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Part 1

Special Agent Cady entered her apartment and drew her Glock immediately. The door had been locked and nothing was obviously out of place, but something was off. She could feel it. There was an unsettled air in the apartment and she trusted her instincts. It was how she stayed alive. When she looked over to her living room and realized that the shades had been drawn, she tightened her grip on the gun. She never left the apartment in the morning with the shades still drawn. Someone had pulled them down. She glanced back and saw the same was true of the blinds in the kitchen. She crept silently down the hall, saw that the bathroom was clear, saw that the guest room was clear, and froze upon seeing that her bedroom door was shut. Leaving her bedroom door shut was another thing she never did.

She took a deep breath, then turned the knob and flung the door wide but profiled against the wall, making herself a smaller target as she swiftly regained the two-handed grip on her pistol.

And there he was, waiting for her in front of the bed, hands at his sides, wearing jeans, a tee-shirt, and an unbuttoned blue work shirt over that. He gazed at her silently and she stared at him in disbelief. There were new scars on his face and on his hands. Healed, but new since she had last seen him. His eyes glittered still, but there was a shadow in them now.

She kept the gun trained at him, fighting to conceal the shock at seeing him there. She had never expected to see him again. “They say you killed Mike Decker,” she said softly.

Pendergast held her gaze. “I did not.” The statement was simple, straightforward, very little inflection. He was simply handing her a fact, but she saw that he studied her, looking for her reaction.

“All of us are on orders to bring you in, if we see you. There are probably agents literally on stand-by, waiting to be sent in as back-up to get Special Agent Pendergast safely into custody.”

“I didn’t kill him.” Still no expression, no heated denial, no pleading, no anger. Nothing. “I didn’t kill Mike Decker.”

There was a moment of silence. “I never for a minute thought you did,” she answered at last.

His shoulders slumped slightly, whether in exhaustion or relief was impossible to tell. He stared at her when she didn’t lower her gun.

“But you know who did,” she said.

No answer.

“Pendergast, you know I’m no idiot. I understand about planting evidence. But planting evidence to implicate you specifically? That’s beyond personal. That’s sick.”

He blinked but said nothing.

“Are you willing to tell me?”

He remained completely still a moment longer. Then, moving slowly and carefully in the face of her aimed Glock, he pulled his shirt further open to reveal his holster. Still staring at her, he removed the Les Baer and released the clip, which he put on her vanity. He jacked the round out of the chamber and put that on the vanity, then placed the empty gun there as well. Then, moving cautiously, never breaking eye contact with her, he raised his arms, put his hands on his head with his fingers laced, and went to his knees. “Take me in if you have to, Agent Cady. I won’t resist you.”

She stared at him a moment longer, then allowed herself a ghost of a smile. “Interrogation would be a hell of a lot more fun, but I don’t think we have time.”

For just an instant, she saw a glimmer of hope cross his face, but it was lost to shadow as quickly.

She uncocked her gun and put it on the vanity next to his, then took his wrist and pulled him to his feet. He swayed a moment and she tightened her grip. His arm was like iron. Pendergast never had any weight to lose, but now his forearm felt streamlined and solid. “Okay?”

He closed his eyes for a moment. “I’m fine,” he said quietly. “Just a little tired.”

She frowned at him. “When’s the last time you ate?”

He frowned back at her, but just in thought. “I’m not entirely sure,” he said at last.

“Wish.” It came out in exasperation. She pushed him toward the bed and then pushed him down onto it.

“My dear Agent Cady—”

“Oh, stop it. We’re not going there right now. You lie down and I’ll get you something to eat. If you’re asleep when I get back then you keep on sleeping, and eat when you wake up.” She put her fingers gently against his lips to stop his protests. “Nobody touches you here, Wish. Nobody gets in. You’re safe. My word on it.”

He sat and stared at her a moment, and then something softened in his expression. “Agent Cady, I am a fugitive. What about your career?”

“What about doing what’s right? My career is not your concern. You just worry about relaxing enough to get some rest. No one has any reason to think of looking for you here. My being on that stupid assignment with Coffey ought to take care of that.” She removed his outer shirt and his holster and he offered no resistance. She pushed him supine and took up another pillow to put under his head, removed his shoes, turned the spread up to cover him. “We’ll talk later.”

He put a hand on her arm. “Jemimah—”

“Be still,” she said softly and then smiled at him. “Isn’t that what you always said to me? Go to sleep, Wish. For now, no worries.” She brushed a lock of pale blond hair away from his forehead and then leaned down and kissed him there. “Just sleep.”

He was out before he could even reply.

She studied him for a while. The scars on his face, now that she could see them up close, showed the marks of careful repair work, but her sharp eyes still caught how jagged the wounds had been. The same was true of his hands. Bites, she thought. Animal bites of some kind. His face, always chiseled, was gaunt, and the expression on his face, even in sleep, was worried. She sighed, looking down at him. She would ask him some questions, and he would or would not tell her the answers. She accepted that. It was how they had always been. But she knew from his behavior, from the gravity in his demeanor when they spoke, from the watchfulness, that he was in a fight for his life. She knew he was being hunted by something more than just the FBI and every other law enforcement agency in the system.

It was growing dark and she switched on the small lamp on the far nightstand, angling it to cast most of its illumination against the wall and away from his face. She loaded the Les Baer and put it closer to the bed, within easy reach for him. Then she changed and put her Glock into its holster and put it away, preferring to arm herself with the smaller gun at home. Normally she wouldn’t have carried a gun in her apartment. But she couldn’t watch his back, unarmed.

She went to the kitchen and made herself a sandwich, grabbed a bottle of juice and ate quietly at the table. She wouldn’t fix him anything until he was awake. She smiled a little at the thought, wondering if she had anything in either her pantry or her refrigerator to accommodate his rather particular palate. Somehow she didn’t think PB and J was going to cut it. She had just gotten her dishes into the dishwasher when she heard him call out.

She took the hall as swiftly as she could, gun at the ready, still checking the rooms on her way to her bedroom. Nothing. Clear. She got to her room and looked in.

He was still asleep.

But she had heard him yell. She frowned and waited, saw that his mouth worked, saw that his eyes were moving nonstop beneath the pale lids. He was dreaming. Check that. He was having nightmares. Now he was restless, one arm already coming up — to strike? To defend himself? She put down the gun and went to sit beside him on the bed. In the times they had had together, on those occasions when they had actually slept together, he had dreamt sometimes. He would grow restless in his sleep, and while the occasional word he uttered made no sense to her, the wordless sounds he made were sometimes wrenching, sometimes chilling. Where he had been in his past, whatever he had seen, or done... She understood his reluctance to speak about any of it, given what she could gather on those restless nights. This looked about ten times worse.

She laid a hand on his arm. “Wish,” she said softly.

“No,” he said.

It took her a moment to realize he was not replying to her.

“No...” It was the last word she knew. What he said next she didn’t understand, but she knew enough to recognize he was speaking in Italian. The tone of his voice chilled her. He threw her hand off his arm — he was grappling, wrestling. And yet he would not wake up.

Cady kicked off her shoes and got under the spread with him. He still moved, still struggled, and she felt suddenly afraid for him. Several months ago, they had been told he was dead. The word had come from the New York City Police Department, and Cady had mourned privately. She had holed up in her apartment after work and on weekends and remembered him, hurt for him, mourned for him. She ended by cooking trout for dinner and toasting him with wine in her silent kitchen while the tears ran freely down her face.

Then just as suddenly he wasn’t dead, and quicker than that, he was wanted for murder. None of it made any sense. But she could see he was entangled in some kind of hell and even sleep was no escape.

“Wish,” she whispered. She put her arms around him and he tried to fight her off. “Shhhh,” she said, almost like she would have with a frightened child. “Wish, relax. It’s me. It’s Cady.” She pulled him a little closer, held him a little tighter, willing him to feel her contact, to understand that he was safe for now.

After a minute his eyes fluttered open and he turned his head to look at her in the unfocused light from the small lamp. He seemed puzzled when he saw her, confused. “Jemimah?”

“You’re okay, Wish. It’s all okay. Go back to sleep. I’ve got you.”

He frowned, shook his head. “It’s not safe. I must—” he pushed away from her, moved to sit up, his entire body as tensed and coiled as a spring.

She pulled him back down. “You’re not even really awake,” she whispered. “Relax, Aloysius. Get some rest.”

There was a long silence and then he said in his quietest voice, softened by the drawl, “I’m so tired.”

She repositioned herself to cradle his head against her shoulder, her chin against his hair. “Go to sleep, Wish.”

He sighed and curled into her, the tension leaving him in stages, and presently went back to sleep. She held him, felt his breathing deepen, felt the restlessness starting again and soothed it out of him, gently stroking his arms, his back, his soft, fine hair against her cheek, until his breathing slowed down again when the nightmare had been broken. Still cradling him against her, doing her best to shelter him, she fell asleep with her head resting against his.

She came awake all at once, realizing he was also awake. They were interlocked; she still had her arms around him and she found his were around her as well. She stirred slightly. “What is it?”

“Nothing. You should go back to sleep yourself, Agent Cady. It was not my intention to impose like this. I just needed to get off the streets and think. I do apologize for choosing your apartment for sanctuary, but it was the closest—”

She stopped his rambling with a kiss. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do that?”

He had kissed her back gently, but now he sighed. “We must talk, Cady.”

She nodded. “And you need to eat. C’mon.”

They went padding down the dark hall together, by silent agreement not switching on any of the overhead lights. In the kitchen, Cady switched on the stove light only. “What’ll it be?” she asked. “You know what I eat like, Wish. So think of this as a survival diet.” He actually winced and she laughed in spite of the situation. “You can’t tell me that someone with Special Ops in his background hasn’t eaten absolutely disgusting things that aren’t even food, except in theory.”

“I can survive when I must. But in New York...”

“In New York we all eat processed, frozen, boxed, and fast food, Wish. You’re the odd one.” She opened the refrigerator. “However, you are in luck. There was a dinner last night and I brought home what I didn’t eat. I know you like antipasto. You can start with that and we’ll progress to the Ramen noodles if you’re still hungry.”

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