The Witness

23

Roland Babbett checked into the Inn of the Ozarks on a spring afternoon that simmered hot and close as August. In his room with its engaging view of the hills, he set up his laptop on the glossy old desk. He appreciated the amenities—the complimentary Wi-Fi, the flat-screen TV, the carefully (he imagined) selected furnishings, and the generous shower.

A great deal of the time he worked out of crap motels with piss-trickle showers and stingy slivers of soap, or out of his car, where the facilities ran to a Mason jar he could empty of urine periodically.

Such was the life of a private investigator.

He enjoyed it, even the crap motels and Mason jars. Two years as a cop had taught him he didn’t work all that well with rules and regs. But he’d been a pretty good cop, and that had segued into a job with Stuben-Pryce Investigations. In the nearly ten years he’d worked there, he’d proven himself reliable, inventive and dogged. Qualities appreciated by the firm.

He also enjoyed his bonuses, and hoped to net another on this job.

He unpacked—cargo shorts and pants, tees, sweats, rough boots. He’d selected the wardrobe to go with his cover as a freelance photographer, one that would allow him to wander the town, the outskirts, take photographs, talk to locals.

He didn’t like the client. Roland considered Lincoln Blake a first-degree asshole, and the fruit of Blake’s loins a raw pimple on society’s ass.

But work was work, and Blake generated a lot of income, being a nosy, pushy, scheming first-degree asshole. When the boss said go, Roland went. Especially since he had one kid in private school, another who’d enroll in the fall and—surprise—a third on the way.

He loved his family, and the pay from Stuben-Pryce, plus bonuses, gave them a good life, which included a hefty mortgage on their new four-bedroom in West Little Rock.

So asshole or not, the client was king. If Blake wanted to know all there was to know—especially the dirt—on one Abigail Lowery, Roland would find out all there was to know. The same for Brooks Gleason, Bickford’s police chief, and according to the client, Lowery’s lover.

The client claimed the two in question, along with the Conroys—the owners of the hotel with the very nice view and amenities—had set up his son in order to extort money. Blake fervently, and loudly, denied his boy had caused the extensive damage to the hotel’s premier suite as claimed, nor had he assaulted Russell Conroy, nor had he pulled a knife on the chief of police.

Roland, nobody’s fool, fervently but quietly believed the butt pimple had done all that and more. But he’d do his job, earn his salary. And pay his bills.

He checked his camera gear, his recorder, his notebook and lock picks. Then called his wife on his cell phone to let her know he’d arrived safe and sound.

He told her he wished she were there and meant it. The room boasted a king four-poster. Pregnancy turned Jen into a sexual dynamo.

As he packed up for his first walk about town, he promised himself he’d make a return trip, with Jen, after the baby came, and her parents were still dazzled enough to take on three kids for a long weekend.

He shouldered the camera bag, hung the Nikon around his neck on a strap decorated with peace signs. Wearing cargo shorts, Rockports and an R.E.M. T-shirt, he slipped on sunglasses, checked himself out in the mirror.

He hadn’t shaved that morning, deliberately, and thought the scruff added to the look. He liked pulled-on personas and, given the choice, kept them fairly close to his own. Natural, easy.

He considered himself to be a personable guy. He could talk to anyone about anything, as vital a tool as his computer. He wasn’t bad-looking, he thought, as he added a Greenpeace ball cap to his ensemble.

Though he was starting to worry about male pattern baldness. His brother, only two years older than Roland’s thirty-four, already showed a fist-sized patch of bare scalp at the crown of his head.

He thought fleetingly of picking up some Rogaine—why not try preemptive measures—as he walked out of his room.

He’d wrangled a room on the top floor, though the reservation clerk had offered another, due to construction noise. But he’d brushed off the warning and inconvenience. This way, he should be able to get a look at the suite the client’s son hadn’t trashed, if you believed first-class assholes.

He strolled down the hall, noted the door, firmly shut, a sign apologizing for the inconvenience due to unexpected repairs. The noise, somewhat muffled, sounded more like demo than repair.

He’d check it out later, when the crew and staff weren’t around.

For now, he took the stairs down, since he was also mildly concerned about encroaching middle-age paunch, and walked outside into the heat.

Pretty little town, he thought. Jen would like it—the shops, the art. He’d pick up something for her and the kids, including the as yet unnamed and unknown surprise, before he left.

Plenty of tourists, he noted. A guy with a camera blended right in. He made use of it, taking a few shots of the hotel, zooming in on the windows of the suite in question, with their curtains tightly shut.

He had a good eye for a picture. He thought when the time came to retire from private investigating, he’d try photography as a working hobby. He wandered, framed in, shot. An interesting window, a close-up of flowers in a half whiskey barrel. To the casual eye he’d look like someone meandering, without specific destination.

But he had the salient addresses in his head. Lowery’s place would require a drive, but he could walk past the police chief’s apartment, and the house where his parents still lived. Just getting a feel for the place, the people, Roland thought and spent some time studying the windows of Brooks Gleason’s apartment above a busy diner.

Shades up, he noted. Nothing to see here. He wandered around the back, took some pictures of flowerpots as he studied the rear entrance.

Decent locks but nothing major, should he feel the need to do a little snooping inside. He’d avoid that, if possible.

With the town map in his hand, courtesy of the hotel, he strolled down the sidewalk.

And stopped, absolutely charmed and bedazzled by the mural house. He checked the address, and confirmed it was indeed the residence of the police chief’s parents. Information already gathered told him the mother was an artist, the father a high school teacher.

He had to assume the woman with the rainbow kerchief over her hair currently standing on scaffolding in paint-splattered bib overalls was the subject’s mother.

Leashed to the base of the scaffolding, a puppy curled in the shade and snoozed.

As much for his own interest as the job, Roland took a few pictures, moved closer. When he got to the edge of the yard, the puppy woke in a yappy frenzy.

And the woman looked down. She tipped her head. “Help you?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt. I was just walking around, and … this is just amazing. Did you paint all of this?”

“I did. Visiting?”

“I’m spending a few days in town. I’m a photographer, and I’m taking a few weeks in the Ozarks. I want to put a show together.”

“You won’t lack for subject matter around here. All right, Plato, I’m coming.”

She climbed down nimbly, unclipped the dog, who instantly raced over to sniff at Roland. “Good dog.” He hunkered down to give the dog a rub. “I guess I woke him up.”

“He’s a fierce guard dog, as you can see. Sunny O’Hara,” she added, offering a hand dotted with paint.

“Roland Babbett. Would it be all right if I took some pictures of the house? It’s wonderful.”

“You go ahead. Where are you from, Roland?”

“Little Rock.”

“My son lived there some years. He was a police detective. Brooks Gleason.”

“Can’t say I know the name, but I try to stay out of trouble.”

She grinned along with him. “That’s good, because he’s chief of police here now.”

“It feels like a nice town. I hope he doesn’t stay too busy.”

“Oh, well, there’s always this and that. Where are you staying?”

“I’m splurging, since I’ll do a lot of camping on the second part of this trip. I’m at the Inn of the Ozarks.”

“Couldn’t do better; it’s one of the brightest jewels in Bickford’s treasure box. We had some trouble there a few days ago, as it happens. Town troublemaker and a couple of his minions tore up the Ozarks Suite.”

“Is that what it is? I’m on that floor, and they told me there’d be some noise. Repairs going on.”

“A lot of them. You may want to get yourself on another floor.”

“Oh, I don’t mind it. I can sleep through anything.” Casual and friendly, he let his camera dangle by its strap. “I’m sorry to hear about the trouble, though. It’s a really beautiful hotel. The architecture, the furnishings. It has the feel of a family home—with benefits. Why’d they tear it up?”

“Some people just like to break things, I guess.”

“That’s a shame. I guess even nice little towns have troublemakers. I’ll try to steer clear of him while I’m here.”

“He’s in jail, and likely to be there awhile. You’ll find most people who live here are friendly. We depend on tourists, and artists like yourself. That’s a serious camera you’ve got there.”

“My baby.” He tapped it. He really wanted the pictures, nearly as much as the information she so breezily passed on. “I still do film now and then, but digital’s my primary choice.”

“If you get anything you want to sell, you can take it into Shop Street Gallery. They buy a lot of local photography.”

“I appreciate the tip. A couple sales’ll keep me in hot dogs and beans for the next few weeks.”

He chatted with her for a few more minutes, then walked back toward the center of town. If Sunny O’Hara was anything to go by, Roland thought, the client wasn’t going to be pleased with the report.

He headed for the diner. Diners and waitresses were usually good information sources. He chose a booth with a good view of the comings and goings, set his camera carefully on the tabletop.

He was tempted to take a picture of the waitress—he really did love saturating himself in the persona, and she had a good, interesting face.

“Coffee, please.”

“How about some pie to go with it? Cherry’s especially good today.”

“Cherry pie?” He thought of encroaching middle-age paunch. So he’d do fifty extra crunches tonight. “I don’t think I can say no.”

“Warmed up? Vanilla-bean ice cream?”

Okay, seventy-five extra crunches. “Yes, ma’am. I don’t know anybody strong enough to say no to that. If it’s as good as it sounds, I’m going to be in here every day while I’m in town.”

“It is. Visiting?” she said, in nearly the same easy tone as Sunny.

He gave her the same cover, even showed her a few pictures he’d taken of the mural house.

“You never know what she’ll paint on it next. Those are right nice pictures, too.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll put your order in.”

He doctored his coffee while he waited, studied his guidebook like a good tourist. She brought back a generous wedge of pie with ice cream gently melting on the laced crust. “Sounds good, looks good.” Roland forked off a bite. “Tastes even better. Thanks, Kim.”

“You enjoy, now.” She glanced over, and so did he, as Brooks walked in. “Hey there, Chief.” When she gestured to the booth directly in front of him, Roland decided to double her tip.

“Just coffee.”

“You ain’t heard about the cherry pie à la mode. I got it on good authority nobody can say no.” She sent Roland a wink as she spoke, and he toasted her with a forkful.

“It’d be wasted on me right now. Lawyers.”

“Well, sweetie, that calls for two scoops of vanilla-bean on the pie.”

“Next time. I just came in for a decent cup of coffee, and some breathing room to review my notes.”

“All right, then. Blake’s lawyers?” she asked, as she poured the coffee.

“New ones. Harry got the ax, and between you and me, I think he’s doing a dance of joy at the firing. Blake hired on a firm from up north.”

“Yankee lawyers?” Kim’s mouth twisted in derision. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Armani suits and Louis Vuitton briefcases, at least according to the paralegal Big John Simpson’s got doing research on the case. They’ve got motions on top of motions. Want a change of venue for one thing. The judge doesn’t like them, so that’s something.”

“Want to get him away from here, away from where people know what a nasty piece of work that Blake boy is.”

“Can’t say I blame them. But here or on Pluto, fact’s fact. The trouble is facts aren’t always enough in a courtroom.”

On one step back she slapped both fists on her hips. “You don’t think he’ll get off? Not after what he did.”

“I’m not going to think it, because if he gets out of this whistling, the next time, I know in my gut, he’s likely to kill somebody.”

“Well, my Jesus, Brooks.”

“Sorry.” Brooks rubbed at his tired eyes. “I should’ve taken my crappy mood to my office.”

“You sit right there and have your coffee, and you don’t let all this weigh on you.” She leaned down, kissed the top of his head. “You did your job, and everybody knows it. You can’t do more than your job.”

“Feels like I ought to. Anyway … just the coffee.”

“You holler if you want anything else.” Shaking her head, she walked away, topping off Roland’s coffee as she went.

Roland sat, mulling. Nothing the cop said struck him as false. He despised the “nasty piece of work” himself. But as the wise and wonderful Kim had said, you couldn’t do more than your job.

His was to find anything that might tip the scales in the client’s favor.

He nearly choked on his pie when the vision walked in.

He knew small southern towns could produce some beauties, and in his personal opinion, southern women had a way of nurturing that beauty like hothouse roses. Maybe it was the weather, the air, the chance to wear all those thin summer dresses like the one the vision wore now. Maybe it was the slower pace or some secret mothers passed to daughters.

Whatever it was, it worked.

He loved his wife, and had never in their twelve years together—ten-plus with rings on the finger—strayed. But a man was entitled to a little fantasy now and then when possibly the sexiest woman ever created sashayed into his line of sight.

She hip-swayed right up to Gleason’s booth, slid in, like melted butter on warm toast.

“Not a good time, Sylbie.”

In Roland’s world, it was always a good time for Sylbie.

“I just have a question. I’m not going to try to get you back or anything like that. I learned my lesson back in March.”

“I appreciate that, but it’s a bad time right here and now.”

“You look tense and tired and out of sorts. I’m sorry about that. We were friends once.”

When he didn’t speak, she looked away, let out a breath that had her delectable breasts rising, falling.

“I guess we weren’t friends, and maybe that’s my fault. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since I humiliated myself for your benefit.”

“Let’s not go there.”

“It’s easy for you to say, since you weren’t the one standing there naked.”

Roland felt himself going hard, and mentally apologized to his wife.

“It was a mistake, and some of it’s on me for not talking it out with you. You’re sorry. I’m sorry. Let’s forget it.”

“I can’t forget it until I know.”

“Know what?”

“Why her and not me? That’s all. I need to know why you want to be with Abigail Lowery—everybody knows you are—and you don’t want to be with me.”

Roland wanted to know, too, and not just for the client. He’d seen Lowery’s photo, and she was attractive, sure. Pretty, maybe even beautiful in a quiet sort of way. But next to the stupendous Sylbie? She was no cherry pie à la mode.

“I don’t know how to tell you.”

“Just tell me the truth. Is she better in bed than me?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“That’s the wrong thing to ask.” On an impatient gesture, she pushed back a glorious fall of hair. “I wasn’t going to ask, even though I wonder. Just give me something, will you, that I can understand?”

“She makes me happy. When I’m with her I feel like that’s where I’m supposed to be, where I’ve been wanting to be. And everything that matters makes sense. I don’t know why one person falls in love with another, Sylbie. They just do.”

“You’re in love with her?”

“I’m in love with her.”

She stared down at the tabletop for a moment. “Can I have a sip of your coffee?”

“Sure.”

She took it, grimaced, set it down again after one sip. “You always drink it too sweet.”

“Bad habit.”

“Did you ever love me?”

“I wanted you. There were times I craved you like I was starved to death. The first time around, we were too young to know. The second? Maybe we were both trying to know. I couldn’t make you happy. You couldn’t make me happy. And nothing that really mattered made sense.”

“The sex did.”

He laughed a little. “Okay, you’re right about that. But sex, even good sex, can’t be the start, finish and the whole in between.”

“I thought I’d figured that out after my first divorce, but I guess I didn’t. And the second one … I never wanted to be the kind of woman with two divorces on her back.”

She turned to stare out the wide window. “But I am.”

“Maybe you should think of it as two marriages. I figure people who try marriage more than once, they’re optimists.”

“Optimists.” With a half-laugh, she shoved his coffee away. “Sounds better than a loser.”

“You’re not a loser, Sylbie.”

“I’m sort of seeing Grover.”

“You … oh.” Brooks picked up his coffee, gulped some down. “Well.”

“I know. He’s not the type I usually aim for. He’s not handsome, and he’s a little paunchy. But he’s got a sweetness to him. You did, too, but I didn’t appreciate it. I’m appreciating his. We’re not sleeping together yet, but I feel good when I’m with him. I feel better about myself. I guess we’re friends the way you and I never were.”

“That’s good.”

“He makes me happy, and I didn’t expect to be. I guess I’ll find out if I can stay happy.”

“I hope you can.”

“So do I.” She slid out. “I don’t think I’m ready to say I hope you stay happy with Abigail Lowery, but I nearly am.”

“That’s a start.”

“I’ll see you around.”

She sashayed out. Roland decided he had a lot more mulling to do, but since he’d finished his pie, he needed to do it elsewhere. In any case, Gleason was leaving, laying money on the tabletop for the coffee.

Maybe he’d drive out toward Lowery’s place, get the lay of the land.

Taking a break from work, Abigail paged through recipes online. It kept her from worrying. Nearly kept her from worrying. She knew Brooks would want to talk about what happened next when he came. She worried about what he thought should happen next.

So she worked, did laundry, worked, weeded the garden, worked, looked through recipes. She couldn’t seem to settle, focus on one chore until she completed it.

It wasn’t like her.

She wished he’d come.

She wished she could be alone.

She wished she knew what she really wished. She hated this indecision, the gnawing anxiety. It wasn’t productive.

When her alarm sounded, she spun in her chair, certain that telling Brooks—telling anyone—the story had brought the Volkovs to her door.

Illogical. Actually ridiculous, she admitted, but her pulse hammered as she watched the man in the ball cap on her monitor.

A good camera, she noted. Boots that had seen some wear. A backpack.

A hiker or tourist who’d wandered onto her property, despite the postings. That was it, probably.

When he took out binoculars, aimed them toward her cabin, the anxiety increased.

Who was he? What was he doing?

Coming closer. Still closer.

He stopped again, scanned with his compact field glasses, turning slowly until it seemed to Abigail he stared through them right at one of the cameras. Then he continued on, continuing the circle.

He took off his cap, scrubbed at his hair before taking out a water bottle and drinking deeply. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a compass, took a step, stumbled. He fumbled with the compass, dropped it. She saw his mouth move as he dived for it, snatched it off the ground.

He shook it, lifted his face to the sky, then sat on the ground, dropped his head to his knees.

He stayed as he was for several moments before pushing to his feet. He mopped at his face, then continued toward her cabin.

After checking her weapon, Abigail took the dog outside, circled around.

She could hear him coming. Nothing stealthy in his approach, she thought, and he was muttering to himself, breathing fast, heavy. From the side of the greenhouse, she watched him come into view, heard him say, very clearly, “Thank God,” as he arrowed straight toward her rear door.

He knocked, swiped sweat from his face, waited. He knocked again, more forcefully. “Hello! Is anybody there? Please, let somebody be there.”

He walked down the porch, cupped his hand on the window glass.

And she stepped out, the dog by her side. “What do you want?”

He jumped like a rabbit, spun around. “Jeez, you scared the—” His eyes went huge when he saw the gun, and his hands shot straight up in the air. “Jesus, don’t shoot me. I’m lost. I got lost. I’m just looking for the way back to my car.”

“What were you doing in the woods, on my property? It’s clearly posted.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I was taking photographs. I’m a photographer. I was just going to take a few shots, get the feel of things, and I got caught up, went in farther than I meant to. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have ignored the No Trespassing signs. You can call the cops. Just don’t shoot me. My—my name’s Roland Babbett. I’m staying at the Inn of the Ozarks. You can check.”

“Please take off your pack, set it down, step away from it.”

“Okay, sure.”

He wasn’t wearing a gun—she’d seen him do a full circle and would have spotted it. But he might have a weapon in the pack.

“You can keep the pack,” he said, when he set it down. “My wallet’s in there. You can keep the money.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“Listen, listen, I got lost. I dropped my compass and broke it. I saw the cabin through my binoculars when I was scanning around. I just came for some help. Call the police.”

“Where did you leave your car?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be lost. I don’t mean to be a smart-ass,” he added quickly. “I drove out of Bickford, south out of town for about a mile, then I pulled over. The light was really good, the shadows. I wanted to take some shots. Photographs, I mean,” he said, with another wary look at the gun.

“You should respect private property.”

“Yes, you’re right. I’m really sorry.”

She pointed. “If you go that way, you’ll come to the road. Turn left. You should find your car in about a quarter-mile.”

“Okay. Thanks. I’ll just—”

“Take your pack,” she told him, as he started to step off the porch without it.

“Okay.” He picked it up, his eyes shifting from her face, to the gun, to the dog, back again. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She watched him walk away, in quite a hurry, until he was out of sight. Back in the house, she continued to watch him on the monitor as he hiked at a half-jog up her road to the main one, tossing glances over his shoulders every few minutes.

She’d frightened him, she thought. Well, he’d frightened her. She supposed that made them even.

Roland knew exactly where his car was parked.

He hadn’t been expecting the gun. He hadn’t been expecting the cameras, either. He’d been told she had security, including cameras around the house. Nobody had mentioned she had them ranged back in the woods.

If he hadn’t spotted one when he had, he’d have blown the job.

She’d bought the scared, lost hiker routine. Why not? He had been scared. She’d held the Glock like someone who knew how to use it. Like someone who would use it.

He had to admire that, now that he wasn’t standing on the wrong side of it.

And the dog. He’d known about the dog, but God damn, that was one big bastard.

Then the locks on the back door. As good as they came, he mused, as he tossed the pack in the backseat. He was pretty damn good with the picks, but he’d never get through those. Moot point, as he couldn’t get by the cameras, not without a whole lot of equipment.

That much security? Overkill.

The job just got a lot more interesting. Anybody with security like that, the big dog, the Glock, the ’tude?

She had something to hide. He loved finding out what people wanted to hide.

24

Brooks came into the kitchen with a clutch of white daisies with bright yellow buttons and a rawhide bone for Bert.

“You brought me flowers again.”

“My daddy brings my mama flowers once or twice a week, and I figured out it’s because they make her smile, just like you are now.”

“I worried things wouldn’t be right when you came tonight, that it would feel awkward after everything. And you brought me daisies.”

“Then you can stop worrying.”

She got a vase, wished she had a pretty little pitcher instead, and vowed to buy one the next time she went into town.

“Every time I come in here something smells good, in addition to you.”

“It’s the rosemary,” she told him, as she arranged the flowers. “It’s very fragrant. I found a new recipe for chicken I wanted to try.”

“Happy to be your taste-tester.”

“It should go well with the Pouilly-Fumé.”

“If you say so.” He brushed her hair back, then indulged himself with a nuzzle of her neck. “How’d your day go?”

“I was restless and distracted, but I finished some work. And I was interrupted by a lost hiker—a photographer. I don’t understand why people don’t respect boundary lines. There’s so much land here open to the public, there’s no need to come onto private property.”

“Grass is always greener. He came to the house?”

“Yes. He set off the alarm, and I saw him on the monitor. He dropped and broke his compass, and apparently saw the cabin through his binoculars.”

Brooks paused in the act of pouring their wine. “Binoculars?”

She checked the chicken. “Yes. I wondered if he’d seen the camera through them, but apparently he was looking for his way, or some help. I went outside, around the greenhouse, so I could come up behind him.”

“You went out, when some strange guy was coming to the house?”

“I know how to take care of myself. I’ve been doing it for a long time, remember? He was alone. I had my gun and Bert. He knocked, called out. And he was very disconcerted when I stepped out, with the gun.”

Brooks finished pouring the wine, took a long swallow. “Yeah, I can see that.”

“I didn’t mind frightening him. He shouldn’t have come onto posted property. I questioned him briefly, then directed him to where, if he told me accurately, he’d left his car. He left quickly.”

“An armed woman with a big dog? He’d’ve been a fool not to. What was he doing out here?”

“Photography. He said his name was Roland Babbett, and he was staying at the Conroys’ hotel.”

“That’s easy enough to check on.” Brooks dug out his cell phone. “What did he look like?”

“Mid-thirties. Between five-ten and five-eleven, about a hundred and seventy pounds. Medium complexion, light brown hair, brown eyes, prominent chin. He wore a brown cap with the Greenpeace logo, a black T-shirt with the name of the band R.E.M., khaki cargo shorts and hiking boots. He had a navy backpack, and a Nikon camera on a strap. The strap had multicolored peace signs on it.”

“Yeah, you would’ve made a good cop,” Brooks replied. “I saw him at the diner earlier today. Cherry pie à la mode.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. Just curious. What time did he come here?”

“The alarm sounded at four-eighteen.”

“Yeah, that’s curious. I see him at the diner in town going onto four o’clock. Less than a half-hour later, he’s out here.”

Her hand tightened on the stem of her glass. “You think they’ve found me.”

“Honey, did he look like Russian Mafia? And would it be their style to have some guy poking around up in your woods?”

“No.” Her shoulders relaxed. “He wasn’t armed. At least he wasn’t wearing a weapon. The Volkovs wouldn’t send a single unarmed man.”

“I think that’s a pretty safe bet.” But he intended to be thorough, and punched in a number on his cell. “Hey, Darla, how’s it going? Uh-huh. Those spring colds can hit hard. You get some rest. Yeah, it’s that time of year, all right. Listen, do you have a guest name of Roland Babbett registered? No problem. Uh-huh, hmmm. It takes all kinds, doesn’t it? Uh-huh.” He rolled his eyes at Abigail. “Yeah, Roland Babbett. What room’s he in? Now, Darla, I’m not just anybody asking. I’m the chief of police. I’m just following up on something. You know I can call Russ and ask. Uh-huh. Is that so? Mmm-hmm. No, no trouble, just a routine thing. You take care of that cold, now, you hear? Bye.”

He picked up the wine again. “Darla tends to run on a bit. He’s there, all right. Took a room—requested it—right down the hall from the Ozarks Suite.”

“The one Justin Blake and his friends vandalized?”

“That would be right. Now, isn’t it curious how I saw this Babbett in town, and he comes here, got a camera and binoculars, and he’s staying down from that particular suite?”

“It could be a coincidence, but it feels designed.”

“Designed is a good word for it. Designed by Blake.” Leaning a hip on the counter, he picked up his wine. “What do you bet if I scratched the surface some, I’d find out Roland Babbett is a high-priced private investigator?”

“I think I’d win the bet. He did see the camera, and he thought very quickly, pretending to be lost.” Duping her, she thought, with considerable annoyance. “But I don’t see what he gained by coming here.”

“A little legwork. Check out your setup here, get a feel. He had some luck today, spotting one of your cameras, using it to his advantage to make contact. I don’t doubt the reception gave him a bad moment, but all in all, it worked for him. He had a conversation, a close-up look. Same thing earlier when I happened to go in for some coffee when he was in the diner. He got to sit there, eating his pie, and get a good look, and … shit.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I bet his ears were trained, too. I bet he caught damn near every word of my conversation with Sylbie. Which I wasn’t going to bring up,” he added, when Abigail said nothing. “And now it occurs to me that was the wrong way, because, I guess, it was an important conversation. And you were part of it.”

“You talked about me, with her?”

“And that tone, that look in your eye, was why I wasn’t going to mention it.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” She turned away to put the green beans she’d bought earlier in the week and had already prepped on the stove to steam. “I don’t have a tone.”

“You could cut brick with it. Not that I mind.” He didn’t bother to hide the grin when he gave her a friendly poke at the base of the spine. “It’s sort of flattering.”

“I wouldn’t be flattered. I don’t care to have you talk about me with your former … connection.”

“Connect is what Sylbie and me never really did. She came in while I was having coffee, and she sat down. Partly to apologize for that, we’ll say unfortunate, incident back in March. The other was to ask a question. She wanted to know why you and not her.”

Considering, Abigail took the chicken off the heat. “It’s a legitimate question, from her point of view. That’s what you’d think. From mine, it’s both awkward and annoying. A woman who looks like she does would be used to having anyone she wants, and wouldn’t see me, fairly enough, in that same light. However true that might be, it’s still annoying. You’re flattered because I’m annoyed, and that only annoys me more.”

“Before you move to downright pissed, don’t you want to know what I told her?”

“It’s none of my business what you said in a private conversation.” She got out plates, set them down sharply. “Yes, I want to know.”

“I told her that when I’m with you, it feels right. It feels like where I’m supposed to be. It all makes sense. I said I didn’t know why one person falls in love with another, just that they do.”

She turned back, eyes on his. “You told her you loved me.”

“I did, because I do.”

“I’m less annoyed.”

“Good. Heading in the right direction. I didn’t want to have the conversation with her, but after I had, I realized it was a good one. I think we understand each other better than we ever did, and that’ll make it easier for both of us.”

“It would be easier for me if she weren’t so physically gifted. And that’s petty. I don’t like being petty and shallow.”

“As I grew up with two sisters, I can safely say odds are strong she’s thinking the same about you. But my point is this Roland Babbett got himself an earful.”

“None of it’s applicable to the charges against Justin Blake, if indeed Babbett is a private investigator working for Justin’s father.”

“No, but it’s fuel. Just like you carrying a gun and having high-class security is fuel. How well will those bona fides of yours hold up?”

“My documents and available history will stand up to a standard police run. There would be no reason to question them.”

“A PI’s not a cop,” Brooks pointed out.

“I believe they’ll hold up to a rigorous check. I’ve never had any trouble.”

“Ever been arrested, brought in for questioning?”

“No, but I’m routinely checked by clients before contract. Due to the sensitive nature of the work, and my fee, my documents and references are thoroughly checked by any new client.”

“That’s good.” Satisfied, he nodded. “That’s good to know. My concern, and it’s just a concern at this point, is this Babbett wouldn’t be working for a client wanting to hire you, but one looking for dirt, for something he can use to discredit you or threaten you.”

“He’d have to be very skilled, and very determined.”

“Maybe we’ll take some precautions.”

“You could intimidate him. You have authority, and weapons. You could confront him, intimidate him and make him leave.”

“Maybe I could, but that’s the sort of thing that would tend to make him more curious once he’s gone. Unless I have a lever.”

“I don’t want to leave.”

“We’re not going to let that happen.”

She hated this new stress, this additional complication that had nothing, nothing, to do with the Volkovs.

“If I’d stayed in the house, not answered the door, or simply given him directions—”

“I don’t think that would’ve made much difference. He’s doing a job. What we’ll do—or you will, as I expect you’re better and quicker—is find out what we can about him. See what kind of man we’re up against here. Meanwhile … I’m going to want to borrow some of your cameras.”

“Why?”

“That precaution. Is it okay if the Bickford Police Department borrows some of your equipment for a day or two?”

“Yes.” She took a key ring out of her pocket. “Borrow what you want.”

“Thanks. I’ll have Ash or Boyd run out and get it, if that’s okay. I need to make a couple calls to set up that precaution.”

“All right. I have to finish the meal.” Hopefully it would settle her nerves. “I don’t want to overcook the vegetables.”

She had to do something, keep doing something, so the panic couldn’t push through. If she performed normal tasks—add fresh thyme and butter to the green beans, drizzle the wine sauce over the chicken, plate them with the roasted potatoes—she could cling to the illusion of normality.

She’d prepared and presented the meal very well, but she could barely force down a few bites.

She had a contingency plan. She always did. All the documents she needed for the next identity were inside her safe room, locked away. Waiting.

But she didn’t want to use them, didn’t want to become someone else again. That meant she’d have to fight to protect who she was now. What she had now.

“If this investigator is very skilled and very determined, it will still take time for him to discredit my documents and history,” she began. “I need more time to plan and organize any sort of contact with Special Agent Garrison.”

“She’s in Chicago?”

“I wanted someone in Chicago, where the Volkovs are based. She would have more incentive, and more access. Her response time would be quicker, once she learned to trust my information.”

“Good thinking.”

“But unless I can formulate an alternative, if I make direct contact, she’d be duty-bound to detain me. If that happens, I don’t believe I’ll have the time or opportunity to clear myself before I’m eliminated.”

He reached over, took both her hands. “You’re not going to be detained, and you’re sure as hell not going to be eliminated. Look at me. Whatever it takes. And I’ve given some thought on alternatives and methods.”

“I’ve considered sending Special Agent Garrison an e-mail on her personal account, telling her who I am, relating the entire story, all the details. I can route it as I do the data I send her, and it wouldn’t be possible to track. But it could leak. If the information I give her gets in the wrong hands, the Volkovs will know I’m not only still alive—”

“Ilya Volkov saw you. They know you’re alive.”

“They knew I was alive five years ago in New York. I might have had an accident or contracted a terminal illness.”

“Okay, slim, but point taken.”

“They’ll also know I’ve accessed their accounts, their electronics, and have given information to the FBI. Naturally, they’d take steps to block me from the access, which would cost me time and effort. They’d also be much more careful about what they put in e-mails and e-files. But more, it would make them very angry, and increase their effort to locate and eliminate me.

“They have very skilled techs. Part of their income is from computer fraud, scams, from identity theft.”

“You’re better than their techs.”

“Yes, I am, but I’ve also had considerable time to study and program, to break through firewalls, elude alerts. It would take time to do that again, with newer, stronger security in place. In their position, I’d lay traps. If I made a mistake, they might track me. Time, again, is important. If and when I contact the FBI, the process of taking Keegan and Cosgrove, identifying other moles, arresting Korotkii, Ilya—all of that would have to happen quickly.”

“Like dominoes falling,” he suggested.

“Yes, along those lines. Bureaucracies don’t, in general, operate in a timely fashion. And before the process can begin, the agent, her superiors, would have to believe me.”

“They will.”

“The word of a fugitive, suspected at least by some of killing or certainly causing the deaths of two U.S. Marshals. Against the word of two other marshals, one of whom has been decorated and promoted.”

He covered her restless hand with his. “The word of a woman who at sixteen handed them a top-level Mafia assassin on a damn platter. They’re the ones who screwed up.”

“You’re biased because you love me.”

“I love you, but I also have good instincts. You think the FBI, the marshals, the CPD wouldn’t bend and twist to break the back of the Volkov organization? They’ll deal with you, Abigail.”

It took an effort not to pull her hand from his. “Are you asking me to trust them to protect me?”

“No. I’m asking you to trust yourself, and me, to do that.”

“I think I could.”

“Then what we need is, first, a conduit.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Someone to speak for you, to make contact and open the door to negotiations.”

“You can’t—”

“No,” he agreed, before she’d finished. “I can’t. I’m too close to you, emotionally and geographically. They’ll check out the conduit. But they’d have no reason to connect me—or you—to my former captain on the Little Rock PD.”

“I don’t know him.”

“I do. Just hear me out. Captain Joseph Anson. You can research him. He’s a solid cop, decorated, a twenty-five-year man. He’s got a wife—first and only—two kids. He’s a good boss, a smart cop. By the book, but not so much that he can’t skip a page if it’s the right thing to do. He’s trusted and respected in the department because he’s trustworthy and respectable. And he’s got balls.”

She got up, walked to the window to think it through. A conduit made good sense, would lay a reasonable buffer down. But …

“Why would he believe me?”

“He’ll believe me.”

“Even if he did, why would Special Agent Garrison believe him?”

“Because of his record, his service, because he’s clean. Because he’d have no reason to lie. He’s a handful of years away from his thirty, away from retirement. Why would he risk that by lying to the feds?”

She nodded, seeing the logic. “But why would he risk that by involving himself in this?”

“Because he’s a good man, and a good cop.” Now Brooks rose, went to her. “Because he’s raised two daughters, and if he doesn’t imagine them in your place, I’ll put them there in his head.”

“You’re asking me to trust a man I don’t know, have never met.”

“I know it, and don’t think for a minute I don’t know how much that asks. If you can’t do it, we’ll find another way.”

She turned to the window again. Her gardens were doing so well. Her life had been so smooth, really, for the last year. And yet nothing had really grown until she’d opened the door to Brooks.

“Would you trust him with your life?”

“I would be. You’re my life now.”

“Oh, God, you say that and I feel I’d wither away if I lost what I’ve found with you. You make me want to risk the quiet, Brooks, and I thought the quiet was all I ever wanted.”

“You can’t keep running, Abigail.” Taking her shoulders, he turned her around to face him. “You can’t keep shutting yourself up, shutting yourself down.”

“I thought I could, but no, I can’t. Not now. How would you do it?”

“Drive to Little Rock. We couldn’t risk a phone call or an e-mail. It has to be face-to-face, not only so we don’t leave a trail but because Anson’s a face-to-face type. I could be there in under two hours, get this started, be back before morning.”

“Tonight?”

“What’s the point in putting it off? There’s a PI I guarantee is working on his laptop right now, scratching at that surface. We’ve got the advantage, why waste it?” He got to his feet. “You take your laptop or that iPad of yours. Do your research on the captain on the way. If you’re not satisfied, we turn around, come back.”

“You want me to go with you?”

“Always. But in this case I want him to see you, hear you. I want you to tell him the way you told me. You’re scared. I don’t blame you.” He took her arms. “You want to take more time, to analyze, to calculate, work out details. But that’s not what you did when you got out of that safe house. It’s not what you did in New York when they chased after you. You went with instinct, and you beat them.”

“I’m going to take my alternate identification, and cash. My go bag. If this goes wrong, I can’t come back here.”

“If it goes wrong, I’ll go with you.”

“I know you mean that now—”

“Now’s where we are. You take whatever you think you need.”

“I want to take Bert.”

Now he smiled. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He drove her car. Neighbors wouldn’t think much about an SUV in Anson’s driveway, but they’d remember a Bickford police cruiser if a badge asked somewhere down the line.

While he drove, Bert did what dogs did in cars, hung his head out the back window with a dopey grin on his face, and Abigail worked on her laptop.

“Your Captain Anson has an excellent record.”

“He’s a good cop.”

Advantage or disadvantage? Abigail wondered.

“If he agrees to help, will you know if he’s telling the truth?”

“Yes. Trust me.”

“I am.” She looked out the side window at the blur of landscape. “More than I have anyone else in a dozen years. If this goes through, and others believe me, it would lead to arrests, trials, my testimony. And there could be repercussions. You have to understand that.”

“We could go on the way things are, let it alone. And both of us—I think both of us—would never feel quite okay with it. Safer, but not quite okay.”

“Safe’s been enough for a long time now.” She looked back at him, still in wonder how one person could change everything. “It’s not now. Still, it won’t be enough to hurt the Volkov organization, to just damage it. To be okay and safe, we have to destroy it.”

“Working on it.”

“I have some ideas. But not all of them are strictly legal.”

She watched the grin move over his face. “That doesn’t surprise me. What do you have in mind?”

“I’ve been working on something, but I need to refine it a bit more. It’s technical.”

He glanced over, and down at her laptop. “Nerd stuff.”

“I suppose. Yes, nerd stuff. If we do this, I’ll need to spend more time and effort on the programs I’ve been developing. In the meantime, and again, if your captain agrees, you have to decide on your communication. Once he makes contact with the FBI on this matter, they’ll track his communications.”

“We’re going to make a stop on the way, pick up some prepaid cell phones. That should cover it for the time being.”

“It should.”

He reached over, briefly laid his hand over hers. “We’re going to find a way.”

She believed him. It made no sense, defied all logic, and yet she believed him.

Her nerves ratcheted up when Brooks drove down the quiet street in the pretty neighborhood. Old leafy trees, green lawns, lights glowing against window glass.

Captain Anson might attempt to arrest her on the spot. He might insist on contacting the federals.

He might not be home, which would be anticlimactic and somehow more stressful.

He might—

“Relax,” Brooks said and stopped in front of a tidy two-story house with attached garage and a lovely red maple in the front yard.

“That’s not possible.”

He shifted so they were face-to-face. “In or out, Abigail? It’s your choice.”

“In, but I can’t relax about it.”

If she had to run, she wouldn’t allow him to run with her. She wouldn’t allow him to give up his life, his family, his world. She had an extra set of keys in her bag, and could be out and gone, if necessary. If that happened …

“Whatever happens, I need you to know these past weeks have been the best of my life. Being with you changed me. Nothing will be the same for me again, and I’m glad of it.”

“We’re going to win this, starting now.”

“All right.” She ordered Bert to stay, and got out of the car.

After Brooks skirted the hood, he took her hand. She did her best to focus on that contact as her heart began to thud in her throat.

Lights glowed in the window, and she could smell spring, and the oncoming summer—the grass, the heliotrope, dianthus, some early roses. She felt the anxiety build, an anvil on her chest, and closed her eyes against it for a moment while Brooks knocked.

The man who answered boasted broad shoulders and heavily salted dark hair gone thin at the temples. He wore khakis and a blue golf-style shirt with reading glasses hanging from the pocket by the earpiece.

His feet were bare, and from somewhere behind him, Abigail heard the commentary of a ball game.

His eyes were a hard steel blue, until the smile burst onto his face.

“Son of a bitch, it’s Chief Gleason at my door.”

“It’s good to see you, Captain.”

“Son of a bitch,” Anson repeated, then gave Brooks a one-armed hug while he measured up Abigail. “Are you going to introduce the lady?”

“Abigail Lowery, Captain Joe Anson.”

“Nice to meet you, Abigail. Man, Nadine’s going to be sorry she missed you. She took her mom on a girl’s trip—a spa thing—for her mom’s birthday. She won’t be back till Sunday. Well, come on in.”

The living room looked comfortable, Abigail thought, lived in and easy, with framed family photographs on a wall shelf and prettily potted houseplants on the windowsill.

“I was catching the game back in the den. Just let me switch that off.”

“Sorry to interrupt, to drop by like this.”

“No need. It’s my second night baching it. I’m boring the hell out of myself.” He slipped into an alcove off the living room. Seconds later the sound went off, and an ancient yellow Lab followed Anson creakily out of the den.

“He’s harmless,” Anson said to Abigail.

“I like dogs. He has a very intelligent face.”

“Huck was always smart. Mostly blind now, and more’n half deaf, but he’s still got his smarts. Why don’t we go on back to the great room, have a seat? How’s your dad doing, Brooks?”

“He’s good. Really good.”

“That’s good to hear. And the job?”

“I like it, Captain. I like where I am and who I am there.”

“He’s a good cop,” Anson said to Abigail. “I hated losing him. How about a beer?”

“I wouldn’t say no.”

“I would,” Abigail said, then realized the simple truth sounded rude. “I mean, if I could have some water.”

“Sure. I got some lemonade. It’s not half bad.”

“That would be nice, thank you.”

At Anson’s direction, they settled into a seating area off the large, open kitchen. At the back, wide glass doors led out to a patio, where she saw what she assumed was an enormous grill under a black cover, and several outdoor chairs and tables.

As Anson got the drinks, the old dog shuffled over, sniffed at her, then rested his head on her knee.

She stroked his head, rubbed his ears.

“If he bothers you, just tell him to go sit.”

“He isn’t bothering me.”

“Abigail’s got a dog. Great dog. Bert’s out in the car.”

“What the hell did you leave him out there for? Go get him. We’ll take this out back, let the two of them get acquainted and pal around.”

“Bert would like that. If you’re sure, I’ll go get him. I ordered him to stay, so he wouldn’t get out of the car for Brooks.”

“You go ahead, and just bring him on around the back. Side gate’s on the left.”

“Thank you.”

When she went out, Anson handed Brooks the beer, jerked a thumb toward the sliders. “What’s going on, Brooks?” he asked, as they stepped out.

“A lot.”

“Your lady covers it well, but she’s got enough nerves lighting her up to power the whole city of Little Rock.”

“She’s got reason for them. I talked her into coming here, to you, because she needs help. And because I’m in love with her.”

Anson let out a breath, took a long swallow of beer. “What kind of trouble is she in?”

“I want her to tell you, and I need you to hear her out. All the way. I’m counting on you, Captain.”

“She’s not from around here, or up where you come from, either.”

“No, but Bickford’s her home now. We both want it to stay that way.”

They heard the gate open and shut. Huck’s head went up—not at the sound, Anson knew—at the scent.

Anson’s eyebrows lifted when Abigail walked around the house with Bert.

“That’s one big, handsome bastard.”

“He’s very well behaved,” Abigail assured him. “Ami,” she said when Huck, quivering, walked over to sniff the newcomer. “Ami. Jouer.”

Tails slashing the air, the dogs sniffed each other. Huck walked over to the fence line, lifted his leg. Bert followed suit. Then they wrestled.

“Huck’s got some life in him yet.” Anson offered Abigail the lemonade, gestured to a seat. “Brooks said you had a story to tell me, Abigail.”

“Yes. I should start by saying my name isn’t Abigail Lowery. Technically. It’s Elizabeth Fitch. When I was sixteen I witnessed a man named Yakov Korotkii, who is a lieutenant in the Volkov crime organization, murder his cousin Alexi Gurevich and my friend Julie Masters.”

Anson sat back. After a moment, he glanced at Brooks. “You did say a lot.”

Then he turned those steely eyes back on Abigail. “Why don’t you tell me about that?”

25

She couldn’t know if he believed her. His face showed nothing, no surprise, no doubt, no understanding. As Brooks had, he interrupted the flow a few times with questions, then only nodded so she’d continue.

Before she finished, the dogs came back for rubs, and were both sprawled out, exhausted from the play, when she stopped.

“I remember some of what you’re telling me,” Anson began. “It was big news at the time, especially within law enforcement. Two U.S. Marshals killed, another wounded, the witness in a Mob-related double murder missing. Your name and face was all over the national media for some weeks, and there were a number of interagency memos on you.”

“Yes, I know.”

“As well as an outstanding warrant for fleeing a scene. A BOLO and APB. You’re wanted for questioning in the matter of those agents’ deaths, and the explosion of the safe house.”

Her fingers linked together, painfully tight, in her lap. “Interoffice communication indicates that Keegan and Cosgrove have been taken at their word. Wanted for questioning is simply a ruse in order to charge me for murder, or accessory to murder.”

“How would you be privy to interoffice communication?”

Saying nothing, Brooks reached over, unlaced her fingers, kept his hand on hers.

“I’m a computer scientist, and specialize in security. I’m also a hacker.”

“And you’re telling me you can access confidential files and memos inside the U.S. Marshals Service and the FBI?”

“Yes. I’m very skilled, and this has been a priority for me. Both Keegan and Cosgrove made statements which claim they came in, found Terry down in the kitchen and her weapon missing. As they began to call it in, they were fired on by persons unknown, and Cosgrove sustained a wound. As Keegan returned fire, the lights went out. Keegan was able to get Cosgrove outside, call in the incident. But before he could go back in for Terry, or to find me or John, the house exploded. He also claimed he believed he saw someone fleeing.”

“That about sums up what I remember from it,” Anson agreed.

“One of the prevailing theories is I grew panicked, or perhaps bored, and contacted the Volkovs to make a deal. They tracked me to the safe house, and I fought with Terry as I tried to get out. Either I or persons unknown associated with the Volkovs shot John, fired on Keegan and Cosgrove, and I either escaped in the confusion or was taken. The assassins then blew up the house to cover the tracks—or I did it.”

“A sixteen-year-old girl getting the draw on two marshals and blowing up a house.” Brooks shook his head. “I wouldn’t buy it.”

“A highly intelligent girl who’d been trained personally by one of those marshals in firearms, who’d requested and received five thousand in cash from her trust fund, who’d forged IDs, had spent a summer while the legal wheel slowly turned, thinking about what would happen to her once she testified.” The logic of it stood firmly enough for Abigail. “It’s reasonable to believe that girl snapped, tried to make it all go away.”

“Reasonable,” Anson commented, “when there’s nothing to contradict the statements and timelines, such as a conflicting statement from an eyewitness.”

“I don’t believe the theory I murdered John and Terry, or had a part in their murders, will hold,” Abigail told him. “But I do believe if I’m taken in, that won’t matter. I’ll be dead within twenty-four hours. It might be staged as a suicide, but I favor direct elimination.”

“You’re very cool about it,” Anson observed.

“I’ve had a number of years to consider what they’d do to me if they could.”

“Why come in now?”

She looked at Brooks. “If I don’t, nothing changes. And so much already has. Brooks asked me to trust him, and in doing so, to trust you. I’m trying.”

“She’s been feeding, anonymously, an FBI agent based in Chicago with intel on the Volkov organization.”

“And you have that intel because you’re hacking into the Volkov network?” Puffing out his cheeks, Anson sat back. “You must be one hell of a hacker.”

“Yes, I am. The Volkov organization is very computer-centric, and they believe they’re very safe, very well shielded. They have excellent techs,” she added. “I’m better than they are. Also, Ilya is consistently careless in this area. It’s, in my opinion, a kind of arrogance. He uses e-mail and texts routinely for both business and personal correspondence.”

“They’ve made a number of arrests on that intel, Captain,” Brooks said.

“Who’s your FBI contact?”

Abigail looked at Brooks, got his nod. “Special Agent Elyse Garrison.”

“Why didn’t you go to her with your story?”

“If it leaked—and I know there’s at least one Volkov mole inside the Chicago office—she could be taken, tortured, killed. Killed outright. She could be used to lure me in. They haven’t been able to trace the contact to me. Once they do, her life and mine are put at serious risk.”

“You want someone to make contact for you, someone who isn’t—as far as any check would show—connected in any way to Elizabeth Fitch.”

“Someone,” Brooks continued, “with a sterling record in law enforcement, someone with position and authority, credibility. Someone this Garrison is likely to believe.”

“And if I buy into this, I go to Chicago and make this contact, what then?”

“It opens the door for us to set up a meet between her and Abigail, at a location we choose.”

“I would continue to monitor law enforcement chatter and communications, so I’d know if they’d attempt a trap, or if any of the people I believe or suspect to be in league with the Volkovs learn of the communication.”

“You’re crossing a lot of lines here.” He turned a cool, hard eye on Brooks. “Both of you.”

“Tell me, Captain, what do you think her chances are of living to testify if she goes in straight, with the moles in place, the Volkovs whole?”

“I believe in the system, Brooks. I believe they’d protect her. But I can’t blame her for not believing it. If it was someone I loved, I’m not sure I’d believe it, either.”

He exhaled deeply.

In the quiet yard with the dogs softly snoring, a little garden fountain gurgling, Abigail wondered the scrape of her nerves under her skin didn’t screech like nails on a blackboard.

“We may be able to do this your way, smoke out Keegan and Cosgrove, and those like them,” Anson began. “We may be able to make some key arrests that put a hard dent in the Volkov organization. And then? Are you willing to go into witness protection?” he asked Brooks. “To give up where you like to be, who you like to be?”

“Yes.”

“No,” Abigail said immediately. “No. I wouldn’t have agreed to come here if I believed that would be a result. Elizabeth Fitch will meet Special Agent Garrison, will testify. Only three people know Elizabeth Fitch and Abigail Lowery are the same person, and that has to remain constant. If a connection is made between them, I’ll disappear. I can do it.”

“Abigail.”

“No,” she said again, quietly, fiercely, to Brooks. “You need to do the right thing, and you need to protect me. You can do both. I’m trusting you to do both. You have to trust me. I’ll be Elizabeth again, for this, and then she’s gone. She’ll disappear, and Abigail can live her life. I know how to bring down the Volkovs, and in a way I believe they’ll never fully recover from. It’s not about guns and knives and blood. It’s about keystrokes.”

“You’re going to take them down with a computer?” Anson demanded.

Her eyes, calm and green, met his. “That’s exactly right. If I can do what I’ve theorized, and the authorities listen and act, this will be over. I’m putting my life in your hands, Captain Anson, because Brooks trusts and respects you without qualification.”

“Let’s go in, have some coffee,” Anson said after a moment, “and talk this through.”

She insisted on driving back. Brooks had barely slept in thirty-six hours, and would be on duty within another six. So he kicked back the seat and caught a little sleep on the drive.

And gave her time to go over everything, again.

Joseph Anson would go to Chicago, make contact. He would not use or reveal the name Abigail Lowery but tell Agent Garrison that Elizabeth Fitch had come to him, told him the story, given him the agent’s name. He’d relate information Abigail had previously funneled to Garrison.

If Garrison followed her previous pattern, she would report only to her direct superior. Then the process would begin.

So many things could go wrong.

But if they went right …

She could belong to the man sleeping beside her. She could learn what to do at backyard barbecues. She could become Abigail so that everything that happened from that point on would be real.

She would finally look out from the witness chair in the courtroom, stare into the eyes of Korotkii, Ilya, Sergei Volkov, and speak the truth. As Elizabeth.

No, as Liz, she thought. At least in her mind, she’d speak as Liz for Julie, John and Terry.

And she’d use everything she’d learned in the past twelve years to strip the bones of the Volkov organization clean.

He stirred as she turned toward her cabin.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said.

“I thought you were sleeping.”

“Some of both.” He brought the seat back up, scrubbed at his face with his hands. “So I was thinking you should ask me to move in with you. I’m practically living here now,” he added, when she said nothing. “But maybe you could make it official.”

“Do you want to live here so you can protect me?”

“That would be a side benefit. Other side benefits include having my stuff handy, some closet and drawer space, and easy access to sex. All of those are pluses, but the main reason I want to live here is because I love you and I want to be with you.”

She sat for a moment, looking at her cabin. Hers, she thought. The house, the gardens, the greenhouse, the little creek, the woods. She’d come to think of them as hers, to feel that belonging. For the first time, she’d come to think of a place as home.

Hers.

“If you moved in, you’d need security codes and keys.”

“They’d sure be handy.”

“I’d like to think about it, if that’s all right.”

“Sure.”

The single word, so easy as he got out of the car, opened the back for the dog to jump out, told her he was confident he’d overcome any objections she might voice, and have his way.

It should have irritated her, she thought. It should even insult her. And yet it did neither. It simply reminded her who he was.

Theirs. She tried out the word, let herself wonder over it while they waited for Bert to relieve himself after the drive.

Theirs in the pretty, star-dazzled night, with the flowers glowing, the creek murmuring and the soft breeze urging the leaves to whisper an answer.

Their house, their gardens, their greenhouse and creek and woods.

Hers was safer. Quieter.

Theirs. Full of compromise and questions.

And promise.

She unlocked the front door, reset the alarm. “Would you like to move in with me?”

“Well, that’s a big step. I’m going to have to think about it.”

“You just said …” She turned into his grin, felt her lips curve in response as she locked up. “You’re teasing.”

“Caught me.” He laid his hands on her shoulders, turned her to face him again. “But it is a big step for you, I know.”

“It’s a more natural progression for you. You were raised in a traditional two-parent home.”

“Boy, my mother’d be pissed to be labeled traditional.” He put an arm around her shoulders to lead her upstairs. “We’ll keep that between you and me.”

“I never considered sharing a home with anyone. And I’ve only begun to believe it’s possible for me to stay here, to have a home here.”

“Believe it, and keep believing it. No point sending negative thoughts out into the universe.”

“Optimistic or pessimistic thoughts don’t influence events.”

“How do you know?” Playfully, he gave her hair a quick tug. “You can’t know what other people are thinking or wishing or believing unless they tell you. And what about the whole faith can move mountains deal?”

“I’ve never seen a mountain move, much less through faith.”

“Literal brain.” He tapped her forehead. “What about volcanoes? A volcano moves the hell out of a mountain.”

“It’s ludicrous to posit that a rupture in the earth’s crust, the diverging and converging of tectonic plates, the release of lava, gases and ash through those ruptures can be caused by faith—or the lack of it.”

“Did I posit? I don’t know what got into me.” He saw her roll her eyes as she walked toward the bathroom. “I made a volcano for a science project in sixth grade. It was very cool.”

For the first time she didn’t shut the door, but continued to talk to him as she prepared for bed. “It’s a very good project for a young student.”

“Plus cool.” He walked in, picked up his toothbrush as she washed her face. “I wanted to name it The Devil’s Fart, but my father convinced me my grade could be adversely affected.”

“Wise.”

“I called it that in my head, though, so it made the whole baking soda, food coloring and vinegar lava spewing out of the flour paste over soda bottle cone more memorable. I bet you killed in science projects.”

“I did well.” It felt odd, but in an interesting way, to share the bathroom sink with him. “I built an underwater volcano on converging tectonic plates to demonstrate how islands are formed.”

He lowered his toothbrush, narrowed his eyes at her in the mirror. “Underwater volcano.”

“Yes. Hot water always rises to the surface of cold, and floats. With the baked clay model—”

“Baked clay.”

“Yes, and the remote controlled plates, I was able to create a very satisfying eruption.”

“How old were you?”

“Nine.”

“Show-off.”

“I did enjoy doing well in school. You’re talking about science projects so I’ll relax and sleep better.”

“It’s working for me.”

She found when she lay beside him in the dark, her mind drifting, it worked for her as well.

Brooks arrested Roland Babbett as his first official duty of the morning. He felt pretty damn good about knocking on Babbett’s door at seven a.m. Better yet when the heavy-eyed, bed-headed Babbett opened the door.

“Roland Babbett?”

“Yeah. Is there a problem?”

“There is for you. I’m Chief Gleason of the Bickford town police, and this is my deputy Boyd Fitzwater. I have a warrant for your arrest.”

“Huh?”

“And another to search your room, belongings and vehicle. You’re going to need to get dressed and come with us.”

“What’s this about? Under arrest? That’s crazy.”

“Not considering you’re in possession of burglary tools, and used same at two-fifteen this morning to illegally enter the Ozarks Suite. Which is both locked and posted.”

Roland’s eyes, not so heavy now, took a long study of Brooks’s face. “I want to make a phone call.”

“No problem. You can have your phone call once we’re at the station. I’m going to give you a chance to get dressed, or we can take you in while you’re in the hotel robe. It’s a nice robe.”

“I’d like to get dressed.”

“Okay, then. Boyd, why don’t you read Mr. Babbett his rights while he puts some pants on.” Brooks held up the search warrant before he started wandering the room. “Nice view. Mr. Conroy does it up right. You try the restaurant for dinner?”

“Room service.” Roland dragged on a pair of pants, pulled out a T-shirt. “I had the steak.”

“How was it?”

“Bloody and good.”

“Yeah, they do it right.” He opened the navy backpack, poked through, then put the lock-pick set in an evidence bag. “You visiting?”

Despite the circumstance, Roland snorted out a laugh. “Everybody asks. You know by now I’m here on business.”

“Stuben-Pryce out of Little Rock.” As he sealed a mini tape recorder into a bag, Brooks’s voice stayed smooth and easy as warm cream. “I was on the job down there. You probably know that by now, too. That’s a fancy firm, with fancy prices, Mr. Babbett.”

“We do good work.”

“I don’t doubt it.” He shot Roland a friendly smile. “Too bad you don’t have better taste in clients.”

“Not my call. Do you mind if I brush my teeth, empty my bladder?”

“I’d mind if you didn’t.”

Brooks continued to search the room while Boyd stood in the open bathroom doorway. “We’re a quiet town,” Brooks said conversationally. “Oh, it can heat up some now and then, especially this time of year and on through the summer. A lot of tourists, a lot of conflicting personalities, you could say, stewing in all that heat. But we don’t often run into PIs from fancy city firms doing some B-and-E right in our landmark hotel.”

“I’m going to get my ass kicked over this.” In a gesture that mirrored his attitude, Roland spat toothpaste in the sink. “Lose my bonus. I was hoping to bring my wife down for a kid-free break after she has the baby.”

“When’s she due?”

“August fifteenth.”

“October’s a pretty time in the Ozarks,” Brooks commented, as Roland came out. “We’d be happy to have you, when you’re visiting. Boyd, you can finish up with the search. I’ll take Mr. Babbett in.”

“You’re not going to cuff me?”

Brooks offered that friendly smile again. “You want me to?”

“No. I appreciate it.”

“I don’t figure you’re going to run, and if you did? Where’re you gonna go?”

He didn’t run. Even if he’d had somewhere to run, he was made, his cover blown, the job in pieces.

At the station, Brooks gave him a cup of decent enough coffee, a phone and a few minutes of privacy—at a desk rather than in a cell.

After he made the call, Roland sat brooding.

“You finished up there?” Brooks asked him.

“Yeah. Finished.”

“Why don’t we talk in my office? Jeff?” Brooks said to his part-timer. “Don’t go poking in or sending in any calls, all right? Not unless it’s important.”

“Yes, sir, Chief.”

“Have a seat.” Brooks closed his office door, walked over to lean a hip on his desk. “Well, I’m going to tell you straight. You’re in some trouble here, Roland.”

“I got a lawyer coming down.”

“Fancy lawyer from the fancy firm, I expect. Still, we got you pretty cold on the B-and-E. Camera caught you in the hall, at the door, then the other cameras caught you poking around inside the suite. Got your lock picks.” As if sympathetic, Brooks let out a breath, shook his head. “Even a fancy lawyer’s going to have a time getting around that, don’t you figure? Could mean a little jail time and put a hurt on your license. And a baby coming. I’d hate for your wife to visit you in jail in her condition.”

“Jail’s doubtful, but the hurt on my license … Hell.” Roland pressed his fingers to his eyes. “Might be okay there. It’s the first ding on my record.”

Brooks lifted his shoulders, let them fall. “Might be.”

“I’m not usually sloppy. I figured the look-around for a breeze. I didn’t spot the cameras.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. They weren’t there until after you stopped by Abigail’s.”

“Uh-huh.” Now, Roland’s eyes met Brooks’s in perfect understanding. “She, her dog and her Glock scared the hell out of me.”

“You scared her. She’s a city girl still,” Brooks lied cheerfully. “Alone out there, no close neighbors. Add to that how she makes her living. I’m sure you know that already. Working security, always looking for how people get around it and do what they do? She’s a bit jumpy.”

“You’d have to be to have security cameras in the woods.”

“Oh, she’s always experimenting, running programs and what she calls scenarios. It happens you walked into one. Shook her up enough to have her lock herself in the house till I got home. You know, in case you were some ax murderer instead of a lost photographer.”

“She didn’t look shook up,” Roland muttered.

“Well, Abigail, she puts on a good front, and the dog helps her confidence. She told me about you, and I had to wonder. You gave her your real name.”

“ID was in my pack. She had the gun. I didn’t want to annoy her with a lie if she checked my pack. But I didn’t consider she, or you, would run me.”

“Cops. We’re just naturally cynical and suspicious. So, Roland, here’s the thing. I know who’d hire a PI from a fancy firm to poke around at Abigail, at me, at the Conroys and the hotel.”

“I can’t confirm or deny without my legal counsel.”

“I’m not asking you to, I’m telling you. Lincoln Blake would do close to anything to get that asshole son of his off, including hiring out for somebody to plant false evidence, make false statements.”

Where he’d been slouched and sulky in his seat, Roland now straightened. “Listen. I don’t go there, not for any client, not for any fee. Neither does the firm. We wouldn’t have the reputation we do otherwise.”

“Off the record, I’ll say I believe that. But on it?” Brooks gave a careless shrug.

“Is there a deal coming along?”

“Might be. Russ Conroy’s my oldest and closest friend. His parents are family to me, and his mama broke down and cried after she saw what that fucker and his friends did to that suite. It’s considerably better now, but …”

Brooks picked up a file, handed it to Roland. “We took those after Justin Blake and his idiot friends got done with the place.”

“Jesus,” Roland muttered, as he examined the photos.

“That kind of damage? That’s not careless or stupid or childish. It’s downright mean. That’s just what Justin Blake is.”

Brooks reached over to hand the file back. “And when the fucker managed to make bail, he comes out to the house of the woman I’m in love with, stoned, armed, in the middle of the night. He was stupid enough to take a jab at me with the knife he’d brought to slash my tires with. He upset my woman, and, Roland, that upsets me.

“You might see why she reacted the way she did when you came hiking on down to the house.”

“Yeah, maybe. Yeah.”

“Justin caused over a hundred thousand in damages to that suite, he punctured my tire, tried to puncture me, and scared my lady. And that’s over and above him being a pain in my ass since I took this job. He’s going down for what he’s done, Roland. I will make it my mission in life to see to it. He’s earned it, and if I gave a rat’s flea-bitten ass, I’d say he needs it. He’s got something twisted in him, the kind of thing we’ve both seen in others who end up dead or killing somebody.”

“I’d like to say something, off the record.”

“All right, then. Just between you and me.”

“I don’t like working for Blake. He’s a son of a bitch. There’s nothing about his son you just said I don’t agree with. I’ll take my lumps on this if I have to, but I hate taking them on behalf of those two dicks.”

“I can’t blame you a bit. So here’s the deal, before the lawyer gets here. Go away, Roland. I don’t just mean leave town—though as I said you come back to visit with your wife, we’ll be happy to see you. I mean go away from this. It’s upsetting my friends, it’s upsetting my lady. And you’re wasting your time, because Justin Blake isn’t going to slide his way out from this one. I don’t blame anybody for doing a job they’re hired to do—on the right side of the law, that is. But this can go pretty hard on you, and I can make it so your firm takes a hit. Maybe it’s not much, considering, but I don’t know why they’d want the bad publicity.”

“I have to turn in my reports.”

“You go right ahead on that. You didn’t find anything on me, on Abigail, on the Conroys, because there’s nothing to find. But if you keep poking at us, I’ll find out, and it’ll go different. You got far enough in this to know computers are Abigail’s playground.”

“There’s a threat buried in there.”

“I’m not burying a thing. I’m giving you the facts as I see them. I can let this go. You keep your clean record, you turn in your reports, and go home to your wife. Your lawyer’s not going to cook you up a better deal.”

“Why are you?”

“For the reasons I just gave you, and one more. I don’t much want to lock you up, Roland, that’s another fact. If I’d gotten a different sense of you, if I thought you were the kind who enjoys working for a man like Blake, who’d edge over more than crossing a property line or going into a locked room to take a look around, you’d be in a cell right now. I’d work to keep you there.”

“I’d like to call my boss, give him the status.”

“Go ahead.” Brooks pushed off the desk.

“I met your mother.”

Brooks leaned back again. “Did you?”

“I walked down—getting that sense, like you said. That house, it’s amazing.”

“We’re partial to it. Go ahead and make your call,” Brooks told him, and strolled out.

26

Abigail put everything else aside and focused entirely on the creation of the virus. She’d made numerous attempts to piggyback it on the worm she’d already constructed, but the results weren’t satisfactory.

She could do considerable damage with the worm, but with the worm boring openings into the Volkov network, the virus that followed, spreading through those openings, would devastate.

To accomplish everything she needed, it had to be very fast, very complete, and trigger no alerts.

She’d always considered the project a kind of hobby, one she’d hoped would one day pay off.

Now it was a mission.

If she had time to build more equipment, or the luxury of hiring another skilled tech, or two … But she didn’t, so speculating proved useless. This was only for her.

In any case, over time she’d developed her own programming language—the better to thwart anyone who attempted to hack into her files—and even if she could hire on, she’d have to teach someone her language and techniques.

Faster, more efficient, to do it herself.

She ran the next test, watched her codes fly by, and thought, No, no, no. It remained too unwieldy, too separate, took too long.

She sat back, her hair twisted up off her neck and secured with a pencil. As she studied the screen, she drank iced green tea for clarity of thinking.

The tea, the two yoga breaks she’d made herself take, the absolute quiet, didn’t appear to help.

When her alarm sounded, and Bert went on alert, she checked her monitor. She hadn’t expected Brooks so early, she thought, as she spotted his cruiser, then glanced at the time.

She’d worked straight through the morning and into the middle of the afternoon.

Six hours, she thought, with no appreciable progress.

Maybe it was beyond her after all.

She started to get up, to unlock the doors for him, then remembered she’d given him keys and the security codes. An uneasy step, she admitted, but the advantage right that moment was she didn’t have to stop to let him in.

Still, there would be someone in the house, in her space. How was she supposed to concentrate on something this complex, this delicate, unless she was alone?

Which tore apart her fantasy of a state-of-the-art computer lab and a team of highly skilled techs. But that was only fantasy, because she always worked alone, until—

“Hey.” Brooks walked in, set a bag on the counter. “How’s it going?”

“Not as well as I’d like. I need to try another sequence, test again.”

“How long have you been at it?”

“It doesn’t matter how long. It’s not done.”

“Okay. I’ll get out of your hair as soon as I put this stuff away. I brought some of my things over, so I’ll deal with that upstairs. If you’re not done when I am, I’ll find something to do.”

“Mmm” was her only response. She tried not to tense up at the sound of the refrigerator, the cupboards opening and closing. When silence returned, she let out a cleansing breath and dived in again.

She forgot he was there. Over the next two hours, she lost herself in the codes and sequences. When the headache and eyestrain finally stopped her, she rose for medication, for fluids.

And remembered him.

She went upstairs. The quiet held so absolute she thought he must be napping, but she didn’t find him in the bedroom. Curious, she opened the closet.

There were his clothes, hanging with hers. Shirts, pants. A suit.

She’d never seen him in a suit. She trailed her fingers over the sleeve as she studied the shoes and boots on the floor of the closet.

They shared a closet, she thought. So much more intimate and vital somehow than sharing a bed. Crossing over, she opened drawers in the bureau. She’d meant to reorganize to give him space, but had forgotten in the work.

He’d seen to it himself. She’d need to alter some of his choices, but that was a small thing.

Closing drawers, she stepped back, took a turn around the room. Should she buy another dresser, a chest of drawers?

Would they need one?

Would he stay?

A movement out the window caught her eye, and stepping closer, she saw him, hoeing at weeds in her vegetable patch. He’d mounded up her potato plants, something else she’d meant to do that day.

Sweat dampened his shirt, gleamed wetly on his arms, and a ball cap shaded his face.

And, oh, the thrill of it. The unexpected and staggering thrill of it. His clothes hung in the closet with hers as she stood at the bedroom window and watched him work the garden under a sky like bleached denim.

She spun away from the window, hugging herself, then ran downstairs.

In the kitchen, she found the food he’d brought in the fridge and the dozen lemons she’d bought a few days earlier.

She made fresh lemonade, filled two tall glasses with cracked ice and poured. She put the pitcher and glasses on a tray and carried it all outside.

“It’s too hot to hoe,” she called out. “You’ll be dehydrated.”

“Nearly done.”

She walked out to him with the glasses as he finished the last row. “It’s fresh.”

While sweat tricked down his temples, he downed half the glass without pause. “Thanks.”

“You’ve done so much work.”

Leaning on the hoe, he studied the garden. “I’m hoping to sample those butter beans, come harvest. I’m fond of butter beans.”

“Those are lima beans.”

“You’re standing in the South, honey.” After a roll of his shoulders, he downed the rest of his lemonade. “I haven’t worked a garden since I headed down to Little Rock. Didn’t know I missed it.”

“Still, it’s hot and close.” She touched his hand to bring his gaze back to her. “I wasn’t very welcoming before.”

“Work’s allowed to get in the way now and again. Mine does, and will.”

“Mine, in this case, is frustrating. I thought I’d be closer.”

“Can’t help you on that. I don’t understand a damn thing you’re doing. But I can work a garden, and I can grill up those steaks I picked up, so you can have more time at it.” He cocked his head as he studied her. “But I’d say it’s time for a break all around, and I sure as hell need a shower.”

“You’re very sweaty,” she agreed, and took the hoe from him to carry it to her little garden shed. “I can pick some of the lettuce, and a few other things, for a salad when you’re done.”

“I’m thinking ‘we.’”

“You’ve already done more than your share in the garden.”

“Not we in the garden.” He took her hand, pulling her along toward the house. “We in the shower.”

“I really should—”

“Get wet with me.” He paused to take off his dirty boots, sweaty socks. “Did I ever tell you about this swimming hole we used to frequent?”

“No.”

“It’s not that far from here, a little higher in the hills. Really more a bend in the river than a pool, but it worked fine.”

Taking her glass, he set them both down on the counter as he moved her through the kitchen.

“Water’s cool. The color of tobacco, I’d say, but clear. Russ and I and some others used to ride our mountain bikes up there on those long, schoolless days of summer, strip down and cool off. The first time I skinny-dipped with a girl was there, at what we locals call Fiddlehead Pool, because there’s fiddlehead ferns thick as thieves up there. I’ll take you sometime.”

“That sounds very interesting, but right now—”

He’d managed to get her into the bedroom, began to back her toward the bath. “You need to get naked and wet. Let me help you with that.”

“You appear to be very determined,” she commented, when he pulled her shirt over her head.

“Oh, I am. I am.” And flicked open the catch of her bra.

“Then I suppose there’s no point in arguing.”

“No point at all.” Reaching behind her, he turned the shower on, then flipped open the button of her fly.

“Then I should cooperate.”

“That’d be the sensible thing.”

“I prefer doing the sensible thing.” She drew his shirt off, let it drop.

“Hallelujah.” But he started to hold her back when she would have moved into him. “Let me rinse some of this sweat off first.”

“I don’t mind it. It’s basic and natural, and …” She pressed her lips to the side of his throat. “Salty.”

“You about kill me, Abigail. That’s God’s truth.”

She wanted to, wanted to make him want and yearn and quiver as he made her. She embraced the musky scent of him, the good sweat of physical labor as she stripped off his pants, as he stripped off hers.

And the water ran cool over her head, down her body.

“It feels good,” she murmured.

So good when his mouth took her mouth, when his hands took her body. When she tasted his hunger for her, felt his need for her.

She imagined them sinking into cool, tobacco-colored water in the bend of a river where fiddlehead ferns grew thick and green and moonlight shimmered in rays through a canopy of trees.

“I want to go to your swimming hole.”

“We will.”

“In the moonlight,” she said, as her head fell back, as his lips skimmed over the column of her throat. “I’ve never been romantic, not before you. But you make me want moonlight, and wildflowers and whispers in the dark.”

“I’ll give you all of it, and more.” He slicked her wet hair back, framed her face to lift it to his. “And more.”

“Promises and secrets, and all the things I never understood. I want them with you. I love you so much. I love you. That’s already more than I ever had.”

“More still.” He drew her into the kiss, long and slow and deep, as the water showered over them. He’d have given her the moon itself if he could, and an ocean of wildflowers.

Promises. He could give her those. A promise to love her, to help her find peace of mind, a safe haven.

And moments like this, alone, where they could tend to each other, pleasure each other. Shut the world and all its troubles, its pressures and its demands away.

She washed him, and he her—inch by inch. Arousing, lingering, prolonging. Now the scent of honey and almond rising up, the slick, slippery slide of hands, of bodies, the quick catch of breath, the long, low sigh.

So when he braced her, when he filled her, there was moonlight and wildflowers, there were whispers and promises. And more.

There was, she thought as she surrendered, everything.

The sensation of contentment stayed with her as she stood in the kitchen, contemplating doing something interesting with potatoes—Brooks liked potatoes—to go with the steak and salad. She glanced, a little guiltily, at her computer as she poured wine for both of them.

“I should try again, now that we’ve had our break.”

“Give your big brain a little rest. Let’s sit down a minute. I’ve got a couple updates for you.”

“Updates? Why didn’t you already tell me?”

“You were involved when I first got home,” he reminded her. “Then I was distracted by shower sex.”

He sat at the counter, and since she’d already poured it for him, picked up his second glass of lemonade.

“I guess we’ll take them in order. I had a talk with Roland Babbett. The cameras I borrowed from you did the trick, caught him going into the Ozarks Suite using B-and-E tools to do it.”

“You arrested him?”

“In a manner of speaking. I have to say I liked the guy, once we got things aired and ironed out.”

He ran it through for her, but she didn’t sit. Instead, she kept her hands busy scrubbing then quartering small red-skinned potatoes.

“You told him he frightened me.”

“I may have colored your reaction a little differently than the reality of it, but I figure your pride can handle it.”

“You … prevaricated so he’d feel some sympathy toward me and less curiosity about the cameras, the gun and so on.”

“I like ‘prevaricated.’ It’s an important word, and classier than ‘lied.’”

“You believed him, too, believe he’ll just leave and not pursue his investigation.”

“I do. He’s a family man at the base of it, Abigail, and with his wife expecting their third child, he doesn’t want to risk his livelihood on this or go through the upset and pressures of a trial. His firm isn’t going to want to deal with the publicity we could generate, especially as one of their operatives saw photos of the damage on the hotel. And over that, he doesn’t like Blake or the boy.”

“But he works for them.”

“Roundabout, yeah. I work for them, roundabout, as I’m a public official. Doesn’t mean I have to like them, either.”

“You’re right, of course.”

“I made him a good deal, one he can live with. He can turn in his reports, fulfill the contract with the client, move on.”

“If there’s no more danger from that quarter, the logic you used to contact the authorities now, to move forward with testifying, doesn’t hold.”

He reached out to still her hands for a moment, to bring her eyes to his. “It does if you consider that down the road something like this may happen again. If you consider you’re never going to feel rooted here, the way I think we both want you to, until you finish this.”

“That’s true, but perhaps we could delay, take more time to …” She trailed off when he said nothing, only looked at her. “Delay is an excuse. It’s fear, not courage.”

“I’m never going to question your courage, or criticize the way you’ve coped.”

“That means a great deal to me. I want it over, Brooks. I do. And having taken appreciable steps toward that end is frightening, but it’s also a relief.”

“Then I hope you’ll be relieved to know Captain Anson’s in Chicago. He intends to contact Agent Garrison tonight.”

“He called you?”

“Late this afternoon, on the drop phone.”

“I’m grateful to him.” She began mincing garlic, her eyes trained on her hands, on the knife, as the pressure built in her chest. “I hope she’ll believe him.”

“You picked a smart, capable, honest woman.”

“Yes, I was very careful in my selection.”

“Anson’s a smart, capable, honest man. We couldn’t do better.”

“We both made logical choices. It’s good it’s happening quickly. Delay isn’t sensible once decisions are made, so it’s best it’s moving forward quickly.”

She poured olive oil, spooned some Dijon mustard with it in a bowl. After a distracted moment, she added a splash of balsamic vinegar. “Except for my part.”

“You’ll get there.”

“I’m not confident of that at this point.”

“I am, so take some of mine.” He watched her spoon a little Worcestershire in the bowl, then some Italian dressing he knew she used primarily for marinades. In went the garlic, some pepper, a little chopped fresh basil.

“What’re you doing there, Abigail?”

“I’m going to coat the potatoes with this and roast them. I’m making it up,” she added, as she began to whisk the mixture. “It’s science, and science keeps me grounded. Experimenting is satisfying when the results are pleasing. Even when they aren’t, the process of the experiment is interesting.”

He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

She whisked, sniffed, narrowed her own eyes, added a little something more.

Pretty as a picture, he thought, with her hair still a little damp from the shower and pulled back in a short, glossy brown ponytail. She’d put on a sleeveless shirt of quiet gray and jeans that rolled up into casual cuffs just above her knees.

One of her nines sat at easy reach on the counter by the back door.

Her face, those wide green eyes, stayed so sober, so serious, as she put the potatoes into a large bowl, poured the experimental mixture over them, reached for a wooden spoon.

“Marry me, Abigail.”

She dropped the spoon. Bert sauntered over to sniff at it politely.

“Well, that just popped out,” he said, when she just stared at him.

“You were joking.” She picked up the spoon, set it in the sink, lifted another from a pottery sleeve. “Because I’m cooking, and it’s a domestic area.”

“I’m not joking. I’d figured to set the scene a lot better when I asked you. That moonlight you want, flowers, maybe some champagne. A picnic’s what I had in mind. A moonlight picnic up at the spot you like with the view of the hills. But I’m sitting here, looking at you, and it just popped out.”

He came around the counter, took the spoon, set it aside so he could take both her hands. “So marry me, Abigail.”

“You’re not thinking clearly. This isn’t something we can consider, much less discuss, particularly when my situation remains in flux.”

“Things are always in flux. Not this,” he added. “I swear to you we’ll end this, we’ll fix this. But there’s always going to be something. And I think now’s the perfect time, before it’s ended, before it’s fixed, because we should be able to promise each other when things outside aren’t perfect.”

“If it goes wrong—”

“Then it goes wrong. We don’t.”

“Marriage …” She drew her hands free, used them to stir the coating on the potatoes. “It’s a civil contract broken at least half the time with another document. People enter into it promising forever, when in reality—”

“I’m promising you forever.”

“You can’t know.”

“I believe.”

“You—you’ve just moved in. Just hung clothes in the closet.”

“Noticed that, did you?”

“Yes. We’ve known each other less than three months.” She got out a casserole—and busy, busy, busy—scooped and poured the coated potatoes into it. “We have a very difficult situation to address. If you feel strongly about the subject, and continue to feel strongly, I’d be willing to discuss our views on the matter at some more rational time.”

“Delay is an excuse.”

She slammed the casserole into the oven, whirled on him. “You think it’s clever to throw my own words back at me.”

“I think it’s apt.”

“And why do you make me lose my temper? I don’t like to lose my temper. Why don’t you lose yours?”

“I don’t mind getting pissed.” He shrugged, picked up his lemonade again. “I’m not right at the moment. I’m more interested in the way you’re twisting yourself into knots because I love you and I want to marry you.”

“I’m not twisting myself into knots. I’ve very clearly given you my opinion on marriage, and—”

“No, you very clearly gave me your mother’s opinion.”

Very carefully, she picked up a cloth towel, wiped her hands. “That was uncalled for.”

“I don’t think so, and it wasn’t said to hurt you. You’re giving me cold logic and statistics. That’s your mother’s way.”

“I’m a scientist.”

“Yeah, you are. You’re also a giving, caring woman. One who wants moonlight and wildflowers. Tell me what that part of you wants, what that part of you feels, not what your mother pushed into your head as long as she could.”

“How can this be so easy for you?”

“Because you’re the one. Because I’ve never felt for anyone what I feel for you. I want a lifetime with you, Abigail. I want a home with you, family with you. I want to make children with you, raise them with you. If you truly don’t want any of that with me, I’ll give you the best I’ve got, and hope you change your mind. I just need you to tell me you don’t want it.”

“I do want it! But I …”

“But?”

“I don’t know! How can anyone think when they feel so much?”

“You can. You’ve got that big brain to go along with that big heart. Marry me, Abigail.”

He was right, of course. She could think. She could think of what her life had been like without him, and what it would be if she shoved those feelings down and relied only on the flat chill of logic.

“I couldn’t put my real name on a marriage license.”

He cocked his brows. “Well, in that case, forget it.”

The laugh rushed out of her. “I don’t want to forget it. I want to say yes.”

“So say yes.”

“Yes.” She closed her eyes, felt dizzy with delight. “Yes,” and threw her arms around him.

“This is right,” he murmured, turned his lips to her damp cheek. “I’m the luckiest man in the world.” He drew her back to kiss her lips, her other cheek. “My mother says that women cry when they’re happy because they’re so filled with the feeling they want to let it out, share it. And teardrops spread that happiness.”

“It feels true. I hope the potatoes turn out well.”

On a laugh, he dropped his brow to hers. “You’re thinking about the potatoes? Now?”

“Because you asked me to marry you when I was creating the recipe. If it comes out well, it’ll be a very special one. We’ll pass the story to our children.”

“If they suck, we can still pass the story on.”

“But we won’t enjoy the potatoes.”

“Jesus, I really love you.” He squeezed her until she gasped.

“I never believed I would have this, any of this, and now I have so much. We’re going to make a life together, and create a family. We’re mates.” She stepped back, gripped his hands. “And more. We’re going to merge our lives. It’s amazing that people do. They remain individuals, with their own makeup, and still they become and function as a single unit. Yours, mine, but also, and most powerfully, ours.”

“It’s a good word, ‘ours.’ Let’s use it a lot.”

“I should go out and pick our lettuce for our salad so we can have our dinner.”

“We’s another good word. We’ll go out.”

“I like that better.” She started to turn for the door, went still as her thoughts aligned. “Mated. Merged.”

“If you want to mate and merge again, better turn down those potatoes.”

“Not piggybacked, not layered or attached. Integrated. Merged. Separate makeups—individual codes—but merged into one entity.”

“I don’t think you’re talking about us anymore.”

“It’s the answer. A blended threat, yes, I’d tried that, but it has to be more—different than combining. It has to be mated. Why didn’t I think of it before? I can do this. I believe I can do this. I need to try something.”

“Have at it. I can handle dinner. Except I don’t know when to take those potatoes out.”

“Oh.” She looked at the clock, calculated. “Mix and turn them in another fifteen minutes. They should be done thirty minutes after that.”

Within an hour she’d recalculated, rewritten codes, restructured the algorithm. She ran preliminary tests, noted the areas she’d need to adjust or enhance.

When she pulled her mind out of the work, she had no idea where Brooks and Bert were, but saw Brooks had left the oven on warm.

She found them both on the back porch, Brooks with a book, Bert with a rawhide.

“I’ve made you wait for dinner.”

“Just gotta throw the steaks on. How’d it go?”

“It needs work, and it’s far from perfect. Even when I complete it, I’ll need to Romulanize it.”

“Do what to it?”

“Oh, it’s a term I use in my programming language. The Romulans are a fictional alien race. From Star Trek. I enjoy Star Trek.”

“Every nerd does.”

The way he used the word “nerd” struck like an endearment, and never failed to make her smile. “I don’t know if that’s true, but I do. The Romulans had a cloaking device, one that made their starship invisible.”

“So you need to make your virus thing invisible. Romulanize it.”

“Yes. Disguising it as benign—like a Trojan horse, for instance—is an option, but cloaked is better. And it’s the right way. It’s going to work.”

“Then we have a lot to celebrate.”

They had sunset, and what Abigail thought of as their engagement dinner.

At moonrise, the phone in Brooks’s pocket rang. “That’s the captain.”

Abigail put her hands in her lap, linked her fingers, squeezed them. She made herself breathe slowly as she listened to Brooks’s end of the conversation and interpreted what Anson told him.

“He made contact,” she said, when Brooks ended the call.

“He did. She was skeptical, suspicious. I’d think less of her if she hadn’t been. She checked his credentials, asked a lot of questions. Grilled him, basically. She knows your case. I expect every agent and marshal in Chicago does. He can’t swear she believed he didn’t know where you are, but there’s not a lot she can do about that, as there’s no connection or communication between you.”

“But they’ll need me to come in. They’ll want to interview me, interview Elizabeth Fitch, in person.”

“You’re in control of that.” His eyes on hers, he laid a hand over her tensed ones. “You go when you’re ready. They talked over two hours, and agreed to meet tomorrow. We’ll know more then.”

“She’s contacted her superior by now.”

“Ten minutes after Anson left, she came out, got in her car. Again, he can’t swear she didn’t make the tail, but he followed her to the assistant director’s house. Anson called to let us know right after she went inside. He’s on the move. Didn’t figure it’d be smart to sit on the house.”

“They know I’m still alive now. They know I’m tvoi drug.”

“Both of those things are in your favor from their point of view.”

“Logically.” She breathed deep. “There’s no turning back now.”

“For either of us.”

“I want to work, at least another hour or two.”

“Okay, but don’t push it too hard. We’ve got a barbecue tomorrow.”

“Oh, but—”

“It’s easy, and it’s normal, and it’s a break I figure both of us can use. A couple hours away from all this.” He stroked a hand down her hair. “It’ll be fine, Abigail. Trust me. And we’ve got news. We’re engaged.”

“Oh, God.”

On a laugh, he gave a tug on the hair he’d just stroked. “My family’s going to do handsprings, I expect. I’ve got to take care of getting you a ring,” he added.

“Shouldn’t you wait to tell them? If something goes wrong …”

“We’re going to make sure nothing does.” He kissed her lightly. “Don’t work too late.”

Work, she thought, when he left her alone. At least there she knew what she was doing, what she was up against. No turning back, she reminded herself, as she sat at her station. For either of them, from any of it.

And still she felt more confident at the prospect of taking on the Russian Mafia than she did attending a backyard barbecue.

27

She jolted out of the dream and into the dark.

Not gunfire, she realized, but thunder. Not an explosion but bursts of lightning.

Just a storm, she thought. Just wind and rain.

“Bad dream?” Brooks murmured, and reached through the dark for her hand.

“The storm woke me.” But she slid out of bed, restless with it, to walk to the window. Wanting the rush of cool air, she opened it wide, let the wind sweep over her skin, through her hair.

“I did dream.” Through another sizzle of lightning, she watched the whip and sway of trees. “You asked before if I had nightmares or flashbacks. I didn’t really answer. I don’t often, as much as I did, and the dreams are more a replaying than a nightmare.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“I suppose it is, basically.”

She stood where she was, the wind a gush of cool, the sky a black egg cracked by jagged snaps of lightning.

He waited for her to tell him, she knew. He owned such patience, but unlike her mother’s, his offered kindness.

“I’m in my bedroom at the safe house. It’s my birthday. I’m happy. I’ve just put on the earrings and the sweater John and Terry gave me as gifts. And in the dream I think, as I did then, how pretty they are. I think I’ll wear them, for the good, strong feelings they give me, when I testify. Then I hear the gunshots.”

She left the window wide as she turned around to see him sitting up in bed, watching her.

Kindness, she thought again. She hoped she never took his innate kindness for granted.

“It happens very slowly in the dream, though it didn’t happen slowly. I remember everything, every detail, every sound, every movement. If I had the skill, I could draw it, scene by scene, and replay it like an animated film.”

“It’s hard on you to remember that clearly.”

“I …” She hadn’t thought of that. “I suppose it is. It was storming, like tonight. Thunder, lightning, wind, rain. The first shot startled me. Made my pulse skip, but I didn’t fully believe it was a gunshot. Then the others, and there could be no mistake. I’m very frightened, very unsure, but I rush out to find John. But in this dream tonight, it wasn’t John who pushed me back into the bedroom, who stumbled in behind me, already dying, blood running out of him, soaking the shirt I pressed to the wound. It wasn’t John. It was you.”

“It’s not hard to figure out.” She could see him in a snap of lightning, too, his eyes clear and calm on hers. “Not hard to put in its place.”

“No, it’s not. Stress, emotions, my going over and over all those events. What I felt for John and Terry, but particularly John, was a kind of love. I think, now that I understand such things better, I had a crush on him. Innocent, nonsexual, but powerful in its way. He swore to protect me, and I trusted him to do so. He had a badge, a weapon, a duty, as you do.”

She walked toward the bed but didn’t sit. “People say, to someone they love: I’d die for you. They don’t expect to, of course, have no plans to. They may believe it, or mean it, or it may simply be an expression of devotion. But I know what it means now, I understand that impossible depth of emotion now. And I know you would die for me. You’d put my life before yours to protect me. And that terrifies me.”

He took her hands in his, and his were as steady as his eyes. “He had no warning. He didn’t know the enemy. We do. We’re not walking into an ambush, Abigail. We’re setting one.”

“Yes.” Enough, she told herself. Enough. “I want you to know, if you’re hurt during the ambush, I’ll be very disappointed.”

She surprised a laugh out of him. “What if it’s just a flesh wound?” He caught her hand, tugged her down.

“Very disappointed.” She turned to him, closed her eyes. “And I won’t be sympathetic.”

“You’re a tough woman with hard lines. I guess I’ll have to avoid flesh wounds.”

“That’s for the best.”

She relaxed against him, listened to the storm blow its way west.

In the morning, with the sky clear and blue, and the temperatures rising, she worked for another hour.

“You need to give that a rest,” Brooks told her.

“Yes. I need to fine-tune. It’s close, but not perfect. I don’t want to do anything else until I consider a few options. I’m checking something else now. Unrelated.”

“I checked in with Anson. He’s meeting Garrison and Assistant Director Cabot in about ninety minutes.”

“I estimate I’ll need another day on the program.” She glanced back briefly. “I can’t divulge to the authorities what I plan to do. It’s illegal.”

“I got that much. Why don’t you divulge it to me?”

“I’d rather wait until I’ve finished it, when I’m sure I can do what I hope to do.” She started to say more, then shook her head. “It can wait. I’m not sure of the proper dress for this afternoon or—” She broke off, horrified, spun around in her chair. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What?” Her sudden and passionate distress had him bobbling the bowl of cereal he’d just poured. “Tell you what?”

“I need to take a covered dish to your mother’s. You know very well I’m not familiar with the rules. You should have told me.”

“There aren’t any rules. It’s just—”

“It says right here.” She jabbed a finger at her screen. “Guests often bring a covered dish, perhaps a personal specialty.”

“Where does it say that?”

“On this site. I’m researching barbecue etiquette.”

“Jesus Christ.” Torn between amusement and absolute wonder, he dumped milk in the bowl. “It’s just a get-together, not a formal deal with etiquette. I picked up extra beer to take over. We’ll grab a bottle of wine.”

“I have to make something, right away.” She flew into the kitchen, began searching her refrigerator, her cupboards.

He stood, watching her and shoveling in cereal. “Abigail, chill it some. You don’t need to make anything. There’ll be plenty of food.”

“That’s not the point! Orzo. I have everything I need to make orzo.”

“Okay, but what is the point?”

“Taking food in a covered dish I’ve prepared myself is a courtesy, and a sign of appreciation. If I hadn’t checked, I wouldn’t have known, because you didn’t tell me.” She put a pot of water on the stove, added salt.

“I should have my ass whipped.”

“You think it’s amusing.” She gathered sun-dried tomatoes, olive oil, black olives. “I may not know precisely how this sort of thing functions, but I understand perfectly well your family’s opinion of me will be important.”

“My mother and sisters already like you.”

“They may tend in that direction, until I rudely attend the barbecue without a covered dish. Just go out and pick a small head of radicchio out of the garden.”

“I’d be happy to, but I don’t know what it looks like.”

She spared him a fulminating glance before storming out to pick it herself.

That sure took her mind off illegal computer viruses and stepping into the arms of the feds, he thought. And since she was on a tear, he thought it might be wise to stay out of her way for a couple of hours. When she stormed back in, he made a mental note that radicchio was the purple leafy stuff, in case it came up again.

“I need to go into the station for a couple hours,” he began.

“Good. Go away.”

“Need anything? I can pick whatever up on the way back.”

“I have everything.”

“I’ll see you later, then.” Brooks rolled his eyes at Bert on his way out as if to say, Good luck dealing with her.

He’d barely gotten out the door when his phone rang.

“Gleason.”

“Hey, Chief. There’s a little to-do over at Hillside Baptist,” Ash told him.

“I don’t handle to-dos on my day off.”

“Well, it’s a to-do with Mr. Blake and the Conroys, so I thought you might want in on it.”

“Hell. I’m rolling now.” He jumped in the car, backed it up with the phone at his ear. “What level of to-do?”

“Shouted accusations and bitter insults, with a high probability of escalation. I’m rolling, too.”

“If you get there ahead of me, you start heading off that escalation.”

He thought, Hell—and hit the sirens and the gas when he swung onto the main road.

It didn’t take him long, and he pulled up nearly nose-to-nose with Ash as they came in from opposite directions.

“You shaved off your …” It couldn’t rightfully be called a beard, Brooks considered. “Face hair.”

“Yeah, it got too hot.”

“Uh-huh.”

As Brooks had judged, the to-do had already bumped up to a scene, and a scene was one finger jab away from a ruckus, so he decided to wait to rag on Ash about the haze he’d scraped off his face.

Lincoln Blake and Mick Conroy might’ve been at the center of it, but they were surrounded by plenty of people in their Sunday best, lathered up and taking sides on the newly mowed green slope in front of the red-brick church.

Even the Reverend Goode, holy book still in his hand, had gone beet-red straight back into the sweep of his snowy hair.

“Let’s simmer down,” Brooks called out.

Some of the voices stilled; some of the chest bumpers eased back as Brooks moved through.

Blake had brought his stone-faced assistant, and Brooks had no doubt he was packing. Arkansas still had laws against guns in church—Christ knew for how long—but it was short odds some of those gathered on that green slope wore a weapon along with their tie and shined-up shoes.

Add guns, he thought, and a to-do could go from a scene to a ruckus to a bloodbath in a heartbeat.

“Y’all are standing in front of a church.” He led with disapproval, laced with a thin cover of disappointment. “I expect most of you attended services this morning. I heard some language when I got here that’s not fitting at such a time and place. Now, I’m going to ask y’all to show some respect.”

“It’s Lincoln here started it.” Jill Harris folded her arms. “Mick no sooner walked out the door than Lincoln got in his face.”

“A man’s got a right to say his piece.” Mojean Parsins, Doyle’s mother, squared off with the older woman. “And you oughta keep that parrot nose of yours out of other people’s business.”

“I could if you hadn’ta raised a hooligan.”

“Ladies.” Knowing he took his life in his hands—women were apt to leap and bite, and were as likely to be carrying as their men—Brooks stepped between them. “It’d be best if you, and everybody else, went on home now.”

“You entrapped our boy, you and that Lowery woman. Lincoln told me just what you did. And the Conroys here, they’re trying to make a killing off a bit of teenage mischief.”

Hilly Conroy elbowed her husband aside. From the look of her, Brooks decided she’d finally found her mad. “Mojean Parsins, you know that’s a lie. I’ve known you all your life, and I can see on your face you know that for a lie.”

“Don’t you call me a liar! Your boy’s run that hotel into the ground, and you’re trying to make my boy pay for it.”

“You don’t want to stack your son up against mine, Mojean. If you do, and you try spreading those lies, you’ll be sorry for it.”

“You go to hell.”

“That’s enough.” Mojean’s husband, Clint, stepped forward. “That’s enough, Mojean. We’re going home.”

“You need to stand up for your boy!”

“Why? You’ve been standing in front of him his whole life. I apologize, Hilly, Mick, for the part I played in making Doyle the embarrassment he is. Mojean, I’m going down to the car, and I’m driving home. You can come or stay, that’s up to you. If you stay, I won’t be home when you get there.”

“Don’t you talk to me that—”

But he turned, walked away.

“Clint!” After a quick, wide-eyed look around, she trotted after him.

“This has about worn me out,” Jill commented. “I’m going to walk on home.”

“Why don’t Hilly and I give you a ride, Ms. Harris?” Mick stepped forward, took her arm. “I’m sorry about this, Brooks.”

“You just take Ms. Harris on home.”

“This isn’t finished, Conroy.”

Mick sent Blake a cold stare with weariness around the edges. “I’m telling you for the final time, I’ll do no business with you. Stay away from me, my family and my properties. Keep your assistant and his like away from me, my family and my properties.”

“If you think you can squeeze more money out of me, you’re mistaken. I made you a fair offer.”

“Go on home,” Brooks told Mick, then turned to Blake.

Here he didn’t bother with disapproval or disappointment. He arrowed straight into disgust, and let it show.

“I’m going to be talking to Mr. and Mrs. Conroy later.”

“Getting your stories lined up.”

“I’ll be talking to Reverend and Mrs. Goode as well. Do you want to imply your minister and his wife are liars, too? The fact is, my deputies and I will be talking to everybody who witnessed or had part in this business this morning. If I find there’s been any level of harassment on your part, I’m going to advise the Conroys to file a restraining order against you and whoever you’ve been using to dog them. You won’t like it. You’ll like it less if one’s filed and you cross the line of it.”

“You can’t bully me.”

“You’d know all about bullying, so you know that’s not what I’m doing. I’m outlining the situation. You may want to talk it over with your lawyers before you do anything you might regret. For now, I’m telling you to move along. Your wife looks upset, and embarrassed.”

“My wife is none of your business.”

“That’s the truth. It will be my business if you cause another ruckus.”

“Lincoln.” His color down again, his voice calm, Reverend Goode stepped forward. “I understand you’re in turmoil. I’m here if you want to unburden yourself. But I must ask you to take Genny home. She looks ill. I must ask you not to come back to this house of God with an unchristian purpose. Go home now, Lincoln, and tend to your wife. I’ll pray for you and your family.”

“Keep your prayers.” Blake strode away, leaving his assistant to help Genny down the slope toward the waiting car.

“You’re going to need some strong prayers, Reverend.”

Goode sighed. “We do the best we can do.”

She changed clothes three times. It was completely unlike her to worry about wardrobe unless it was for the purpose of establishing identity or blending in. Her research indicated that attire would be casual, unless specifically stated. But that could include a casual dress or skirt, neither of which she currently owned.

Now she felt she needed to acquire some.

If they succeeded—no, when they succeeded, as it did no harm to employ Brooks’s positive thoughts—she’d find use for a more expansive and varied wardrobe.

Now she settled on dark blue capris and a red shirt and sandals she’d rarely worn and only bought in a weak moment. She spent some time with makeup, also rarely worn since she’d become Abigail, as blending and going unnoticed had been the goal. But she had a good hand with it, if she said so herself.

She’d use that hand if—when—she transformed to Elizabeth, to cooperate with the authorities and give testimony against the Volkovs.

As she glanced to the monitor to watch Brooks come home, she put on John’s earrings, worn when she felt a need for confidence.

She went downstairs, found Brooks in the kitchen, scowling down at a can of Coke.

“Something happened.”

“Unrelated.” He popped the top, guzzled. “There was a to-do edging toward ruckus down at the Hillside Baptist Church.”

“Organized religion has an unfortunate history of fostering violence.”

He just rubbed the cold can over his forehead. “This wasn’t about religion. Blake’s been hassling the Conroys—and he took that to church this morning. He takes something that public, makes a fool of himself, he’s lost control. He’s not going to leave this alone. I’m going to have to talk to the Conroys about taking some legal steps to …”

He finally focused on her. “You look really good.”

“I have on makeup. I thought it was appropriate.”

“Really good.” When he smiled, the anger and stress she’d seen in his eyes warmed away.

“How do you do that? Relax so quickly?”

“I’m taking a pretty woman to a barbecue, and it sure takes the edge off my bad mood. Where’s the stuff you made?”

She took it, then a six-pack of beer, out of the refrigerator. “If you feel you should follow through on the problem now, I’m sure your family will understand.”

“You’re not getting out of this so easy. Colorful,” he commented, as he picked up the bowl. “Ready?”

“I suppose.” She clipped a leash on Bert. “You could brief me on the areas of interest of people who’ll be there. It would help me make conversation.”

“Believe me, making conversation won’t be an issue.” He snagged the beer on the way out. “As soon as we announce we’re getting married, every woman there’s going to be all over you about wedding plans.”

“We don’t have any.”

“Take my word on it, honey, you will before the day’s over.”

She considered that while she rode with the bowl on her lap and her dog sniffing at every inch of the back of the cruiser.

“They may not be pleased.”

“With what? You and me?” He flicked her a quick glance. “They’ll be pleased.”

“I don’t think they would, if they knew the full extent of the situation.”

“I wish I could tell them to prove you wrong, but it’s better if we don’t.”

“You seem so calm. I’ve learned to be calm when something has to change, but this is different. It’s hard to be calm, to wait for Captain Anson to call, to wonder what the authorities will say and do. To think about testifying, about being so close with the program.”

“Whatever happens, we’re together. That keeps me calm.”

She couldn’t claim to be. Her stomach jumped, her heart kicked, and with each passing mile she had to fight to keep her nerves concealed. She tried to think of it as going into a new community, stepping out for the first time with fresh identification. Nerves plagued her each time, but she knew how to conceal them, how to blend so anyone who noticed her saw exactly what she wanted them to see.

It had worked for a dozen years. It had worked until Brooks. He’d seen something else, something more, but she thought of that now as a blessing. If he hadn’t, she wouldn’t have this chance at a genuine life.

And the genuine life she might have would include backyard barbecues.

When he parked, she thought she had herself fully under control.

“Relax,” he told her.

“Do I look tense?”

“No, but you are. I’ll take that; you get Bert.”

He tucked the bowl under his arm, hefted the six-pack, and with her hand steady on the leash, they walked toward the house. Toward the music and voices, toward the scent of grilling meat.

She recognized three of the women—Brooks’s mother and his two sisters, but not the other women, the men, the children. The thought of being thrust into the midst of so many strangers dried her throat and thickened her heartbeat.

Before she could get her bearings, Sunny set down a platter and hurried over. “There you are.”

“I had a little business to deal with,” Brooks told her.

“I heard.” Sunny tied Abigail’s tongue into knots with a quick, hard hug before she gave Bert a casual rub. “Don’t you look pretty. And what’s this?”

“Orzo,” Abigail managed. “I hope it’s appropriate with your menu.”

“Since the menu’s a lot of this with more of that, it’ll fit right in. And it’s beautiful. Go on and put that on the table, Brooks, and get Abigail a drink. We’ve already got the margarita blender going overtime.”

“I’ll fix you up,” he told Abigail. “Be right back.”

“My girl Mya—you met Mya and Sybill—makes killer margaritas. Why don’t you let Bert off the leash so he can play with Plato?”

Abigail crouched down as the dogs sniffed and wagged at each other. “Ils sont amis. Amis, Bert. C’est tout.”

“He’s all right with kids running around?” Sunny qualified.

“Yes. He’s very gentle, very patient. He wouldn’t attack unless I gave him the command. Or I was being assaulted.”

“We’ll be sure nobody assaults you. Come on and meet Mick and Hilly Conroy. They’re old friends, and that’s their son, Russ—Brooks’s best pal, with his wife, Seline, and their toddler, CeeCee. They’ve had a spot of trouble,” Sunny continued as she walked. “I’m hoping to cheer them up.”

“It’s an unfortunate situation. Brooks is very concerned.”

“We all are. Here’s Abigail,” Sunny announced, when they joined the group.

“About time.” The younger woman had smooth olive skin that set off the bright green eyes she used to assess Abigail. “I was beginning to think Brooks made you up.”

“No. He didn’t.” I did, Abigail thought.

“This is Seline, and her CeeCee, and our Russ. Russ’s parents, our friends Mick and Hilly.”

“I’ve seen you around town a time or two,” Hilly said. “It’s nice to meet you finally.”

“Thank you. I’m very sorry about your hotel. It’s a beautiful building.”

“It’s good of you to say.” Hilly tipped her head to her husband’s arm, as if seeking comfort. “We’ll have it all back and better than ever. Right, Mick?”

“Count on it. I heard the Blake boy gave you some trouble, too.”

“He wanted to give Brooks trouble, but he didn’t succeed. He appears to be a very angry, very stupid person with violent tendencies. He should pay the consequences.”

“We can all drink to that,” Mya said, as she strode over with a margarita in each hand. “Daddy snagged Brooks a minute, so I’m delivering your drink.”

“Oh, thank you. It looks … frothy.” She tried a sip, discovered the tequila ran strong and smooth through the froth. “It’s very good.”

“Packs a nice kick, doesn’t it?” As she spoke, Sunny put an arm around Abigail’s shoulders. “You were right about Bert.”

Following the direction, Abigail looked to see Bert sitting cooperatively while the puppy danced around him, a long-legged girl hugged his neck and a towheaded boy stroked his back.

“He’s very well behaved,” Abigail assured her. “And I think he’s enjoying the attention.”

“He’s big as a horse,” Seline commented.

Abigail started to disagree. After all, the average horse would be considerably bigger. Then had to remind herself not to be so literal.

“His size should intimidate intruders.”

“Scare the crap out of them,” Russ commented. “Now that we’ve got a second coming along, I’m talking Seline into a Lab.”

“Poodle.”

“Girlie dog.”

“We’re girls.” She gave her daughter a kiss on the cheek. “You’re outnumbered.”

“This one might even things up.” He tapped her belly with his finger. “A guy needs a dog, not a little French toy.”

“Poodles are smart.”

“They are a highly intelligent breed,” Abigail agreed. “Only the border collie is thought to be more intelligent. They’re agile and, if properly trained, very skilled and obedient.”

“See?”

“A Lab’s a dog. They’re smart,” Russ added, appealing to Abigail.

“Yes, of course. They’re the most popular breed in this country, and in Great Britain. They make excellent assistance dogs. They’re loyal, and most have a well-developed play drive. They’re excellent with young children.”

“Young children.” He snagged CeeCee, made the girl laugh as he tossed her in the air. “We’ve got one of those, getting another.”

“Poodles are good with kids.”

When Seline turned to Abigail, Sunny laughed. “Now you’ve done it. These two will tag you as referee in this battle. I’m going to save you, show you the gardens. Food’s going to be ready in a few minutes.”

“Maybe they should consider a Labradoodle,” Abigail murmured, as Sunny steered her away.

It wasn’t so difficult, she realized. For about twenty minutes, she walked and talked the gardens, talked with Brooks’s family and friends, answered excited questions regarding Bert from wide-eyed children.

By the time everyone crowded around picnic tables, she felt more at ease. And relaxed further when, with the food now the focus, the attention shifted away from her.

A backyard barbecue had its points, she thought. A casual setting for socialization, a variety of food prepared by a variety of hands. It was a kind of ritual, she realized, and somewhat tribal, with adults helping to serve or feed or tend to the children, their own and those belonging to others, with the dogs nearby and—despite her wince of disapproval—enjoying the food scraps tossed their way.

And she liked the margaritas with their frothy kick.

“Having a good time?” Brooks asked her.

“I am. You were right.”

“Hold that thought.” He leaned in to kiss her, then picked up his beer. “I think you’ll all be interested,” he began, without raising his voice over the conversations crisscrossing the table, “Abigail and I are getting married.”

And those conversations, every one, stopped cold.

“What did you say?” Mya demanded.

“It’s what she said that matters.” He took Abigail’s hand. “And she said yes.”

“Oh my God, Brooks!” Mya’s face went brilliant with her smile. She grabbed her husband’s hand, squeezed it, then leaped up to rush around the table and hug Brooks from behind. “Oh my God.”

Then it seemed everyone spoke at once, to Brooks, to her, to each other. She didn’t know who to answer, or what to say. Her heartbeat thickened again as, beside her, Brooks looked at his mother, and she at him.

“Ma,” he said.

Sunny nodded, let out a long sigh, then pushed to her feet. He rose as she did, as she reached out, folded him into her. “My baby,” she murmured, then closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she looked directly at Abigail, held out a hand.

Unsure, Abigail got to her feet. “Mrs.—”

Sunny just shook her head, gripped Abigail’s hand, pulled her into the fold. “I’m going to cry, just half a minute,” Sunny told them. “I’m entitled. Then I’m going in and getting that bottle of champagne we had left over from New Year’s Eve so we can toast this proper.”

She held tight, tight, then slowly eased back to kiss Brooks on both cheeks. To Abigail’s surprise, Sunny took her face in her hands, laid her lips on each of Abigail’s cheeks in turn.

“I’m glad of this. I’m going to get that champagne.”

“She needs a minute.” Loren stood, walked to his son. “She’s happy, but she needs a minute.”

He embraced his son, then turned to embrace Abigail. “Welcome to the family.” He laughed, then squeezed, lifting her to her toes.

Everyone talked at once again, and Abigail found herself whirled between hugs, stumbling over the answers to questions about when, where, what about her dress.

She heard the pop of the champagne cork over the questions, the laughter, the congratulations. She let herself lean against Brooks, looked up, met his eyes.

Family, she thought.

She could have family, and understood, now that she could touch it, that she’d do anything, everything, to keep it.

28

Wedding plans. Abigail saw them as a small, shiny snowball rolled down a mountain. It grew, and grew, and grew, gathering weight, speed, mass, until it produced an immense, messy, thunderous avalanche.

In the sunstruck afternoon in the Gleasons’ backyard, that avalanche roared over her.

“So, are you thinking next spring?” Mya asked her.

“Spring? I …”

“No.” Under the picnic table, Brooks patted Abigail’s thigh. “I’m not waiting that long.”

“Spoken like a man who doesn’t have the first clue what goes into doing a wedding. We had ten months for Sybill and Jake’s—and worked like dogs to get it all done in time.”

“But it was beautiful,” Sybill reminded her.

“I assumed we’d just go to the courthouse,” Abigail began, and was rewarded with stereo gasps from the women.

“Bite your tongue.” Mya pointed at her.

Sybill gave her sister an elbow in the ribs. “You want something simple.”

“Yes. Very simple.” She looked at Brooks.

“Simple, sure. I’m betting there’s a lot of simple between a run to the courthouse and the diamond jubilee forming in Mya’s mind. I’m thinking in the fall—time enough for a little fuss, not enough time to rent a circus tent.”

“That’s less than six months! Less than six months to find the perfect dress, book the right venue, interview caterers, photographers—”

“Photographers?” Abigail interrupted.

“Of course. You can’t have your uncle Andy taking your wedding photos.”

“I don’t have an uncle Andy.” And she’d always avoided photographs. Ilya had recognized her in New York, in a matter of seconds, on the street. If a photo of her somehow got online or in a newspaper it could—likely would—lead to discovery and disaster.

“Which leads back to the guest list. I can help with our side. I have the list from mine, and from Syb’s. How many do you estimate from your side?”

“There’s no one.”

“Oh, but—” Mya didn’t need an elbow jab or the warning look from Brooks to cut herself off. She rolled on as if “no one” was perfectly normal. “That sure keeps it simple. What we need is a planning session, a ladies’ lunch—because you don’t have anything to do about it,” she told Brooks with a wide grin. “Weddings flow from the bride.”

“Fine with me.”

“I know this wonderful bridal boutique down in Little Rock,” Mya continued.

“White Wedding,” Seline put it. “It is wonderful. I found my dress there.”

“What we need to do is take a day, all us girls, go down there, check it out, have lunch, brainstorm. I’ll have to check my calendar.” Mya dug out her phone, began to swipe screens. “Maybe we can set it up for next week.”

“Next week,” Abigail managed.

“You always were a bossypants.” Sunny sat back, sipping a margarita. “That’s one of the things we love about her, Abigail, but it takes some getting used to. Why don’t you give her a few days, Mya, to get settled in to being engaged?”

“I am bossy.” Mya laughed and tossed back her hair when her husband snorted into his beer. “And when we’re sisters? I’ll be even worse.”

“She means it,” Sybill said.

Abigail heard the quiet hum of the vibrating phone in Brooks’s pocket. When she looked down, he eased it out, checked the display. “Sorry, need to take this.” His eyes met hers briefly as he stood up, walked some distance off.

It seemed surreal. Mya continued to talk about wedding boutiques, flowers, and plated meals or buffets, and all the while Brooks talked to Anson about decisions that would put her life on the line.

Like the snowball again, she thought, rolling, rolling, growing, picking up weight and mass until it took the mountain with it.

No stopping it now, she reminded herself. She was committed to pushing through.

“Are you all right?” Sybill asked her.

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. It’s just a little overwhelming.”

“And it’s just getting started.”

“It is.” Abigail glanced over at Brooks. “It’s started.”

Brooks walked back, laid a hand on her shoulder. “Sorry, I have to take care of this.”

“Go be a cop, then,” Mya advised. “We can drop Abigail home on our way.”

“Oh.” For an instant, Abigail’s mind went blank. “Thank you, but I really need to get home to some work I left pending.”

“Then I’ll call you tomorrow, or e-mail you. E-mail might be better, I can send you some links. Just give me your—”

“Mya.” Sunny arched her eyebrows. “What happened to those few days to settle?”

“All right, all right. I can’t help it if I was born to plan and organize parties. You e-mail me when you’re settled.” Grabbing a paper napkin, Mya wrote down her e-mail address.

Abigail had a feeling it would take more than a few days. “I will. Thank you so much for the afternoon.”

“Abigail.” Sunny crossed to her, hugged her hard, and whispered, “Don’t worry. I’ll run interference with Mya for a week or two.”

It took some time. Apparently, people didn’t just say good-bye at a barbecue. They hugged, or stretched out a conversation, made future plans, played with the dog. Even called out and waved once you got as far as the car.

“Before you tell me what Captain Anson said, I want to say your family is …”

“Loud, pushy?”

“No. Well, yes, but that’s not what I want to say. Affectionate. Naturally so. I understand you better now, for having spent the afternoon with them. Your mother … Don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t like it.”

“Okay.”

“Your mother put her arm around my shoulders. It was just a careless gesture. I doubt she gave it a thought, and has done the same, countless times, to others. But when she did that, to me, I felt—I thought—So this is what a mother does. She touches you, or holds you, just because. For no important reason. And then I thought, If there are children, I want to learn to be the kind of mother who can touch or hold without thinking, and for no important reason. I hope I have the chance to do that.”

“You will.”

“Anson talked with the FBI.”

“For most of the day. His take is, initially, at least, they’d hoped to do an end run around him, get to you. But he stuck with the out-of-left-field contact. They were careful what they passed on to him, but he’s dead sure they’ll be doing some surveillance on Cosgrove and Keegan.”

“Does he think they believed my story?”

“You’d laid it out, step-by-step, right down to what John said to you. And now you’ve been this very valuable source over the last couple years. Why would you lie about Cosgrove and Keegan?”

“It wouldn’t be logical.”

“No, it wouldn’t. They want to talk to you in person. They want you to come in. They promise you protection.”

“They want to question me, to make certain I wasn’t complicit in John’s and Terry’s deaths. If and when they’re sure of that, they’ll want me to agree to testify against Korotkii.”

“Yeah, and they’re going to want more. You’ve got an inside track on the Volkovs, access to data that can, likely would, put a lot of the organization in prison, fracture the rest.”

“As long as the data comes from an anonymous source, the authorities can use it. Once it’s known the data’s been obtained by illegal means, they won’t be able to.”

“No, they wouldn’t. They may be able to find a little wiggle room.”

She’d considered this, all of this. “I won’t give them the process, even if they grant me immunity for the hacking. I need the process to take down the network. They can’t do what I hope to do, not technically nor legally. I’ll be exposed again unless I can break their network and siphon off their funds.”

“Siphon off … You have that kind of access to their money?”

“I can have, to a great deal of it. I’ve been considering where to funnel it once I’m ready to transfer funds from various accounts. I thought substantial anonymous donations to charities that feel most appropriate.”

He glanced away from the road, gave her a long look. “You’re going to clean them out.”

“Yes. I thought you understood. If they have what’s approximately one hundred and fifty million in accounts to draw from, they can easily rebuild. And then there’s the real estate, but I have some ideas on how to dispose of that.”

“Dispose.”

“Tax difficulties, a transfer of deeds—some property the authorities can and will simply confiscate, as they’ve been used for illegal purposes. But others are rather cleverly masked. They won’t be when I’m finished. It’s not enough to testify, Brooks,” she said, when he pulled up at her cabin. “Not enough to put Korotkii, potentially Ilya, even Sergei, in prison. With their resources, their money, they’ll regroup, rebuild—and they’ll know I caused the trouble. I don’t intend for them to know how their network was compromised. And I don’t intend to tell the authorities. They couldn’t sanction what I plan to do.”

She stepped out of the car, looked at him over the roof. “I won’t go into a safe house again. I won’t let them know where I am, even if and when I agree to testify. I don’t trust their protection. I trust myself, and you.”

“Okay.” He opened the door for the dog, then held out a hand for hers. “We find a location in Chicago when that time comes. You and me? We’re the only ones who know where it is. We’ll stay there. For the meet, you pick a place. A hotel, I’d think, maybe in Virginia or Maryland, and you don’t tell them the location until you’re in.”

“That’s very good. You can’t be with me.”

“Yes, I can. As long as they don’t see me.”

It stopped now, every bit of it stopped, unless he was with her through it.

“I figure you can get eyes and ears in the hotel room so I can follow—and so we have a record, if we ever need one.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. I should have, as that would be best.”

“You think, I think—that’s how it’s done.”

She turned to him, let herself move into him. “It has to happen fast, when it starts. Everything will have to happen quickly, and in proper order.”

She wouldn’t take him from his family if things went wrong. She’d learned that, too, at a backyard barbecue.

“I need to finish the program. This is only partially done without it.”

“You work on that, and I’ll start some research myself. I’ll find us a location for the meet.”

“Virginia,” she said. “Fairfax County. It’s far enough from D.C., and less than an hour from a small regional airport in Maryland. I’ll charter a plane.”

“Charter? No shit.”

“Perhaps you forgot you have a rich girlfriend.”

He laughed. “I don’t know how that slipped my mind.”

“If they want to back up the meeting, have me followed, we’d be able to lose them on those roads, and they’d most likely look at Dulles Airport, or Reagan National.”

“That’s a plan.” He kissed her. “Go play with worms.”

He stayed out of her way, for the most part. But, Jesus, after a couple hours on the computer, a man wanted a beer on a Sunday evening. And some chips, which he’d had to sneak in, as she didn’t have a single item of junk food in the place.

When he walked into the kitchen, she sat, hands in her lap, staring at her screen. He eased open the fridge, took out a beer, glanced her way, eased open the cabinet where he’d stashed the chips. Sour-cream-and-onion.

And she turned.

“I’ll be out of your way in a second.”

“I did it.”

He studied her face, set the beer aside. “You finished the program.”

“Yes. It works. Theoretically. I’ve tested it several times. I can’t actually run it into the network until it’s time, so I can’t be absolutely certain. But I am. Certain it will work.”

He grinned, came over, boosted her up by the elbows for a kiss. “You’re a genius.”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you look happy?”

“I am. I’m … numb, I think. I believed I could do it, but when I did, I realized I hadn’t really believed I could do it.” Because it ached a little, she pressed her fingers to her left temple. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Yes, it does.”

“Brooks. I can take down their network, corrupt every file, every program. I can shut them down, no matter what operating system or computer any individual uses. I can do it, and, doing it immediately after I siphon the funds, they’ll be ruined. Broken.”

Now she pressed her hand to her heart. “And before I do that, I can give the authorities enough to shut down a string of operations, use that to prosecute other lieutenants and soldiers, until the Volkov bratva is in pieces they can never put back together.”

“Humpty Dumpty them.”

She let out a breathless laugh. “Yes. Yes. I didn’t really believe I could do it,” she murmured. “If I had, I’d have done it before I agreed to testify.”

He kept his face blank. “Do you want to step away from that?”

“You’d let me.” As he often did with her, she framed his face in her hands. “I love you so much. You’d let me step away, even though it’s against your code. But no, I won’t. I can’t. It’s part of the whole, part of who I want to be. Part of who you expect me to be.”

“I only expect you to be who you are.”

“I expect more now. I expect more of Elizabeth. I expect more of Abigail. And I want you to expect more of me now. My testimony, my data, the hacking, the supervirus. It’s all one. When it’s finished, Elizabeth can go with a clear conscience.”

She closed her eyes, then opened them, smiled into his. “And Abigail can marry you with one. I want to marry you so much. I might even want to go to a wedding boutique.”

“Uh-oh.”

“I’m a little afraid of it, but I might.”

“Now you look happy.”

“I am. I’m very happy. As soon as we find a hotel, I could arrange for transportation. We could have your captain set up the meeting. We could start the next stage.”

“I’ve got the hotel. In Tysons Corner, Virginia. Middle-range, right off the highway.”

“I’d like to see the hotel’s website, and a map of the area.”

“Figured you would. I’ve got them bookmarked on my laptop.”

“We could book the rooms, arrange the meeting for tomorrow or the day after. It’s less time for the authorities to try to find me.”

“Day after. I need to rework the schedule so I’m covered.”

“That’s better. I have to make arrangements for Bert.”

“My mother will take him.”

“Oh. But …” She hesitated, looked down at the dog. “I thought a licensed kennel, with professionals.”

“You’re going to put him in jail?”

“A kennel isn’t a jail.” Now she had two sets of hazel eyes staring at her. “He did enjoy being over there this afternoon, but it seems like a lot to ask of your parents.”

“They’ll love it. Plus, that’s what family does. Get used to it. Go on and check out the hotel. I’ll give her a call.”

“All right.”

Brooks pulled out his cell phone as Abigail left the kitchen. “You owe me,” he said to Bert.

Everything in place, Abigail told herself. She stood in her safe room, carefully selecting what she’d need to take this next step.

She booked the hotel rooms under two different names, at two different times, from two different computers. Brooks would check in as Lucas Boman—the name of his first Little League coach. She’d create his ID the next day. Hers, which she’d give Anson to pass to the feds once she and Brooks were checked in, set up, would be Catherine Kingston, an ID she already had in her supply. She considered her collection of wigs, her supply of hair color.

“Going as a redhead?” Brooks commented, when she lifted a short, straight bob in golden red.

“My natural color tends toward auburn. I don’t have a wig that matches my natural color.”

“Hold on.” Head angled, he studied her. “You’re a redhead?”

“Brown’s more accurate, but with reddish tones.”

“Just want to mention I’ve seen the other area on you, and it’s not brown with reddish tones.”

“It would be, but I’m thorough when I change appearance.”

“Interesting. Really interesting. Maybe you should’ve aimed for the CIA.”

“It didn’t capture my interest. I think they’ll expect me to alter my appearance somewhat for the meeting. This should be just enough, along with some slight changes with makeup, and some padding. Larger breasts.”

“You can hardly ever go wrong with larger breasts.”

“I believe my natural breasts are more than adequate.”

“Let’s see.” He cupped them, considered. “More than.”

“Obsession with breast size is as foolish as obsession with penis size.”

“I believe my natural penis is more than adequate.”

She laughed, turned toward the mirror.

“I guess you’re not going to check to make sure.”

“Perhaps later.”

She put the wig on with such quick, skillful moves he knew she’d worn one often. “It’s a change.”

He preferred her longer hair, he thought, and the less studied style.

“Yes. I can work with this. I’ll need to buy one closer to my natural color, a longer length I can style in several ways. I’ll want to look like the photos they’d have of Elizabeth, even though they’re dated. I can use contacts, change my eye color—just the tone of it—subtly. Fuller hips, larger breasts. A few shades deeper in skin tone with some self-tanner. Yes, I can work with this,” she repeated.

She took the wig off, replaced it on its stand. “Operatives in the CIA have to lie and deceive. It’s necessary, I imagine, for the tasks they perform. I’ve done a lot of lying and deceiving for the last twelve years. I’d like to have a life where lying and deception aren’t part of my every day. I can’t put all the lies away, but …”

She turned to him. “I’ll have one person who knows the truth, who knows everything, whom I’ll never lie to. That’s a gift. You’re a gift.”

“I’ve got one person who believes in me enough to tell me the truth, to trust me with everything. That’s a gift, too.”

“Then we’re both very lucky.” She crossed to him, took his hand. “I think we should go to bed. I need to run a few tests to verify your penis is adequate.”

“Lucky for both of us I’ve always tested well.”

His cell phone rang at a quarter to two in the morning. Brooks did a half-roll to the side of the bed as he reached for it.

“Chief Gleason.”

“Hey there, Brooks, it’s Lindy.”

“What’s the problem, Lindy?”

“Well, that’s what I need to talk about. I got Tybal here with me.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, it’s some shit, but not the kind you’re thinking. You’re going to want to hear what Ty has to say.”

Brooks shoved himself up to sit. “Where are you?”

“Right now, we’re in my truck about a half-mile from the Lowery place. Since your car isn’t in town, I figured you’re there.”

“That’s like police work, Lindy. Why don’t I meet both of you at your place?”

“Rather not do that under the shit we’re talking about. It’s going to be best if we come on over there, talk this out in private. People tend to see things in town, even at an hour like this. Maybe especially.”

“That’s a point. Hold on.” He put his hand over the phone. “I’ve got Lindy—from the diner?”

“Yes, I know who he is.”

“He’s telling me he’s with Tybal Crew, and they need to talk to me in private.”

“Here?”

“If it wasn’t important, and didn’t need to be private, Lindy wouldn’t be calling me at two in the morning.”

“I’ll get dressed.”

“I’ll keep them downstairs, out of your way.”

“I think if someone needs to come here at this hour to talk to you, I should hear what they have to say.”

“All right, then.” He put the phone back to his ear. “Is Ty sober?”

“He is now, or near enough.”

“Come on ahead.”

Shoving one hand through his hair, Brooks set the phone aside. “I’m sorry about this.”

“Even days ago, I wouldn’t have let anyone come here like this. But I don’t feel nervous, not really. I feel more curious. Should I make coffee?”

“It wouldn’t hurt my feelings.”

It pleased her to do it, to think that in her future with Brooks, late-night calls, making coffee for people in trouble, would be part of the routine.

She hoped she’d make a good cop’s wife.

Still, she was just as pleased to know that Bert, with orders to relax, lay in the corner of the kitchen. And she also took the precaution of turning her computer monitors to screen savers.

She wasn’t quite sure how to address two men who visited in the middle of the night, but when she took coffee out to the living room, Brooks let them in the front door.

And Lindy, long gray braid dangling down the back of a faded Grateful Dead T-shirt, led the way.

“Ma’am.” He bobbed his head. “I sure do apologize for disturbing you this time of night.” Then slapped a backfist into Tybal’s gut.

“Yes, ma’am,” Tybal responded. “Sorry to put you out.”

“I’m sure you have good reasons.”

“Damn well better,” Brooks muttered. “Jesus, Ty, you’re sweating Rebel Yell.”

“I’m sorry about that.” The tips of his ears went pink as he dipped his head. “There’s extenuating circumstances. I got my sixty-day chip, and now I gotta start over.”

“Everybody takes a slide, Ty,” Lindy told him. “Your first day starts now.”

“I’ve been going to meetings.” Ty shuffled his feet and looked to Abigail like a scruffy, shamefaced bear. “Lindy’s my sponsor. I called him. I know how I shoulda called him before I took the drink, but I called him.”

“Okay. Okay, sit down, the pair of you,” Brooks ordered. “And tell me what the hell you’re doing here at two in the damn morning.”

“The thing about it is, Brooks, I’m supposed to kill you.” Ty wrung his ham-sized hands. “I ain’t gonna.”

“I’m relieved to hear it. Sit the hell down.”

“I didn’t know what to do.” Ty sat on the couch, hung his head. “Once I started thinking past the whiskey, I still didn’t know. So I called Lindy, and he got me sobered up some, talked it all through with me. And he said how we needed to come tell you. Maybe Lindy could tell you some. I don’t know how to start.”

“Drink some coffee, Ty, and I’ll get it rolling for you. Seems like Lincoln Blake’s wife left him.”

“When?” Brooks frowned as he picked up his own coffee. “I just saw her this morning.”

“At the church, yeah. I heard about that, expect most everybody has by now. That’s what did it, to my way of thinking. What I hear is after they got home, she just packed up a couple suitcases and walked out. Ms. Harris’s granddaughter Carly was out and about, saw her putting the suitcases in the car and asked if she was going on a trip. Ms. Blake says, just as calm as you please, how she’s leaving her husband and never coming back. Just got into the car and drove off. Seems like he holed up in his study the rest of the day.”

“That can’t have set well,” Brooks commented. “Blake’s pride already took a hard hit this morning.”

“Earned it, didn’t he? Anyways, Birdie Spitzer does some for them, and isn’t one for gossip, be why she’s hung on to the job, you ask me. She told me herself. I guess this was too juicy a grape not to squeeze some. Said there was some hollering, but there’s some hollering per usual in that house, from him, anyhow. Then the missus left, and he shut himself up. Birdie knocked on the door sometime later, to see if he wanted his supper, and he yelled out for her to get the hell out of his house and not come back.”

“Blake fired Birdie?” Surprised, Brooks raised his eyebrows. “She’s worked in that house for twenty years.”

“Twenty-four, she says, come August. Guess that’s another reason she carried the tale to the diner. She doesn’t know if she’s got a job or not, doesn’t know as she wants it, should he expect her back, even so.”

“Now he’s alone,” Abigail said quietly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t interrupt.”

“That’s all right, and you got the truth of it. He’s alone in that big house with his son in a cell and his wife gone. Speculating, I’d say he sat and brooded some on that, and came to the conclusion the reason for his situation rested right here on Brooks.”

“That’s an inaccurate conclusion based on faulty criteria,” she began. “Mr. Blake’s conclusion, I mean, not yours.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Lindy grinned. “That’s a pretty way of saying he’s full of shit, if you don’t mind plain speaking.”

“No, I don’t. Yes, he’s full of shit.”

Brooks took a sip of coffee, shifted his attention to Ty. “How much did he pay you to kill me, Ty?”

“Oh, well, God,” Abigail managed, and surged to her feet.

“Relax, honey, Ty isn’t going to hurt anybody. Are you, Ty?”

“No, sir. No, ma’am. I come to tell you. Lindy said that was best, so here I am.”

“Tell me what happened with Blake.”

“Okay. See, he called me out there, to the house. I ain’t never been in there, and it’s sure something. Like out of a movie. I thought maybe he had some work for me, and I could sure use it. He had me come right into that study of his, and sit right down in this big leather chair. Offered me a drink. I said no, thanks. But he just poured it, set it there beside me. My brand, too. I got a weakness, Brooks.”

“I know it.”

“But I haven’t had one drop since you arrested me, God’s truth, not till tonight. I was kinda nervous, sitting there in that fancy house. He kept saying how one drink wouldn’t hurt me. I was a man, wasn’t I? I didn’t take it.”

“All right, Ty.”

“But he kept saying it, and saying how he had some work, but he didn’t hire pussies, and what was that word I told you, Lindy?”

“Eunuchs. Fucker—sorry, more plain speaking.”

“I agree with your opinion,” Abigail told him, then looked at Ty. “He tied your weakness to your manhood, and tied both to your desire for work. It was cruel and manipulative.”

“It made me mad, but it felt true when he said it. How you tried to make me feel less of a man, Brooks, and how you humiliated me, and castrated—he said you’d castrated me, and it made me feel bad. Mad, too. And that glass of Rebel Yell was right there. I only meant to have the one, just to prove I could. But I had another, and I guess another after that.”

Ty’s eyes filled, and when he lowered his head, his shoulders shook.

Abigail rose, left the room.

“I just kept drinking, ’cause the glass was right there, and it never seemed empty. I’m an alcoholic, and I know I can’t have one drink and not take another.”

Carrying a tray of cookies, Abigail came back in. She set the plate on the table.

As he watched her take one, pass it to a teary Tybal, Brooks thought he loved her more than breath.

“He was cruel to you,” she said. “He should be ashamed of what he did to you.”

“I kept drinking, and getting mad. He kept talking about what Brooks’d done, making me look weak and gutless in front of my own wife, how he was trying to run this town into the ground. Look how Brooks’d framed his son. Something had to be done about it.

“He kept talking, and I kept drinking. He said what was needed was somebody with guts and balls. He asked if I had guts, if I had balls. Goddamn right I do, that’s what I said. Maybe I’d just go kick your ass, Brooks.”

Ty shook his head, hung it again. “I’ve been going to meetings, and I’ve been going to group. I’m getting to understand when I’ve been drinking I just want to go beat hell out of something. I hurt Missy ’cause of it. And between what he said and the drink, I was wound up good and proper. It seemed like a good thing when he said how ass kicking wasn’t enough. It had to be permanent. You’d killed my manhood, that’s what you’d done. The only way to get it back was to kill you. Since he’d be grateful, he’d give me five thousand dollars. Like a reward, he said. He gave me half of it there and then.”

“He gave you money?” Brooks asked him.

“I took it, too. I’m ashamed to say, it was cash money and I took it. But I didn’t keep it. Lindy’s got it. What he said—Mr. Blake said—to do was go on home, get my gun. How I oughta wait till after dark, sit on out here, on the road. Then I oughta call you up, tell you there was trouble. And when you drove out, I’d just shoot you. I went home to get my gun. Missy wasn’t there, as she’s over to her sister’s. I got my rifle, loaded it up, too, and I started thinking why the hell wasn’t Missy home. Started thinking she’d earned herself a couple good smacks. I don’t know how to explain, but I heard myself thinking those things, and it made me sick. It made me scared. I called Lindy, and he came over.”

“You did the right thing, Ty.”

“No, I didn’t. I took the drink. I took the money.”

“And you called Lindy.”

“You have an illness, Mr. Crew,” Abigail said. “He exploited your illness, used it against you.”

“Lindy said the same, thank you, ma’am. I’m ashamed to tell Missy. She’s still some pissed at you, Brooks, but she’s glad I’m not drinking. Things are better with us, and she knows it. She’ll be more pissed if you put me in jail. Lindy said you wouldn’t.”

“Lindy’s right. I’m going to need the money, Lindy.”

“It’s locked up in my truck.”

“And I’m going to need you to come in, make an official statement, Ty.”

“Missy’s going to be pissed.”

“I think she might be a little pissed about the drinking, but when she hears it all, start to finish? I think she’s going to be proud of you.”

“You think so?”

“I do. I’m proud of you. I’m glad you didn’t try to kill me.”

“So’m I. What’re you going to do, Brooks?”

“I’m going to put all this together, all right and tight, then I’m going to go arrest Blake for solicitation of murder for hire of a police officer.”

29

The next step, Abigail thought, when she got home from taking Bert to Sunny. It felt strange, and a little sad, she realized, to walk into the house without Bert. It’s just for a short time, she reminded herself. A quick trip—that changed everything.

When Brooks came home, they’d drive to the airport, take the private plane to Virginia, check into their two rooms. She’d have plenty of time to set up the cameras and video feed.

Plenty of time to obsess, worry, overthink, if she let herself.

So she wouldn’t. She focused on the task at hand and began to transform herself into Catherine Kingston.

When Brooks arrived, he called out, “Where’s my woman?” and made her smile.

She was someone’s woman.

“I’m upstairs. Is everything all right?”

“As it can be. Blake’s got his lawyers scrambling, and I expect a deal’s coming along. He might even slip out of this, seeing as Ty was admittedly impaired, but even so, he’ll be done in this town. I don’t expect …” He trailed off as he got to the doorway and saw her.

“I repeat, ‘Where’s my woman?’”

“It’s a good job,” she decided, studying herself in the mirror.

The hairstyle and the careful makeup sharpened the angle of her jaw. Contacts darkened the green of her eyes. The careful padding transformed her from slim to curvy.

“They’ll probably ask the hotel for any security feeds, once they know the hotel. We’ll be in by then, but they’ll run them to see when I checked in, and if I came alone. That’s the reason we take separate cabs from the airport, have different check-in times.”

“You look taller.” Eyeing her, he walked over, kissed her. “Definitely taller.”

“I have lifts in my shoes. Just an inch, but it adds to the illusion. If any of this leaks to one of Volkov’s moles, they shouldn’t be able to match me. Abigail’s not in the system, and that’ll make it very hard to connect Catherine Kingston or Elizabeth Fitch to Abigail Lowery. I’m ready whenever you are.”

“I’ll get the bags.”

He’d never flown private, and decided he could get used to it. No lines, no delays, no crowds, and the flight itself smooth and quiet.

And he liked the wide leather chairs positioned so he could face Abigail—or Catherine, he supposed—and the way the light played over her face as they winged north.

“They’ve started a fresh file on Cosgrove and Keegan,” Abigail told him, as she worked her laptop. “They’ve applied for warrants to monitor their electronics and communications. They may find something. Cosgrove especially tends to be careless. He gambles,” she added, “both online and in casinos.”

“How’s he do?”

“He loses more than he wins, from what I’ve gathered through his finances, and his gambling pattern, it was the gambling—and the losses—that allowed the Volkovs to pressure him into working for them while I was under protection.”

“Gambling problem,” Brooks speculated. “And he caves when pressured. How would he respond to an anonymous source claiming to have information about his connection to the Volkovs?”

She glanced up, tipped down the large framed sunglasses she’d added to her illusion. “That’s an interesting question.”

“If he folds under pressure, blackmail might push him into making a mistake.”

“He’s not as smart as Keegan, which is why he hasn’t moved up the ranks as smoothly, I believe—in the marshals or the Volkov organization. I calculated the Volkovs would have eliminated him by now, but apparently he’s seen as having some value.”

“Have you ever done any fishing?” Brooks asked her.

“No. It appears like a tedious pastime or occupation. I don’t understand what fishing has to do with Cosgrove or the Volkovs.”

He pointed at her. “First, I’m going to take you fishing sometime, and you’ll see the difference between restful and tedious. Second, sometimes you hook a little fish and it can lead to a bigger catch.”

“I don’t think … oh. It’s a metaphor. Cosgrove is the little fish.”

“There you go. Hooking him might be worth a try.”

“Yes, it might. Greed responds to greed, and his primary motivation is money. A threat, something with just enough information that proves the source has evidence. And if he uses his electronics or phones to communicate, they’d have enough to question him.”

“Which could lead to that bigger fish. And it’d add more weight to your testimony.” He held out the bag of pretzels he opened, but Abigail shook her head. “What’s your bait?”

“Because you need bait to hook even a little fish.”

With a nod, he bit into a pretzel. “Wait till you drown your first worm.”

“I don’t even like the sound of that. However, there was a woman in witness protection after testifying against her former boyfriend, a low-level gangster involved with the Volkovs’ prostitution ring in Chicago. She was found raped and beaten to death in Akron, Ohio, three months after the conviction.”

“Was Cosgrove her handler?”

“No, he wasn’t assigned to her, but everything I was able to gather at the time pointed to his being the one to pass her information on to his Volkov contact. I know enough to compose a believable and threatening message.”

“Another pebble in the river.”

“What river? The one with the fish?”

Laughing, he gave her foot a bump with his. “Could be, except if we were sticking with that metaphor, you don’t want to be tossing any pebbles. Might scare those fish away.”

“I’m confused.”

“In this metaphorical river, we toss the pebbles because we want a lot of ripples.”

“Oh. A pebble, then.” She considered this for a moment, then began to compose.

Anya Rinki testifies against Dimitri Bardov. July 8, 2008. Enters the Witness Protection Program. New ID: Sasha Simka. Transferred to Akron, Ohio; employed as sales clerk at Monique’s Boutique.

Case assigned to Deputy U.S. Marshal Robyn Treacher. Case files accessed by William Cosgrove October 12 and 14, 2008—no log-in or official request for same on record.

Copy of e-mail from personal account of William Cosgrove to account of Igor Bardov, brother of Dimitri, sent October 15, 2008, attached.

$15,000 deposited in account for William Dwyer a/k/a William Cosgrove on October 16, 2008.

Anya Rinki, a/k/a Sasha Simka, found raped and murdered October 19, 2008.

This data will be e-mailed to Administrator Wayne Powell within forty-eight hours unless you agree to a payment of $50,000. Details on the remittance of same to be given in the next communication.

“I think that’s a nicely formed pebble,” she said, and turned the screen so Brooks could read it.

His smile spread slowly before he shifted his gaze from the screen to her face. “Good shape, good weight. You had all those dates in your head?”

“They’re accurate.”

“What’s the content of the e-mail you’re going to attach?”

“It said: ‘Sasha Simka, Akron, 539 Eastwood, Apartment 3-B.’”

The smile faded as Brooks eased back from the computer screen. “So Cosgrove killed her for fifteen thousand.”

“Yes, not personally beating her to death doesn’t make him any less responsible. I believe he’ll respond to this. I believe he’ll agree to pay. As soon as I know the surveillance is in place, I’ll send it.”

“What did they pay him for you?”

His tone, hard and cold, had her taking a moment to shut down her laptop. “He owed fifty thousand in gambling debts. Ilya bought—they’re called markers—he bought Cosgrove’s markers, then used the debt to threaten him.”

“And when you weren’t … eliminated?”

“They forgave half, and required him to work off the rest. The fee, even though I lived, was considerably more than the fee for Anya Rinki. You’d have to conclude Korotkii is worth more to Sergei Volkov than Dimitri Bardov.”

He spoke quietly now, and with absolute certainly. “They’ll pay, Abigail, for what they did to you, to Anya Rinki, to all the others. I swear it to you.”

“I don’t want you to make a vow over something you may not be able to control.”

His gaze never wavered from hers. “Whatever it takes, however long it takes.”

Because it touched her, and frightened her a little, she glanced out the window. “We’re starting our descent.”

“Nervous?”

“No.” She took a moment to be sure. “No, I’m not nervous about what happens next. It’s surprising, really, how completely I was convinced I could never do this. And now how completely I’m convinced I can, and must. And the difference is …” She took his hand, linked fingers. “This. Just this.”

“This”—he tightened his grip—“is pretty damn important.”

She checked in a full thirty minutes before Brooks, so by the time he knocked on her door she’d already positioned the cameras and mics in the sitting area of what the hotel called an executive suite. In his room—across the hall and two doors down—she set up the monitors, linked the equipment.

In just over an hour, she’d set, interfaced and tested the equipment.

“As soon as we make contact, the feds will put men on the hotel,” Brooks told her.

“I know. But the sooner the better.” Nothing more to do, she determined. No more precautions to take. “Let’s make the call.”

She had to wait alone, but found it comforting to know he could watch her. So she worked while she waited, and, when she had confirmation on the warrant on Cosgrove’s and Keegan’s electronics, programmed a time lag of two hours—long enough for the surveillance to be in place—to send her blackmail note.

A pebble in the river, she thought, and looked directly at the camera and smiled.

As she monitored activities, she knew exactly when the plane carrying Assistant Director Gregory Cabot and Special Agent Elyse Garrison cleared for takeoff to Dulles International.

“They’re on their way now,” she said clearly, “and should land at Dulles in about an hour and forty minutes.”

She checked her watch, calculated. “I’d estimate they’ll be in the hotel by ten. They may still opt to watch and wait until morning, but I think they’ll come to me tonight, as it puts control in their hands, or they’d believe it would.”

She rose, wished she could open the curtains. But with the right equipment, the right angle from a neighboring building, they could watch her in the room.

“I think I’ll order a meal. It would give them an opportunity to put an agent undercover as a room-service waiter, so they can get a visual of me and the room. The confirmation I’m here, alone, might be helpful.”

She ordered a salad, a large bottle of water, a pot of tea. Finding it oddly intimate, she continued a one-sided dialogue with Brooks as she switched the TV on, volume low, as she assumed someone alone in a hotel might do.

She checked her makeup, her wig—though she really wished she could remove both—and as an afterthought, rumpled the bed a little so it might look as if she’d stretched out with the television.

When the food arrived, she opened the door for the waiter, gestured toward the table in the sitting area.

He had dark hair, a compact build and what she thought of as quick eyes.

“Are you in town for business, miss?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I hope you have time for some fun while you’re here. Enjoy your dinner,” he added, when she signed the bill. “If you need anything, just pick up the phone.”

“I will. Thank you. In fact … perhaps you could arrange for more water, or coffee, if they prefer, when the assistant director and Special Agent Garrison arrive.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your shoes, your eyes and the weapon under the waiter’s jacket. I hope you’d communicate to the assistant director and agent that I’m ready to speak with them tonight if that suits them.”

And that, she thought, telegraphed clearly that the control remained in her hands.

“It can wait until tomorrow if they prefer keeping me under surveillance longer, but I don’t intend to go anywhere. It should save time to talk tonight. And thank you for bringing the meal. The salad looks very nice.”

He gave her a long look. “Ma’am,” he said, and left her alone.

“That wasn’t just impulse, and it wasn’t showing off. Exactly. I felt if they understood I understand, we might move more smoothly through this process. The pebble dropped into the river while I was speaking to the FBI waiter,” she added. “I think I’ll eat. The salad does look nice.”

In his room, munching on some minibar nuts, Brooks just shook his head.

What a woman he had.

When she’d finished, she set the tray outside the door. Plenty of fingerprints, she mused, sufficient DNA as well. They could run her prints and save yet more time.

She sat, drinking her tea, monitoring her computer for alerts and thinking how much she wished to be home with Brooks, her dog, her gardens. She knew now, really knew, how lovely it was to wish for home.

When the knock came, she switched off the computer, rose, walked to the door to look out through the security peep at the lanky man and the athletically built woman.

“Yes?”

“Elizabeth Fitch?”

“Would you please hold your identification up so I can see it?” She knew their faces, of course, but it seemed foolish not to take this step. She opened the door. “Please, come in.”

“Assistant Director Cabot.” He held out a hand.

“Yes, thank you for coming. And you, Special Agent Garrison. It’s nice to meet you in person.”

“And you, Ms. Fitch.”

“Elizabeth, please, or Liz. We should sit down. If you’d like some coffee—”

“We were told you’d already offered.” Cabot smiled very slightly. “It’s on its way up. The agent you made is taking a lot of guff from his colleagues.”

“I’m sorry. I was expecting you’d send someone in if you had the opportunity. And I’m very observant.”

“You’ve managed to stay off the radar for a long time.”

“I wanted to stay alive.”

“And now?”

“I want to live. I’ve come to understand there’s a difference.”

Cabot nodded. “We’ll want to record this meeting.”

“Yes, I’d prefer you did.”

“Set it up, Agent Garrison. I’ll get that,” he said, at the knock on the door.

Garrison took a computer out of a case. “I’d like to ask why you chose me as your contact.”

“Of course. You have an exemplary record. You come from a solid family base, and while you excelled in school, you also took time for extracurricular activities, formed lasting friendships. I concluded you were well rounded, intelligent and had a strong sense of right and wrong. Those were important qualities for my purposes. In addition, in studying your higher education and your record at Quantico, then in Chicago, I concluded that, while ambitious, you wished to succeed and advance on your own merits. You have a healthy respect for authority and the chain of command. You may shave the rules, but you respect them as a foundation for the system, and the system as a means to justice.”

“Wow.”

“I apologize, as some of my research on you included invasions of your privacy. I justified that by the desire to serve as a source on the Volkov organization. The ends justify the means. That’s often no more than an excuse for doing the wrong thing, but in this case, at that time, I believed it was my only viable option.

“Would you like me to pour the coffee, Assistant Director?”

“I’ve got it.”

Abigail held her silence a moment as she took a self-evaluation. Nerves, yes, she admitted. Her pulse beat rapidly, but without the pressure of panic.

“I assume you verified my identity from prints on the room-service dishes.”

Again, Cabot nearly smiled. “You assume correctly. Agent?”

“Yes, sir. We’re set.”

“Will you state your name for the record?”

“I’m Elizabeth Fitch.”

“Ms. Fitch, you contacted the FBI, though a liaison, expressing a desire to give a statement regarding events that occurred in the summer and fall of 2000.”

“That’s correct.”

“We have your written statement as provided, but again, for this record and in your own words, would you tell us about those events?”

“Yes. On June 3, 2000, I argued with my mother. This is important, as I had never to that point argued with her. My mother was—is still, I imagine—a dominant personality. I was a submissive one. But on that day I defied her wishes and her orders, and it set off the events that followed.”

As he listened to the retelling, Brooks’s heart broke again for that young, desperate girl. She spoke carefully, but he knew her now. He knew those slight pauses when she struggled for composure, the subtle changes in inflection, in her breathing.

How many times would she have to say it all again? he wondered. To the prosecutors, to judge and jury. How many times would she have to relive it all?

How many times would she have to start and stop, start and stop, as the listener interrupted with questions, with demands for clarification.

But she didn’t waver.

“Marshals Cosgrove and Keegan both stated, and the preponderance of evidence supports those statements, that Marshal Norton was down when they entered the safe house for their shift, that they were fired upon and returned fire upon person or persons unknown. They were unable to access the second floor at that time. As Cosgrove was wounded, Keegan carried him out of the house. When he called for assistance, he observed an individual fleeing the scene. He was unable to determine the identity of the individual, as there was a rainstorm and visibility was impaired. At this time, the safe house exploded due to what was later discovered to be a deliberate sabotage of the gas furnace.”

“Yes.” Hoping she appeared calm, Abigail nodded at Cabot. “That’s an accurate synopsis of their statements. They lied.”

“It’s your contention that two Deputy U.S. Marshals gave false reports?”

“It’s my sworn statement that these two men, in collusion with the Volkov organization, killed Marshals Theresa Norton and John Barrow.”

“Ms. Fitch—”

“I’d like to finish. William Cosgrove and Steven Keegan, under the directive of the Volkov bratva, intended to kill me to prevent me from testifying against Yakov Korotkii and others. They rigged the explosion to cover themselves. It’s my sworn statement that both these men continue on the Volkov payroll.

“John Barrow died in my arms while trying to protect me. He gave his life for mine. He saved my life by telling me to run. If he hadn’t, I would’ve died in that house.”

She rose, went to the open suitcase on the bed, took out a sealed bag.

“This is the sweater and the camisole Terry gave me for my birthday that evening. I went upstairs to put it on before Cosgrove and Keegan arrived. I was wearing it when I held John, bleeding from multiple gunshot wounds. This is his blood. It’s John’s blood.”

She paused when her voice broke, bore down hard.

She handed the bag to Garrison. “John and Terry deserve justice, their families deserve the whole truth. It’s taken me a long time to find the courage to tell that truth.”

“There isn’t any concrete proof on the shooter from that day, but again, there is evidence that could be interpreted as a young girl, nerves stretched past the breaking point, who killed her protectors in an attempt to escape the situation.”

Abigail sat again, folded her hands in her lap. “You don’t believe that. You don’t believe I could have attacked and killed two experienced marshals, wounded another, blown up a house, then escaped. It’s certainly possible, but it’s not logical.”

“John Barrow taught you how to handle and shoot a sidearm,” Garrison commented.

“Yes, and he taught me very well, considering the limited time we had. And yes, I asked for and received five thousand in cash from my trust,” she added, before Garrison could. “I wanted the security and the illusion of independence. I know the explosion damaged some evidence, but you would’ve been able to reconstruct. You would know Terry died in the kitchen, and John on the second floor. You would also know from their reports, and from the reports, interviews and statements from the Child Services representative assigned to me, that I exhibited no signs of that kind of stress.”

She took another moment before going on. “If you’ve studied my background at all, if you know anything about my home life before that June, you’d understand that rather than stressed, I was, in fact, more content than I’d been in my life.”

“If Cosgrove and Keegan are responsible for the deaths of Marshals Norton and Barrow, they will be brought to justice. Your testimony in the murders of Alexi Gurevich and Julie Masters, and in the death of Deputy U.S. Marshals Norton and Barrow, is essential to the investigations. We’ll need to place you in protective custody and transport you back to Chicago.”

“No.”

“Ms. Fitch, you’re a material witness, and a suspect.”

“Suspect is stretching credulity, and we all know it. If you put me in protective custody, you’re killing me. They will get to me, and through whoever you put in their way.”

“Elizabeth. Liz,” Garrison said, leaning forward. “You’ve trusted me with key information that’s led to arrests, to convictions. Trust me now. I’ll personally take the lead in your protection.”

“I won’t be responsible for your death, for your parents’ grief. I promise you, if I live long enough I’ll run again rather than testify. I’m good at hiding, and you’ll never have my testimony.”

“You have to believe we won’t let anything happen to you.”

“No, I don’t. Who else might you trust with my life? What about Agent Pickto?”

Garrison sat back. “What about Pickto?”

“Special Agent Anthony Pickto, age thirty-eight, assigned to Chicago Bureau. Divorced, no children. His weakness is women. He enjoys them more when they’re reluctant. He’s funneled information on investigations in exchange for access to women the Volkovs bring to the States from Russia, then force into prostitution. They pay him, too, but that’s secondary. He’s digging for the FBI contact—you, Agent Garrison. He’s getting closer. If he learns who’s receiving the data that’s led to these arrests, to these busts, you’ll be taken. Questioned, tortured, raped. They’ll threaten you with the torture and death of everyone you love, and perhaps will select one as an example to demonstrate how serious they are. When you’re of no further use, they’ll kill you. Agent Pickto reports to you, Assistant Director.”

“Yes,” Cabot confirmed, “he does. You’re making very serious accusations about an agent in good standing.”

“They’re not accusations, they’re facts. And only one of the reasons I won’t put my life in your hands. I’ll help you put these people away, help you break the Volkov organization, but I won’t tell you where I am. If you don’t know, you can’t divulge the information under duress.” She reached into her pocket, took out a flash drive. “Check the information I’ve correlated on Pickto, then ask yourself if, before reading it, checking it, you would have trusted my life, this agent’s life, others under your command, others in the Marshals Service, to this man.

“You would never have found me, but I came to you. I’ll give you everything you need, and all I’m asking is you let me live. Let Elizabeth Fitch live to help get justice for Julie and Terry and John. And when she’s done, let her die.”

“I can’t promise to do this your way. I have people to answer to.”

Impatience shimmered through. “Do you think I’d have come to you if I didn’t know you could authorize exactly what I’m asking? You have power, you have evidence, and considerable leverage. My way, and the Volkovs will be done in Chicago, in New York, New Jersey, Miami. You’ll weed out agents and other law enforcement and judiciary officials who have worked for them—by choice or out of fear.”

No longer able to sit, pretend a calm she didn’t feel, Abigail surged to her feet. “I was sixteen, and yes, I had poor judgment. I was reckless. One night of my life, I broke the rules. But I don’t deserve to die for it, any more than Julie did. If you take me in against my will, this will leak to the press. And they’ll talk of that young girl, of twelve years in exile, in coming forward to offer help at great risk.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Yes, it’s very much a threat. Your superiors wouldn’t be pleased with the bad press, especially at a time they’re working to break the Volkov bratva, especially when trusted FBI agents like Anthony Pickto are implicated. Perhaps explaining that to those you answer to will give you additional leverage.”

“Pause the recording, Agent Garrison.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m going to make a phone call.” With that, he strode out of the room.

Abigail sat again, folded her hands in her lap, cleared her throat. “Ah, should I order more coffee?”

“No, thanks. I’m good. You play hardball, Liz.”

“I’m playing for my life.”

“Yeah. Pickto. You’re sure?”

“I wouldn’t impute someone’s name, reputation and career otherwise.”

“Okay. He’s been asking some questions. Nothing that bumped my radar, nothing out of line, but I’ve heard he’s asked some questions about the last couple Volkov busts. And when I put those questions in this context, it bumps my radar, hard.

“I’d have trusted him,” Garrison admitted.

“Of course.”

“You know, if he’s ordered to bring you in, Cabot will have you locked down tight. I want you to know, if that happens, I will keep you safe.”

“If he takes me in, I’ll get away, however tight he locks me down. I’ll find a way. You’ll never see or hear from me again.”

“I believe you,” Garrison murmured.

“I can be very resourceful.”

It took twenty minutes for Cabot to come back. He sat. “I think we can work out a compromise.”

“Do you?”

“An elite two-man team, known only to me, to guard you in a location again known only by me.”

“And when they learn, and they will, you have the information, and they take your wife or one of your children, when they send you a hand or an ear, who will you save?”

Cabot’s fists balled on his knees. “You think very little of our security.”

“I have your address, I know where your children go to school, where your wife works, where she prefers to shop. Do you think they can’t access the same, won’t use any means to access it when their organization is threatened?

“I’ll cooperate. I’ll speak with the prosecutors, with your superiors. I’ll testify in court. But I won’t go into a safe house again, and I won’t go into witness protection once it’s done. That’s my price, and it’s very little for the value I’m offering.”

“And if we move on this, push forward on this, and you run again?”

She reached over, picked up the bag holding the bloodstained sweater. “Terry’s sweater, John’s blood. I’ve kept this for twelve years. Wherever I’ve gone, whoever I became, this was with me. I need to let it go, and at least some of the pain and guilt and grief. I can’t until I do what I need to do for Julie, for John, for Terry. I’ll keep in daily contact via computer. When it’s announced I’ve been found, and I’ll testify, they’ll do everything they can to find out who knows where I am, who’s protecting me. But they’ll find nothing, because there won’t be anything to find.

“And when I walk in the courtroom that day, it ends for them. It ends for all of us. That’s the deal.”

When they left her, finally left her, she lay down on the bed.

“Will he keep his word?” She closed her eyes, imagined Brooks there with her instead of just watching. “Will he? I’m so tired. I’m so glad you’re here. Right here,” she said, and, fisting a hand, laid it on her heart.

Brooks watched her drift off, and thought if Cabot didn’t keep his word there would be hell to pay. And he would exact the payment.

But for now he stood watch while she slept.

30

Brooks spotted the FBI shortly after he sat down for breakfast at the hotel’s morning buffet. He barely glanced toward where Abigail sat, reading the newspaper at her single table. Casually scanning the room, he pretended to make and receive calls on his cell phone, just another busy man in transition. With the phone still at his ear, he headed out with his overnight bag.

And pulled the fire alarm on his way.

He paused, as any man might—surprised, mildly annoyed—and watched the crowd in the buffet area push away from tables, heard the noise level rise as people talked all at once.

She was good, Brooks observed. Abigail merged with the exiting crowd. As he zigzagged between her and the tailing agents, joining the people exiting, she nipped to the side and into a restroom. If he hadn’t been watching for it, hadn’t known the plan, he wouldn’t have seen the move.

He slowed his pace a moment. “Fire alarm,” he said into the phone. “No, it won’t hold me up. I’m heading out,” he added, as he fell in behind the agents. After he pushed the phone into his pocket, he pulled a ball cap out of his bag. Still moving, he put on sunglasses, stuffed the jacket he’d worn into the buffet in the bag, pulled the strap of the bag long, then slid it crossways over his body.

They were looking for her now, Brooks noted, one of them doubling back, searching the crowd, aiming for the lobby and the main exit.

Less than two minutes after he’d pulled the alarm, she slipped out of the restroom, joined him. The long tail of her blond hair was pulled through a ball cap like his. She wore flip-flops and a pink hoodie, and had shed a good ten pounds.

They walked out together, hand in hand, then broke from the crowd and climbed into a cab.

“Dulles Airport,” Brooks told the driver, “American Airlines.”

“Jeez, you think there’s a real fire?” Abigail asked, with a hint of New York in her tone.

“Don’t know, baby, but we’re out of it now.”

At Dulles they got out at the American terminal, went inside, circled around, then exited to take another cab to the terminal for the private charter.

“Can’t really blame the feds for wanting to tail you,” Brooks commented, once they were settled on board.

“No.”

“And you make a pretty hot blonde.”

She smiled a little, then turned her laptop toward herself. “Cosgrove responded.”

“Already?” Brooks tilted his head.

I don’t know who you are, but be aware you’re attempting to blackmail a federal officer. This matter will be turned over for immediate investigation.

“Standard first-round bluff.”

“Yes,” Abigail agreed. “I’m about to call it.” She glanced up. “I’m a very good poker player, and it’s ironic he’s the one who taught me.”

Brooks watched the text come on-screen. “The student becomes the master.”

Rudolf Yankivich was your Volkov connection on the incident. He is currently serving ten to fifteen in Joliet. I’m sure your commanding officer would be interested in this information. The payment has now increased to $75,000, and will continue to increase by $25,000 for each scoop of bullshit you serve. You now have thirty-seven hours.

“Scoop of bullshit?”

“Yes, I believe harsh language is appropriate at this time.”

“I’m so in love with you.”

The sentiment made her smile. “I know how to say ‘bullshit’ in several languages. I’ll teach you.”

“Looking forward to it.”

She sent the e-mail, sighed.

“I can’t wait to pick up Bert and go home.”

It could be like this—would be like this, she corrected—as she sat on the back porch with a glass of wine, the dog at her feet.

Peaceful, quiet, yes—but not solitary, not with Brooks sitting in the second chair, which he’d bought on the way home.

“Will I get used to it, do you think? Being one person, being safe, being with you?”

“I hope you will, even to the point where you take it all for granted now and again.”

“I can’t imagine that.” She reached over for his hand. “It should happen quickly now.”

“We’ll be ready.”

She sat for another moment, her hand in his, looking out over her thriving garden, the quiet woods. Just another soft evening, she thought, as spring drifted toward summer.

“I’m going to make dinner.”

“You don’t have to bother. We can forage around for something.”

“I feel like cooking. Like routine. Like everyday.”

She saw understanding when he looked at her. “Everyday sounds good.”

To her mind, no one who hadn’t done without everyday could fully appreciate how precious it was.

She gathered what she needed, pleased when he came in to sit at the counter and talk to her while she worked. She chopped plum tomatoes and basil, minced some garlic, shredded some mozzarella, added some cracked pepper and poured olive oil over them to marinate. For fun she began to prepare a pretty tray of antipasti.

“I thought we could get another dog, a puppy, as company for Bert. You could name him, since I named Bert.”

“Two dogs, no waiting.” He considered. “It’d have to be Ernie.”

“Why?”

He nipped one of the hot peppers off the tray. “Bert and Ernie. Muppets? Sesame Street?”

“Oh. That’s a children’s program. Bert and Ernie are friends?”

“And possibly more, but since it’s a kids’ program, we’ll stick with friends.”

“I named Bert for Albert Einstein.”

“I should’ve figured.”

“He is very smart.”

Her computer signaled.

“That’s incoming mail,” she said, and stepped out of everyday.

She walked to the computer, leaned over and brought up the mail. “It’s Cosgrove.”

“He took the bait.”

Blackmail me, blackmail the Volkovs. You won’t live to spend the money. Back off now, and live.

“He’s tying himself to the Volkovs with this response. It’s not concrete, of course, but it’s a start.”

“Let me answer this one,” Brooks requested, and took a seat.

“Oh …” Then Abigail’s uncertainty turned to a nod of approval. “That’s very good.”

Tell the Volkovs you’re being blackmailed, you’re a liability. They eliminate liabilities. Pay now, and live. Payment is now $100,000. You have twenty-nine hours.

“I’ll route it.”

He gave her the seat, stood behind her, rubbing her shoulders, as she worked what he thought of as strange magic with the keyboard.

“Now he could call the bluff. He could let this go past the deadline, wait it out.”

“No, he won’t.” Brooks leaned down, kissed the top of her head. “He’s shifted from using the law as a lever to using the Volkovs. He’s sweating. His next response will demand a guarantee. How can he be sure we won’t come back for more?”

“That’s irrational.” Once the message was routed, she turned in the chair to look up at Brooks. “It’s all dishonest, it’s extortion. Asking for a guarantee’s not logical, and would cost another twenty-five thousand. He should either agree to the payment or ignore any other communications.”

“Side bet, ten bucks.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I have ten dollars that says he’ll come back whining for a guarantee.”

Her brows drew together. “You want to wager on his response? That doesn’t seem appropriate.”

He grinned at her. “Afraid to put your money where your mouth is?”

“That’s a ridiculous expression, and no, I’m not. Ten dollars.”

He drew her to her feet, into his arms. Swayed into a dance.

“What are you doing?”

“Making sure we’ll make a nice picture dancing at our wedding.”

“I’m a very good dancer.”

“Yes, you are.”

She laid her head on his shoulder, closed her eyes. “It should feel strange, dancing with no music, making wagers, while we’re orchestrating something so important.”

“Does it?”

“No, it really doesn’t.” She opened her eyes in surprise when her computer signaled another incoming e-mail. “So quick.”

“He’s on the edge. Squeeze play.”

“I don’t understand what that means.”

“Baseball. I’ll explain later. Let’s see what he has to say.”

How do I know you’re not going to come back for more later? Let’s work out a deal.

“That’s a very foolish response,” Abigail complained.

“It cost you ten dollars. Keep it short. Say: ‘You don’t. No deals. You’re up to $125,000, clock ticking down.’”

She studied him a moment: that slightly crooked nose, the hazel eyes—a wash of green over amber now—the shaggy black hair in need of a trim. “I think you’re very good at extortion.”

“Thanks, honey.”

“I’ll put the pasta on while he considers. That’s what he’s doing now? Considering?”

“Sweating, pouring a drink, trying to figure out who’s screwing with him.” Oh, yeah, Brooks thought, he could picture it. “He’s probably thinking about running. Not enough time to make running plans, so he’ll pay, and start making them.”

At the counter, he popped an olive from the tray into his mouth, then topped off her wine. And when her back was turned, tossed a slice of pepperoni to Bert.

By the time she’d boiled the pasta, drained it, the signal came through.

Onetime payment. Come after more, I’ll take my chances with the Volkovs. Spend it fast, because I’m coming after you.

“Big talk.”

“You understand him very well,” Abigail noted.

“Part of the job. You have to understand bad guys to catch bad guys. Where were you figuring to have him wire the money?”

“I have an account set up. Once he’s transferred the funds, I’ll distribute it to a charity for children of fallen police officers.”

“That’s commendable, and I don’t like denying kids, but …”

“You have another recipient in mind?”

“Keegan. Can you transfer Cosgrove’s payment to Keegan’s account?”

“Oh.” Her face lit up as a woman’s might when given rubies. “Oh, that’s brilliant.”

“I have my moments.”

“More than moments. It implicates both of them. It gives the FBI cause to bring them both in for questioning.”

“Honey, it fucks them both inside out.”

“Yes. It really does. And yes, I can do it. It’ll take me a few minutes.”

“Take your time. Bert and I will go for a little walk while you work.”

He snagged a couple more slices of pepperoni on the way out—one for him, one for the dog. A nice evening for a stroll around, he thought, with time to check out the progress of the garden, think about what he might do around the place on his next day off.

“This is our place,” he said to the dog. “She was meant to come here, and I was meant to find her here. I know what she’d say to that.” He laid a hand on Bert’s head, rubbed lightly. “But she’s wrong.”

When Bert leaned against his leg, as he often did with Abigail, Brooks smiled. “Yeah, we know what we know, don’t we?”

As they circled around, he saw Abigail come to the door, smile.

“It’s done. Dinner’s ready.”

Look at her, he thought, standing there with a gun on her hip, a smile on her face and pasta on the table.

Oh, yeah, he knew what he knew.

“Come on, Bert. Let’s go eat.”

Brooks spent a chunk of his morning—too big a chunk, in his opinion—meeting with the prosecutor on the Blake cases.

“The kid’s crying for a deal.” Big John Simpson, slick as they came and with one eye on a political future, made himself at home in Brooks’s office. Maybe a little too much at home.

“And you’re giving him one?”

“Save the taxpayers’ money. Let him plead guilty to assaulting an officer, resisting, the trespass. Got him locked on the vandalism at the hotel, the assaults there. All we give him is a buy on the deadly weapon. We’d never make attempted murder stick. He gets five to seven inside, with mandatory counseling.”

“And serves two and a half, maybe three.”

Big John crossed his ankles above his mirror-shined shoes. “If he behaves himself, and meets the requirements. Can you live with that?”

“Does it matter?”

Big John lifted a shoulder, sipped at his coffee. “I’m asking.”

No, they’d never make the attempted murder stick, Brooks admitted. A couple years inside would do one of two things, he calculated. It would either make Justin Blake into a halfway decent human being, or it would finish his ruination.

Either way, Bickford would be free of him for a couple years.

“I can live with it. What about his old man?”

“Big-city lawyers doing their big-city shuffle, but the fact is, we’ve got a lock there. We got the phone records proving he called Tybal Crew. Got three separate witnesses saw Crew’s truck outside the house on the day in question. Got the cash money turned in, and Blake’s fingerprints are on a number of the bills.”

He paused a moment, recrossed his ankles. “He’s claiming he hired Ty to do some work around the place, paid him in advance ’cause Ty needed the money.”

“Kosseh sher.”

“Say what?”

“Bullshit in Farsi.”

“Don’t that beat all?” Big John let out a chuckle. “Yeah, it’s bullshit in any language. We can bring in a couple dozen witnesses who’d swear Blake never pays in advance, never pays cash, always gets a signed receipt. True enough Ty was pretty damn impaired by the end of it, but he hasn’t changed his story by an inch. So.”

He shrugged, drank more coffee. “If Lincoln Blake wants to push it to trial, it won’t hurt my feelings. Make a nice splash. He’s charged with solicitation of murder for hire of a police officer. They’re going to want to deal before it’s done. Any way it’s sliced, he’ll do time.”

“I can live with that, too.”

“Good enough.” He unfolded his six-foot-six-inch frame. “I’ll make the deal with the boy’s lawyer. You did good, clean work with both these arrests.”

“Good, clean work’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

“Supposed to and is aren’t always the same. I’ll be in touch.”

No, they weren’t always the same, Brooks thought. But he’d like to get back to that good, clean work. Just that. He wanted the rest over and done, however intriguing parts of it were.

The everyday, Abigail called it. It surprised him how much he’d learned to value the everyday.

He stepped out of his office. There was Alma at dispatch, a pencil behind her ear, a pink tumbler of sweet tea at her elbow. Ash at his desk, brows knitted as he pecked away at the keyboard, Boyd’s voice over the radio reporting a minor traffic accident off Rabbit Run at Mill’s Head.

He’d take this, Brooks realized. Yeah, he’d take just this. Every day.

Abigail walked in.

He knew her, so he saw the tension, though she kept her face impassive.

Alma spotted her. “Well, hey, there. I heard the news. I want to say best wishes to you, Abigail, as you’re family now. You’ve got yourself a good man there.”

“Thank you. Yes, I do. A very good man. Hello, Deputy Hyderman.”

“Aw, it’s Ash, ma’am. Nice to see you.”

“It’s Abigail. It’s Abigail now. I’m sorry to interrupt, but do you have a moment?” she asked Brooks.

“Or two. Come on in.”

He took her hand, kept it after he closed the door to his office. “What happened?”

“It’s good, what happened.” The good made her a little breathless. “Garrison contacted me. Her report was very brief, considering, but inclusive.”

“Abigail, spill it.”

“I’m—oh. Yes. They’ve picked up Cosgrove and Keegan. They’re interrogating, and that may take some time. She didn’t mention the blackmail, but I’ve followed some of the communications in-house, so to speak. Naturally, they believe Keegan blackmailed Cosgrove, and they’ll use that to pressure each of them. More. More important. They’ve arrested Korotkii and Ilya Volkov. They’ve arrested Korotkii for the murders of Julie and Alexi, and Ilya as accessory after the fact.”

“Sit down, honey.”

“I can’t. It’s happening. It’s actually happening. They’ve asked me to meet with the federal prosecutor and his team to prepare me for testifying.”

“When?”

“Right away. I have a plan.” She took both his hands now, held tight. “I need you to trust me.”

“Tell me.”

On a bright July morning, one month and twelve years from the day she’d witnessed the murders, Elizabeth Fitch entered the courtroom. She wore a simple black suit and white shirt, and what appeared to be minimal makeup. A pair of pretty dangling earrings were her only jewelry.

She took the stand, swore to tell the truth. And looked directly into Ilya Volkov’s eyes.

How little he’d changed, really, she thought. A bit fuller in face and body, his hair more expertly styled. But still so handsome, so smooth.

And so cold under it all. She could see that now, what the young girl hadn’t. The ice under the polish.

He smiled at her, and the years dropped away.

He thought the smile intimidating, she decided. Instead, it made her remember, and helped her forgive herself for being so dazzled that night, for kissing a man complicit in the murder of her friend.

“Please state your name.”

“My name is Elizabeth Fitch.”

She told the story she’d recounted now almost too many times to bear. She skipped no detail and, as instructed, allowed her emotions to show.

“These events happened twelve years ago,” the federal prosecutor reminded her. “Why has it taken you so long to come forward?”

“I came forward that night. I spoke with Detectives Brenda Griffith and Sean Riley of the Chicago Police Department.”

They were in the courtroom, too. She looked at them, both of them, saw the faint nods of acknowledgment.

“I was taken to a safe house, then transferred into the protection of the U.S. Marshals Service and transferred to another location, where I remained under the protection of Marshals John Barrow, Theresa Norton, William Cosgrove and Lynda Peski for three months as there were delays in the trial. Until the evening of my seventeenth birthday.”

“What happened on that date?”

“Marshals Barrow and Norton were killed protecting me when Marshal Cosgrove, and a Marshal Keegan who had arranged to replace Marshal Peski, attempted to kill me.”

Hands tightly clenched in her lap, she sat through the objections, the jockeying.

“How do you know this?” the prosecutor demanded.

She talked, and continued to talk, of a pretty sweater and a pair of earrings, of a birthday cake. Of shouts and gunshots, of her last moments with John Barrow and his last words to her.

“He had a wife and two sons whom he loved very much. He was a good man, a kind one and a brave one. He gave his life to save mine. And when he knew he was dying, when he knew he couldn’t protect me, he told me to run, because two men he trusted, two men who’d taken the same oaths he had, betrayed their oath. He couldn’t know if there were others, or whom I could trust other than myself. He spent his last moments doing everything he could to keep me safe. So I ran.”

“And for twelve years you’ve lived under an assumed name and remained hidden from the authorities.”

“Yes, and from the Volkovs, and from those within the authorities who work with the Volkovs.”

“What changed, Ms. Fitch? Why are you testifying here and now?”

“As long as I ran, the life both John and Terry died for was safe. But as long as I ran, there could be no justice for them, or for Julie Masters. And the life they saved could only be half a life. I want people to know what was done, and I want to make the life they saved worthwhile. I’m finished running.”

She didn’t waver through the cross. She’d assumed it would pain her to be called a liar, a coward, to have her veracity, her motives, her actions, twisted and warped.

But it didn’t. It only made her dig in deeper, speak more concisely. She kept her eyes level, her voice strong.

Testimony completed, she walked out under escort and into a conference room.

“You were perfect,” Garrison told her.

“I hope so.”

“You held tough, gave clear answers. The jury believed you. They saw you at sixteen, Liz, and at seventeen, just as they saw you now. You made them see you.”

“If they did, they’ll convict. I have to believe they will.”

“Believe me, you turned the key. Are you ready for the rest?”

“I hope I am.”

Garrison took her arm a moment, spoke quietly. “Be sure. We can get you out safe. We can protect you.”

“Thank you.” She held out a hand to Garrison. “For everything. I’m ready to go.”

Garrison nodded, turned away to signal the go. She put the flash drive Abigail had palmed to her in her pocket, wondered what she’d find on it.

They surrounded her, hustling her through the building, toward a rear entrance where a car waited. They’d taken every precaution. Only a select team of agents knew her route, the timing of her exit.

Her knees trembled a little, and a hand took her arm when she stumbled.

“Easy now, miss. We’ve got you.”

She turned her head. “Thank you. Agent Pickto, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.” He gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll keep you safe.”

She stepped outside, flanked, moving quickly toward the waiting car.

Brooks, she thought.

The shot sounded like hammer on stone. Her body jerked, and blood bloomed on her white shirt. For an instant she watched the spread of it. Red over white, red over white.

She went down under Garrison’s shielding body, heard the shouts, the chaos, felt herself being lifted, pressure on her chest.

She thought again, Brooks, then let it all go.

Garrison sprawled over Abigail’s body in the backseat. “Go! Go! Go!” she shouted at the driver. “Get her out of here. I can’t get a pulse, can’t get a pulse. Come on, Liz. Jesus Christ!”

Brooks, she thought again. Brooks. Bert. Her pretty butterfly garden, her spot where the world opened to the hills.

Her life.

She closed her eyes and let it go.

Elizabeth Fitch was pronounced dead on arrival at three-sixteen p.m.

At five p.m. sharp, Abigail Lowery boarded a private jet bound for Little Rock.

“God. God.” Brooks framed her face, kissed her. “There you are.”

“You keep saying that.”

Dropping his brow to hers, he held her so tightly that she couldn’t get her breath. “There you are,” he repeated. “I may say it for the rest of my life.”

“It was a good plan. I told you it was a good plan.”

“You weren’t the one pulling the trigger.”

“Who else would I trust to kill me—to kill Elizabeth?”

“Shooting a blank, and still my hand shook.”

“I barely felt the impact through the vest.”

And still the moment had shocked her. Red over white, she thought again. Even knowing the blood capsules had released on her command, that spreading stain had shocked.

“Garrison was very good, and the assistant director. He drove like a crazy person.” She laughed, a little giddily. “Having Pickto right there, on the scene, knowing he’ll report to the Volkovs Elizabeth is dead, there’s no reason to doubt it.”

“And since you picked up the chatter about the bounty on your head, someone will probably take credit for it. And even if no one does, it’s official. Elizabeth Fitch was shot and killed this afternoon after testifying in federal court.”

“The federal prosecutor was very kind to Elizabeth.” Now Elizabeth was gone, she thought. She’d let Elizabeth go. “I’m sorry he doesn’t know about me.”

“He’ll work harder for the convictions not knowing.”

“Besides you, only Captain Anson, Garrison and the assistant director, and the FBI doctor who pronounced Elizabeth dead know how it was done. It’s enough to trust. It’s more than I’ve trusted most of my life.”

Because he needed to touch her, keep touching her, he brought her hand to his lips. “Are you sorry she’s gone?”

“No. She did what she needed to do, and could leave content with that. Now I have one last thing to do for her.”

Abigail opened her laptop. “I passed Garrison a flash drive with copies of everything on the Volkovs. Their financials, their communications, addresses, names, operations. Now, for Elizabeth, for Julie, for Terry, for John, I’m going to take it all away from them.”

She sent the e-mail to Ilya, using his current mistress’s address, with a sexy little text mirroring those Abigail had accessed from the past.

The attachment wouldn’t register. That, she thought with considerable pride, was only part of its beauty.

“How long will it take to work?”

“It’ll start the minute he opens the e-mail. I estimate about seventy-two hours before everything’s corrupted, but that corruption will begin immediately.”

She sighed. “Do you know what I’d like? I’d like to open a bottle of champagne when we get home. I have one, and this feels like exactly the right occasion.”

“We’ll do that, and I’ve got something to add to it.”

“What?”

“A surprise.”

“What sort of surprise?”

“The kind that’s a surprise.”

“I don’t know if I like surprises. I’d rather … Oh, look. He’s opened the e-mail already.” Satisfied, she closed the laptop. “A surprise, then.”