"Dear god," I breathe. "Dear god in heaven. How can anyone…?" I can’t even finish the question.
"I don't know," he murmurs. "I have long asked myself that same question. I have never found a satisfactory answer beyond the evils humankind is capable of. I, as much as anyone, but even I draw the line somewhere. Pugli does not."
"Jakob, I am not excusing anything, but…" It is hard to find the right words. "Packing a shipping container full of little girls is an evil beyond the pale."
"Made worse by the manner of their procurement," he says, his voice thin and distant. "He would send bands of armed thugsinto villages throughout Europe, find the poorest villages, and buy them from desperate parents. And if they would not sell their children, those men would simply murder the parents and any siblings that were of no use, and take the rest to be sold as chattel.”
"Jesus," I breathe. "Jesus Christ."
"Indeed," he said. "By the time any kind of report made it to the nearby authorities, they were gone. And those local yokel policemen couldn’t have done a damn thing. Those bands were ex-military, armed with assault rifles and wearing armor. A few squad cars of policemen trained to do little more than write speeding tickets and wrangle the occasional drunk? They would have been slaughtered. He still does that, as a matter of fact. I saw a report just a few months ago about a village in southern Romania—six families were wiped out. Murdered in their homes by a dozen armed men. They just kicked in the door and shot everyone but the girls under eighteen."
"He's specifically and intentionally targeting and trafficking little girls?" I ask. "That's what Pugli is doing?"
“That is only one of the horrors that can be laid at his feet. Would you like to know more about his operation?"
I shake my head. "I would not, no. I’ll have enough trouble sleeping at night as it is."
"I'm sorry," he whispers. His eyes finally find mine, and they are aching with sorrow, with guilt, with regret, with self-loathing. "I'm sorry I dragged you into my awful world. You are a wonder, Brys. You are still here, still listening to me. Why? Are you a masochist, that you should inflict me upon yourself yet more?" I open my mouth to reply, but it is clear he is not done, and I am not entirely certain he's really even speaking to me. "I shall treasure the hours we spent together in that hotel room, Brys. That you shared your beauty with me…it is enough. It must be enough. It is enough."
Again, I want to speak, but…say what?
He winces, grimaces, sucks in a breath—the pain returning in full force, now. "Ah, Brys. I wish I were a different man. I wish forgiveness was a commodity one could buy. I wish redemption was…" a shake of his head. "Nearly bleeding out does something to a person. Makes one think."
He stares at nothing again, and I remain silent, gut churning and heart twisting, sinking, rising, burning, aching.
"Who am I, Brys? Jakob Kasparek? Who is that? An orphan, homeless and unwanted? A heroin addict? A whore? A thing to be passed around and traded and bought and sold? A vessel to be used? A plaything of wealthy women and powerful men with dirty secrets? Is Jakob the fledgling businessman? And Caleb Indigo? What of him? The titan of industry, the billionaire with an eye for a profitable gamble? He is dead, and Jakob vanished. Did I start over? No, I hid. I became no one. A voice over the phone, an entity behind encrypted emails. A faceless presence squatting in the shadows, manipulating events from afar." His eyes shut tight. "I wish I were the Jakob you think you know, Brys. But like all else in my life, he, too, is a lie."
I feel shattered, inside and out. Tears stream down my face. My throat is clogged with razors. My chest is clutched by a vengeful god's angry fist. "Jakob. I…I don't—I don't know what to—"
He sucks in a sudden, sharp breath, eyes opening and lasering in on mine. "There is nothing to say. It isn't over—Pugli is still out there, but he is badly hurt and on the run. My people will find him and put an end to this vulgar charade." The sorrier he feels for himself, the more poetic his speech. "I will hire security for you. A dozen armed men to accompany you everywhere you go. To stand watch outside your door. To drive you to work, home, to the bar, to a liaison with a handsome young lad from the temp pool. It is what I should have donefrom the start. Packed you off to a safehouse in Connecticut with an army of guards to watch over you. Instead, I was selfish. I wanted to be the one to protect you. I wanted—" he shakes his head. "I thought I could have—"
“You thought you could have what?" I ask, my voice a wet whisper. "Don't you fucking dare clam up on me now, asshole."
He huffs at my words. "What my Arrows have found. For a few moments of time, for a few precious hours, I thought perhaps I could have what they have."
"And what do they have, Jakob?"
He shakes his head, lips sealed tight and trembling, eyes wet and narrowed against the fall of salt, jaw as hard as granite. "Do not make me say it."
"Well, I am," I snap. "Iamgoing to make you. Say it, Jakob. Say it and be damned."
"Love," he whispers. "Acceptance. Redemption. Forgiveness." A long, deep silence. "Love," he whispers again.
21
CARDS ON THE TABLE
JAKOB
I can't bring myself to look at her. I am too weak to bear her scrutiny, her judgment, her hate.
I have come to the end of myself.
I could not protect Brys—when the moment came, I failed. I was shot. I walked into an obvious ambush, and it was up to others to take care of her and to rescue me.
I had no control.
I have never had any control. It has all been an illusion, a fiction I convinced myself was true.
