Countdown - Iris Johansen [117]
“The laird?” He stared into her eyes. “He said that? Are you lying to me? You lied about me killing the little girl.”
“It was the only way I could think to jerk you back. You had to confront what you’d done. Or rather what you’d not done. When you broke Reilly’s conditioning, you were feeling almost as guilty about disobeying him as you would have been if you’d killed that child.”
“No, couldn’t do it.”
“I know you couldn’t. But I had to shock you into talking to me. And I did it, didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“And you realize I did it for your own good. Right?”
“I . . . suppose so.”
“Then will you please take your hands from around my throat? MacDuff and Trevor would not be pleased with either one of us if they came in here and saw you throttling me.”
He looked at his hands grasping her throat as if they didn’t belong to him. He slowly released her and dropped them to the bed. “I think . . . they’d be more displeased with me.”
Was there the faintest hint of humor in his tone? His expression was bleak, tears were still shimmering in his eyes, but at least the raw violence had vanished. She took a deep breath and rubbed her throat. “As well they should be. There’s such a thing as accountability.” She sat down in the chair beside the bed. “Not only for you. Reilly has a big account coming due.”
“Not . . . the laird. My fault. All my fault.”
“The important thing is bringing him down.”
“Not the laird.”
“Then it’s up to you to force yourself to remember where Reilly is so that we can go after him.”
“Try . . .”
“No, you have to do it, Jock. That’s why we brought you here. That’s why we put you through this hell. Do you believe we’d do it if we saw any other way of jarring you into remembering?”
He shook his head. “I’m tired now. I want to go to sleep.”
“Are you trying to avoid talking to me, Jock?”
“Maybe.” He closed his eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I need to be alone with him.”
She felt a chill go through her. “Him?”
“Reilly.” He whispered, “He’s always with me, you know. I try to get away but he’s still there. I’m afraid to look at him or listen to him, but I have to do it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You don’t understand. . . .”
“I understand he controlled you in the most evil ways possible. But he’s gone now.”
“If he was gone, you wouldn’t be here making me try to remember. While he’s alive, he won’t ever leave me alone.” He turned his head. “Go away, Jane. I know what you want from me and I’ll try to give it to you. But you can’t help me. I’ll either be able to do it or I won’t.”
She stood up. “Do you want me to send MacDuff in?”
He shook his head. “I don’t like him to see me like this. Reilly makes me weak. I’m . . . ashamed.”
“You shouldn’t be ashamed.”
“Yes, I should. Forever. Black soul. Never be clean again. But MacDuff won’t let me die. I tried but he brought me back. So if I can’t die, I have . . . to be strong.” His voice harshened. “But sweet Jesus, it’s hard.”
She hesitated. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay and—” He was shaking his head. “Okay, I’ll let you rest.” She headed for the door. “If you need me, I’ll be here. Just call me.”
“You weren’t in there very long.” MacDuff rose from his chair as the door closed behind her.
“Wasn’t I?” It had seemed like an eternity. “Long enough.”
“Does he need me?”
“Probably. But he doesn’t want you. He doesn’t want anyone right now. And I don’t believe he’s in any immediate danger.”
His glance was on the paper still in her hand. “Any response?”
“Oh, yes. Is it enough to jump-start his memory of Reilly? I don’t know. From now on, it has to come from him. He seems . . . different.”
“How?”
She frowned, trying to puzzle it out. “Before, he reminded me of that scroll Mario was working on. There were certain sentences and phrases missing that Mario had to replace with educated guesswork so that he could make sense of the whole document. I think that’s the point that Jock is at now.”
“Then you must have jarred the hell out of him.” His lips tightened grimly. “I want to see that paper.”
“I want you to see it.” She headed for the kitchen.