Gonzalez snorted. "You stuck your wedge into something."
Valentine turned around. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Well, your fly's been unbuttoned all night, and your back looks like two alley cats went about fifteen rounds on it. Unless you've been rolling in barbed wire, I'd say someone was moaning in your ear."
"Just go to sleep, funnyman. I was just doing some chores for the family, really. Molly had something she needed fixed, so I took care of it for her."
Gonzalez shook his head and turned over, carefully positioning his injured arm. "You officers get all the good jobs," he observed.
Valentine awoke in the middle of the night to a light tread on the stair. In the dim light shining down from the kitchen, he saw Molly cautiously entering the basement.
"David?" she whispered.
"Over here," Valentine breathed back.
"No, over here," Gonzalez answered.
"Shut up, you," Valentine said, throwing his pillow at the scout.
"I wanted to talk to you. Sorry, Gonzo," she said.
Gonzalez swung his feet to the floor with a groan and pulled on his pants with his good arm. "I just remembered how long it's been since I've watched a sunrise. Don't make too much noise 'talking," you two."
"Thanks, Victor. I mean it," Valentine said.
"You owe me one. See you at breakfast."
He moved soundlessly up the stairs.
Molly scuttled into Valentine's arms. He kissed her, grateful for her surprise.
"Did you want to talk?" he asked.
"Sort of," she said. "But not anymore. Let's go into the secret room. It's dark, and we can make a little bit of noise. But just a little."
Valentine opened the panel in the wall, and they nipped into the deep shadows, holding hands.
"Hey, you used one of those soaps," Valentine whispered, smelling her clean skin.
"Yes, this one's-"
"Roses," Valentine said, caressing her hair. "Beautiful."
She shut the door, and they were in blackness so total there was nothing but touch, and the faint smell of roses.
They kissed and kissing, lay down together. They melded in the darkness, learning new ways to please each other, delight each other, and, finally, love each other.
They said good-byes in a steady, spirit-sapping drizzle. As Flanagan and his ubiquitous shadow waited out of the rain in the patrol car, family, friends, and lovers shared a few parting hugs. Valentine, Molly, and her parents all wore the same air of false cheerfulness that appears at a funeral, after a septuagenarian drops dead in perfect health. "Never knew what hit him," one relative will say to another. "Yes, I'd love to go that way. No pain, no suffering, no illness. Lucky man," the other will agree, jointly looking for the tiny patch of sunshine among the dreary clouds.
The same forced tone was present in Mr. Carlson's voice as he said good-bye to his daughter. Molly wore her oldest cow-mucking work clothes, clean but nevertheless permanently stained. "Country girl he wants, country girl he gets," she had said to her mother after turning down the suggestion that she wear her prettiest dress, a blue-checkered barn-dancer that matched her eyes, to cheer herself up. "No, give that to Mary. Something to remember me by," she said, leaving the room before her mother could ask what she meant.
"Take care of that arm, Victor," Molly said, shaking his left hand. "My turn to see the big city, Frat. At least Madison isn't Chicago, thank God. Mary, there's more to horses than riding and brushing them. I'm putting you in charge of the stables while I'm gone, and you'd better keep it clean."
Her words to Valentine, in hindsight, also hinted at her dark mood under the steel-gray clouds. "David, you're going tonight, right? When it gets dark?"
"That's the plan. I'm still working on that pack for my horse. We'll be miles away by morning."
She smiled up at him, satisfied. They wandered to the side of the house, where they could kiss without watchful eyes on them. "I'll think of you fighting Reapers, David. You know, now that I've thought of it, maybe your Masada solution is the better one. Take a few of them with you."