Flood

61

TWO HOURS LATER I nosed the Plymouth through the parking lot at JFK, looking for a soft spot. I carried Flood’s little bag in one hand, held her waist with the other. She bumped against me softly.

“Burke?”

“Yeah?”

“The last time we made love. In my studio. I thought about having your baby-in Japan-raising him there.”

“And you decided not to, right?”

“Yes.”

“I know,” I said. And I did.

We walked to the departure lounge. I didn’t have a ticket so the JAL people said I could only go so far. I already knew that-I’ve heard it before.

I put my thumb under Flood’s square chin and tilted her lovely face up to me. I grabbed a look at those clear big eyes for the last time, the little tic-tac-toe crosshatch scar now almost invisible under the Cobra’s fading bruises. I kissed her. My heart died.

Flood looked deep into my face, said, “I’m for you, Burke,” squeezed my hand and turned to go. I watched her walk away-and I knew it was the truth.