I took the knife. I walked over to Jonathan. Hector caught my eye: “Just think about the bullet. Don’t think about him.”
Jonathan grimaced at Hector. “Thanks.” But as he said it, his fingers quickly brushed my palm.
I did it. Don’t ask me how — I don’t know. I felt the muscle tense at the first touch of the knife and longed for the luxury of being sick. Instead, I started to feel around for the bullet. The entire time, Jonathan refused to make a sound, whether for Reyes’ benefit or mine I didn’t know. And I think that because of that, I was aware of him in a way I had never been aware of another human being. There was nothing but us and the silence.
And then, finally, there was the bullet. The sheer triumph of finding that one foreign bit of metal in living flesh made the next part easier. I dug the point of the knife, hard, under the bullet — I felt Jonathan’s entire body convulse, but still no sound — and flicked it up and out. It landed on the tile floor. Immediately, Reyes was at my elbow to take the knife. I wondered what the hurry was, because I sure didn’t have any plans for it, but then I noticed that Jonathan was lowering his right arm. I hadn’t even seen him raise it. Even at the time, I knew that the odds of his being able to do anything with the knife before getting shot were smaller than suicidally slim, but I supposed he had to try. It was not until much later that I remembered Hector’s remark. He’s the only one who can do what you want. Ever since, I have suspected that the odds of Jonathan accomplishing what he wanted were not slim at all.
I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be allowed access to any of the medical supplies surrounding us, so I took off that hapless linen jacket (coffee stains don’t come out, anyway). I tore off the sleeves, made one into a pad and used the other to bind it over the wound. As I tied the knot, my hands began to shake again. I supposed that meant they must have stopped at some point.
Reyes glanced at his watch. “Do you expect to prolong this indefinitely?”
“No,” conceded Jonathan, and the tremor in his voice told me what the last few minutes had cost him. “But I think I can manage half an hour.”
Another glance at the watch. “I can explain it to him.”
Hector laughed. “You’ve been working side by side with a CIA agent for the last ten months. This morning you let my partner walk in and drain the account. If you get the money back, maybe you can explain. Without it, not a prayer.” He nodded toward Jonathan. “So he’s right. Half an hour is all we need. Or I guess I should say, it’s all you’ve got.”
Reyes ignored Hector. “Say that is true,” he told Jonathan. “Have you considered that in half an hour, you will no longer be dealing with me, and that while I might offer you your lives, he never will?”
“Yes.”
“And have you made your peace with that?”
“Yes.”
I knew he had to say it. I’m not sure why I was so surprised that he meant it. And I still don’t know how I feel about it. Oh, I know — and knew then — that he was right. Ethics class in college (the first class where we sat together): You can’t judge the morality of an action by its result, or: the ends don’t justify the means. True, logical, and damn hard to live by. Especially when it’s someone else’s life on the line. Jonathan used to play devil’s advocate in that class, pushing the rest of us: Would we really live according to principle? Really? What about this? Or this? And now here we were. What about this? Jonathan had chosen principle. I loved him for it, but I hope you’ll forgive me if I say that at the same time, I wasn’t exactly thrilled.
I think Reyes also saw that Jonathan meant it. He took a gun from one of the orderlies. Then he gave Hector a shove. Hector stumbled forward, and a little sideways, but he never took his eyes off Jonathan. Jonathan started to speak, but Hector just smiled, and this time the smile said only one thing.
Have you made your peace with that?
Yes.
Reyes cocked the gun. “Five seconds.”
Five seconds of silence. Jonathan’s knuckles were white. Hector’s lips moved, and one hand came up to touch the rosary around his neck. Reyes closed his eyes. I wished I could.
And then the gunshot. Followed by a crash. Hector had fallen into a tray of surgical instruments set on a table nearby. A scalpel sliced a nasty gash in his forearm. I don’t know why that bothered me, since he was dead before he hit the floor. I wanted to grip Jonathan’s hand, but I wouldn’t have touched David Blair at that moment, so instead I backed away.
Reyes handed the gun back to the orderly. “Well, Mr. Blair?”
“I knew you were serious. Now you know I was, too.”
“And the lady?”
Jonathan didn’t answer. Reyes saw that as an opening and pressed on. “Dr. Perez knew what he was doing. Do you still insist that Miss Evans is innocent?”
“I do.”
“Make the transfer and I’ll believe you. I’ll let her go. If you like, I’ll even let her call you from the airport.”
Jonathan kept silent. Reyes looked at me: “Nothing to say?”
I kept silent. I wasn’t capable of forming words right then, but even if I had been, what could I say? Ask Jonathan not to be Jonathan? Not possible. Tell him I understood completely and would have made the same choice? Not true. So I just shook my head and focused all my attention on trying not to cry. One might as well face the inevitable with grace. At least feigned grace.
It was none of us that broke the silence. It was Reyes’ cell phone. He answered it, then immediately turned his back on us to conduct the conversation in muffled and very fast Spanish. Each of the orderlies was trying to listen in but still watch us, and while their attention was divided, Jonathan caught my eye. I expected regret, even apology, but got something much more practical: a quick glance, the most fractional nod of the head toward Hector’s body. It took me a moment, but all at once I realized that earlier, he and I had been looking at exactly the same thing. It’s just that he had seen it for what it was.
Reyes finished his conversation and stuffed the phone back in his pocket. Jonathan smiled: “He’s early, isn’t he? He usually is.”
Reyes headed for the door, gesturing for one of the orderlies to accompany him. It was the larger of the two, I noticed, pleased with myself for deducing that Reyes was more worried about his guest than about us. With his hand on the door, Reyes addressed us both. “I will be back, and I will expect an answer.”
For the first time, Jonathan seemed to have trouble meeting his eyes. Reyes nodded, as if he had expected nothing else, and left the room.
Showtime.
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