Chapter Text
When he got word she was ill, he was in Capri. It was rare he got news of her anymore. That was by design. Ten years had passed since he had whisked her away from Washington in a hail storm of gunfire and death, fear and discovery. It had been a difficult time for them both. And, after a year of running, a painstaking takedown of the Cabal and the clearing of her name for all but the death of an attorney general, they had parted ways. She had accepted his continued protection and a new name, both of them having agreed that she would not do well in prison and shouldn’t have to try to for the murder of a murderous man.
He knew she got on with her life. Early on, he received information about her – her jobs, her locations, her lovers. But, it quickly became too much for him, the knowledge an impediment to his equilibrium, so he stopped asking. He let her be. He got on with things, too.
The Concierge of Crime persisted, despite the efforts of the few remaining men from the crippled Cabal. He prospered, his enterprise grew, his contacts strengthened. He was powerful. The world over, he was sought after for his unmatched services. He traveled continually; he had lovers, old and new ones; he tracked down his daughter and forged a relationship of sorts with her; he lived, too.
But, there was always something else – just beyond his reach, sitting in his peripheral vision, turning a corner, casting a shadow, whispering in his ear. He couldn’t reach inside himself deep enough to stop it – that something else that kept him running, pursuing what, he did not know. He just knew that if he stopped too long, listened too hard, the results would be detrimental. And, so for a decade, he didn’t.
That day Dembe found him on the phone in his study. He stood quietly in the corner and waited. Red’s fluent French slowed in the face of Dembe’s unwavering gaze – both intent and serious. He raised his eyebrows in question, but Dembe looked away instead of acknowledging the gesture. That alone was enough to halt business for the moment. Red quickly ended the call.
“Dembe? What is it,” Red asked, his concern growing. “Are you alright?”
He looked at Red then and spoke slowly: “Elizabeth is very ill.” He paused, taking a deep breath before continuing, “She is asking for you.”
“What?” Red, having been leaning against his desk, pushed off and approached Dembe, who stood across the room. He was shaking his head slightly, unconsciously. “How ill?”
“Gravely,” Dembe answered, softly, nodding. “You shouldn’t delay, Raymond.”
Red swallowed, biting the inside of his cheek. He nodded back. “Get everything ready,” he said quietly, turning away and walking out of the room.
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She was in Oregon. She had been in and out of the hospital there for months, but there was nothing to be done now but wait. She had cancer, was riddled with it really. She was too young for all of this; that’s what her friends had said. They had all been there for her for such a long time, but now she needed someone else. Someone she couldn’t bear to go any longer without. She had made the call that for a decade she had longed to make, and it had been so easy. So many things were easier now. “Tell him I’m sick. Tell him I need him. Tell him to hurry.”
There was nothing else to regret. Despite it all, she had had a good life. She had had a father who loved her, a good career with the FBI and later as a clinical psychologist, good friends, men who had adored her. There had been difficult times, without a doubt, but she had been strong and survived them – thanks to one person. All of it was possible because of one person. She needed him to hurry; he was her last thing, the last thing on her bucket list; she needed him now.
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Red was surprised to find he was being driven to her home and not a hospital. Dembe had insisted on accompanying him on this journey. And while Red had fallen into contemplative silence on the trip, Dembe was unusually talkative – but the talk was quiet, soothing, and Red knew, anxiety-riddled. Dembe feared what they would find, and how they both would feel about it. Red knew this, and he knew Dembe was right to fear it. He did, too. He feared how he would ever move forward from this experience, if it, in fact, played out as he was afraid it would.
After a while, Dembe pulled onto a quaint, tree-lined street and slowed the car to a crawl. He was looking for her house. Red found it hard to swallow; his pulse had quickened, and despite himself, he felt the urge to tell Dembe to turn back, to take them back to the airport. He felt ill-equipped to handle this. After handling so much unpleasantness in his life, so many truly awful things, this might be his undoing. He could not face her death. Not Lizzie. Not his bright, vivacious, spirited girl, the one thing that, even after all this time, still anchored him to this world. Dembe stopped the car. “Raymond.”
Red shook his head slightly and bit the oft-gnawed on inside of his cheek before taking a deep breath and lifting his head. The house was neat and welcoming, a perfect bit of Americana. “Okay, Dembe. Give me a minute,” he said, his voice deep and full of dread.
“Raymond. You can do this,” Dembe said, his eyes in the rear-view mirror sympathetic but his voice strong.
Red only nodded as Dembe exited the vehicle.
When Red finally emerged, Dembe pushed his body off the car where he had been leaning, waiting, not considering going to the door himself. He was merely there as support. He had no plans to participate in the meeting, much as he wanted to see Elizabeth Keen again. This was too important to her and to Red. So, when Red looked back with a question in his eyes, Dembe only shook his head and stepped back into the car. He was going to leave them for however long it took.
Red made his way slowly up the walkway to the front door. He decided to knock rather than ring the doorbell. His first round of rapping garnered no response. There was a car in the driveway, but he didn’t know her life, her schedule; maybe she wasn’t at home. With trepidation, he knocked again. Dembe had left, so no matter what he would be here a while. Finally, he heard movement from inside, a slow shuffling sound and then a voice. “Coming.”
He felt sick, shaking with fear and adrenaline. What would he see when she answered? Would she even look like herself anymore? It had been ten years, and she was ill. What would she think when she saw him? Had he aged a lot or a little? He hardly knew; in all this time he hadn’t cared enough to dwell on that. Would she be happy to see him? She had asked him to come, hadn’t she? She wanted to see him. Why? He didn’t know. He was afraid to know. But, more than all of that, he feared that once he saw her again, he would never be able to leave her.
The door opened slowly. And, then there she was. He held his breath as he gazed intently upon her; and she breathed, deeply and finally: “You’re here.”