed very smooth, mak
ing
me suspect some sort of partial shaving business. It was a far call from March’s glorious PSI pattern, which formed a satisfying golden chestnut rug across his chest, right up to his clavicles, and ran down his stomach in a narrowing line.
PSI
, as in “pecto-sterno-infraclavicular.” A synonym for super manly, especially when combined with the abs of a superhero.

And by the way, yes, people were paid actual money to conduct studies regarding the subject and establish a precise chart and terminology system. I wish I had been part of that scientific adventure. I
so
wish I had.

“Are you all right? You seem distracted.”

That was as good as him saying, “Hey, my eyes are up here.” I self-combusted. “Y-yeah. Sorry. I zoned out for a second.”

There was a mischievous glint in Alex’s eyes as he spoke. “It’s okay. Oh, and I meant to tell you I like your version of the tram collision. Very creative.”

I’m almost positive I heard my heart plop down into my stomach with a splattering sound. How the hell could he already know? Had they tapped my room or something?

Alex seemed to read my mind. He gave me a little wink. “Island, Murrell and Stiles work with me, you know.”

I winced.

“Anyway, we’re keeping that version. Very dramatic, excellent for journalists.”

I walked to the bed. “You mean March won’t get in trouble? We’ll blame it all on the other guy?”

“He won’t. Regarding the second point, however—” His gaze hardened. “I’m obliged to inform you that the details of what happened on Roosevelt Island are
absolutely
confidential.”

“I know that, I’m just wondering how you guys will explain it to the public.”

He dismissed my concern with a shrug of his good shoulder. “It’s already been taken care of. There’s no shortage of supplies in our cold rooms.”

As he said this, he pulled his phone from his back pocket, swiped across the screen, and handed it to me. In the browser, the Fox News home page was open, with a series of blaring headlines about a victimless terrorist attack led by an Algerian jihadist named Mohamed Nabil Nachour. He was described as a lone wolf, trained in Afghanistan and Syria, and the journalists claimed his body had been retrieved from the wreckage. A series of sickening pics corroborated this thesis, where Nachour’s lifeless, bruised body could be identified among the tram’s debris.

Right below was a video of Hadrian Ellingham making a stilted speech about the fight for freedom, his love of New York, and how EM Group would donate thirty million dollars to the mayor’s office to rebuild the tram in exchange for some pimping of EMG’s leper kids foundation. Behind him, a giant screen displayed a hasty photo montage of the future project: “Roosevelt 3000,” a futuristic aerial tramway—made in America—whose cars would sport giant pics of smiling leper kids, along with EMG’s logo.

I handed Alex his phone back with a grim expression. “I don’t like that. This isn’t right, and you know it.”

His lips curved in a rueful smile. “It’s just politics, Island. That way everybody wins.”

“And that guy, Nachour, does he win too?”

“You have no idea who he was, what he did to end up like this.”

In Alex’s eyes I could read nothing but a gentle weariness, a silent plea to let go of a cause neither of us had any control over anyway. I thought of Antonio Romos, a Mexican killer I had freed from March’s trunk—where he awaited certain death—and whose case I had pleaded until March gave him a second chance. Antonio had ultimately helped us beat Dries’s plans as a way to pay his debt, and he proved to be a loyal and reliable partner. But no one would ever know whether Nachour had it in him to accomplish something good.

I looked down at the mice decorating my ballet flats. “I don’t care who he was. I believe everyone can change, at some point in their lives.”

I registered the rustle of the sheets, saw his bare feet on the blue linoleum as he got up. “You’re wrong. And still naïve. But I wouldn’t want
that
to change.”

I hadn’t realized I was standing so close to the bed. So close to him. His right hand grazed mine tentatively, fingertips traveling up, tracing my shoulder, reaching the nape of my neck. I stood petrified, my feet glued to the floor when every ounce of rationality in me told me to stop him, that our situation was complicated enough as it was.

The silence in the room made everything louder, each quiet breath, the sound of his tongue darting to wet his lips. I thought the whole hospital might hear us. He had to be hypnotizing me. That’s why those cinnamon eyes weren’t blinking, staring into mine until I couldn’t sustain the intensity of his gaze any longer and my eyelids fluttered shut.

And then the brush of lips on my forehead. I shouldn’t be there, I thought. I needed to think this through, figure out what was left of . . . us. But I stayed, and he kissed me again, pressing a tender peck on the tip of my nose this time. I couldn’t see his smile, but somehow I guessed it, pictured it in my mind. The third kiss landed on my jaw, and when his fingers laced with mine, I gripped them instinctively. Because otherwise I think my knees would have given up on me.

When had he moved even closer? My eyes snapped open at the feeling of his chest, his entire body pressed against mine, warming it fast past any acceptable temperature. I couldn’t see more than shadows, not when a mere inch separated my nose from his clavicle and I was trying hard not to meet his eyes anyway. I breathed in the good-guy cologne, dissected its soapy notes mingled with his own scent—skin, sweat, and the medical smell of antiseptic on his wound. Our fingers were still intertwined, but I was no longer in control.
His
hands were gripping
mine
, gentle but firm, his palms unexpectedly hot.

My breathing grew uneven, answering his own intake of air as he bent his head to take what he had meant to all along. It was all new and familiar. I knew the brush of his lips, the stubble under my fingertips as my hands reached for his face, when and how he’d tilt his head . . . It was Alex. And it was someone else as well, holding my waist, pressing me against his body. Not so much a stranger—as I had first feared—than a different man, one whose kisses were more intense, more aggressive. Each nip, each tug at my lips spoke of an urgency that I found a little frightening, but at the same time, seemed to free something within me. My palms settled on exploring the smooth planes of his back, and I responded with some clumsy Frenching, punctuated by a couple of perhaps miscalculated nips.

I read somewhere that your body releases adrenaline during a kiss, which is how humans manage to overlook most practicalities when engaging in tonsil hockey—also it’s apparently excellent for your heart. When Alex broke our kiss to press his forehead against mine, the lust bubble popped, and I was engulfed back into reality. A reality in which the status of our relationship remained unclear, and where even in Alex’s arms I still couldn’t stop thinking of March.