back to Cambridge and sat with Dad until sunrise, then teleported back to Nigeria, killed the Radical, teleported to London to report, and now . . . I check my watch . . . I should get back to Cambridge in time to prepare his breakfast.
"And to answer your question."
I try to remember what the fuck was the question.
"Our fellows aren't fanatics, and we do try to maintain a modicum of civilized behavior." I can't help it, I glance down at the blood flecks that pepper my Kevlar vest. "Oh, not you. You're our agent of last resort, the place where morality gives way to necessity." That hangs between us, then Flint adds, "You need to be debriefed."
"No, sir, I need to go home. I left my dad alone."
"Oh, yes, that's right. Dying, isn't he?"
"Yes." The word emerges from between gritted teeth. Of course, why should I expect sympathy? I kill for my country. He must think that death holds no power for me.
Dadeee.
I put a hand to my head as if that will somehow silence that voice.
It's frighteningly quiet when I arrive in the hallway outside Dad's bedroom. I don't hear the thin whimpering moans that had tormented me all night. I rush into the room. He's managed to get himself propped up against the elaborately carved wood headboard. There's a luminous, almost translucent quality to his skin, and for an instant I have the illusion that I can see the vibrant colors of the starburst-pattern quilt through his hands. He has the Bible resting on his lap. It's open to a color plate. A picture of Abraham brandishing a knife while the child Isaac lays passively atop the stone altar. A brilliant stream of golden light pours through an opening in the clouds, pinning Abraham like a bug.
The smile of welcome loosens the knot in my chest, tension leaches out of my muscles, and my legs start trembling. I drop into the chair beside the bed. "You're all right," I say inanely.
"Well, I'm still dying, but the pain isn't so bad this morning." He glances out the window where a breeze is bending the overtall grass, and shaking the fall-splashed leaves on the big oak. "Or perhaps I can just bear it better when I can look out and see the world. Look, the leaves are starting to turn."
"Would you like me to carry you outside?"
"That would be lovely."
He whimpers when I pick him up. I feel my guts curdling with frustration, anger, and guilt, and then it hits me. Dad doesn't have to suffer between morphine injections. I can go anywhere in the world. I speak Arabic and a smattering of Pushtu. I can get heroin in Afghanistan.
I get him settled on a chaise lounge, and drop into the grass beside him. The blades prick through the fabric of my slacks. I pick up a fallen leaf and study the tracery of dark veins through the rampant colors. When I look up my father is gazing down at me fondly, but with a faint crease of worry between his graying brows.
I cough to clear the obstruction in my throat. "What?"
"I'm worried about you."
"Don't be. And why would you be worried?"
He smiles ruefully. "Well, we've been quite the best of friends, and I just hope you have other friends. I'm afraid you're a little too much of a loner. You take after your mum that way."
I'm startled at that. "Really? I don't think I'm much like her at all."
"Oh, no, you're very like her. Same drive, same intellect, same ability to have a very private but rich interior life."
As a child you aren't often offered an opportunity like this. "Did you love Mum?"
"Yes. And guess what, I still love her."
"But she seems . . . you're very . . . I mean, you're dying and she's not here." It just bursts out. Writhing at how inarticulate and juvenile that sounded, I try to cover my discomfort by plucking blades of grass. They leave green stains on the tips of my fingers.
"Couples carve out their own spaces and accommodations. I send her into the world, and she comes back with tales and wonders."
"And what did you get?"
The brush of his hand across my hair is like a sigh. "You."
Political Science 301
Walton Simons & Ian Tregillis
HIS BUTT WAS SORE from getting bounced around in the back of the truck, but at least they were getting far away from BICC. Zane, the last of Niobe's babies, was keeping them camouflaged, but