“A mother is a mother,” Mikhail insisted. “She would know where her daughter is.”
“We can take her,” Misha suggested. “On her way to the hospital. We can…persuade her to tell us where the girl is.”
“If the mother is a mother, she will not tell.” Sergei began arranging burgers on another platter. “She will die before. If she is not such a mother, and my information is she is not, she may not know. We take her, they move the girl, add more guards. So, we watch the mother who is not such a mother.”
“In the house,” the brigadier said, “there’s nothing of the daughter’s outside the bedroom. And there’s not much there. What is, is boxed. Like storage.”
“So you see.” Sergei nodded. “I have a different way, one that ends this and leaves nothing of us behind. Tell Yakov to be patient a little longer, Misha. The next time we have a party, it will be to celebrate his return. But now”—he lifted the platter, stacked with burgers and dogs—“we eat.”
* * *
When the summer dragged on,Elizabeth reminded herself that if she were home, she would have given in—most likely—and would be enduring the summer program at the hospital. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have done anything all that different from what she did now.
Study, read. Except now she listened to music, watchedmovies on DVD or television. Through summer reruns ofBuffy the Vampire Slayer,she believed she’d begun to learn contemporary slang.
When she was able to go back to college, she might know more of the language, might fit in better.
To continue her quest for security, she went to the practice range. She’d learned self-defense and poker.
Nothing could bring Julie back, and playing what-if was a useless process. It made more sense to look at the advantages of her summer confinement.
She would never be a surgeon.
At some point, she’d take on a new identity, a new life, and find some way to make the best of it. She could study whatever she wanted. She had a feeling joining the FBI was no longer an option, but she didn’t ask. It might have been foolish, but not knowing a definitive answer left a sliver of hope.
She embraced the routine, grew comfortable with it.
Her birthday didn’t change routine. It just meant that today she was seventeen. She didn’t feel any different, or look any different. This year there would be no birthday dinner—prime rib with roasted vegetables followed by carrot cake—or any possibility of the car her mother had promised. Contingent on her academic achievements and deportment, of course.
It was just another day, one day closer to her court appearance and what she thought of as freedom.
As neither Terry nor John mentioned her birthday, she assumed they’d forgotten. After all, why should they remember? She gave herself the gift of a day off from studying, and decided she’d make a special dinner—notprime rib—as a personal celebration.
It rained, drenching and thunderous. She told herself it made the kitchen only homier. She considered baking a cake, but that seemed self-serving. And she hadn’t yet tried her hand at real baking. Preparing spaghetti and meatballs from scratch seemed challenging enough.
“God, that smells fabulous.” Terry paused in the centerof the kitchen, inhaled deeply. “You almost make me think about learning how to make something besides mac and cheese.”
“I like doing it, especially when it’s something new. I’ve never made meatballs. They were fun.”
“We all have our own fun.”
“I can put some of the sauce and meatballs in a container for you to take home. You’d just have to add the pasta. I made a lot.”
“Well, Lynda called in sick, so you’ll have Bill and Steve Keegan. I bet they can pack it away.”
“Oh. I’m sorry Lynda’s not well.” Routine, Elizabeth thought. It always gave her a jolt when it changed on her. “Do you know Marshal Keegan?”
“Not really. John knows him a little. He’s got five years in, Liz. Don’t worry.”
“No, I won’t. It just takes me a little time to get used to new people, I guess. It doesn’t matter. I’m going to read after dinner, and probably go to bed early.”
“On your birthday?”
“Oh.” Elizabeth flushed a little. “I wasn’t sure you knew.”
“You have no secrets here.” On a laugh, Terry moved over to take another sniff of the sauce. “I get you like to read, but can’t you come up with anything more fun on your birthday?”
“Not really.”
