Page 75 of Cross Down
“Ma’am, please—”
When she presses down a third time, it works.
Chapter
84
It’s night againwhen Deacon and I take shelter in another village, this one called Ab Doi. After Bibi ran off, we stayed just long enough to find out from a young boy who knew a smattering of English that the place’s name was Numay and that it had never been attacked, not ever. When Deacon asked if he knew of a nearby village destroyed two years ago, he shook his head, left, and came back with two unopened plastic bottles of water.
I told Deacon we should travel west because that’s where Bastinelli had seen the explosions, and surprisingly enough, she agreed. Now we’re huddled up in a small, smelly stone building that might once have been used to store manure. This village is as unscathed as the first, and thanks to the Afghan custom ofpashtunwali,we are fed, given shelter, and treated as guests.
Well, it’s not much of a shelter, with most of the roof gone, but at least the walls are cutting the wind. Deacon and I have crawled into our respective sleeping bags and we’re huddling together to stay warm. The stars overhead are very bright indeed.
I doze off but wake up a few minutes later. Deacon is shivering hard next to me. “Elizabeth?” I say.
“Yeah. Who else did you think would be here?”
“Hold on.” I unzip my bag and, with the light from a headlamp, manage to get her bag zipped to mine so we’re sharing one covering. I pull a dusty carpet over us and say, “Roll over.”
She does, and I cuddle her from behind, rubbing her arms, pressing my body against hers. “Shhh,” I say. “Just hold on. We’ll get you warmed right up.”
“I sure as hell hope so,” she whispers back.
We wait. My feet and lower legs are dangling out in the open. I’m sure my breath is on the back of her neck, but she doesn’t complain. She whispers, “First time we’ve had a break since we got together back in Vermont.”
“Sounds about right.”
She pauses, then says, “You married, John?”
“I was once. To Billie. We have a daughter, Willow. Billie died a while back.”
“God, I’m sorry I asked,” she says.
“No, it’s all right,” I say. “It’s good to say her name, to remember her. I don’t mind talking about her, and Willow is like having a version of Billie still in my life.” Out there somewhere, a baby cries. “You? Married?”
She says, “Once. Divorced. No kids.”
“Why the divorce?” I ask.
“Our schedules and work life never meshed,” she says in the near darkness. “Pretty soon we were like roommates, just two people sharing a house and not much else, and eventually I figured I could save money by leaving him and getting a smaller place.”
The spasms of her shivering slow down and stop, but I keep on holding her tight, and her hair tickles my nose, and I move and she moves and now we’re kissing.
That sweetness goes on and seems to warm us both up, but then I say, “Elizabeth, we should stop this.”
“Why?” she asks, her voice amused. “Too dedicated to the mission?”
“No,” I say. “I want to put this on pause and then pick up where we left off in a few days. In a place with clean water, clean sheets, electricity, and room service.”
She kisses me one more time. “Detective Sampson, you got yourself a deal.”
When the cold rays of sunshine start coming through the open roof, we both get up, arrange our gear, and step outside. We don’t talk about last night, but with all that’s been going on this past week, it’s an unspoiled sweet memory I want to cherish.
Outside, about a dozen villagers have gathered, and my hand goes to my holstered Glock.
I don’t like crowds.
An older man emerges from a small building; he’s wearing tan cotton slacks, heavy boots, and a white collarless shirt with a sheepskin vest. His long beard is white and neatly trimmed, and what I can see of his hair is also white. That he’s unarmed is unusual in this part of the world, and the men in the crowd—no women, of course—watch him with respect and affection.
