Jericho's Fall Read Online Free Page B

last days of their relationship, when neither of them quite knew whether the next touch would ignite the fires of passion or the explosion of warfare. The furnishings were as lush as ever. More bookshelves, new since her day, had been built into the walls. A desk near the bay window was cluttered with files. In the background, the first movement of Mendelssohn’s Italian Symphony—one of his favorites—played softly. Moving closer, she expected to find Jericho ravaged by the cancer. But he looked as powerful and handsome as ever, the curiously golden eyes open and alive, flicking from face to hands and back, alert to her every move. Only the viselike grip on the bedclothes, and the line of sweat on his lip betrayed his battle against the pain.
    “How are you?” she said, once she trusted herself to speak. She stood beside the bed, hands fighting each other nervously, wondering if she should be offering water from the plastic cup with its little straw. The question, she knew, was absurd, but nobody had ever worked out the proper protocol to greet the openly dying. Perhaps that is why we tend to be so quiet in the company of those who will not be long with us: we are waiting for them to tell us what to say.
    Jericho frowned—that is, the lines of his face flexed and tautened,more a memory of emotion than the genuine article. He whispered a few words in return. She could not hear, and leaned close. His breath was hot, and damp, and rich with pain and fear.
    “You shouldn’t have come,” he croaked.
    Beck kept her face near his. On the table beside the bed was a thick volume by a Nobel laureate, which tried to explain the collapse of the financial system. “Don’t be silly. Of course I’d be here.”
    “Why?”
    She hesitated. If she said she was here because he called for her, she might offend him. “I miss you,” she said, wondering if it was true.
    Again he whispered something she did not catch. She discovered that she was holding his hand, or, rather, he was holding hers, the fingers strong as talons.
    “You should go,” he said.
    “Go where?”
    “Home.” He coughed and squirmed and could not get comfortable. “You can’t be here, Beck. This is insane.”
    Remembering Audrey’s caution, she wondered whether he might be reliving their arguments back when she first began spending her nights with him. She said, covering both possibilities, “I’m here because I want to be. No other reason.”
    He lifted his head and shoulders, trembling from the effort. “They’ll kill you,” he said, distinctly.
    She blinked. “What did you say?”
    “Have you gone deaf? I said, they’re going to kill you. You watch. Not now. But as soon as I’m out of the way, they’ll kill you.”
    “I don’t—”
    “Will you listen to me? For once in your life just listen?” His cheeks reddened further, and, if only for an instant, his old strength returned. He jerked his hand free, waved toward the closed door. “They’re going to kill you. The girls, too. Idiots. Sentimental idiots. Take them with you, Beck. Don’t be a fool. Take them and get out of the house.”
    Everything he says is going to seem logical , Audrey had warned. It isn’t. It isn’t logical, and it isn’t necessarily true .
    “Who’s going to kill me?” she asked softly.
    “What difference does it make? Is there somebody by whom you’d particularly like to be killed?” He tilted his chin. “Get my PDA. I have a whole list of killers for hire. I’ll arrange one for you if you want.”
    “That’s not funny.”
    “They’re very good, Beck. The killers on my list. Short and sweet. A quick bullet to the head and you’re pleading your case to Saint Peter. It’s better than the alternatives, believe me.”
    She kissed his forehead, gentled him to the pillow. It occurred to her that he was talking about what he wanted for himself. “You need to rest.”
    “You don’t believe me. Silly girl. You should pay attention to what I tell