Mara's eyes were hidden behind two brilliant circles of light. Impossible to know what he was feeling or even where he was looking. Pressed into the corner between the bar and the wall, arms raised and crossed to shield his head, the bitter injustice of his predicament shrilled like pain inside Chase's brain. To have saved Ingrid Van Dorn from pyro-assassination only to become the victim himself! What a monstrous black joke!
Mara was on his knees. He seemed to be praying, his lips miming soundlessly. Then his lips peeled back and dropped off to reveal his gums and teeth, the flesh of his skull bubbling and shriveling like melting cheese as he directed the nozzle into his face. His robes caught fire and flared up. In seconds the flames had consumed his scarecrow body and he continued to burn long after the nozzle had fallen from his charred black fingers. The fire spewed out across the carpet, setting alight a gilt chair, which as the horsehair stuffing caught fire poured out thick ringlets of smoke.
The luminous dial of his watch read 4:17. Chase squinted at it and lay back on the pillow. He touched his hair, feeling the crisped and blunted ends where he'd leaned too close in turning off the gas nozzle. Bloody stupid thing to have done: He could have been fried alive, like that other poor devil.
He stared up at the shadowed ceiling, knowing that sleep would never come. There was too much on his mind. Cheryl knew he was holding something back--her silence told him that. He had expected the worst but the worst hadn't come, not yet, though the silence was forestalling the inevitable.
Slipping out of bed, taking care not to disturb her, he put on his dressing gown and went into the living room. He didn't switch on the light. The bottles on the cabinet gleamed temptingly, but instead he fumbled his way to an armchair and sat down.
Sooner or later he would have to tell her. The inevitable was near; in fact it was here and now, he realized, when he saw her pale form in the bedroom doorway.
"I couldn't sleep," Chase said unnecessarily. "Sorry if I woke you."
"You didn't." Cheryl came into the room. "Do you want some coffee?"
Chase shook his head before it occurred to him that she wasn't able to see him properly. "No thanks."
He heard a rustle as she settled herself on the arm of the couch and arranged her robe to cover her legs. Neither of them spoke for a minute.
"Why didn't you tell me, Gavin?"
"Tell you?" he said obtusely.
"Yes," Cheryl said deliberately. "Tell me. You. Instead of Nick."
"You asked him?"
"Yes, I asked him. I knew there was something wrong. But I was hoping you'd tell me yourself. You didn't."
"I had to think about it, get it straight in my own mind first."
"Get it straight?" Cheryl said with mock astonishment. "Get
"It isn't that simple."
"It's very simple," Cheryl contradicted him, folding her arms. It was a sign of battle. "Do I really have to remind you? A man who made a fortune supplying toxic chemicals to the army, who for years was in collusion with the Pentagon hatching a cozy little plan called DEPARTMENT STORE to kill every living thing on this planet, and who now--sweet Jesus, this is poetic justice in spades--who now because he's been stricken with the disease he wanted to inflict on everyone else suddenly has a change of heart, and--surprise, surprise--wants to switch sides, to become the savior of mankind instead of its executioner. Have you got it? Is that straight enough for you?"
"Gelstrom is dying," Chase said quietly. "Nothing can save him and he knows it. He's not doing this for himself."
"Oh, I see!" Cheryl exclaimed with ponderous sarcasm. "This is a-- what do you call it?--a grand final gesture. Oh, well, sure, that changes everything. By all means welcome him back into the fold. Forget the past and let's all be buddy-buddy. Sure, why not? I expect he's really a great guy at heart, fond of his gray-haired old mother, had a difficult upbringing, and so on--"
"Cheryl, will you listen to me? Please? Will you try to understand?"
"In a word, no."
Chase leaned toward her. "Gelstrom isn't behind this project, can't you understand that?" His voice had risen, and he glanced at Dan's door, then went on in a lowered tone. "He's not involved in any way."
"Except for the small matter of a couple of billion dollars."
"Does it matter where the money comes from? Money is money." Chase had said it without knowing if he actually believed it.
For Cheryl, words were hardly adequate to express what she was feeling.
"I didn't understand when you first told me about the project, before I knew that Gelstrom was funding it. But now--"she broke off, fighting down emotion. "How can you, of all people, say that? Knowing
what that man has done? My God, it does matter about the money--it
