Page 139 of Once an Angel
A tear rolled off the tip of Emily's nose and plopped into the water, disappearing without a trace.
"I dragged him down the beach toward the boat. But he broke away from me and ran back to the tent. I've never felt as alone as I did at that moment. Standing on that beach, I felt as if I were the only man alive. The only white man.
"Then I heard them. They swarmed out of the rain forest and over the tent like tattooed spiders. I screamed a warning and ran toward the tent.
"Before I could reach it they dragged him out by his arms and legs. He was fighting them with every ounce of his strength. Then he started to yell something at me, but they were all screaming and I
couldn't understand what he was saying."
Emily stared at Justin's profile, mesmerized by its bleak purity.
"I waved the pistol wildly, not knowing whom to fire at. There were too many of them, and I had only one bullet. Then I realized what he was saying. What he was begging me to do."
Shoot me! For God's sake, Justin, shoot me!
"He cursed and howled and begged. And I just stood there, crying so hard I couldn't even aim. They
were dragging him into the bush." His head dropped. "So I shot him."
Emily closed her eyes, flinching at the echo of the explosion. Her nostrils twitched at the acrid stench of gunpowder. Then, in the conservatory as on the beach, there was nothing but silence. Silence forever binding them together. Silence forever tearing them apart.
"When he slumped in their arms, the Hauhaus got very quiet. They just stared at me. I knew they'd
come for me then. I taunted them."
Come get me! Come on, you miserable sons of bitches! What the bloody hell are you waiting for?
"Then they just dropped him and melted back into the forest." His shoulders slumped. "That was the worst of it, you know. When they didn't come back and kill me.
"When I lifted David in my arms, the chain was still dangling from his fingers. He'd never let go, not
even in all his struggles. I knew then why he'd gone back to the tent. To get the watch—the watch with your photograph in it."
Emily rose, unable to bear any more.
Justin waited until she was at the door, her hand on the crystal knob. "Emily?"
He looked her straight in the eye, his golden gaze more searing than the sun. "Always remember one thing. I never lied to you."
She stiffened her chin to still its quiver. "Nor," she said softly, "did you tell me the truth."
As she pulled the door shut, the last thing she saw was the crumpled bloom falling from his limp fingers.
Justin slipped through the darkened house in absolute silence. He knew which creaking boards to step over, which occasional table to dodge so as not to rattle the silver-framed photographs clustered on its top. The thick carpet muffled his footsteps. The clock on the landing below bonged twice.
He felt as if he'd tumbled into one of his own nightmares. The endless corridor rolled out before him, a corridor with a door that grew farther away with each measured step. He feared he might walk forever and never reach it.
But, at last, there it was before him. He wiped his damp palms on his trousers before touching the knob. He'd never before noticed how cold it was. The chill seemed to shoot up his arm to his thundering heart. He forced his rigid fingers to close and slowly turned it. It moved a quarter of a turn, then stopped. He twisted harder. Nothing.
"Emily?" he whispered hoarsely. "Emily, please . . ."
His other hand clenched into a fist. For one crazy moment he wanted to slam his shoulder against the door, to splinter it beneath his weight. But he knew he'd only find another door behind it—a door thick and impenetrable with suspicion and betrayal.
His hand fell away. Despair washed over him in inky waves. He had hoped, foolishly, even wildly perhaps, that the darkness might lower the terrible cost of his silence. That Emily might relent and allow him to spin his regrets in the tender, forgiving cocoon of her embrace. He should have known he couldn't steal with his body what the truth should have bought him. Images from the past night assailed him with fresh grief. Could he have loved her any better if he had known it was their last night together?
He would have held her, just held her in his arms all night long, memorizing the tilt of her snub nose, the ethereal softness of her curls beneath his fingertips, savoring the warm aroma of her skin for all the cold, lonely nights to come.
"Good-bye, my love," he whispered. He pressed his open palm to the polished mahogany of the door,
