Chapter 46
Forty-Six
Almost half a year later, on the twenty-third of December, Arthur flew from Heathrow to Logan Airport. Colin Wren was waiting
for him on the other side of customs. They crossed the skybridge to the six-story parking garage and Arthur threw his suitcase
The plan was to spend the night with Colin and the others, and then go on to Montpelier for Christmas Eve with his mother.
They listened to NPR most of the way, driving into the dusk, through whirling white flakes of snow. The US was building up
its forces in Saudi Arabia, to drive a tinpot dictator out of Kuwait. The US First Light Armored was already over there, and
the United Kingdom’s First Armored Division was right next to them, everyone getting ready to tally-ho across the desert,
there’s a good lad, back to Baghdad with you.
When they got to The Briars the others were there, except for Gwen, who was driving a plow for her father and would be over
later. Donna had already built up a crackling fire in the hearth, and there was a two-story blue spruce waiting to be decorated.
Van poured the Scotch.
They were hanging a string of lights that looked like giant snowflakes when Gwen came in, her face gray and her mouth tight.
She had not bothered to take off her boots and had tracked in white footprints. She shivered. Arthur was five steps up a ladder—the
only reason he didn’t catch her at the door and pull her into his arms. He opened his mouth to call to her . . . and then
shut it again when he saw her expression.
“Llewellyn had a good night,” Colin told her. “He got almost six hours’ sleep. And now he’s watching the PBS Sherlock Holmes on video. I think Jeremy Brett reminds him of himself. Are you all right? You look like you ran someone down on the way over
here. I hope no one’s dead.”
“Not yet,” Gwen said. “But someone’s going to be. King Sorrow was at my house this morning—under the stairs, in the basement.
He says it’s that time of year again. He says a deal’s a deal. He says we have to decide who we’re going to kill next.”