No empathy, no remorse, people were detritus, nothing more.
God, it was unthinkable.
She looked over at Adam. He was looking toward Savich, but
she didn’t think he really saw him. Adam was really looking inward,
ah, but his eyes–they were cold and hard and she wouldn’t
want to have to tangle with him. She heard her father in the other
room, speaking to Gaylan Woodhouse on the phone.
Sherlock and Savich left a few minutes later, leaving Adam and
Becca in the living room, looking at each other. He said, his hands
jiggling change in his pockets, “I’ve got stuff to do at my house. I
want you to stay here with Thomas, under wraps. Don’t go anywhere.
I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Yeah, I want to do some stuff, too,” she said, rising. “I’m coming
with you.”
“No, you’ll stay here. It’s safe here.”
And he was gone.
Her father appeared in the doorway. She said, “I’ll see you later,
sir. I’m going with Adam.” She picked up her purse and ran after
him. He was nearly to the road when she caught up with him.
“Where are you going?”
“Becca, go back. It’s safer here. Go back.”
“No. You don’t believe any more than I do that some colleague
or friend of Krimakov’s from the good old days is wreaking all this
havoc. I think we’re missing something here, something that’s been
there all the time, staring us in the face.”
“What do you mean?” he said slowly. She saw the agents in the
car down the street slowly get out and stand, both of them completely
alert.
“I mean nothing makes sense unless it’s Krimakov. But just say
that it isn’t. That means we’re missing something. Let’s go do your
stuff together, Adam, and really plug in our brains.”
He eyed her a moment, looked around, then waved at the
agents. “We’ve got to walk. It’s three miles. You up for it?”
“I’d love to race you. Whatcha say?”
“You’re on.”
“You’re dead meat, boy.”
Since they were both wearing sneakers, they could run until
they dropped. He grinned at her, felt energy pulse through him. He
wanted to run, to race the wind, and he imagined that she wanted
to as well. “All right, we’re going to my house. I have all my files
there, all my notes, everything. I want to scour them. If it is someone
who knew Krimakov, then there’s got to be a hint of him in
there somewhere. Yes, there must be something.”
“Let’s go.”
She nearly had his endurance, but not quite. He slowed in the
third mile.
“You’re good, Becca,” he said, and waved his hand. “This is my
house.”
She loved it. The house wasn’t as large as her father’s, but it sat
right in the middle of a huge hunk of wooded land, two stories, a
white colonial with four thick Doric columns lined up like soldiers
along the front. It looked solid, like it would last forever. She
cleared her throat. “This is very nice, Adam.”
“Thanks. It’s about a hundred and fifty years old. It’s got three
bedrooms upstairs, two bathrooms–I added one. Downstairs is all
the regular stuff, including a library, which I use for a study, and a
modern kitchen.” He cleared his throat. “I had the kitchen redone a
couple years ago. My mom told me no woman would marry me unless
the stove would light without having to hold a match to a
burner.”
She smiled. She nearly had her breathing back to normal.
“I had one of the two upstairs bathrooms redone, too,” he said,
looking straight ahead. They climbed the three deep steps to walk
across the narrow veranda to the large white front door. He stuck a
key in the lock and turned it. “My mom said that no woman wanted
to bathe in a claw-footed tub that was so old rust was peeling off the
toes.”
“That does sound pretty gross. Oh my, Adam, it’s lovely.”
They stood together in a large entryway, with a ceiling that
soared two stories, a chandelier hanging down over their heads and
a lovely buffed oak floor. “I know, you redid the floors. Your mom