Dying to Tell (30 page)

seventy-one

“Tuck?” Angel's voice startled
me. “Are you here?”

“I'm here, babe. Right here.” I reached out and took her hand. Her warmth was something I'd have to get used to, now that'd we'd shared my side of life and death. In those short hours, we had bonded so much that the link between us was stronger—better—unbreakable. “You fell asleep again. I haven't left.”

It had taken days for Angel to do more than sip water through a straw. In that time, neither Bear nor I had left her side. Even Cal stood a couple
all-night
vigils so Bear could sack out on the guest couch in her room. This morning—a week after Karen Simms tried to kill my Angel for the third time—she was getting back to normal. Not bad for a woman who'd died and almost didn't returned.

Almost.

In the end, she'd chosen life. Life as she had it before. Life as she would have it for a very long time. Life as we both knew it for the past two years.

Bear had just left for breakfast and it was just the two of us. My feet had been propped up on the couch waiting for her to awaken from a
late-morning
nap. I hadn't taken my eyes off her for days.

“Tuck,” she said as she eased her legs over the bed, “who was the woman the West Virginia police found in Poor Nic's car in Morgantown?”

I shrugged. “They don't know yet. No ID. No prints on file. They're thinking she was just some homeless gal Karen found. They're working it.”

She thought for a while. “So, Karen tried to shoot me at the club the night Nicholas was hit? And she ran me off the road?”

“Yes. She thought William told you everything that was going on at the bank and about Professor Iskandr. She figured you'd eventually put it all together.” I was guessing of course. “You were a popular girl, babe. What is it about you that so many people want to kill you?”

“Maybe it's you,
dear
.” She grinned and rolled her head to relax her shoulders. “What about Franklin Thorne? Raina? What came of them?”

Good questions. “Raina's gone—probably back to Egypt. Her government won't say. Funny how a little
seventy-year
international murder spree has them all
hush-hush
.”

“Franklin?”

“Gone, too.” I went to her and put an arm around her. Strangely, I felt her arm around me, too. Feeling her touch was new—like our first time all over again. “He got the money from Karen's offshore account and poof, he vanished. Karen thought she played him for inside information on the bank security system, but he played her for over half a million. I doubt the bank will give him good references, though.”

Angel laughed and tried the few steps from her bed to the window. “And what will happen to Keys and Lee Hawkins? He
was
a spy and he
did
kill Youssif Iskandr, right?”

Ah, another good question. “The FBI doesn't know what to do with him. Other than his confession—and he's recanted that—there's no proof of anything. Ollie can't testify and Raina sure won't. So, all we have is an immigration mess. After all, as Lee keeps saying, that was war. He killed Youssif all right—in
self-defense
.” I told her about my last visit with Ollie to 1944. “And Youssif wasn't an innocent civilian, not really. He worked for the OSS, and that made him fair game during the war. Sort of. If Ollie hadn't given him that gun, maybe things would have been different. Maybe not.”

“If the FBI doesn't want the case, does Keys stay?”

I shrugged. “The FBI punted to Immigration. Germany doesn't want him and claim they have no record of any spy or citizen named Albrecht Falke. And after Poor Nic got ahold of him when he got to the hospital the other day—I bet that was an unpleasant meeting—Keys won't talk to anyone. He's in legal limbo.”

Angel steadied herself by the window and looked out. The sun shone for the first time in days and the few inches of snow had already melted to nothing.

She turned and took my hand. “I can feel you, Tuck. I feel your touch without you playing with the light cord or anything silly like that anymore.”

“I hope it lasts.”

“You could have convinced me to stay, you know. You could have kept me with you.” She pressed against me and kissed my cheek. “I would have.”

“I know.”

“Will you two knock that off? Jeez, I'm right here.” Ollie stood in the doorway holding his Washington Senators ball cap. “Doc's looking for you, kid. He wants the full scoop.”

I laughed. “Why don't you fill him in?”

“Oh, no.” He slipped his ball cap onto the back of his head. “I can't take his nitpicking. Damn, kid, I've been listening to it my whole life—and death. It's your turn. So hurry it up.”

I gave Angel a squeeze. “You know, if you can feel my arms around you and my kiss, maybe then …”

She blushed. “It has been two years. Do you think?”

I did think. “What about the suave French movie star?”

“Let's hope we don't need him.”

Later, we'd find out. Another secret to keep.

Thinking about the past days reminded me of the book that saved Larry Conti's life,
Murder on the Orient Express
, one of Agatha Christie's best. In that story, they all did it—every one of them. Just like here and now. Keys was a German spy who killed Youssif. William Mendelson unknowingly helped steal Youssif Iskandr's antiquities, and by that, was an unwitting accomplice in his killing. Karen stole from William. Marshal plotted to steal all William's treasure with Karen. Then Karen killed William for revenge and then killed Marshal; he was the only witness who knew the whole story. She tried to kill Angel, too. Franklin Thorne planned to steal the vault treasure and did steal over half a million bucks. And Raina Iskandr's family took revenge over and over.

The irony, though, was that Raina Iskandr came here to Winchester to avenge her grandfather's death. She came to kill. Yet, in the end, she never did. Oh, she was a crazy bitch—as Karen had deemed her—but she never took a life. She just followed all the old secrets and they consumed her.

They all had secrets, I guess. They all told lies to keep them—and some of them killed for them. Those secrets hurt a lot of innocent people. Cy Gray, Claude Holister. Even my Angel.

And it cost them all.

In the end, everyone got what they deserved—it's like that sometimes. Except Franklin Thorne, who tried to take my Angel. That suave, handsome, thieving
son-of
-
a-bitch
was somewhere laughing over his $521,511.22. But that will end. The formerly unidentified master thief now has a face and fingerprints. They'll find him one day.

I hope I can be there when they do.
Bastard
.

Angel and I have our secrets, too—her more than me. And we're going to keep them. Sure, there's a few little white lies—like who she talked to at the café and strolled with through Old Town. Who made her laugh when it was only her in her University office. Many around town know about me—or think they know—yet, no one will come out and say it.

Except Cal “Calloway” Clemens. He wrote a song about me. He called it the “Dead and Back Blues.” It's a real hit at the Kit Kat Club where Angel, Bear, and I have a reserved table. Lee Hawkins loves to buy the drinks, too. And most times, Bear stays late and sees her home—for the job, of course.

But hey, like Cal's song, I'm dead and back. I'm just not so blue. I've got my job, my dog, my beautiful wife, and my … well, no, not my health. But, three out of four ain't bad. Is it?

the end