Ice Storm (Ice 4)

“I love you,” he said, hopeful.

She gave him a look. “Is it over?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Is Isobel all right?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t think there’s anything I can do about it, either.”

“No,” she said thoughtfully. “I expect not. By the way, I don’t have the stomach flu.”

He had to tread carefully. “You don’t?” he asked, trying to look innocent.

She laughed at him. “Why is it you can lie to everyone on earth except me? You already know. You probably knew before I did.” She took his hand and put it on her still-flat belly. “Are you going to stop trying to get yourself killed?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Humph,” she said. “Let’s go home.”

And it was that easy.

Isobel walked into her apartment, dropping her purse, kicking off her shoes. It was dark outside, but she didn’t turn on the lights. She walked through her flat, straight into the bathroom, and climbed into the bathtub, still wearing her tailored slacks and her cashmere sweater. They were stained with blood. Her soul was stained with blood. She sat in the tub and turned on the shower.

The water was icy, but she didn’t flinch. It quickly grew warmer, but she didn’t move, letting the water soak into her hair, her clothing, her skin. She sat until the water grew cold again, then she rose, stripping off her clothes and moving through her darkened apartment to her bedroom. She pulled back the duvet and climbed into bed, her hair soaking wet, the room cold. Sooner or later the heat would come on by itself. If it didn’t, she could always freeze to death.

They’d replace her, thank God. She’d have to face the Committee, and there was no way she’d flinch from what had happened. She’d done the right thing, the necessary thing, and she’d do it over and over again if she had the chance, with the memory of Charles Morrison, of Finn MacGowan, of all the other operatives keeping her company. Their hands had held the gun along with her.

She’d killed her last man. The first time she’d ever done it point-blank, with no hesitation, an unarmed man of pure evil. It was too steep a price, and she couldn’t do it anymore. This was a world she could no longer live in.

She wasn’t sure where she’d go. Somewhere far away, someplace warm and lush and green, where there were no ice storms and freezing fogs, where no one could ever find her. Not that anyone would look.

Maybe the South Pacific, maybe the Caribbean. Did it snow in New Zealand? She could get lost among the sheep.

He’d been bleeding, and he’d disappeared. The car he’d stolen was gone—she could only assume he’d taken it and left. She could at least be grateful for that much. She wouldn’t have to face him again.

She rolled over on her stomach, hiding her face in the feather pillow. Saint Lucia? The Canary Islands? Hawaii? She wanted the ocean and soft breezes, she wanted hot sand, palm trees and flowers. She could almost smell them now, except they were roses, and roses weren’t tropical, were they?

He was standing in the doorway, a silent silhouette. She kept a gun under the other pillow, complete with silencer. She could roll over and shoot Killian in the head, and it would be called an accident.

But she’d killed her last man, no matter how badly this one deserved it.

She sat up, turning on the light beside her bed, keeping the duvet pulled up in front of her. He looked like hell. He’d changed clothes, and she could see the bulk of a bandage on his left shoulder. The same place she’d shot him so many years ago.

“I couldn’t tell you.”

She just looked at him. He didn’t come any closer—he probably knew just how dangerous she was. “I quit. I had to tell them before I told you the truth. They aren’t going to like it, and we have our own Harry Thomasons who aren’t going to want to let me just walk away. But I will. If you will.”

> “Why should I?” It wasn’t her voice in the darkness, the cool voice with the clipped British accent. It was Mary Curwen’s voice, young, vulnerable.

“If you don’t know, I’m not sure I can convince you.” He was edging closer. If she pulled the gun out she could get a clean shot. Fast and clean.

“Why?” she said again.

“Because you love me. For eighteen years you’ve haunted me, and I don’t want to let you go again. So either shoot me with that gun you have or ask me to come to bed.”

It was raining again, another cold, icy rain. But it was warm inside. The gas fire behind the grate finally had clicked on, and a soft glow filled the room. The cold had vanished, and she could feel the heat building inside her.

“Come to bed,” she said in her coolest voice. “I can always shoot you in the morning.”