Pitts features were coldly menacing. 'The purplish bruises, the swollen flesh, the jagged cuts all worked together in one terrible mask of disgust. His eyes no longer saw her loveliness. He could only see the unidentifiable ashes of what had once been men. He saw Hunnewell dying on a lonely beach. He remembered the face of the captain of the hydroplane before he disappeared in flames. He knew the pain of Lillie, Tidi, and Sam Kelly, And he knew Kirsti Fyrie was partly responsible for their suffering and for some-their deaths.
Kirsti paled and backed away a step. "Dirk, what's the matter?"
"God save thee," he said.
He turned and opened the door. The first few steps toward the elevator were the hardest. Then it got easier. By the time he reached the main floor, walked to the curb and hailed a cab, the old confident, relaxed composure was back.
The driver opened the door and dropped the flag.
"Where to, sir?"
Pitt sat there a moment in silence. Then suddenly he knew where he had to go. He had no choice. He was what he was.
"The Newport Inn. And a compassionate redhead . . . I hope."