Sliver Of Truth

“What about your murdered mother, Agent Grace? All that bullshit you told me in the park. Did Max kill the rest of your family, too?”

He flinched as if I’d slapped him.

“That was the truth,” he said as he got out of the car. “Not the whole truth, but I didn’t lie.”

He opened the door for me and helped me out. I hated having to lean on him. I was dirty and wet and cold. My feet squished in the wet ground. When I lost the strength in my legs, he lifted me off the ground, which isn’t as easy as it looks in the movies.

“Put me down, you asshole,” I said, feeling annoyed and embarrassed.

“That’s the second time you’ve called me that tonight,” he observed, moving quickly toward the house.

He set me down on the stoop and unlocked a heavy wooden door with a key he took from above the doorjamb. Inside the air was musty and cold, like the breath of a grave. I hobbled over to a couch I saw. It was red and dusty, sat beside a matching chair and ottoman. It was stiff and uncomfortable but it was better than standing. There was a simple wood coffee table and a fireplace. A stack of wood sat ready for lighting. I curled up against the cold, stared at Dylan Grace with unabashed hatred as he started a fire, covered me with an ugly beige, stinky blanket. He left my sight and set about clanking around in what I assumed was the kitchen. I drifted off again.

When I woke, he was sitting in the chair with his feet up on the ottoman. The fire lit half his face. He was a handsome man in the rough way I mentioned. Even exhausted looking, pale with dark circles beneath his eyes, he had a hard sexuality to him. I could almost imagine being attracted to him if he wasn’t a liar and a killer. Not that such things had stopped me before.

“No one is who you think they are,” he said, somehow sensing that I was awake. “Not me, not Max Smiley, not even Jacobsen.”

He didn’t look at me, just kept his eyes on the flames. This seemed like such a pointless statement of the obvious that I didn’t even bother to respond.

“Who’s the ghost?” I asked. He turned to look at me sharply.

“Where’d you hear that?”

I shook my head. “I’m not sure. I just keep hearing it when I fall asleep. I hear a man asking me, ‘Where’s the ghost?’”

“A lot of people want the answer to that question,” he said, keeping his eyes on me.

“Including you?”

He shrugged. “First you eat, then we talk.” He got up and left the room quickly. I didn’t bother to call after him to try to stop him. I was starting to get used to my own helplessness in all of this. I didn’t have any clothes, any strength. I was in trouble with the police in two countries, not to mention the FBI. I was learning to be more patient. I just sat there for a while staring into the fire, trying to fit together all the million pieces I had, coming up with nothing except the usual headache.

He returned with tomato soup and some tea on a wooden tray. Based on the condition of the place, I didn’t want to think about how long these things had been sitting in a cupboard. I was amazed at my own hunger, though, and couldn’t remember the last time I ate. I tried to eat slowly, not wanting to make myself sick. But I couldn’t keep myself from sucking down the soup in minutes. My stomach cramped but I didn’t throw up, thankfully. When I was done, Dylan made me another bowl of soup, which I ate as well. Then he handed me some pills and a big glass of water.

I looked up at him.

“I’m not taking any pills from you.”

He nodded toward the tray.

“You took the soup-and the tea. I could have drugged you that way, if that was my intention.” The British accent again. It faded in and out. “They’re antibiotics. Without them, you’ll just get worse and worse.”

They looked as if they could be antibiotics, little two-toned caplets. Against my better judgment, I took them. It seemed like a fair enough gamble.

“Where’d you get antibiotics?”

“I keep some around for emergencies.”

I couldn’t tell if he was making some kind of a joke, but I didn’t ask.

He sat down across from me, rested his elbows on his knees. He didn’t say anything as I sipped my water. I felt stronger, less light-headed. I was about to start prodding when he said, “Max Smiley picked a good time to die.”

I looked at him, didn’t say anything. He looked sad, exhausted on a level beyond physical. I almost felt bad for him.

“After a lifetime of evil, he made his exit just before some of the ugly came back at him. Death was too good for Max Smiley. People felt robbed.”

“What kind of evil? You mean Project Rescue?”

“Project Rescue was the least of it.”

I’d heard this before, from Jake. Almost those exact same words.

“I think you need to be more specific. I keep hearing what a monster Max was, how evil he was, but no one’s told me a single thing to make me believe it. I know he wasn’t the man I thought he was. I get that. But evil is kind of a strong word, you know. You need to back it up.”