The Witness

a circle. Seeing Ilya in Justin Blake, seeing what I thought of Sergei Volkov in Lincoln Blake. Seeing so much of what I admired in John in you. And finding I could stand up to the Blakes, I could do the right thing and not panic or run. It seemed like I could make the running stop, but I don’t know if I can.”
    “You can. I want another beer. I want to think. We’ll figure this out, and we’ll fix it.”
    “Brooks—”
    “Beer, thinking, figuring and fixing. You’ve stopped being alone, Abigail. You’ll have to get used to that, too. What’s your real name, anyway?”
    She took a breath. “Elizabeth.” Her voice sounded rusty on the word. “Elizabeth Fitch.”
    He angled his head. “You don’t strike me as an Elizabeth.”
    “For a little while, I was Liz.”
    “Yeah, I can see that. I’m partial to Abigail, but I can see Liz. So.” He stepped forward, took her hand. “Nice to meet you, Liz.”

22
     
    I T WORE HER OUT, BROOKS REALIZED, AS HE SAT DRINKING his beer and thinking. The telling of it and, he imagined, the reliving of it. She’d wedged herself into the corner of the couch, drooping. So he kept his silence, let her drift away awhile while the fire went to simmer and the breeze kicked up against the windows.
    Storm coming on, he thought.
    Twelve years on the run. She’d turned seventeen and had, or believed she’d had, nothing and no one to depend on but herself.
    He pictured himself at seventeen, considered his biggest worry or problem at the time. Wishing he’d had a mightier bat, a faster glove, he remembered, to drive him toward his fantasy of living up to his name as a hot major-league third baseman.
    And longing—lusting—for Sylbie.
    And that, he concluded, had been pretty much that.
    Some schoolwork stress, fights with the longed-for Sylbie, annoyance with parental demands and rules. But he’d had parents, family, home, friends, structure.
    He couldn’t imagine what it had been like for her, being seventeenand in constant fear for her life. Witnessing cold-blooded murder, watching the man who’d given her a sense of security, even family, bleeding to death and trying so damn hard to obey his dying request.
    John Barrow told her to run, no question saving her life with the order. And she’d never stopped.
    He shifted, studying her while she slept. Time to stop running, he thought. Time to trust someone to help, to make it right.
    Sergei and Ilya Volkov, Yakov Korotkii, Alexi Gurevich.
    He needed to do some research on the players, or utilize Abigail’s research. He imagined anything that was or could be known about them was in her files. And in her head.
    Marshals Cosgrove and Keegan—same deal.
    A dirty cop earned a cell shared by those he’d sent over, in Brooks’s opinion. A dirty cop who killed another cop for profit or gain? There was a special circle of hell reserved for them. He wanted a part in putting Cosgrove and Keegan dead center of that circle.
    He had some ideas, yeah, a few ideas, on that. He wanted to chew on them some, do that research, let it all sift around. After a dozen years, a few days, even weeks, of studying and formulating wouldn’t hurt. And he expected she’d need some of that time to adjust to the new situation. He’d need it to convince her to let him do what needed to be done, once he’d settled on exactly what that would be.
    For now, he figured the best thing would be to cart her on up to bed. They could both sleep on it awhile.
    He got up, started to lift her. And she kneed him dead in the balls.
    He swore he felt them tickle his throat, then stick there when her elbow jabbed his larynx. He felt his own eyes roll up and back as he dropped like a stone. Airless.
    “Oh God, oh God! Brooks. I’m sorry.”
    Since the only sound he could make was a wheeze, he gave it up after one attempt. He’d just lie there for the moment, maybe forever.
    “I must have fallen asleep. You startled me.” She tried to turn himover, brushed his hair from his face. The dog licked it sympathetically. “Can you breathe? Are you breathing? You’re breathing.”
    He coughed, and that burned like fire to match the inferno raging in his crotch. “Shit,” he managed, and coughed again.
    “I’m going to get you water and ice. Just take slow breaths.”
    She must have told the dog to stay with him, as Bert laid down so they were eye to eye. “What the fuck?” When that hissed out of him, Bert licked his face again.
    He managed to swallow, then