Billy shook his head, pulled the plastic garment bag out. "You got that upside down."

"Hmm?" Washington glanced down. "What?"

Billy pointed at his belly. "That thing."

"The cummerbund?" He'd slung it the way that made sense, ruffles pointing down, kind of a sleek look. "I don't think so."

"Yup." Billy nodded firmly. "It's supposed to go the other way, with the things up. It's to catch crumbs."

Washington laughed through his nose. Kids. "Crumbs, huh?"

"Uh-huh. The guy at the store told me so. And there are holes in the pocket, too."

"Holes?"

"For pulling your shirt down."

Bemused, Washington slid his hands in his pockets. He didn't plan on taking fashion advice from an eight-year-old, certainly not on a tuxedo-

Damned if there weren't holes in there.

CHAPTER 38

It was never a good sign when you could smell yourself.

Cruz forced a smile for the bus driver, doing her best not to look like a crazy woman. Judging by the way the guy wrinkled his nose, it didn't work. Her hair was matted, her face dirty and bruised, blood scabbing a thin tear where her forehead had hit the wheel. Her skin itched with something she'd rather not think about, and her jeans and summer sweater had been two days dirty before they'd gone in the river.

"Quite a storm, huh?" she asked, and swiped her CTA card. A thin trickle of brown water poured from her wallet to spatter on the floor.

"Sure," the driver said, and looked away.

They walked down the bright aisle. A couple of girls in hospital scrubs, an elderly man asleep with his mouth open, two laughing teenagers, a frazzled mother of four. This far south, a light-skinned Latina and a white guy would normally catch stares, but now everyone found a reason to gaze elsewhere, afraid of catching whatever madness infected them. Only the children looked, eyes like saucers. Shivering in her wet clothes, she took a seat in the back row, where the engine's heat penetrated. Jason remained standing, fingers clenched white on a pole. Though he wasn't moving, he gave off the vibe of a man pacing angry circles. There was something in his posture that scared her a little bit; not of him, but for him. "What are you thinking?"

He shook his head.

"The war?"

Palmer's cheek twitched. He stared out the black windows.

She shrugged. Her head and neck throbbed, and she wasn't in the mood to play Twenty Questions. She could see the skyline to the east, the lights of the Sears Tower lost in glowing cloud. Tiny reflections of the city burned in every drop of water on the window. "You know, you surprised me back there. Letting Playboy go."

"I wanted to waste him." He shook his head. "When I think of him in Michael's house, talking about killing Billy."

"I wouldn't have let you."

"That wasn't what stopped me."

"What did?"

He paused. "He was a chess piece." He sat down beside her, bangs falling in wet clumps across his forehead. "Killing him, it just…"

"Wouldn't have made any difference?"

He nodded, staring straight ahead.

"We're screwed, you know."

"Yeah."

"Maybe…" She scratched at the back of her neck. "Maybe it's time to look at leaving."

"Where?"

"I don't know. Rent a cabin somewhere. Get out of sight."

He shook his head. "You were on the news, remember? You run, it's all over."

"I didn't mean me."

He gave her a measuring sort of gaze. She met his eyes. Even with all the grime, he looked good, a strong jaw, nice features, something boyish in his energy. For a long moment, he just stared. Then he took her hand, weaving his fingers through hers. Sighed. "They never caught the sniper."

"What?"

"The one who shot my friend." His voice was thin and soft. "I remember that day so well. Scarlet sunset, broken concrete, the brown eyes of the kid in the ambulance. But I can't – I just – I don't know where the sniper was. He could have been on a rooftop blocks away." He shrugged. "I picture him sometimes, try to imagine what he looked like, what he thought when he squeezed the trigger. A man about to get lucky with a thousand-to-one shot. He would have thought of himself as a soldier too, I guess. Defending his country. Sometimes I think everybody sees themselves as soldiers."

She traced the rough pads of his fingers.

"You want to know the real reason I didn't tell anyone about what happened? Because I'm afraid of the questions." His nostrils flared, and his tone changed. "No, not even that. Not questions, plural. One question. The obvious one." He turned to look at her. "You know the one?"

She said nothing.

"Sure you do. The question is how in the world did I get discharged for what happened. Yes, I took my men off-mission, and that's not good. But I was a noncom, a squad leader. We're expected to react to changing situations. That was my job. And losing a man, well, it's tragic, but Martinez was shot by insurgents. Maybe I made a questionable call, but it wasn't negligent or malicious. So how would that get me discharged? I mean, you're a smart woman – didn't you wonder?"

She tried to keep her face noncommittal. "Maybe a little."

"There you go."

"Do you want me to ask?"

He moved his teeth like he were chewing gum. Held the silence. Then, "I used to tell myself that it was my lieutenant's fault. That he didn't back me. But that's not true. The truth is I fell apart."

"What do you mean?"

"I froze up. Couldn't stand the possibility of losing someone else under my command. I'd dream about Martinez, and then when I had to take the squad out the next morning, I'd be a wreck. A walking panic attack. I'd abort a mission for the tiniest reason, or no reason at all. Hell, I even managed to start drinking, which isn't easy in a Muslim country. It's not like the old days, privates sucking dope through their rifle barrels. I got scared of the responsibility, and I got selfish." He sighed. "And it put lives at risk. I deserved to get discharged. It was the right call. That's the truth."

She opened her mouth, closed it. A thousand possible answers paraded past her, and none sounded right.

"I know what you're offering to do," he said. "And I appreciate it. But I'm not quitting. I can't."

"I'm not saying-"

"It's not you." He shook his head. "I messed up so many things. Not just in the war. I've been running from responsibility all my life. Hell, if I'd taken a little more responsibility for Michael, he might still be alive."

"There's no reason to believe that."

"I think there is. Anyway, it doesn't matter. I'm tired of dodging what I know needs to be done. I owe better to myself. To Michael. And I damn sure owe more to Billy."

The bus hit a bump in the road and set off dull firecrackers behind her eyes. With ginger fingers she explored her forehead. The skin felt tender and swollen, warm meat. She didn't remember hitting the steering wheel, didn't even remember the car falling. Just the impact that threw them, and then the water, cold, cold, her head throbbing and Jason gone. That had been her first thought as she started to pull herself together – a complete lack of surprise to find him gone.

Then he'd appeared at her window and pulled her free, and in the process sacrificed the thing he needed most.

"Okay," she said.

"Okay?"

"Let's do it." She put all her meaning into her eyes. The betrayals, and the jokes, the loneliness. The months – years – of not letting anyone in, not being able to. It was a lot to convey with a look, but sometimes words murdered ideas.

He held her gaze, then smiled slowly. "Okay."

Outside the bus windows, neon burned, advertising taquerías and Currency Exchanges. The drizzle was letting up. "So what's our plan? We're back where we started."