83

Alix had been weeping as she stuffed her gun into her shoulder bag and ran across the chilly white room to the hellish tableau at its heart. She could barely see through her tears as she loosened the tape from Carver’s eyes and brushed her hand over his face to close his eyelids. She pulled the headphones off his head and then set about undoing the straps that tied him to the chair.

She worked her way down from his head, starting where the suffering was worse. The leather binding that had gagged his mouth had wreaked havoc. As she pulled it away a mass of clotted blood came with it. There was a single tooth stuck like some obscene decoration on the surface of the clot. Alix had to look away for a moment to ease the heaving in her throat before she returned to her task.

The stun belt around his waist was padlocked shut, but the battery packs that powered it could be removed, and with them its power to inflict any more pain. By the time she’d finished, she was kneeling at his feet. She kissed the bleeding flesh where the straps and shackles had bitten into his skin—an echo of his own kiss, all those hours ago. It felt like a kind of atonement.

Yet he made no response and when she got to her feet he was still frozen, eyes and mouth wide open, so motionless that for a moment she feared he might be dead. But no, his flesh was warm, his chest still rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. Alix then leaned forward and took him in her arms.

When Carver finally spoke in a cracked, quavering voice, confessing his blind helplessness, Alix broke down, sobbing against his shoulder. She had never experienced true compassion before. When men had broken down in her arms, she had counted it a victory. Now she felt as though there was no end to what she could give. She longed to care for the man in her arms, to nurse him and restore him, no matter how long it took.

First, though, she had to get him out of the chair, away from the blazing glare of the light box. She spoke into his ear: “Help me, Carver. We must move you. And I need you to help me.”

For the first time, he turned his head to look at her. He blinked several times, trying to restore his vision, then squinted his eyes and peered at her face, searching it for clues.

“It’s me,” she said. “Alix. I came back for you. I’m so sorry, my darling. I was so cruel to you. But I never meant it. You must believe me. I love you. Now please, please try to walk. . . . Do you understand?”

Another frown, more blinks, and then Carver gave a slow, deliberate nod.

“Can you walk?”

A dry, inarticulate croak emerged from the wreck of Carver’s mouth. Then his arms and legs quivered, summoning up the energy and will for a massive physical effort. Alix took a step back to give Carver room as he lifted his hands onto the arms of the chair, then pushed with all his might. Slowly, inch by inch, his face grimacing with strain and concentration, he raised himself upright. Then he collapsed into Alix’s arms.

She tried again. “Come on, my darling, walk for me. One step . . . just one step.”

Carver nodded again, then stuck his right leg forward, with all the stiffness of a man trying out an artificial limb. He shifted his weight forward.

“Well done, that was great. Now, another step.”

He took another stiff-legged step, this time with his left foot. Then he gave a brusque shake of his arm, brushing Alix away, and took two more ungainly strides before falling once more into her arms.

“Anxsch,” he mumbled. He closed his eyes, thought for a moment, then tried again. “Thanxsch.” He squeezed out the word past his swollen, lacerated tongue and through his loosened teeth.

Alix laughed and blinked away her tears. “You’re welcome. Now, come with me, into this corner, away from the light.”

She led him slowly into the corner under the camera and propped him like a broomstick against the wall.

“You okay?” she said, taking her hands off his shoulders and letting them hover right by him, ready to catch him if he fell again.

“Uh-huh.”

She brushed a quick butterfly kiss against his parched, cracked lips. Then she reached into her bag for the clothes. As she pulled the jeans out, the SIG-Sauer came with them. It crashed onto the floor.

“Gun . . .” said Carver, looking at the weapon, but not making any move to pick it up. He nodded to himself. “Good. Need a gun. . . .”

Alix ignored it. She was busy easing the jeans over Carver’s feet and pulling them up his thighs and over the vile band of black nylon until, at last, he had a shred of dignity again. There was one last important job to do, but now she felt weirdly shy. Alix couldn’t understand it. After all the things she’d done, all the men she’d been with, she was nervous about zipping up Carver’s trousers. Why should this seem so much more intimate?

He sensed her unease, and smiled again. For the first time she saw a faint glimmer in his eyes, the merest hint that the real Samuel Carver was coming back to her.

“I can do tha,” he mumbled.

She had to help his fingers find the zipper. He gave a tug and got it about halfway up. She shook her head at her own foolishness and finished the job.

“You love me?” he asked her, as if this were a new idea to him.

Alix nodded, biting her top lip.

“Promise?”

“Yes,” she whispered, so softly that she could barely hear the word herself. Then, fractionally louder, she repeated, “Yes, I promise.”

He nodded. “Tha’s good. . . .”

She took him in her arms again. “It’s all right, my darling. Everything’s going to be all right.”

Then the next thing she knew, Carver had grabbed her with unexpected strength and flung her to the ground as the sound of gunfire shattered the room.