27

THE REVENGE

It’s not long before I find myself wishing Christopher Leon had better aim.

“I swear to everything you love and cherish, Grant, if you don’t stop trying to get out of this bed, I’m going to tie you to it,” I warn.

“And I’ll help her with the knots, so you know they’ll hold,” Simon adds.

Grant looks at Simon and back at me, his eyes returned to their normal eagle state thanks to his refusal to take narcotics in any dosage. Lucky to be alive, the surgeon said. Less than an inch from hitting his spine, he vowed. And Grant won’t even take a stupid Vicodin to relieve the pain.

“I don’t believe you,” he says as he struggles to sit up.

With a sigh of exasperation, I leap onto his bed—as gently as a human being can leap—and pin his legs to the mattress using the entirety of my body weight. The action is enough to give him a moment’s pause, but a moment is all we get. Simon lunges to move the lunch tray out of Grant’s reach so he can’t use it as a weapon, something he tried with some success this morning. Simon gets to it, but barely, and the plastic cup of gelatin ends up on the once-spotless sleeve of his steely gray suit.

Had Simon asked my opinion, I could have told him how to dress for a day at Grant’s bedside. Suits and nice slacks won’t do the trick. What he needs is chain mail.

“Dammit, Emerson, look what you did! This is my favorite suit.”

“Yeah, well. This was my favorite back. Look what happens when you grow too attached to something.”

I press harder on Grant’s thighs. From the way he winces, the added pressure isn’t doing anything for the gaping hole where metal tore through flesh, but I don’t care. If he wants me to treat him like someone who was shot, then he needs to start acting like one.

“Even if you could get on your feet and start walking,” I begin, “which, for the record, you can’t, there’s nothing for you to do about Christopher. Simon and I are handling it.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Grant grunts and makes a renewed effort to get out of bed. I asked the hospital for restraints like they use on death row prisoners, but they refused to indulge me. I think it’s mostly because they’re as eager to see him leave as he is. Grant is not what they call an ideal patient. “As long as Leon is alive and I’m stuck in this bed where I can’t guard you, it’s too dangerous to have you walking around. You should be in protective custody.”

Right. As if me sitting in a room with a pack of armed FBI agents is going to help any of us.

“What are they saying about Leon’s release?”

Simon and I exchange a careful look. We haven’t told Grant yet, but Christopher was released on suspension late yesterday afternoon. The review board found no evidence of intent—they’re saying it was an accidental misfire—which means he’s a free man.

For now.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say quickly, at the same time as Simon offers, “You know how these things work.”

How he and I manage to keep Grant in bed after that is nothing short of miraculous.

“They let him go? How? Why? He shot me on purpose to keep me from seeing that video!”

“I know he did, and I’m going to do everything I can to make sure it doesn’t happen again.” I use my most soothing voice, but it only makes Grant tense up, which of course means he winces. He’s not supposed to move this much—or, you know, at all. There are a lot of stitches in his body right now, and even though he’ll never admit it, he came awfully close to dying on that operating table. “But I can’t do that if I have to sit on your legs all day.”

“If you’re sitting on my legs, at least I know where you are. At least I know you’re safe.”

“I don’t want to hear that stupid word out of your mouth again.”

“What? Safe?” He says it almost triumphantly. “I’m sorry, my love, but I was right about Leon all along.”

Forty-eight hours ago, I would have given anything to hear my husband baiting me from his hospital bed. Forty-eight hours ago, his triumphant smile was the only thing in the world I craved.

Funny how quickly things change.

“Yes, dear. You were right,” I say, still in that soothing voice. “He’s a big, bad man, and he needs to be stopped. Unfortunately, it looks like his friends in the Bureau don’t agree—which is why I’ve come up with an alternate plan.”

He doesn’t ask what that plan is, but one of the virtues of strictly enforced bed rest is that he has to listen—whether he likes it or not.

“The external video feed came back empty, which means it’s my word against Christopher’s that he was at Millie Ralph’s house earlier that day,” I say, ignoring the dark look that crosses Grant’s face.

I know he’d been counting on that video to close the case, but it had shown nothing but an unending stream of static. According to the official FBI report, the thief used some kind of electronic jammer to keep it from recording anything. According to Simon, Christopher Leon was a sneaking bastard who probably wiped it in the mass confusion following the gunshot. Either way, it was an official dead end.

“Even if I did make a formal statement that he was in the area, which I haven’t, it wouldn’t be enough to get him arrested,” I add. “I’m not what they consider a reliable witness.”

“I consider you reliable. That should be enough to get you on the witness stand and under protection.”

I don’t tell him that Simon already made the offer—or that I refused it. This next part will be a hard enough sell as it is. “Simon and I have talked about it, and we believe that unless we can catch Christopher with his hand in the cookie jar, the authorities are going to continue to turn a blind eye.”

“I’ll make them see,” he grumbles, but by this point, it’s the pain talking. If he was capable of making them see anything, he’d have done it by now.

“The way I figure it, the only thing to do is hand him a cookie jar,” I continue. “But it needs to be a big cookie jar—so big, he won’t have any choice but to dig in. Since I know what the next target is—or, at least, what the most logical next target is—I intend to start there.”

“Start where?” he asks. “What target are you talking about?”

I firm my position on Grant’s legs in anticipation of what I’m about to say. “I, um, believe he has his sights set on the Conrad Museum.”

As expected, his whole body jerks in reaction to my confession. I wince, thinking of the newly changed dressing on his flank.

“I didn’t know!” I cry, hoping he can hear me over the rush of pain that follows his sudden movement. “When I first showed you the blueprints, I didn’t know what they were for. It was only after Mariah suggested it might be the Conrad that I put the pieces together.”

“Penelope, you little—”

I hold up my hand to stop him before he says something we’ll both regret. “It was wrong of me to keep it from you, but I had my reasons.” Three reasons, to be exact, each bearing the name of a dear friend of mine. “I can’t tell you everything, but what I can say for sure is that the Black and White Ball—that big charity event I was telling you about—is happening there in two days. And there’s a necklace on display, this ugly piece from the fifties, worth about ten million dollars. It’s the perfect opportunity.”

“Opportunity for what?” Grant asks. When I don’t respond right away, he practically roars. “Opportunity for what?”

I’m hoping Simon will jump in and save me, but his mouth is a firm line not even a crowbar could crack. With the proper amount of trepidation, I take a deep breath and—

—am saved by a familiar voice in the hallway. “I don’t care when visiting hours are or who you intend to call to stop me. I’m going in there to see my son, and I doubt you want to see what happens to anyone who gets in my way.”

“Oh, thank God.” I heave a sigh of relief and climb off Grant’s legs. The move may be a trifle premature, however, because he also recognizes that voice. His startled movement to remove himself out the nearest window looks to have ripped at least five stitches.

“Penelope Blue,” he says, his voice dangerous. “What did you do?”

I’m not scared of that voice. I’m horrified by the IV still dripping in his arm, and I’m terrified of what might have happened if Christopher had shot slightly to the left, but Grant’s anger means nothing. Not when I’m doing what I know is right.

“This is your own fault,” I accuse, but I run a hand across his forehead in an attempt to get him to lie back down. It doesn’t work, but I don’t need it to, because his mom chooses that moment to saunter through the door.

“Oh, Grant,” she says with an exasperated sigh. “I always knew it was a matter of time before you got yourself shot. I just assumed it would be one of the bad guys who did it.”

“It was a bad guy—” Grant begins, but he doesn’t have a chance to finish. His mom is too busy pulling off his blankets and making tsks of annoyance at what she finds.

The action isn’t as strange as it seems, especially for anyone who’s met Myrna Emerson before. For starters, she’s an ER nurse, so she has heaps of experience with this sort of thing. She’s seen more than her fair share of gunshot wounds, and her capable efficiency prevents her from turning maudlin at seeing her son fall victim to one. Myrna is also Grant’s mom, and if that sounds obvious, too bad. There’s no other way to describe her. Imagine someone like Grant—stubborn and capable and gentle and proud—and then imagine the kind of woman it would take to raise that man on her own.

It’s why I called her in for reinforcement. She’ll succeed where I failed, keep him subdued until the healing starts. She’s halfway there already.

Sensing the moment is right for retreat, I back up to where Simon hovers in the doorway, looking relaxed for the first time since we got the news. He and Grant grew up together, so he knows how effective the Myrna method will be. In the two minutes she’s been here, she’s somehow gotten Grant on his back, covered him with blankets, and forced him to take a drink of water. I couldn’t get him to drink even when I threatened to drown him in the cup.

Despite his mother’s capable ministrations, however, Grant sees me edging toward the door and releases a low growl of discontent—my guard dog issuing a clear warning. Stay where I can see you.

“Stop that right now.” Myrna snaps the blanket she’s in the middle of folding. “Your poor wife looks like she hasn’t gotten a wink of sleep in two days. Or taken a shower. Or eaten anything that hasn’t come out of a vending machine.”

All of these things are true, but I had no idea it was so apparent. Tucking a strand of greasy hair behind my ear, I try not to look as chastened as I feel.

“She’s not going to be any good to you if she’s dead on her feet, which is why I’m sending her home to get some rest and clean up. She can come back later this evening.”

Confronted with his mother’s good common sense, Grant can’t do anything more than nod. The motion doesn’t come easy, though, and I can see the agony it causes him to let me go. My wifely instincts urge me to lavish him with kisses and promises to give up the whole scheme, shackle myself to his side until he’s ready to confront the enemy on his own. But my criminal instincts are there, too, and they’re not as sentimental.

This sneaking around and setting traps and coming up with underhanded plans? I’m good at this part. No, scratch that. I’m great at it.

“Before you go, I’d like to have a word with Simon.” Grant looks at his mom with a belligerent air. “If that’s all right with you?”

She laughs. “Don’t take your bad mood out on me. I’m not the one who shot you. Speaking of bad moods, do you know if this hospital gets cable? I love you, but I’m not missing my shows because you can’t be bothered to wear a bulletproof vest.”

Grant opens his mouth to protest but decides against it as his mom settles herself near the foot of his bed and fiddles with the remote control. He learned the art of picking his battles from the best.

While the men have their super important conversation without me, I take a moment to thank Myrna for coming all the way from West Virginia to lend a hand. I do it quickly, though, because she appears to have found her favorite soap opera, which features a similar scene to the one we’re living in, though with more bandages and better hair.

“Just make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid while I’m gone,” I say in an urgent undertone. My voice borders on desperation. “The doctors keep telling us what a close call it was and that he needs to reconcile himself to a few weeks in bed before a long and painful rehabilitation, but he won’t listen. He thinks…”

I’m not sure how to continue. Myrna doesn’t know all the details of the case, and I doubt she would care even if I was at liberty to tell her, but we owe her some explanation.

“He thinks he’s indestructible and that it’s his job to take care of everything and everyone all the time?” She laughs when she sees my expression. “Believe it or not, I’m fully aware of my son’s flaws. I’ll keep him here as long as I can, but there are limits to my capabilities. Whatever you need to do, I suggest you do it quickly.”

Grant has finished issuing his instructions and glares at us from his position in bed, ready to issue a few more. “Simon is going to stay at the house with you,” he says. “You’re not to go anywhere without him.”

“Lovely. He can help me take showers and everything. Did you tell him how I like to be loofahed?”

“Not funny.” Grant points at me. “And whatever it is you think you’re planning, it’s not happening. There’s no way I’m allowing—”

“Christopher won’t hurt me.”

“You don’t know that.”

He’s right—I don’t know that. If Christopher was willing to shoot a fellow federal agent in order to access the video feed and get away with his crimes, there’s no telling what he’ll do to a pesky jewel thief like me.

Too bad this pesky jewel thief doesn’t care.

“Then I’ll stop him before he gets a chance,” I retort. “I’ll take precautions. I’ll watch my back. I know it’s hard for you to accept, but I’ve got this.”

He sets his lips in a firm line. “No, you don’t. You can’t.”

“Why not? I already fooled the FBI once. I’m sure I can do it again.”

“Dammit, Penelope, would you stop and think for five seconds? You have no idea how dangerous this has become.”

I snap. Maybe it’s the long hours of vigilance at his bedside or maybe it’s that I am terrified of what I’m purporting to do, but I can’t take this a second longer.

“Oh, really? I don’t understand what’s at risk? I don’t understand how close I came to losing you?” I face him head-on, noting out of the corner of my eye that Simon and Myrna have quietly left the room. Grant struggles to sit up, but he gives up with one quelling look from me.

Hmm. There may be a little Myrna in me yet.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do, and you definitely don’t get to tell me how to feel,” I say. “When we made our deal—”

“The hell with that deal!”

“When we made our deal,” I repeat firmly, “it was a partnership. A give-and-take. We both assessed the risks and accepted them. You can’t unaccept them halfway through because you don’t like the way things are turning out.”

“Penelope…”

“I’m sorry, but if the situation were reversed, you know you’d do the same. If there was a man out there who shot me in the back, who almost took my life, would you sit by my bed and hold my hand while he roamed free?”

If the dark look in his eyes is anything to go by, he knows I have him, and he’s not happy about it. I’m sorry to say it, but neither am I.

“You think the only way to get me to agree to anything is to offer me convoluted deals, to turn things into a complicated and twisted maze, but that’s not it. That’s not it at all.” I lean down and brush the hair from his forehead, dropping a gentle kiss on the heat of his brow. “I enjoy the challenge, you know I do. But what I love most is that when you offer me a back-alley bargain—however much you dislike it—what you’re really doing is treating me like a partner. You’re offering me a position as your equal.”

“Of course you’re my equal,” he says gruffly. “I’ve never seen you as anything less than that.”

Not yet he hasn’t. But the more time I spend drifting aimlessly through my life, wondering where I belong, the more I realize how tentative our relationship is—how difficult it is to keep up with this man I married. Grant is unquestionably the master of his own universe. He knows where he fits and what he wants, perfect in the precision of his certainty. And I—adrift and unsure—am in danger of becoming nothing more than his satellite.

I refuse to let that happen. I love my husband, I respect my husband, and every time I think about him lying in a pool of his own blood, my entire body grows numb.

But I’m no one’s satellite.

“Then don’t insult me by treating me any different now,” I say and force myself away from his bed. If I don’t get out of here soon, I’m afraid I might lose the strength to leave his side. “You’re not always going to like the choices I make, Grant, and I’m coming to realize there’s nothing I can do about that. I’m a thief.” He opens his mouth to protest, but I cut him off. “No, don’t argue. I don’t care if the entire FBI overhears me. I am a thief. It’s what I’ve always been, and it’s what I’ll always be, even if I never steal anything again. I sneak around. I hide things from you. I make decisions you don’t—or can’t—approve of. But guess what? That’s Penelope Blue. That’s what you signed up for. And if that’s not good enough for you anymore, then I’m not so sure this marriage of ours is going to work.”

His shocked, hurt expression makes me feel like a monster. He’s already suffered so much. It’s cruel to add this on top of everything else.

But it had to be said, and it had to be said before I head out that door and make a dangerous situation even worse.

“I’m going now. I’ll report back when I have something concrete to tell you.”

I stand, waiting for his hurt expression to set into something harder. I’m unsurprised when he closes off altogether.

“If you get yourself killed,” he says coldly, “I’ll never forgive you.”

“If I get myself killed,” I reply, “I’ll deserve it.”

* * *

“Well, that was a disaster. I hope you know what you’re doing, Blue.”

Simon waits until we’ve exited the hospital before he transitions back to asshole mode. For a few hours there, when we sat side by side waiting for Grant to gain his full bearing after the surgery, there had been something like kinship between us. For a few hours more, as we attempted to keep Grant in bed and on the mend, I like to think we’d been friends.

Oh, well. Some things weren’t made to last.

“Yes, actually, I do know what I’m doing,” I say, and it’s not a complete lie. I might not have all the details ironed out yet, but the hazy shapes of an idea are there, lodged in the back of my brain.

So far, they look an awful lot like the blueprints to the Conrad Museum.

I turn to him with shoulders squared. “What are your thoughts on stealing a ten-million-dollar necklace out from under the noses of roughly five hundred of New York’s rich and famous?”

“I’d rather go back inside and help Mrs. Emerson chain Grant to his hospital bed.”

“Too bad.” A sympathetic listener I’m not. I’m still too raw from the confrontation with Grant, too aware of what’s at risk if this mission fails. “I need you to head back to the office and grab me a few things.”

He’s instantly wary. “What kind of things?”

“Mariah Ying and Cheryl Brownstein.”

He does a double take.

“Don’t worry, they’ll come,” I assure him. “Bring them to the Lombardy, twenty-first floor.”

His double take doubles down. “Your dad’s suite?”

“The very one. I can’t think of a better place to plan a multimillion dollar heist, can you?”

“Jesus. You weren’t kidding about that?”

“Pulling off a heist like this is the only thing I’m good at, Simon. It’s the only thing I can do. If I can use those skills to catch Christopher Leon red-handed and put him away so he doesn’t set foot near my husband ever again, then that’s what I’m going to do.”

For the longest moment, I think he’s going to refuse. The look he gives me, drawn thin and painful, is full of all the things he wants to say but won’t. He can’t. Not when I was so nearly a widow.

“If you think heists are the only thing you’re good at, you’re a bigger fool than I took you for.” He pulls his car keys from his pocket. “Don’t worry. We’ll be there. I just hope we won’t live to regret it.”

He’s not the only one.