Field of Blood by Wilson, Eric (dar e dil novel online reading .TXT) 📗

“Like your brand of sunglasses?”

“It sounds like Raymond, don’t you think?”

“Sure,” he said. “If that’ll make it easier for you.”

“One more question.”

He rolled his neck. Swiveled his face toward her. “Yes?”

“We are going to marry in Atlanta, is this correct?”

He nodded. “You got your K-1 visa, meaning a clean bill of health and no criminal record. Now that I know you’re not a serial killer, I feel a lot better about tying the knot.”

She gave him another pouty look. Though a hefty bribe had brought a Ukranian doctor’s clearance, Ray-Ban didn’t need to know that.

“Only kidding, of course,” he said.

“Of course.”

“Two weeks from now, we’ll have a small ceremony with my close friends and family. My sister, she’s been dying to meet you. Then there’s a reception with some of my business partners invited as well. All you’ll have to do is smile and shake hands. Some of the boys might try stealing a kiss, but don’t let them intimidate you. They’re just infatuated with your pictures.”

She pursed her lips. “Ray-Ban, I think I can handle the attention.”

“I have no doubt. If anything, a few guys in my office need to grow a pair.”

“A pair?”

“I’ll explain later,” he said. “There’s still a lot to learn.”

“And I can teach you some things, nyet?”

“I’m willing to let you try.”

Later, feigning sleep, she lolled her head against his shoulder. He reached over and brushed her hair back from her face. His fingertips were cool against her neck, lighting only for a second, but long enough for her to detect his steady pulse.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-TWO

Atlanta

Nikki Lazarescu had never struggled this much during one of her seminars. She tucked a stray hair back into her gypsy head scarf and referred to her notes on the glass podium as she addressed the congregation of twelve hundred life students. Here, in the Church of Universal Wellness, they followed her every gesture with round, bright eyes that were windows into impressionable minds.

She needed to get this right. Each of these attendees had paid $219 to be here, to see and hear N. K. Lazarescu in person, and her words were meant to sweep away their cobwebs of self-pity, to guide them toward the salvation of hard work and moral turpitude.

All she could think of, though, was her daughter—bred in a moment of irresponsible lust, yet infused with immortality. Was Gina the embodiment of her mother’s malignancy? Or a conduit for redemption?

A miracle . . .

That’s what the driver, Zach Larkins, had called her.

Gina had bumped shoulders with the Reaper there on High Street and kept walking. Had she gotten lucky, maybe landed just right? Had Cal been there, acting on her behalf ? Or was Nikki’s precious child all that her name implied?

Regina Lazarescu: Queen of the Resurrected.

On the veranda in Chattanooga, Nikki had wanted to tell all, but it would’ve meant delving into details of her own sordid deeds, and that was something she would rather avoid. Her shame was too much to contemplate, and she couldn’t imagine revealing it for others to see. Especially her own child.

She’d decided instead to wash her hands of the entire thing. Gina wanted to do it her own way, walk her own path—and Nikki would respect that.

Not that any of it mattered now.

Three days ago, Gina had gone with Jed to the Hamilton County Clerk and filed for a marriage license. Obviously they’d chosen to forgo the plans for a late summer wedding. Her passport and permanent residence card proved she was old enough to marry without parental permission, a civil ceremony was performed, and Gina abandoned the Lazarescu to become Mrs. Jed Turney.

Nikki knew of this because of the photo postcard she’d received yesterday, showing Mr. and Mrs. Turneys’ overlapped hands, with matching gold wedding bands. No signature, just printed names—and a date already passed.

A grandbaby was also on the way. Due in early October.

Would she be allowed to see the child? Would the helpless infant be safe from those who wished to terminate its life? Would Gina fall in the crossfire?

Now, in the Church of Universal Wellness, Nikki caught sight of herself on the big screen to the left of the podium. She saw her dark eyes, intent beneath the scarf ’s purple material. She saw her downfalls up there, larger than life.

The audience was waiting.

“Introspection is for the weak,” Nikki declared aloud, reminding her-self of this as much as anyone else.

The headset carried her accented voice across the auditorium, and life students scribbled down the phrase in white two-inch binders.

“I left my homeland with my husband and two children, escaping before the fall of communism.” She changed the details here, for her own anonymity. “When my countrymen tell me of the violent days that led to the overthrow, they do not wallow in sorrow over the hundreds who fell. They understood there would be a price to pay. Instead, they rejoice over that moment, on December 25 of 1989, when our despot was executed by firing squad. They call it our national Christmas gift.”

The huge screen behind her filled with a Romanian flag, its center cut out.

“You can see they waved our flag proudly after removing the corruption.”

A pause. Anticipative stares.

“If you want a life revolution, you must be willing to get rid of the junk.” She smiled at this point, to show she was a regular person like each of them.

Two girls in the front gave large, earnest nods.

Nikki wrapped up this portion of the event: “Even as a wound cleanses itself through the spilling of blood, your past bleeds out behind you and purifies your soul. It’s nature’s way—God’s way, perhaps—of toughening you for future hardships. Find your place and be ready, because it’s your turn on stage. As we say in Romanian, ‘Se ridica cortina’ . . . The curtain is going up.”

She was mobbed afterward by a throng of eager faces. She spent time with each student, signing books, posters, whatever might seal the event in their minds.

A tall