Deliver Us From Evil

83

KATIE JAMES ate a few forkfuls of her Chinese takeout before losing her appetite. That had been a waste of twenty bucks from the ATM. She tossed the containers in the trash, put her fork in the dishwasher, rinsed her hands off, and wandered into the living room. The house was dark, which was how she seemed to like things these days.

These days? More like these months.

She sat in a chair and stared moodily at the wall opposite where photos of her friend and the woman’s family were hanging. She rose, went over to them, touching each one, running her finger along the heads of the kids. In the progression of the photos, they evolved from infants to squirrel-cheeked kindergartners to tall high schoolers and then on to adulthood with their own children, judging by the recent photos of little kids on the wall.

Katie had never been married, except to her career. Never had kids, never come close, actually. She had two Pulitzers and an ugly bullet wound tacked permanently on her upper arm. She had seen the world on someone else’s dime. She would be remembered perhaps for a long time for her reporting. She had excelled professionally and failed miserably on the personal side. It was an old story with her hardly the only victim, if she was a victim at all. And yet when she’d been thirteen the only thing she had wanted in life was to be a mother with a little house with a green lawn and a tree, preferably an apple tree because she had always loved apples.

Instead, somewhere along the way she had chosen documenting one world crisis after another and racking up millions of airline miles in this single-minded pursuit. She suddenly felt chilled, though outside was a typical Washington summer’s evening, meaning warm and humid enough to push sweat through one’s pores with only a brisk walking pace. She slipped a sweater around her shoulders and just stood there in the dark.

She had stopped drinking, at least. Not one drop for months. Not even on the morning Shaw had left her in Zurich without a word. She had surprised herself. If she were going to fall off the proverbial wagon it would’ve been then, she assumed. She had stayed two extra days, called him repeatedly, and then phoned Frank a dozen times until the man had finally answered her.

“He’s hurting,” Frank had told her. “Give him some time.”

And so Katie had given him time. Weeks. And then two months. And she’d tried to call again, but now his number had been changed.

Then it was back to Frank, who said he would help. And he had, giving her information about Shaw, including the fact that he was back at work, meaning he was risking his life in impossibly dangerous situations all over the world. Every time the phone rang Katie would assume it was Frank calling to report Shaw’s death. She assumed this because she had stopped believing that Shaw would ever call her back.

And then Frank had come to her aid again. He’d given Shaw her number on a special phone Frank had provided her. He’d called and hung up when he heard her voice. This hadn’t entirely surprised her, but she had been slightly disappointed. Yet he’d called back and the conversation had been brief, but at least they had talked.

And then she’d traveled to Paris. On Frank’s tip. When she saw Shaw sitting alone at that table, she just stood there. He hadn’t seen her yet and so she watched him. The way he divided the room into grids, looking for possible dangers, just how he lived his life. The only way he could now, of course. They had never had sex, though they’d once shared a bedroom. Never even kissed. Never really come close, at least on his part, she assumed again. She wasn’t sure on her end. Well, maybe she was. It was all very confusing actually.

In truth, Katie wasn’t sure when she had fallen in love with him. It was clearly before he’d left her in Zurich. It might have been that final night in Wisbach, Germany, outside the graveyard where Anna was buried. He was not capable of loving her back, not then. Maybe never.

She stared at the photos on the wall again. If she hadn’t left the restaurant so abruptly? But he hadn’t tried to stop her, bring her back to the table. If he had just followed her out, she would have come back, desperately wanted to come and talk to him. But she had walked down the street and he hadn’t come for her.

She drifted to the window and looked out. There were a few passersby, couples mostly, walking hand in hand. Laughter filtered in from out there. A car roared by, going too fast for the narrow streets in the residential area. Katie had no idea how long she would stay here. Or where she would go from here.

She slipped her cell phone from her pocket, thought of calling Frank again, to see if he had news about Shaw. Her finger poised over the keypad, but didn’t descend.

What really was the point, she thought. Packing misery on top of improbability did not seem like a viable long-term solution. She instead went to bed with the reasonable assurance that tomorrow would not be any better than today.