30. Forty Thieves, moreless

MADDY

Austin steps aside, giving Andrew center stage, but making it clear that my husband has his support. I slip my hand around Andrew's left elbow, even though as far as I know he has neither a gun nor a sword.

He smiles down at me, and pulls me in, close to his side. "Please allow me to introduce Madeline Lane, mother of my son, who is heir to the Aims Corp organization. If anyone has questions that I cannot answer, she will take care of them."

It is the first time I have been introduced as Andrew's wife. Despite the audience, it gives me a warm, tingly feeling. I don't embellish the introduction. This is Andrew's moment.

Grandfather introduces his people. The only one I recognize or remember is Jason Wintergreen, the man who had intended to marry Rylie.

One fellow, who has the look of a lawyer, says, "What is your vision for Aims Corp?"

"It is time for it to go legit," Andrew says.

The man nods. "I've been saying as much for some time. Crime pays, but too often you have to pay for the crime. Unfortunately, it is easier to say "go legit" than it is to do it. Do you have a roadmap for this process?"

I feel the slight tremor in Andrew's arm as he takes a deep breath, but no one, not even I, could hear it in his voice. "I met with other family members last night. We will have backing and support for this process. But make no mistake, some of you," he seems to focus his gaze on the woman in the mini-skirt, "will have to accept a reduction in income."

"I got debts," the woman whines. "I got needs."

"No doubt," Andrew says. "We will make arrangements for your debts, provide medical and counseling support for your other needs."

There is a ripple of laughter from the group. It is neither raucous or loud.

Another man speaks up. "I got a business," he says. "I fix motorcycles. Paint ‘em up nice, and sell ‘em. You got room for that?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," Andrew says. "But if you are packing anything extra into those bikes, stop doing it. Nor will I allow you to run a chop shop."

One by one the men and women in the room brought forth their concerns. A woman dressed in biker's leathers asks, "What about kids? My old man and I got three. I'd like to see them get an education and a chance at a decent life. Where we are, there's nothin,' an' we got no way to get out."

"Our son attends an excellent private school," Andrew says tentatively.

I quickly add, "I am sure we will set up an even better school for the community. The woman who runs the private school will be an excellent resource for that."

"Do you like the school, Mrs. Lane?" the woman asks. "Never mind what the men say, is it good for your boy?"

"The best," I answer, "We'll just need to scale it up and hire more good teachers."

"I used to have a teaching license," one of the men says.

I open my mouth, trying to think how to field this one.

"There will be background checks," Andrew moves in smoothly. "Whether you work in the school or not will depend on why you lost your license."

The man nods. "Fair enough."

The little courtyard outside begins to brighten, and the first of the tiny jeweled birds visit the fountain and the bird feeder. The old man in the hospital bed falls asleep. His snores have the ragged, deep tone of the elderly who have abused their lungs.

Andrew talks on and on with Grandfather Aims' leaders. His voice grows hoarse, and I can feel the moist heat from his body. To me, he radiates tension. Yet, to the others, he must seem cool and collected. Their questions are endless, but he answers patiently.

I slip out from under his arm, go to the door and ask the attendant who is hovering outside, "Can we get some bottled water for everyone? And please tell whoever is on duty that we can take a break if Mr. Aims is scheduled for attention."

"Yes," she says. "I can get water. He's on death watch, palliative only. The doctor will be here soon." She doesn't question why I want bottled water, not glasses. Probably she can guess.

When the water arrives, I open one for Andrew. He nods his thanks, but never takes his eyes off the assembled people. I must have missed something, because Austin produces a bundle of papers from an inner pocket.

One by one, each of the men and women sign, then file out the door. At the end, Andrew takes the paper to his grandfather and says, "Will you sign, sir?"

"What? What?" the old man stirs to wakefulness. "Is it done, then? They've agreed."

"Yes," Andrew says. "You can use my fountain pen."

Grandfather Aims hitches himself up in bed, and scribbles across the bottom of the page. "There," he says. "Now I can rest easy."

He looks out the window, and the crisp morning shadows stretching across the grass and at the colorful birds. "This world is so beautiful," he says.

He lays back on his pillows, closes his eyes, breathes out but not in again. The beeping monitor flat lines.

Andrew bows his head. He says nothing, but his shoulders shake.

I place my hand on his sleeve.

"What time is it?" he asks.

"Six fifty-two, am," says a woman's voice. The petite doctor who visited the cottage enters, checks for a pulse, then turns off the monitor. "I'll put that on the death certificate."

Andrew turns, crushes me in his arms. "Oh, Maddy," he says. "He was a scary old man, but he did his best to take care of everyone. Even if he did go about it the wrong way most of the time."

"I know," I say, reaching up, and laying my hand against his face. It is wet with tears. "Now we have his people to take care of." The group around us is quiet, as if waiting for directions.

"Yes," Andrew says. "Just as my brother Leland so often says. In the end, it comes down to taking care of the people." He turns to the others.

The viewing was held in a chapel attached to the hospice. Friends and enemies lined up around the block to see for themselves if the giant was truly dead. The family children are given a choice whether to look at the remains or not. Paul chooses to look.

"He doesn't look real," is his only comment. "Kind of like a wax doll."

"That's because the embalmers try to make the person look as much like they were just asleep as possible. Some people prefer not to have a viewing at all, but because of who he was, it is important that everyone knows he truly is gone," I say.

"I guess I get that," my son says. "Can I go back to the Bunker and play video games with the other kids now?"

I look at Andrew.

"Yes," he says. "There is no need for you to be here. Plenty of time for you to show up as the heir later on."

Charles and Kate, being completely unrelated to the deceased, take all the children back to the Bunker where they can safely play in the secure school room.

It worries me to let Paul out of my sight. Andrew wraps one arm around me. "You have good friends," he says. "And Austin does a bang up job of building a secure place to hunker down."

"He does that," I say, wondering if we will ever be secure enough to move back into a regular house.

The service is held outside in the hospice gardens because there is not enough room in the small chapel for everyone to be seated.

Suddenly, there is a commotion at the back of the rows of chairs. A tall man with a middle-age paunch sprints up the aisle and into the chapel. Men and women in Moor Security uniforms run after him.

"Shooter!" someone screams. "Active shooter!"

About half the audience drops to the ground, some of them huddling under the chairs. Most of the others freeze in place, wondering what to do. Some, seated at the edges or the back, quickly leave.

Andrew stands up. "It's only one man," he calls out, his voice pitched to carry above the hubbub of hundreds of voices. "Keep calm, the security team will have him in a minute."

As he speaks, there comes the rattle of automatic gunfire from inside the chapel, then silence.

In just a few minutes, the security team comes back out with the man, his hands zip tied behind him. Before anyone can stop him, the man yells out, "If the bastard wasn't dead before, he is now!"

One of the security team stops off and tells Andrew, "Heck of a mess in there, sir. Spattered the corpse, coffin and floral arrangements all over. Should I get a hazmat team here for cleanup?"

"Yes," Andrew says steadily, "Please do."

My throat is dry, but I find my voice. "Thank goodness the children are all back at the Bunker and safe," I say.

"A very good thing," Andrew says, holding me tight, "And a good thing that the only person shot was already dead."

"Is there likely to be more of this?" I ask.

"Sadly, yes," he says. "Especially when we start moving people from the city to the work site. We have a long, hard journey ahead of us. Will you help me, Maddy?"

I knew that he was asking for more reassurance than just that. Our marriage had been hasty, we barely knew each other. Yet, after this week, I am sure I can trust him, and I know I love him.

"Yes," I say, "In every way possible."

"Good," he says, "Because I love you more than anything in the world. But I still need to honor my promises to Grandfather."

"I know," I say. "I love you more than anyone except possibly Paul."

"That's all right," he says. "Kids first, always. He's a great kid, even if I swear sometimes he is more grown up than most of the adults I know."

"He is, rather, isn't he?" I say. "He is so like you that no one would know that you only just met a few weeks ago."

The crowd settles down, and we hold hands through the rest of the eulogy. I don't pay much attention to it, most of it is platitudes anyway. I focus on the warmth and strength of Andrew's hand in mine, and his solid presence.

When we return to the Bunker, Julia calls down from the schoolroom to ask if Paul can stay for a sleepover party. "We've got two rooms set up for sleeping, and chaperones and everything," she says.

I go up, check in with Mrs. Hubbard, just to make sure that this is all right with the supervising adult, and agree to let my son stay and continue his visit.

Back in the apartment, Andrew has ordered sushi, champagne and ice cream. "I think we should have our own kind of sleepover," he says.

"Lovely idea," I say. "Just let me hang up my suit."

We do not smear each other with ice cream. Sticky, cold, and sweet is not my idea of a good time. Instead, we feed it to each other, exchanging bites for kisses. Afterward, we cuddle on the big bed in the master bedroom and watch Princess Bride .

And the greatest kiss in the world inspires us to try for our own best kiss. Our clothing goes . . . somewhere. And Andrew slips inside me as naturally as if we'd been fitting ourselves together regularly for the last nine years. As he braces himself with one hand against the mattress, the flaming crown on his forearm seems to ripple, and the flames seem almost real.

We move as if we are one, tasting, touching, holding as sensations build. We float in a sea of delight where anything is possible, making our own little bit of heaven.

"I love you," I say softly to him, squeaking a little as he plunges back inside my body. He dutifully matches the cadence of my hips, rising and falling within me in the perfect rhythm. I gasp as he draws slowly back out of me, tantalizing me with the change in cadence, followed by the abrupt jolt of pleasure that's caused by him pressing fully inside of me. I am riding a wave of sensation, a harmony of joy that's balanced right on the knife edge of pain. I feel his body slick with perspiration as he builds toward his own crescendo.

"Say you love me back," I tell him.

"I love you with all my heart," he whispers before sinking his teeth into my shoulder.

I curl toward him to bite his shoulder, pressing myself more closely against his body, feeling the contact of our slippery skin intensifying the twining, curling, heated pleasure at my core. I wish I could burrow inside of him, wrap myself around his heart, bite into it with my teeth the way I just nipped his shoulder.

He growls in response to the sharp scrape of my teeth, and angles his head to bite the side of my neck again where it meets my shoulder, holding onto me like a tiger who has captured its prey right before it devours the hapless creature. I twist and wrench with unspeakable, heated pleasure at the restraining strength of the bite, contrasted with the slow, languorous, deep thrusts of him at the core of my body.

"Get closer to me," I plead.

"Like this?" he shoots right back, pressing even closer to me.

"Marry me," I gasp out.

"Name the date," he says back.

I am soaring so high, feeling every inch of our skin where it comes together. He doesn't increase the pace of his thrusts, instead maintaining the same beat and tempo that I dictated to him when he first slipped inside of me. The ebb and flow of the sensations cresting and receding is like the ocean's tide, inexorable, hypnotic, inescapable. We are pinned together at our core, carried away on the tide, then exploding in such a blaze of glory that neither of us knows who climaxed first.

We try to hold together, to make the moment last, but we are both exhausted, both short on sleep.

Andrew's arms begin to tremble, and he collapses on his side next to me. He traces the side of my face with one finger. "I love you," he says.

"I love you," I say back to him.

Our lips meet, and if it is not the greatest kiss in the world, then it is a very close second.

"You know what?" I say.

"What?" he asks.

"You kiss even better than you did nine years, nine months ago. Are you sure you weren't practicing?"

"Absolutely sure," he says. "I didn't have time. Remembering your kiss was my bedtime story. I have a good imagination, but your real kisses are way better.

We kiss again . . . just to make sure the last one wasn't a fluke.