Has been earmarked.
There it was again, a foregone conclusion. By a faceless authority. No one to take responsibility for the decision. See here, what can we do? It simply happened while no one was looking. And now, we’ll wash our hands of it.
The cowardice of that rankled him.
And when he turned in his report, one that would shine a light on this misdeed?
The fallout would be immediate, political, and utterly spectacular. He would shake the High Council—and most likely his career—to the core. Indeed, depending on who had authorized the retirement in the first place, his report might end the career of Principal Field Agent Henry Darnelle.
His father had made any number of enemies during his time in the Enclave. For that matter, so had Henry. Despite the veneer of civility, Enclave politics were ruthless.
He pushed his hands through his hair and then pushed away from the desk. He was getting nowhere. He paced in front of the hearth until a thump came from the umbrella stand. Despite everything, he laughed.
A hand braced on the doorframe, he crouched next to the stand. “What are you trying to tell me?”
A flurry of images filled his mind, those of the funeral. He didn’t want to think about his father’s funeral. But his umbrella was relentless. Inexplicably, Henry found his attention turning toward the sideboard, where the polished surface was still littered with condolence cards.
He’d dealt with the immediate requirements of the estate along with the funeral (a fiasco from the start). He’d meant to acknowledge the sympathy of far-flung family and friends. If for no other reason than to prove that his father’s death hadn’t sent him off the rails.
Instead, he’d opted for the Sahara mission.
So much for proof.
His umbrella was oddly silent as he gathered the cards together. He shuffled through them until he found the one with the return address of King’s End. It had been one of the first to arrive, although, at the time, he hadn’t thought much about it or its sender.
No, this particular card was the first. He remembered that now. With care, Henry eased the card from the envelope and read the message inside.
My dear Henry,
I offer you my heartfelt condolences upon the death of your father. Although it has been some years since I last saw him in person, I feel his absence keenly.
He was a man who only needed to hear a song once to know all the lyrics, which he’d sing—usually on key. He liked his scotch neat and his steak rare. He took great pleasure in being right but always admitted when he was wrong.
And he saved my life more than once.
But his greatest joy, the light that fueled his soul, was you. You brightened his world in a way no other living person ever did. Remember that in the days to come. You were his reason.
Rose Little
The recoil was immediate and searing. Although not as sharp as the first time he’d read those words. He’d gasped out loud then. This time, he forced the intake of breath past the clogging in his throat.
You were his reason. Jesus, that hurt—his mind, his heart, his soul. It left him breathless and bereft.
Back in February, he’d shoved the card into its envelope, as if he could escape both the immense weight of his father’s death and his love. Now, it was as if his body had incorporated the grief, spreading it through his veins, his muscles. It was like pressing a bruise that wouldn’t heal and relishing the resulting pain that radiated from its center.
He took a closer look and considered the words she had written in a careful, if shaky, hand. Those small details spoke to intimacy, but his father had never mentioned Rose Little, not that he could remember. What Henry did recall was Botten’s barely hidden insinuation: She and your father were close.
He picked up the envelope. The first to arrive, the postmark the day his father had died.
Which couldn’t be right. They’d been in Cannon Beach the last month of his father’s life, abandoning Seattle and the Enclave for the small family cabin nestled along the Oregon coast. Just him, his father, and, of course, the private hospice service.
Henry had spent his days taking long walks along the beach, staring out at Haystack Rock, letting the ocean air wash across his skin. That way, when he tasted salt on his lips, he could tell himself it came from the sea. In the evenings, they streamed college basketball and improbable spy movies.
During which his father would turn to him and intone, “For such an elite organization, they’re really quite terrible at their jobs.” And then a long, measured pause followed by a sip of scotch. “And their tradecraft? Simply appalling.”
One unseasonably fair afternoon, he’d even wheeled his father onto the deck for a cookout. That had been the surprising thing about hospice, the allowed indulgences. Tiny bites of steak cooked rare and a glass of scotch, neat, in the evenings. Small comforts that had somehow gained all the importance in the world.
And then there was the day the hospice nurse had placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, their words soft and steady.
