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This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidental.
Chapter One
May 1982, Red Rock Canyon State Park, Ricardo, California Seabring sat on something hard and low to the ground. "Sea, I want Mommy. I want to go home.” Andy pushed against her so hard she fell over and hit her head. The pain forced tears into her eyes. Holding onto him with one hand, she raised the other to touch the duct tape they'd used to tape her mouth and eyes. "Don't touch your eyes,” a voice warned grittily. “Just sit there and don't move. And don't let your brother move either, or...." "Idiot!” Another voice sounded. “Can't you see she's fallen over? Go pick her up. Make sure neither falls down again. Then get over here. I need you to monitor the tower communications." She felt herself dragged by her shoulders then pushed down hard. Andy whimpered again. “Sea, I want to go home. I want my Mommy." "Shut up, kid, or I'll tape your mouth again, along with your nose. See how you like that,” the gritty voice said. Andy started to cry. "Fuck this...!" The second voice interrupted. “Get over here. They must have switched frequency. I can't get anything but static. It's almost noon. There ought to be a flurry of activity if they're ready to roll tomorrow." She held onto Andy, trying to swallow tears because the tape wouldn't let them flow down her cheeks. She breathed through her nose, but her throat felt hot, scratchy. "I'm going to take the tape off your mouth,” a voice sounded. It wasn't the one who'd sworn. It was the one who'd spoken with what Dad called ‘calm authority’ when he coached her how to deliver her part of the Gettysburg Address in Ms. Johnson's first grade annual pageant. “Keep quiet, hold onto your brother, and everything will be all right. Do you understand?" She nodded. It hurt when he peeled the tape off her mouth, but the freedom to be able to take a deep breath helped her to stay quiet and not scream. "Now, I'm going to peel the tape off your eyes and replace it with a bandanna,” he said. "What the fuck are you doing, man? One kid's already seen us, and now she'll see us, too,” the gritty voice shouted. The calm voice ignored him. “Keep your eyes shut after I take the tape off, all right?" It hurt to speak, but she whispered, “I'll keep my eyes shut." She didn't feel the pain when he peeled the tape off her eyes because her throat burned and she felt nauseous. She kept her eyes shut and her head very still as he tied the bandanna, knotting it tightly in the back of her head. "That's a good girl,” he said. “Now sit here, both of you, and don't make a sound." Just then, Andy whimpered. "Be quiet,” she hissed, feeling with her hands for his head and shoulders to pull him closer to her. “Just be quiet and they won't hurt us." "That's right,” the calm voice said with a chuckle, and she felt a hand settle on her head and deliver a pat. * * * * Andy fell asleep in her lap. She knew it from his breathing. Now and then he sighed and wailed for Mom. He was only four years old but Mom called him ‘my big boy'. He was heavy, and she couldn't hold onto him. Her back hurt. She leaned over a little, and kept leaning until she fell backwards and hit her head again. This time it hurt so much she almost cried out. "Leave them,” the calm voice commanded. “They might as well sleep on the floor. One of you should go out and get some food. There's a roadside diner just outside of Ricardo, butte-something or other. We don't want to starve the kids. We're just babysitting them until their father complies." She hugged Andy tighter. It made her warm. The place was dusty because every breath scratched her throat, but it was also cold. They had to be in the desert. It felt as cold as the time when Dad had taken them camping in Sequoia Park. He'd brought down-filled sleeping bags and let her and Andy climb in with him. He'd used all three sleeping bags to make a big, warm pile. These men were not going to give her and Andy a sleeping bag. She wanted to ask the calm voice for a glass of water. But he thought they were sleeping and if that's what he thought, he might talk, say things about Dad and whatever it was they wanted him to do. She buried her face in Andy's shoulder and listened. "I think we gave Roberts too much time,” the gritty voice said. "I'm not paying you to think. You're paid to baby-sit, and monitor Center's communications,” the calm voice said. "A month ago, I ran into Mick Hilroy at Pancho's. It's an officer's lounge at Muroc's Clu...." "Spare me the tour guide crap. I've lived at Edwards for three months. Get to the point." "Hilroy's on the developmental test team. Their function calls for interaction with the contractor team. I don't get to talk to contractor's staff because I'm operations." "You're serving a two-week suspension for drunken and disorderly conduct. Any other lawyer would have buckled under Wilton's prosecution, and you'd be staring now at a dishonorable discharge. Be precise. Then again, I'm no longer required to listen to your grievance bullshit. Get to the point." "Hilroy said the Fitz & Wynd engineers aren't sure that all risks have been identified. Roberts got into an argument with one of their design guys. He said his engine prototype's ready to conquer the sky." "I'm sure that by tomorrow night, Mr. Roberts will feel otherwise. Who knows, he probably already does. However, if all the risks have been identified and eliminated, then the new engine would be going to production, not to make noise over Nevada. That's the purpose of the test flight they're running tomorrow, you moron." Then a new voice sounded. It was worried because it shook a little. “Cal's right. We gave Roberts too much time. Sending those lizard cards wasn't such a great idea. Maybe one or two, but nine ... he's had two weeks to think about it. He wouldn't go to see Greggson. He doesn't get along with him, and he won't talk to the base intelligence, but he'll bring in the FBI. He's got friends...." "So do I,” the calm voice interrupted. “In fact, General Greggson's my golf partner, whenever I visit his base. Everything's on schedule, everything's just the way it should be." The gritty voice announced, “I'm going out to get some food. It'll give me a chance to look around, see if there's any unusual activity around Edwards." "It's not what the plan calls for,” the calm voice said. “I'll have to check with the Soobrian dispatch." "So the lizards pull your strings, eh?” the gritty voice said and laughed. There was silence for a long time, and then the calm voice said, “Fine. Do it carefully and don't screw up. Remember, you're under suspension. That's just a step away from house arrest. And get me a couple of jars of olives at the convenience store—the green ones, medium, not large, and some crusty bread and cheese." She must have fallen asleep because when she woke up the dust smelled different—moist. She knew it was morning. Andy stirred in her arms and whimpered. She whispered to him to keep quiet. He started to cry. He'd peed in his shorts. That's where the moisture smell came from. She was about to ask to let them go to the washroom, when the gritty voice sounded. "I stayed outside the house for a while. There were no cops, local or military. I didn't see the wife. Roberts went to Edwards and came back. He stayed a couple of hours and left again. He's moving too much. I don't like it." She realized he was giving a report to the calm voice. "He has to move, you idiot. He can't leave the wife home alone for long, and he has to show up at work. The test's still scheduled for fifteen-hundred...?" "Yes. Confirmed." "Well then, he's carried out the Salamander Protocol.” The calm voice sounded cheerful now. "But what if he was caught and told them about the Salamander ... showed them the cards, instructions.... “The worried voice trailed off. "Then they'd have cancelled the test, you moron,” the calm voice said. She heard footsteps then a door banged. Someone must have left but not all of them because she felt a presence approach. He stuck two fingers underneath her blindfold and tested. The fingers smelled bad, oily. It made her gag. She heard him chewing, swallowing. He didn't say anything but before he walked away, she heard him spit noisily. Something landed in the dust with a soft splat. She played with Andy's fingers, tickled him a little. He leaned against her and a few minutes later, she heard his soft snoring. His face, where it touched her chin, felt hot. It scared her. Andy was sick. There wasn't anyone to help. She tightened her mouth to stop it from quivering. She mustn't cry. They'd come and hurt her, hurt Andy. She must have fallen asleep, too, because the voice sounded as if the speaker stood far away. "He's done it. We can read about it in the papers tomorrow. The contract's definitely finished. So is Roberts. I doubt anyone will be able to find the Fitz & Wynd business listed in the Yellow Pages again. Soobrian will be delighted to hear that the bidding's once again open to all interested parties." She held her breath. That name again. She heard it before. Fitz & Wynd. Dad worked for the Air Force and Fitz & Wynd worked for the Air Force. Now both were finished. How? She held onto Andy, trying not to breathe noisily. She heard them moving away, their voices fading until there was silence, and only then whispered to Andy that it was going to be okay. Dad would come soon. He was finished. Andy struggled to sit up and fell back down into her arms. She heard a door creak, a long silence, and then the calm voice said, “You idiot! You were followed...!" Suddenly, Andy's body jerked in her arms. “Daddy! Daddy!” he screamed and pushed her away as she struggled to hold onto him. "Daddy, daddy, daddy,” Andy chanted. "Baby...!” Dad's voice came, just as high-pitched as Andy's. She heard feet rushing, kicking, stomping. Andy screamed. She heard a hard smack and Dad cried out. Someone smashed something against the wall. Dad grunted. She held her breath. Andy wasn't crying anymore. Did they hit him? Did he fall? She heard Dad groan then something smashed. "Daddy...!” she finally screamed. It hurt so much she started to cough. She clawed at her blindfold ... and stopped. They said not to take it off. They were still shouting. Dad kept repeating Andy's name. She struggled to rise on her knees and was about to pull herself up all the way when the shots came. Two quick pops ... one after another. She froze in mid-crouch, trembling from the effort. Dad groaned. Three more shots sounded, deafening this time. She screamed, tears choking her, eyes burning. Her throat was on fire, but she kept on screaming until her voice gave out. The silence hurt as much as it hurt to scream. She rose and stood there, shaking. Her knees buckled and she fell down again. With one hand she touched the wall while pulling off the blindfold with the other. When it was around her neck she used both hands along the wall to get up. When the fireflies stopped dancing in her eyes she took a step, stumbled, then another step. Finally, her eyes adjusted to the murky light of the cabin. "Daddy?” she whispered when she saw her father's body lying on the floor. He didn't move. Was he so tired he went to sleep, she wondered? She knelt beside him, her hands settling into the dust, fingers raking it softly. There were pebbles in the dust, sharp, hard. She started to pick them up, one by one, and stuffed them in her pocket. She did this whenever Dad fell asleep in a chair in the backyard and she played jacks beside him. He slept now. His blue work shirt was covered with mud. Mom would have to use a lot of bleach to get it clean. "Daddy,” she called softly and touched his hand. It was closed into a fist. She pushed and pried with her fingers until her hand slid into his. Her fingers felt objects, took hold and drew out. She looked at what it was then put two gold trinkets into her pocket. That's what she did with everything she picked up. Mom called her a ‘magpie'. She wondered what a mad pie looked like or even if a pie could get mad. Dad was asleep. She had to get Mom. Or maybe send Andy. That's what she did when Dad fell asleep in the backyard.... Slowly, she turned her head. Andy was asleep, too, on the floor beside the fireplace. His head rested on the stone lip. He was muddied, too. Must have gotten dirty from Dad. Well, she'd have to go get Mom herself. "I'll be back,” she whispered. She rose and shuffled for the door. Just before she pulled it open, she turned and said, “You shouldn't sleep on the floor. Mom said that's how you get sick." She walked through the desert, avoiding darker spots and shadows. The rocks scared her because they crackled, though she heard whispers, too. It had to be ghosts, hiding behind the upstanding formations. It was a clear night. The moon was out. She felt cold and shivered. "It's not scary in the dark,” she said out loud. “The sky has its lights on.” But the shadows moved, and the desert was noisy. Her heart started to pound. She shuffled her feet faster on the parched ground until her flight turned blind. The shadows were chasing her. The creaking, chirping and rustling noise swelled until it sounded like the time when Dad took her to the zoo. There were wolves and bears and tigers ... run, Sea, run...! * * * * Jim Tarrymack reached for his CB radio. It was eleven o'clock. Instead of trying to make the stretch of 395 from Bishop all the way to Highway 14, he should have swung east and stopped at a trucker's stop just outside of Ridgecrest, and caught a shuteye in the cab, except he was behind schedule. He had to ride the 14 down to its Mojave junction with 58, swing northwest for Tehachapi and knock off another hundred miles before taking a nap in Bakersfield. The headlights of the big transport truck kept carving strong wedges of light across the road. A new sign announcing that he had just crossed the boundary line of Red Rock Canyon State Park flashed by. It hadn't been there last month when he'd driven down 14, though he heard talk when he stopped at Milly's ‘Butte-rest’ in Ricardo for a bowl of home-made chili that the parks people were drafting something called ‘1982 General Plan’ to bring out early next year. Milly liked to attend all public meetings that dealt with such stuff. She liked to yell and scream at the government people. Well, to him the place always felt like a page from an old book, filled with history and traditions—of people and critters. It was a clear night, good visibility. He hoped the Park's wildlife would stay in their lairs and not dart across the road. It was the main reason why he didn't like doing 14 at night. He shrugged to loosen his neck muscles. He would make it to Bakersfield by midnight, or a tad later, but not all the way to Fresno. Just as he was about to click his CB, his eyes shot a message to his foot to stomp hard on the airbrakes. "Jeeee ... sus!” he shouted, fighting to keep the steering wheel from spinning out of control. “...Christ!” He finished explosively when the truck's grille came to a bone-chilling, screeching stop a few feet away from the pint-sized apparition that had bolted out of the roadside shadows and ran right onto the highway. "Jesus, Maria, and all saints,” he murmured again, swiping cold sweat from his forehead. “A kid ... what's a kid doing out here...? Jesus, Maria.... “He climbed down, jumped off the last step and ran to see whether he had grazed the child. “What the hell...?” He stopped. The girl was out of breath and shaking. "It's all right, honey. It's all right.” He softened his voice. “You okay there? Someone chasing you...?" The girl didn't speak or nod. She just stood there, shaking. He saw her wide opened eyes and knew silent terror drove her flight. He approached as close as he dared, making soft, comforting sounds until his hands settled on the girl's shoulders. He meant to stop her tremors. However, the moment he put his hands on the little shoulders, the girl collapsed.
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Chapter Two
October 1994, University of California, Berkeley Campus, San Francisco The nameplate beside the brown, wood-laminate door said: Dr. William P. Chalmers, Graduate School of Journalism. Seabring raised her fist, aiming to smash the plate, and reconsidered. Had he left it open on purpose? Probably not, since he was occupied with the phone call blackmailing the party on the other end. She dropped her hand, walked backwards far enough to make sure he'd not hear her steps, then turned and ran down the corridor. Five hours ago in class she had handed in her mid-term paper. "Come by my office at six-thirty,” Chalmers said. “I want to make sure your bibliography and references are correctly formatted." She stared at the lock of light brown hair falling across his forehead and smiled. The gray around his temples made him look distinguished, respectable—handsome. She would have liked to have kept staring at him until the class emptied, until she could walk around and face him, reach up and put her hands around his neck, draw his head down for a kiss.... The fantasy had to wait until tonight. "Bring all your drafts too, and the diskettes,” he said, smiling. "I've left all the drafts in your office with the rest of the research material." "Just diskettes then. If we have to change something." "No problem,” she said, also smiling. The sound of that ‘we’ made her shiver with pleasure—and pride. She had confidence in her investigative work. Besides, she'd spent days in libraries all over San Francisco, researching news clippings and magazines for just the right topic for her mid-term paper. She settled on Dave Whaarkonen, a billionaire developer in the Calistoga-Clear Lake area. He had made a land deal with the local authorities that would see all the small businesses in the area prosper for a long time. The Prudhome Point Village would bring not only tourism, but also new enterprise. Everyone with any say in the matter was in favor—except Brad Marshall. He was a retired Air Force colonel, living in the area for the last twenty years. He also suffered from Alzheimer's, therefore his warnings about the land parcel slated for Prudhome Point couldn't be given a serious consideration. She had interviewed Marshall. He couldn't remember her name five minutes post introduction but something about his recollections gave them credibility. She went back to the library, this time focusing on news and reports dating back to the sixties, the pre-Vietnam era. She discovered that an area in the Coast Ranges, located five miles from the land parcel Whaarkonen wanted to develop, served as a disposal grounds for highly toxic chemicals and by-products the Air Force wasn't allowed to store in an inhabited areas. In those days, burial of encapsulated waste and dangerous material in remote areas, mostly in Nevada but sometimes in the Coast Ranges, was an acceptable practice. This particular site appeared to have been forgotten in the subsequent cleanup during the eighties. Marshall was right, but no one wanted to listen to him. The locals wanted to bring new business to their community. Whaarkonen wanted to make money. Both parties were guilty. "Don't be ambiguous,” Chalmers told her during one of their frequent conferences. “Be thorough, document everything, be professional, especially your references. Include the names of the Air Force staff you called in the process of gathering information. Whaarkonen sources ... you may want to leave out Marshall. If necessary, you can include his name later on. But Whaarkonen-Trimartin Developments is your focus." Bill Chalmers was her mentor. He had earned his word-wings as a Washington journalist in 1972, during the Watergate, and became one of the most sought-after lecturers on the post-Watergate circuit. He'd spent two years in South Africa, gathering material for series of brilliant articles on the apartheid. He normally taught graduate courses. This year, he had agreed to teach a first-year course for a colleague who went on sabbatical. She was the only freshman in his class he noticed—and chose to mentor. She came ten minutes early. He'd be happy to see her. She felt light-headed, victorious—entranced. That's why she approached his office on tiptoes. She was walking on air. His door was cracked open. He was on the phone, talking. She heard the name. Whaarkonen—and then the rest. He was blackmailing someone in the Whaarkonen ranks with knowledge of what rested beneath the barren, rocky ground of Prudhome Point. She listened and felt everything around her turning cold. This is how encroaching death must feel, she thought. This is the numbness, shame and rage that come when a great statue topples off its pedestal. She raised her fist—and didn't deliver the blow. Instead, she ran out of the building, tears streaming down her cheeks. They were cold, tasteless. * * * * Revenge. The word flashed through her head. How could I have been so stupid, so naïve ... I'm almost twenty years old! Revenge. Punishment. How could I have been so gullible...? Searing pain shot through her knee. She cried out, arms stretching to steady herself. “Whoa there.... “Hands caught her before she slid to the ground. "Where am I?” She turned her head, shaking from pain ravaging her knee, and trying to get her bearings. A few seconds later she realized that she'd left the grass field and must have been heading for the Telegraph Avenue when she ran into a sidewalk fire hydrant. "Are you all right?” A husky voice vibrated with concern. "Yes, no. My knee.... “She moved her head and ended up pressing it against his chest because the pain shot through her knee again, this time so sharp it made her nauseous. "I'm going to put you in my truck,” he said. When he lowered her down on the front seat she was finally able to raise her head and look at him. "I know you,” she said and hissed with pain when his hands probed her knee. He looked up. “It's just badly bruised. The kneecap's all right. I'm in your journalism class, Nick Anderson. You like to sit in the front row. I'm usually way back, out of harm's way." She stared at him, noticing a worry groove that formed on the bridge of his nose as he kept tightening his forehead. She thought he was a football player, one of those guys on full athletic scholarship who'd take a writing course because they figured it would get them an easy ‘B'. "I'm Seabring Roberts. Thanks for your help. I wasn't looking ... sort of upset so I didn't see the fire hydrant." "I looked up just in time to see you roaring across the grass strip, like a charging train." She grimaced. “Well, something slowed me down. Just as well.” She stared at him, an idea forming in her head. “Do you have a girlfriend?” she asked. He leaned back, his gray eyes opening wide. "Well, are you in a serious relationship?" "I'm ... I mean, no.” He sounded confused. "Good.” She nodded briskly. He cleared his throat a couple of times and asked, “What did you have in mind?" "I'd like you to spend a night with me, in a motel. I'll pay for the room,” she said as casually as if she was offering him a coin for the newspaper box. He swallowed twice, started to say something, reconsidered then swallowed some more. Finally, he managed, “Tell you what, Miss Roberts. Let's go for a cup of coffee, and maybe then we can figure out what exactly it is you need ... or want." "I'm doing research,” she said coolly when the waitress brought them steaming cafe-au-lait with cinnamon sticks. "What kind of research?” he grumbled. "The necessary kind. Yes or no?" His nose quivered so he had to be trying to hold onto his neutral expression. "You're serious, aren't you?” he asked for the third time since they ordered. "Very,” she said and reached for her purse. "Why? I mean, why would you want to, need to ... do it that way...? I mean it's insane even by Berkeley standards." "Nothing's insane by Berkeley standards. I made you a business offer, even though I didn't offer you money. However, if you don't want to ... thanks for the coffee,” she said rising. He almost took the tabletop with him as he jumped up and gripped her elbow. He pointed his other hand at her, tried to say something and just shook his head. Momentarily he closed his eyes, grunted so deeply it had to come from his diaphragm then took out a couple of bills. He threw them down on the table and marched her outside. When he pointed at the truck her stomach tightened. He must have seen a flash of worry on her face because he sneered at her. She pressed her chin down and heard him mumble something. "I can't get in. My knee still hurts,” she said. He picked her up as if she was a briefcase, carried her to the truck's passenger side and dropped her on the seat. For some reason he chose to climb over her lap to get to the driver's side. "I'm going to save you money for the motel room,” he said grittily. He drove with a determined expression that gave her no clue as to what he was thinking. For two hours she sat beside him in silence. He had to be taking Chalmer's course as an option. No one who aspired to be a journalist would be able to sit so long in stony silence. Reporters were chatty people. They had to be. Talk was their job. Once or twice she looked at his profile, and saw it was hard, set. His head was bullishly thrust forward and his shoulders bulged with muscles underneath the long-sleeved khaki shirt. He had to be a jock. He had flat cheeks and she wondered whether they'd ripple if he smiled, and would that be something she wanted to see? His eyes narrowed when he was frustrated. She observed it often enough in the cafe. But there was also something decisive and controlling about him. It's what scared her the most. Suddenly she felt the truck slowing down until it came to a stop in the middle of nowhere. She turned around and saw lights flickering in the hills. Ahead lay darkness. She realized they had come to the seashore. "Grab hold,” she heard his terse order. She looked at the dashboard. “Where?" "Up.” He wasn't going to give her a volume of instructions. She looked up and saw a metal roll bar. It ran the entire length of the truck's roof. She grabbed it even as the truck's nose pointed down. The Ford pickup bounced and swayed on the pitted dirt road all the way down to the shore. It was the roughest ride she's ever had. Even with the windows rolled up, she heard the ocean. Carefully, she turned her head to look out the side window and saw a long row of lights, well above, outlining the road that had to have quite a few expensive seacoast villas. "It's October,” she said, wondering whether she should talk at all. "Correct. So what of it?" "It's cold on the seashore." "It's not expected to go below sixty-five tonight. Worried?" "I said a motel room." "And I said I'd save you the money. You still don't know how much I'm going to ask you to pay me for this service." She gripped the door handle, threw the door open and jumped out. She managed to take two steps when he caught her again or she'd have collapsed. The pain in her knee was just as sharp as when she ran into the fire hydrant. "You're quick,” she mumbled, gasping hard because the pain was coursing down her calf. "When required, I am. Changed your mind?” This time she heard his sarcasm clearly. "No.” She leaned to a side, testing how much weight her knee could take. When she straightened up, his face was so close she knew he was going to kiss her. When his lips brushed hers, fear tightened her stomach. Relax, she told herself. He's the chosen tool of your destruction ... revenge, punishment. He's nothing else. He pressed her body against him, his lips doing the same. Suddenly, wherever his body touched hers, she felt heat. It's good to feel warm in October on the seashore, she thought. He gave her a moment to catch her breath and kissed her again. She felt twinges all over, strange pulsing sensation she had never felt before. She wasn't comfortable keeping her hands trapped against his chest. They wanted to move and settle around his neck and hold. It seemed to be a natural thing to do under the circumstances. The sand was wet and the moisture started to soak through her sneakers. "The sand's cold,” she murmured. She expected him to murmur back that it didn't matter to him. She was doing research. She asked for service and he'd deliver it wherever he damn well pleased. He surprised her. He planted a playful kiss on her nose, picked her up and she thought he'd carry her to the cab, but no. He walked around to the back and lifted her over the truck's tailgate. A moment later, he landed beside her, softly like a panther. "A friend asked me to move his camping gear,” he said, opening the rolled bales and taking out blankets. “I never imagined it might come in handy." She liked his enterprising solution and carefully, so the pain wouldn't flare again, she squatted beside him, helping to spread the bags and blankets. It kept her busy because suddenly, she didn't want to think why she was here and what she planned to let him do. She felt him grow still beside her then his hands settled around her shoulders and drew her close. She noticed he did it with a lot more hesitation than before. He pressed his forehead against hers and she heard him swallow hard, as if he wanted to drown his words. "Nick,” she whispered and couldn't continue. "Are you sure about this?" Suddenly, he sounded as confused and as uncomfortable as she was. She moved her head against his in a way she knew he wouldn't be able to interpret, and wrapped her hands around his neck. They settled down on the blankets, lips seeking each other in the dark with frantic urgency. This time his kiss was rough, demanding. It scared her because there was nothing controlled about it, nothing calculated that would affirm to her that it was a service she asked for. She buried her face in his neck. It gave him permission to plant kisses wherever his mouth wanted to roam. She liked his odd, pinecone smell given off as body heat. It seemed to characterize him better than his face or fingerprints. She was always sensitive to smells, human and otherwise. It stemmed from that horrible incident when she had lived in total darkness, behind a blindfold, and fingers that reeked of oil kept testing the integrity of her bandanna. "Nick!" "Changed your mind?" "No.” She wondered whether he expected to hear something else and what he would do if she changed her mind. She felt his hand slide up and under her shirt, bunching up then drawing the fabric down again. He undressed her in stages. With each, she felt more and more revealed, as if he'd been peeling off layers of her identity. He took off his clothes a lot faster than he undressed her. When his hands settled on her bare breasts, she felt as if his touch had transferred ancient genetic memory, and her body knew what to do. "Seahhh.... “He stretched her name as she never heard it breathed before. “Are you sure...?" She waited for her body to give a sign that it was rejecting this stranger. When it didn't come, she whispered, “Make love to me, please.” She wondered whether he felt that her experience in this category was lacking. She had hardly let even those few boys she had dated in high school touch her. Mother had never re-connected with life after Dad and Andy's death, and the psychologists who wreathed her life while growing up were not inclined to discuss sexual anything. They wanted to ‘purge’ her psyche of ‘events that transpired’ in a desert cabin, a remnant of the 1890s mining operations. They wanted to know who said what and whether she ‘imaged’ her captors behind her blindfold, so the FBI artists could produce a composite sketch of the kidnappers. She was sure there was no turning back for her. "Jesus, I'm not even sure whether I could stop if you wanted me to,” he groaned and kissed her. She felt his hands gripping her hips, his body adjusting for what came next. He didn't enter her on the first try. He was still being tentative about it. She realized that he was trying to be gentle. He murmured softly against her cheek, “Relax. It's okay. It's okay. Stop me if it hurts." She moved against him in a way that left him no choice but to try again. It was painful. She tensed up but forced her hips upward, in a message that he was not to stop this time. "Jesus, how could you even...?" "Shut up,” she panted and moved her hips up and down, pumping as much as the pain permitted. It wasn't punishment, or humiliation or revenge of any kind and that scared her. His tender passion forced her to tune into his rhythm, to revel in it to a degree where even the pain faded. It wasn't a service for him and that scared her even more. He didn't let go of her body, but leaned to a side and gathered her deeper into his embrace, his lips resting against her temple. As her first experience, it was so memorable she feared it might be used as a defining template for all those future lovemaking sessions. She traced his back muscles and moved her fingers all the way up to his chin. He lowered his head and kissed them. She shivered in his arms. He grabbed a sleeping bag then draped it over their bodies. "Why?” She heard his husky whisper, a little strangled. Suddenly, she wanted to tell him, except she didn't know what to say, how to start and how to avoid telling him that he was supposed to be her revenge tool. What am I going to do, she agonized when three days later she rode with him for the seashore again? They were better equipped this time. They'd pitch a tent in the back of the truck. Hardly a week had passed and she already knew that Nick Anderson couldn't be banished into the anonymity of a stranger she'd picked up on the street. I can't let myself get involved she lectured herself. I can't let him get close to me. I can't ... what am I going to do? I want him ... what a scary thought! On their fifth night together, she told him about Chalmers. They didn't go to the seashore. The warm spell had passed and it was getting colder. She no longer sat in the front row in Chalmers’ class. Nick had picked a new spot for them, off to the side and half way up the rows. She wouldn't look at Chalmers and kept busy, taking notes and hiding her smile when Nick's hand passed over her notebook, leaving behind a foil-wrapped chocolate kiss. Their nights turned into adventure, a reward to their bodies after a hectic, stressful day. She felt herself slipping into a state where she couldn't imagine what life would be like without Nick. It must have cracked the door of her childhood memories. The nightmares came again. She'd wake up, disoriented and shivering, drenched in cold sweat. The first time it happened, Nick held her until she calmed down and fell asleep again. Then he started to ask questions and make suggestions about therapy and psychologists. She refused to discuss the subject. Nick persisted in daytime, when she was in control. She didn't know how to tell him that she wanted to confront her fears in the darkness, because that's how she spent two days in the cabin, blindfolded. She couldn't explain and knew he couldn't read her mind. Nick, however, wouldn't give up a single opportunity to get her to face her nighttimes’ furies. It's what made her suspicious. She analyzed the ‘timely’ component of her accident with the fire hydrant. How was it she'd noticed him around the campus but didn't know his name? Was he following her? Was his help more than just coincidence? Who was Nick Anderson? He said his home was in Savannah, Georgia, but he didn't have a Georgia drawl. He was eight years older than she was—a mature student. Wasn't it a bit strange for a man to enroll in college at the age of twenty-eight? He was an excellent student and hardly had to work on any subject. She asked him where he spent his time since high school. He said he worked in a family business. She wondered whether his family wouldn't have first insisted on a college degree, before joining the family business. Nick was good at avoiding questions. He also knew better than her hacker-roommate how to use computer or link-up with a far-away mainframe. He liked to sneak up behind her when she was playing on the Internet in chat rooms. “Seah, either fire off that Soobrian inquiry or cancel it and get off. You're paying for the Net connection by the minute. You're wasting money sitting in front of that monitor, hypnotizing it,” she'd hear his deep rumble and reach for the power cord, yanking it out of the outlet. "You're going to ruin your computer if you don't shut it down properly,” he'd remark dryly and head for the kitchen where her Texan roommate and three other friends were sampling his phenomenal chili. He found her battered brown suitcase once when she didn't push it far enough under her bed and took it out. He saw the old red and white stickers with the University of Oklahoma logo and lifted his head, giving her the v-notched look. "It was my father's,” she explained unwillingly. "If it's a family heirloom store it properly,” he suggested. It was an heirloom but not the kind he thought. She'd used Dad's old college suitcase to hide all the research she had compiled on the Soobrian Standards Corporation and the Salamander Protocol. Her extensive research on U.S. companies, forced into bankruptcy under suspicious circumstances for the last ten years, formed part of that investigative portfolio. She kept lists of Soobrian subsidiaries that won tenders when their competition was either absorbed, or went bankrupt. She didn't show him what was inside the suitcase, but she made sure he never saw it again. Who are you, Nick, she whispered at night inside her anguished world, when he slept beside her, breathing deeply and with such regularity it was too convincing? The day after they wrote their last exam, she sat down at the kitchen table and said, “Sex is good, Nick, but I want to learn more about human relationships, experience diversity." He dropped the cast iron pan on the counter and went to the washroom. She knew that when he came out, she'd be already gone. * * * * He sat down on the chair that was still warm from her presence and spread his hands on the table, pressing down. He had known this moment would come and feared it. He had always fringed the rules when on assignment, but this time he had broken them. She was worth it. He wondered if she felt he was crack close to telling her that he was in love with her and wanted to stay and be a part of her life on any terms she chose, and that's why she left. She was right about sex. It was better than good. It was hotter than his homemade chili. The physical side of their relationship didn't care about the complex lives and lies of the individuals. It didn't care about her nightmares, her childhood traumas or her deep-seated guilt. It didn't care about her need to punish herself, somehow, anyhow. It didn't care about his assignment, about the broken rules or identity. It kept carving a path uniquely its own. But the hammer fell anyway. Or was it the other shoe that dropped...? The ugly day would be stamped into his memory forever. It signaled his slide into the abyss. He didn't want to think what it heralded for her—continued emotional turmoil and struggle with her past. She wouldn't deal with her nightmares. And he never had a chance to tell her that he loved her, because he was recalled. Bolton made sure that the only way for him to move was backwards. His assignment was terminated, and he had to go face an inquiry panel for an old grievance that he had thought long resolved—or forgotten. As far as he was concerned, his spiritual death came three weeks before his twenty-ninth birthday. Hers, he knew, came when she was seven years old.
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Chapter Three
July 2007, San Francisco It was a rainy night in San Francisco, the kind that started with a heavy fog in the evening and slowly changed into a drizzle. Though it was only July, by nine o'clock when Seabring looked out the living room window, the Fulton Street below was deserted. Especially Wednesday evening, whenever she'd look out the window, there would be a jogger, elbows winged, struggling to make it uphill along the north sidewalk. The south sidewalk was for descent, elbows swinging effortlessly back and forth. In three years since she's lived on Fulton, she'd never seen any jogger break this peculiar protocol—north sidewalk to climb, south to descend. Tonight even the hardiest of joggers had called it quits. When she looked out the window, the northwest corner of the city appeared to have been erased. The fog sat there like a heavy fungus growth, thickening as the night fell. I'm drowning in dust again, she thought, feeling as if the oppressive weight of the fog pushed her head down, forced her eyes close. She finalized the piece on the Marcheson Pharmaceutical Corporation. Six months of investigative journalism compacted into a two-page story it took her an hour to write. When she finished, she spent another fifteen minutes writing an executive summary for Barbara. It further compacted six months of exhausting work into half a page of key points, because her editor was a busy woman. She only had time to read executive summaries. That's what the San Francisco Daily Chapter would run, as well, key points, a cautious story to see what reaction it might draw. Later on, if no one threatened to file a lawsuit, a longer story would appear and only then would come a bulk of a reporter's work, as serialized installment of articles. Marcheson had subsidiaries in Canada, Bermuda, Singapore and Hong Kong. It had also changed hands three times in about eighteen months. The last such change of ownership made Barbara Ferguson, the Chief Editor of the San Francisco Daily Chapter, suggest an investigation. Seabring smiled. It was all Barbara needed to see. Six months later, she gave her boss the final draft of an executive summary. "Vietnamese Mafia,” she'd said in the morning, when she walked into Barbara's office for a scheduled appointment with her editor. "Are you sure?" "The Vietnamese gangs are moving down here from Vancouver. Three confirmed crossings in the last five months. I'm sure. My contacts at Marcheson are reliable and scared to death. They're placed high enough to know what's going on, but they're not staying under the new management. They want to leave alive." "If the Chapter runs the story it might bring on an investigation. Not just by local politicians but the police,” Barbara said candidly. "If I'm invited to go on a talk show as a result of the story, it will for sure,” she agreed. "You're that certain?" "Absolutely." "You can't reveal your sources." "Of course not. I want to see them leave Marcheson alive." "Won't it become somewhat obvious when the sources leave the company?” “Marcheson has seventeen thousand three hundred and twenty four employees, world wide. Two thousand are stationed here, at the San Francisco headquarters. Six hundred and five are eligible for early retirement. All will avail themselves of this opportunity." "They're being forced out,” Barbara supplied knowledgeably, “to make room for hand-picked replacements, staff who'll understand the new way of doing business." "Of course. However, those leaving won't do so with bad feelings. The compensation package offered is very generous. My contacts won't be compromised. More than one hundred managers and executives are retiring." "We'll run the story, front page." When Barbara took less than five minutes to decide, it meant she trusted the source of information. Seabring knew she should be pleased. Then why did her throat feel scratchy, hot? Why did her eyes burn as if full of dust? Once her colleagues heard that Barbara had Okayed the story, she spent the rest of the day with a crowd around her work-station. Rita came to sit down on her desk and with exaggerated precision put her story on Chinatown toxic fish into the wastebasket. "I gather it's a ceremonial gesture.” She shook her head at her friend. "Yeah, well, so it is.” Rita sighed and bent down to retrieve her work. "Your stories made front page before, and will again." Rita shook the handful of pages. “Not the toxic fish. I've run out of synonyms for toxic. The word doesn't shock anymore. Everything's full of toxins these days." "Then use the word ‘poison'." "We'd get sued. The Chinatown fish didn't kill anyone yet." "My story's next to make the front page.” Sanjay stopped by with the announcement. "Only if you use the word ‘paranormal’ as the cause of the crash, Sanj,” Rita said and grimaced at him. He reached down, picked up a sheet of paper from Seabring's desk then viciously crumpled it, and held it out to Rita. “Sabotage. How's what for front page material?" "Is that what you discovered when you penetrated the great military fort?” Rita laughed, fanning her story in his face. "Their intelligence team's still collecting evidence from the F-16 crash. My contact called and...." Rita interrupted him. “Called? You're doing field investigation by phone calls? How original! Weren't you supposed to take a tour of Edwards Base, dressed in blue coveralls, carrying a wrench so you could knock on things, push buttons, and work undercover...? When are you flying down to L.A.?” she mocked. He looked at her as if he suddenly contracted food poisoning and walked away. "He's so full of himself,” Rita mumbled. “Air Force crashes planes all the time." "Not all the time. Just every twenty-three years,” Seabring murmured. "Like I said, all the time.” Rita laughed. “I'd be the first one to slap his shoulder if his story made front page, but he's so arrogant when he's working on a story. It's as if once he gets his assignment, everyone else's just doesn't exist. I mean it was a test flight, hello...? The key word here is ‘test,’ right...? So anything can happen during a test and a month ago, it did. The plane crashed, two pilots died. It's tragic, but they were soldiers, and soldiers die for their country all the time." "Not all the time, Rita, just when there's a war. We're not at war in California. At least those test pilots from Edwards weren't. They were testing a new prototype engine. From what Sanjay told me, lot of operations and design people at Edwards were very excited about the engine going into production soon after the tests were completed." "He talks to you about his assignments?” Rita leaned back, frowning. “He never talks to me about his work. He hides his stuff when I'm around." "I wonder why?” Seabring remarked, hiding laughter. Rita left and Brad took up her spot on the desk. Then Keith and Jill and the rest of her colleagues, all came to congratulate her for making the front page. The only one who didn't come to congratulate her was Sam. He was out on an assignment, doing fieldwork, at the Rafael Trailer Park, somewhere north of Brisbane. Their relationship was two years old. Sometimes, after a cold night dreaming she was once again wandering through the desert with dust choking her, she'd wake up shivering, drenched in sweat and feel that everything and everyone in her life was hundreds of years old, and that nothing had changed. By morning she'd feel guilty. She loved Sam. He had come to the Daily Chapter a week after she set an electrical fire in her flat. She'd yanked her computer power plug out of the wall so hard, a chunk of plaster came out with the wire box. She used the fire extinguisher in time to stop the sparks and crackle from burning down the upper floor, but the landlord lived on the main floor and must have smelled smoke. He came running upstairs. It cost her a thousand dollars to make repairs to the electrical wiring. "Use the power bar, Ms. Roberts,” the landlord told her, frowning. “At least that way, when your temper acts out, you won't set a fire. You'll just ruin a plastic strip plug." She promised to buy a power bar and plug not just her computer, but also all the rest of the freestanding electrical appliances into it. The next day, she bought five power bars. She'd spent more than eight years pulling plugs out of the wall to shut off her computer when dust started to choke her, even as she typed her message inquiry. "I need any information available on the Soobrian Standards Corporation, particularly its practices as reflected by the Salamander Protocol. Thanks. Annie." She couldn't count how many times she typed that message, but she knew exactly how many times she had sent it—zero. Sam had come to the Daily Chapter from the New York Times. "I've leaped across the continent,” he'd said cheerfully, studying the large white patch in her wall, where the landlord had replaced the burned portion. “I love the coast, love the sea, love the air and especially, I love the food in San Francisco.” He turned and smiled at her in a way that silenced whatever she wanted to say. A month later, he rolled on his back and just before he went to sleep beside her, he whispered into her ear, “It's true what they say, love grows. It's also contagious, you know, because now I love you, too." He was a good lover. She was still shivering from the tail end of her climax and not ready for conversation. When she heard him breathe in that deep, relaxed way, she realized that he probably didn't want to hear her answer or anything else tonight. It was what came to bother her as their relationship moved on. An hour or two after they made love, he'd wake up, give her a playful smack on the ass or hip, then leave. The next day in the office, he would pre-empt her questions with bustling cheer, snapping his fingers to the rhythm of imaginary beat, talking about his assignment, a new Japanese restaurant he discovered, a movie about to premier, everything but what she wanted to talk about. If he planned to do field work that day, he'd come to her flat by eleven o'clock, give her a smack on the cheek, then push-spin her ahead of him for the bedroom. He'd go through his routine of using his hands and mouth to bring her near climax, then casually insert his penis and finish the job in the regular manner. Now and then, he would brush his lips against hers before taking his two-hour nap, but it was a rare occasion. She was too tired to get angry. Besides, what was there to be angry about? Her body liked what his hands did to it. Sam always made her climax, always. What's bothering me about Sam, she wondered? He phones to let me know when he's coming. He brings dinner more often than I offer to cook it for him. He doesn't drink or smoke and he asks me to proofread his stories. What more do I want? Nothing. Everything. It bothered her that Sam never stayed the night. She'd seen many sunsets with him by her side, standing by the living room window, staring across the Mountain Lake Park, but never a sunrise. Sam also made it very clear that since he shared his apartment with a gay married couple, a female partner overnight was not welcome. She had visited him a couple of times, but ten minutes after she arrived, they were heading out for dinner. I love him, she thought when they made love and he rolled on his back and with a sleepy smile murmured, I love you, sweets, then blinked out, indeed as if someone flicked a switch. But I'm still going to wake up in the morning alone, she thought. There won't even be a cold imprint of your body beside me. What am I doing? What's Sam doing? What's this relationship about? You like wearing a blindfold, a voice whispered. When a hand pushes you down, you sit. When it pats your head, you keep quiet. Why didn't you ask Andy what they looked like? He wasn't blindfolded and even a four-year old could answer simple questions. The phone rang. Its clear sound was so harsh she swayed as if it indeed someone hit her, pushed her. Christ! She shook her head to banish the past because ringing phone meant she had to deal with the present. It was dark now. The fog must have obliterated not just the street lights, but the city. She hadn't turned on the table lamp. The living room was pitch-black. The phone kept ringing. She stretched her hands and shuffled out of the living room until she touched the handset she'd left on the kitchen counter. "Hello." "Are you okay, sweets?” It was Sam. "It's foggy outside,” she said and knew it sounded incongruous, as if the fog should be blamed for her state of mind. He chuckled. “It's raining, too, so it's a perfect night to spend huddling under the covers. I'll be there in twenty minutes." "It's not cold outside." "That's not why I want to huddle under the covers, hon." "The Marcheson story's going front page." "I've heard. I hung up on Rita because I didn't know how else to shut her up. I feared there wouldn't be much to tell tonight if I let Rita ... are you hungry?" "No, yes ... I guess." "I'll bring Chinese. You can tell me all about your victory." Half an hour later, she heard him whistle as he ran up the stairs, then his key made a lot of noise in the lock. She was about to open the door when he unlocked it. He stuck out his cheek for a kiss. She obliged and relieved him of the food bags. "I'm a galloping spirit.” He whistled again and danced into the kitchen. “Let's eat in the living room. I'll get the dishes. You bring the food." She turned and went to put the paper bags on the coffee table then went to the fridge to get pop. She put a nest of rice noodles on her plate and some vegetables, and left the rest to him. He ate like he did everything else, with enthusiasm, chopsticks flashing between the paper containers and the plate—a morsel of beef, a chunk of fish, a frayed squid and a slice of pepper. They talked about her Marcheson story and what it would mean for her to have a story on the front page. He never stopped eating, somehow managing to speak between bites. "How's your story going?” she asked when most of the food disappeared into his stomach. "Well.” He stretched, rose and started to pace up and down her tiny living room. He wants to show me he's excited, that's why he's pacing, moving around, she thought. "How well?" "So well, that I didn't get a chance to open up my laptop and check my e-mail,” he declared and before she realized what he was doing, he booted-up her computer. In her living room, all he had to do was turn and take a step to reach her computer station wedged in the corner between a desk and a bookcase. "You really should start logging-out, you know.” He motioned at the monitor when the diagnostic hard disk-check started to run. “You're going to mess up your exec files and might lose a lot of work." "Sam,” she started but he raised his hand and snapped his fingers. “Look, do you want to recover this e-mail?" "No.” She knocked down his hand, leaned across and pointed the mouse at ‘no’ then clicked. Dear God, no one had seen that message—ever! How could she let this happen...? "Touchy, touchy,” he sang then wagged a finger at her. “A secret message, a love note...." "Check your e-mail,” she said, stepping back. “Next time, ask me to use my computer. It's a personal tool, you know, like a toothbrush." "I was expecting to be prompted for a password,” he said quietly. “I'm sorry." "It's all right, Sam. I'm just tired I guess. You know, six months of working on a story and it's over." He logged into the office LAN and then into his e-mail account. "Hey, what do you know? There's going to be a cyclone in the office tomorrow, or a lot of crying music. Come look.” He waved her closer until she leaned over his shoulder and read the message. Sanjay's story on the F-16 crash over Nevada last month was killed in the eleventh hour. Barbara's message to her staff stressed that her reporters were expected to hold-off reporting on failures, until they could balance such negative information with success—and the Air Force had not finished its internal investigation. "Sanjay's going to cry,” she said, folding her hands on her chest. "He's such a pretentious little brown gnome,” Sam murmured. "Sam!" "Well, he's a pretentious ass." "I'm going to bed,” she said brusquely and left. A few minutes later, he slid beside her, already naked and hard. “The weather's a bitch but that shouldn't ruin our mood tonight, hon. Come on, let's huddle." It wasn't the right time to hold a lecture about racial slurs. She'd do it later. "Kiss me,” she said, turning to face him. He smooched a wet one on her cheek, then trailed his lips down to her neck. His nibbles felt predatory and at the same time shallow, too shallow to be driven by passion. "I love you, hon,” he murmured, sliding on top of her, wedging his hard prick between her legs. "You do that very well, Sam.” She didn't know why she said it. She never spoke when they made love. She moaned and made the usual pleasurable noises, but not words—and certainly not a whole sentence. He stopped. “What's bothering you?" "Why do you call me ‘sweets’ and ‘hon'?" "It's endearing. Besides, you're so sweet and helpless when I hold you in my arms." Dear God! Was that how he saw her? Was that what she felt like to him when he made love to her? "I'm not helpless,” she whispered. He chuckled and resumed prodding her with his hardness. “You're helpless when I hold you. You can't resist me. Your body melts.... I like unconditional surrender." Maybe so, maybe my body likes what your hands and prick can do, but there's a mind inside the body, too. And the mind's not engaged. Then again, does it have to be? "Why won't you ever kiss me, Sam?" "I love kissing you, all over.” He paused his rhythm and planted three wet kisses on her neck, shoulders, and breasts. She suffered his smooching until her throat started to grow dry, dusty, parched. "Kiss me, dammit!” She growled so viciously the sound scored her throat. She gripped his head and forced him to stop. She felt his body stiffen. He started to lose his erection. Well now, she thought, you fear this type of intimacy. Let's play on your fears for once instead of mine. She kicked off his leg, pushed him on his back and straddled him. She braced her hands on his shoulders and lunged at him. Her mouth pressed against his with such rough determination to wrench at least five seconds of hot contact, it scared her. She expected him to draw away when she moved her head—and felt his mouth stiffening from surprise in a circle. She forced her lips against his again, counting. At the count of five, his surprised ‘O’ reformed into a new shape. It fitted against her lips in a kiss for which she had longed for two years. Oh Sam, Sam, Sam ... Nick! Her body convulsed. She slid her hands up his shoulders and around his head, to feel the electrical pinpricks of a military crew cut. Instead, her fingers became lost in handfuls of hair because Sam liked to wear his dark hair ‘artistically’ long. Her mouth remembered those other passionate kisses, their demand and tenderness. Now, another mouth was trying to recreate them and didn't even come close. "Is that any better?” she heard his voice, breathless and hoarse. She moaned, hoping it was sufficiently convincing. She feared to say anything in case the other name slipped out. It wasn't Sam's fault. There was nothing wrong with him. It was her fault all along. She didn't want to admit that what she wanted, craved all along was ... Nick. It wasn't Sam's fault. "Honey, what's the matter? Isn't that what you wanted?" "Yes, Sam, I like the way you kiss,” she whispered and felt tears pool in her eyes. "I'm glad to hear it, sweets. I didn't know you wanted me to.... I thought you hated such roughness.... Will you marry me?" The answer was, “Yes, Nick.” But this was Sam. Nick had disappeared from her life more than ten years ago. "Can I sleep on it?” She sought refuge in his favorite tactic—breezy humor because what she felt was more painful than second degree burns. "Don't think I won't ask you again in the morning." "I won't pick up my phone messages.” She forced a chuckle that made her throat feel raw. "I'm not leaving. I'll be right here beside you when you wake up." A fist stuffed a handful of dust into her throat. She started to cry. He put his arms around her and rocked them gently, back and forth. She knew he meant the motion to be comforting. Instead it made her feel helpless. It was the same as a pat on the head. "Make love to me, Sam,” she whispered, choking on tears. "Not while you're crying, hon." "All right. Let's sleep then." "I was only kidding...." * * * * "Congratulations.” Rita leaned over, holding her coffee mug far away from the keyboard. “Have you set the memorable date yet?" It took all of Seabring's composure not to snap. It was only ten o'clock in the morning. They'd spent an hour in a general briefing with Barbara, followed by a heated discussion among themselves, and Sam had already spread the news. "Things are moving too fast for me, Rita. Sam and I have a lot of things to settle first." "He's a catch,” Rita murmured enviously. "I wasn't fishing.” Her friend's comment disturbed her. "Well then, he caught you." Not yet, she thought. However, Sam had appeared in her life when her self-esteem was low. He had come like a torch bearer just after she plunged into darkness, her past, her need to find out what the Salamander Protocol stood for, and terror that made her cut off such search. Was it significant? "I got a call, and have to go out.” Sam appeared beside her desk. Rita gave him a thumbs-up sign. He grinned and said she should have used all her fingers. She smiled, feeling hollow and miserable. Sam loved her. He wanted to marry her. He shared his decision of last night with the rest of their colleagues. He was that confident that she'd say yes. She didn't want commitment, and yet it came when she was least prepared to deal with it. It took her ten years to figure out that what she let go in her first year of college was what she had wanted all along. Now that a man offered her commitment, she should celebrate her good fortune. Except the proposal came from a man named Sam, not Nick. But she loved Sam. She should be glowing today. Wasn't that what love made women do? After a foggy, rainy night, it was a glorious morning filled with fibrous sunshine. Perhaps that's what made it so unbearable. In ten years, there was only one man who shared with her one glorious sunrise after another. Now, Sam became number two. He should be number one because she loved him. Why did she want to go to sleep and not wake up? "Will I see you tonight?” she asked, hiding her uneasiness in quick glances at her monitor screen. She was giving final editorial touches to her Marcheson story. "I'll try,” he promised. "You have to do better than that,” Rita told him with a smirk. “You've made a commitment, hotshot. Live up to it." "Don't kneel,” Seabring said hurriedly when it looked as if Sam might want to go down on his knees beside her. He laughed, looked around and said, “It feels like I'm going to be marrying a whole team.” He made a face at Rita. “I'll do my best to see my future wife tonight but if I can't,” he spoke to her, “I'll call. Don't over-edit.” He tapped the screen with his finger. “It'll weaken the punch.” He gave her a quick smack on the cheek, took a step, and turned. He came back, gripped her neck and kissed her until everyone started hooting. "Love you,” he whispered and ran down the aisle. "I love office romances,” Rita sighed and took a slurp of the coffee. A long while later, Seabring said, “Yeah, I guess I do, too." * * * * Sam called just before ten o'clock. He wasn't going to be able to make it. He didn't say where he was and she didn't ask. She knew he was working on the Rafael Trailer Park drug ring and had to keep a low profile. "Call me again in the morning,” she said and was about to hang up when she heard his voice. "Hon, while you're still sleeping on it, why don't we give it a try?" She pretended not to understand. "I'm not a pack rat. I don't have much stuff to clutter your flat. And I think the wiring in your place can take two computer stations. That's about the only thing we can't share because we're both hogs when it comes to work. Let's give it a try for a few months and see how it goes." "All right, Sam, let's see how we manage when we both come home at the same time to the same dirty kitchen and the same empty fridge.” She chuckled, though that wasn't how she felt. "It's a deal. We'll work on it first thing tomorrow when I get back. Love you.” He made smacking noises and hung up, just as two fat tears landed with a splat on the kitchen counter. Two years, she thought, swallowing tears. We spent two years making love, sleeping in the same bed for a couple of hours once or twice a week and suddenly Sam proposes marriage—then wants to move in with me. What's happening? For two years we've drifted on a lazy river. Am I caught in the rapids? Am I heading for a distant roar that I hear but don't want to admit it...? She hugged herself and started to rock back and forth. Sam wanted to marry her. He wanted to move in with her. He loved her. He'd be home each and every night, in the kitchen, helping with meals, in the bathroom, looking over her shoulder, in the postage-stamp living room, that was also her workroom.... They'd work on their stories, side by side. They'd answer each other's calls. They'd grow close work-wise—doing research, that other research! "Oh God,” she groaned and stopped rocking herself. With Sam not just part of her office life and shift-like bedroom life, but living in the same flat, she could hardly log into her message board. These last two years Sam came, made love to her and left before the morning. She saw him in the office, they'd have lunch together, maybe dinner, and life was pretty good. The single guys at work didn't hit on her because she had a lover who was her friend and colleague. What more could a career woman ask from life? She knew now what she'd done last night. She had upset the status quo that in retrospect was not such a bad arrangement. Was it too late to rescind her decision? If she told Sam she changed her mind about living together, he would become suspicious. Nick's name might surface. It was the last thing she wanted. I've painted myself into a corner, she thought, wringing her hands. Actually, this time you've tied on the blindfold all by yourself, a ghostly voice whispered far away in the desert. So, what am I going to do about Dad's suitcase?
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Chapter Four
Seabring threw open her bedroom closet and lifted the carpet, exposing the floorboards. She tapped a wooden tile on one end, making its other end rise, then removed it. Five minutes later, she removed all the tiles that formed the ceiling of her foxhole and pulled out a carton box. Here goes, she told herself and took out a beat-up brown suitcase. The kind used by college-bound kids in the sixties and covered with the stickers of the Alma matter. It was her father's. The stickers bore the red Sooners crest of the University of Oklahoma. She flipped the steel buckles and raised the lid. Years of research stared at her from the paper-lined insides. Newspaper clippings, journals, magazines, pamphlets, books, gray-blue photocopies from many libraries she visited over the years, scraps of notes and black ledgers crammed with faded scraps of material, and finally—the evidence. She fingered the two gold trinkets, unique, round—indeed the kind which a magpie might pick up. The plastic bag with what looked like pebbles would be less appealing to a magpie. The seven-year old girl had picked up the pebbles by habit. Twenty-three years later, the journalist knew that they were olive pits. If Sam was going to move in she couldn't keep the suitcase hidden underneath the floorboards. He'd find it. The University of Oklahoma stickers alone would raise questions. What would she tell him? It was my Dad's. He was killed when I was seven. I heard the shots that killed him, but I didn't see his killer because I was blindfolded. My hands were free, I could have pulled off the blindfold, but I didn't until it was all over. And even then I waited for a long time before I took it off. That's what scared me even more than seeing Dad laying there, his shirt covered in blood, seeing Andy slumped on the fireplace stone lip as if he was sleeping. It had been so easy to take off that blindfold—and I never even tried! She shut the lid, clicked the locks and replaced the suitcase in the carton box then put it back inside the foxhole underneath the floorboards. The previous tenant was a carpenter who liked to customize. He was in the process of enlarging the closet to a degree where it would extend all the way down to the apartment below when the landlord threw him out. She had never told the landlord about the hollow in her closet. It was a perfect place for her suitcase. She rose and closed the closet, feeling as helpless as when the strip of duct tape had been peeled off her mouth. I was a coward, she thought and hung her head. And I still am ... no! She balled her hands into fists, shaking from violence of the denial. No more, no more! Sam's moving in. Tonight's the night I'm going to do it. I have to show Dad that I'm ... brave. * * * * When she sat down at her computer she felt composed. Her hands were cold but not numb. She logged into the Zenith Research and Reference site, and signed onto the general bulletin board. "I need any information available on the Soobrian Standards Corporation, particularly its practices as reflected by the Salamander Protocol. Annie." She paused, waiting for a flush of panic that would send her to unplug the power cord. A few seconds later, when nothing happened, she nodded and posted the message. The words flashed away and she could almost see them traveling across the powerful medium to connect at its many sources. I've done it. She felt a sigh of relief struggle to leave but blocked its passage and a knot formed in her throat. Now it's time to do what you should have done twenty-three years ago, a whisper sounded. Slowly like a puppet whose strings have been suddenly cut, she slid off the chair and settled on the floor. For one eternal second she lay there. Then the tremors set in and grew. She cried as she should have and couldn't twenty-three years ago. It was the second best thing that happened to her this week. The only thing she wasn't sure of was whether it ranked ahead or behind Sam's marriage proposal. * * * * The narrow room was windowless and bright. In addition to strips of overhead lighting that glared slightly on the acidic side, there were work station quartz lamps, small but powerful and mounted on mobile arms. The feature made them invaluable to the dozen staff manning just as many computer stations. The faint hum of the air-conditioning served as a white noise to muffle an occasional remark that might pass between them. There were four plain white-faced clocks in the room. Each reflected a different global time zone. A lot of the world had already moved ahead into the next day. It was seven o'clock in the morning in London, eight o'clock in the morning in Cairo, ten a.m. in St. Petersburg and five o'clock in the afternoon in Sydney. The digital window clock mounted above each computer station showed the now time in San Diego. It was eleven p.m. Three workstations had a pile of crumpled newspapers on the desk, five had stacks of magazines and two had what looked like remnants of a taco meal. The conversation was low-key, professional or personal. The staff manning the alley-like room would not grumble if they missed a coffee break. They wouldn't complain if asked to serve a double shift, without a washroom break or a meal. They all knew their work was unpredictable at best. There might be long quiet periods where nothing much happened, sometimes for weeks. Then a sudden flurry of activity would send them bending over the keyboards, eyes tracking the incoming information. Those with less than five years to early retirement would remember the Cold War and how it had stimulated the type of activity that went in narrow rooms. One or two people might still be wondering whether they made the right career decision, coming to San Diego, since in two years they'd served shifts in the Center, not much had happened. In times of global peace, an analyst's job would be almost boring. Tracking financial information, no matter how strategically important to the global economies, was not the same as analyzing volumes of data from Saudi Arabia. And tracking weather was as exciting as watching a clock. "The storm they thought was going to move inland petered out over the Pacific,” a man in a red baseball cap, and holding a cup of coffee said, leaning back in his chair. "Why don't you put out a general bulletin to all the airports within five hundred miles? They'll be happy to hear it,” his seatmate, a young woman, tipped her head at him, smiling. "They'll get to hear about it soon enough. I just wish the weather would be this clear over the Caribbean when the satellite's overhead. I'd like to take a crack at the data once it's downloaded before it heads out." "Naughty, naughty,” she wiggled her finger at him. “Yours is not to stir the pot. Yours is to receive and bounce.... “Her voice trailed off, her attention suddenly focused on her monitor. "Make me jealous and say you have something interesting.” He leaned to a side. "Maybe.” She turned and picked up a fat folder from her desk. She grew busy leafing through it. "Well, how's the highway buzzing tonight?” He watched her scan one page after another with her fingers. "I thought it sounded familiar. It's historical but it's a flag all right.” She lifted her head, connecting with his curious eyes. “A message just flashed into a bulletin board, public domain, wide dispersion. The user wants information from anywhere, anyhow, anyone." "So it is a flag.” He sounded envious that nothing worthwhile to flag had come up on his monitor. "Historical. It dates back at least ten years, but it's in the reference manual, so the order's valid. Alert, store, and reference.” She raised her head, looking for someone. “Sir,” she moved her chair back enough to stand out. A man, leaning on a desk at the far end of the room and reading something, reacted to her voice. He put down a thick wad of stapled paper and made his way down the aisle. He moved in the thoughtful, slow way that allows people to observe action around. "One of the bulletin boards posted a message, sir. It's a flag alert, historical, but it's in the manual,” she said, moving so he'd be able to see her monitor. "Sir?” she repeated, eyes flickering with concern at her colleague when the supervisor suddenly leaned forward, his hand landing on her desk with an explosive smack. "Fuck this...!” She heard him whisper through clenched teeth. She looked up and saw him drop his head. He kept his chin down, not saying anything. She thought she heard him grind his teeth. She looked at her colleague. He gave her a hand sign to find out what alarmed their temporary visiting boss to a degree where he lapsed into non-reportable field language. "Soobrian Standards and Salamander Protocol, it's right here sir.” She picked up the manual from her desk, holding it out to him. "Yeah, it's there.” He jerked his head up, eyes slitted with concentration. To her it looked as if he was in pain. "The mail box is in San Francisco,” she spoke up again, careful to sound flat, non-argumentative. “The user's name is Annie. It's probably a code name." "It's a code name,” he agreed tersely. "Shall we store and reference, sir?" He nodded. Then, as if realizing that a mute order was not appropriate for his rank and authority, he said, “The order stands. Store and reference.” He finally straightened up but the pained look in his eyes didn't fade. "Shall we also establish contact with the user, sir?” she offered, though the suggestion should have come from him. He moved his head uncertainly, once again murmuring a gritty, “Fuck, and fuck this again." She leaned in her chair as far as it could go and stared at her colleague. He shrugged to show he, too, didn't know how to deal with the non-reportable vocabulary. Colonel Anderson was not normally this indecisive, nor so profoundly disturbed as to lapse into a street vernacular. He's been coming to supervise the night shift for two weeks. The world was a relatively quiet place these days. Other than an occasional hurricane, or a White House staff member hurling slurs and juicy accusations at his fellow politicians, there wasn't much to catch for the CIA analysts. The hurricanes seldom circled the globe, and the White House staff never squared their differences honorably with pistols in a midnight duel on the White House lawn, so the analysts saw no need to lapse into street vernacular. No one knew what the Colonel was waiting or looking for. Maybe this was it. He was military intelligence and the San Diego unit had never before had the pleasure of his company. Ted Vanderhoffen, the regular unit supervisor had brought him in and introduced him. Then again, Ted's introductions were no longer than a sentence. Colonel Anderson will be working the night shift for the next few weeks. That's all he told them. He'd simply assume that his staff would get the rest by osmosis. Either that or Colonel Anderson would eventually make his purpose known. He didn't and it made the analysts even more frustrated. For two weeks, they had to put up with a silent presence of a soldier whose shadow on the wall was enough to unsettle them. He walked with a swagger, like a cowboy, dressed in jeans and long-sleeved khaki shirts, but his temples had a rim of suntan, a line left when a man's face is ravaged by a tropical sun while his head's always covered with a brimless cap, jammed down hard. He had to spend a lot of his ‘work’ time in the open, a fieldwork man. He also must have spent a lot of time in metal-city, because his eyes had the gray gunmetal sheen. Soldiers tended to get painted by their surroundings, tools and weapons, until it became hard to tell the living tissue from inorganic material. He never smiled and was strangely incurious. Six out of the twelve analysts in the room were female. Each and everyone tried, at one time or another, to get his attention, catch his eye. None succeeded. His constant preoccupation, filtered through an unfeeling metal stare, was an effective repellent. Ted Vanderhoffen might have been terse because he, too, didn't know why the soldier came to hold night shift at his San Diego tracking lab. "Sir, shall I respond?” The analyst finally decided to be plain. The Colonel didn't look capable of making a swift decision. "Query,” he said tersely. "Yes, sir." "Carefully." "Of course, sir." "Ask how the information is to be used." "That sounds covert, sir." "Say you're an employee of a reference service, though not the Zenith, another company that specializes in researching information for a fee." "Where shall I say I'm located?" "New Jersey." The opposite side of the country, she thought. Is that supposed to mislead or is that supposed to camouflage? He surprised her with an intuitive answer. “Neither. There's a bona fide company in Jersey that specializes in searching for ... exotic information. They have several large industrial companies as clients. You can indicate that's the case." "What shall I use as a code name?" "Lionel Dempster, the Chief Reference Officer with the Selson Research and Reference Service, Sportswood, New Jersey." "Yes sir. Shall I call you when I compose the answer?" He shook his head, said it wasn't necessary, then walked back. This time, he didn't resume his position, leaning against the desk. He continued walking until he disappeared around a partition that served to screen a tiny office. It was where Ted Vanderhoffen normally slept when he had to supervise a night shift. Joy Meredith hoped that for the rest of the shift that Colonel Anderson would avail himself of the same luxury and knew her wish would not be fulfilled. * * * * He sat down heavily and finally let out the sigh that wanted to rupture his chest the moment he saw the message. Ted Vanderhoffen would put his feet up on the desk, lean back in the high-backed chair, and go to sleep. Anderson felt that he would not be able to close his eyes for the rest of the century. Well, maybe he could close them but sleep would sure not be forthcoming. How many times had he seen the message typed and obliterated just as quickly. “I need any information available on the Soobrian Standards Corporation, particularly its practices as reflected by the Salamander Protocol. Annie." She never changed her signature either. Was that significant? He told himself it wasn't and knew he was fooling himself. He wanted to believe that it meant what he wanted it to mean. Years ago he thought it was a cry for help, the Little Orphan Annie. Did it still mean the same? I'm drowning in dust, she'd murmur just before yanking out the power plug. Was she still drowning, after all these years? He convinced himself that things had worked out for her. That time healed the old wounds. That she finished college and got a job that kept her busy and happy. Was she married? Did she have children? What was going on again in her life? What made her type the message again? Type? He stiffened his back, sitting up. Hell, she hadn't just typed it this time and yanked out the power plug. She posted it, sent it! Jesus! He rose as if his seat was spring-loaded and marched out with such force all the analysts leaned back in their chairs. He pointed a finger at the woman who interrupted her work composing the message when she saw him barrel down the aisle. “Ms...?" "Meredith, Joy,” she quickly supplied, feeling that speed was essential. "Ms. Meredith,” he said, and a grimace convulsed his face. “When you finish composing the reply, tie into the database and bring up all the information on the subject, name Seabring A. Roberts. Possible occupation—reporter. Since the inquiry came from San Francisco, that's the place to look for her in the media function. Age.... “He paused and lowered his head but not fast enough to stifle a smile. “Thirty,” he said gruffly. “Graduated, University of California, Berkeley, class of 97 or 98.” He knew he was making a big assumption, but he felt that she would have finished college. After all, his departure would not have left such a hole in her life that she wouldn't have been able to fill it with something more worthwhile. That was her own estimate of the situation whenever she fell into a dark, ugly mood. "Yes, sir. Will you need a hard copy?" "Send it to the printer in the back. I'll pick it up when it's ready.” He turned to Joy Meredith's companion, one again gunning him down with his finger. "Barry Church, sir,” the analyst said hurriedly. "Mr. Church, are you busy tracking anything of importance?" "Nothing that should be flagged, sir. I'm just expecting to receive a download from the Caribbean satellite." "Good. I need you to contact Vanderhoffen. You don't have to get him out of bed. But send an e-mail to his home and make it beep alerts at six a.m. I need to go out. It may be for a few weeks, it may be for a few months. I don't know yet. Tell him that I will most likely need an insertion into San Francisco, possibly a newspaper or a publication. Nothing elaborate. I'll give him more details when Ms. Meredith gets me the printout. However, he should pass the message on to the appropriate source and start working on it." "I presume Ted will be able to fill in all the blanks,” Church murmured to himself. If the soldier with desert tan left such orders for his supervisor, then Vanderhoffen knew far more about Colonel Anderson than he had told his staff. "Ted will fill in the blanks,” Anderson confirmed though he no longer sounded brusque. He started to walk back when he paused, turned and said, “Thank you, both of you.” Then he disappeared behind the partition. By the time he lowered himself into the high-backed chair, he wore a misty smile. Annie. The smile carved his mouth into a deeper crescent. Tell you what, Miss Roberts. Why don't we go for coffee and then maybe we'll figure out what exactly it is you need ... or want? Even now, ten years later, he still couldn't believe it—except she wasn't kidding and what came of that cup of coffee.... He swallowed and stuck two fingers behind his shirt-collar. Suddenly it felt tight. His neck seemed to be expanding. His breathing was growing raspier. What the hell...? He almost moaned when he realized the depth of his discomfort. It was so bad he had to unbutton his jeans. He closed his eyes and thought, what else is going to react and get hard when I face her again? * * * * The sea was calm, and even from a distance looked cheerfully blue. It was nine o'clock in the morning. The Del Fiori Marina and Yacht Club in San Diego was open, but only to its members. They formed a very elite, tight-knit group. They all knew each other, formally and otherwise. They also knew the staff, be they young sun-bleached marina attendants or the more senior clubhouse serving staff. It was easy for a club member to spot a stranger. A waiter placed a silver dish filled with green olives beside Mars Bolton's coaster. Bolton hardly lifted his head. He kept watching the ocean that was still empty of the sailing craft. There was no need for him to seek the face or even look at the waiter's hand. Bolton felt it, the aura of an unfamiliar, the new presence a stranger. "You're new here,” he observed in the far away, preoccupied voice. It wasn't as much a question as it was an affirmation of his intuitive force. "Perhaps new is not the right word to use, sir,” the waiter returned, flexing his voice significantly. Bolton smiled and blinked. “Perhaps not. What brings you upon these shores?" The waiter tugged at his crisp, clean jacket in a formal straightening gesture. “Trade Winds, sir,” he replied in distinctly military fashion. "They blow again?” Bolton inquired and squinted. He was careful to contain his displeasure. "They started to blow two days ago, sir. The sea is already swelling with tall, sharp-crested waves. Its rumble is ominous." "The sea is always rumbling, ominously or not. It's always hungry for fools who raise the sail too quickly, recklessly." "The sail has been raised, sir. The ship named Anderson is sailing for the strait." "So it's time again for the strait to narrow." "It is time, sir.” The waiter placed a long, white envelope next to the olive dish. He straightened up, tugged at his white jacket once again, then turned and left quickly and quietly. Bolton knew that this particular associate would not appear again. Not at the Club and not anywhere else where Mars Bolton might be staying. A stranger at all times, it was the tenth rule of the Protocol, the one that awakened the other nine. Bolton picked up a gold toothpick with a large, coin-style head stamped with an image of the Roman god of war, Mars. He stabbed an olive and put it delicately into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully and started to pucker up in preparation to spit the pit when he caught himself. How odd that he hadn't managed to control the impulse, still after all these years. The reaction that was responsible for the white envelope arriving once again. He grimaced and swallowed the pit with a forceful gulp. He had been swallowing olive pits for twenty-three years. A habit he tried to cultivate with constant reminders of what spitting an olive pit once meant. That was the last time he committed the crime. Not the only time but definitely the last time. A dozen olive pits had landed in the dust, on the floor of an old mining cabin in the desert. That's where they were stupidly forgotten. Never again, he stabbed the gold toothpick viciously into another olive and thrust it into his mouth. Never again, he vowed and swallowed another olive pit. * * * * "I could barely contain my joy when I heard. In fact, I'm overwhelmed and no one knows better than you what it takes to overwhelm me. A side trip to San Francisco? It sounds more like a vacation to me.” Cunningham's voice, like the man, was wryly honest. The soldiers who shrewdly managed their careers to reach Washington, relied on control once they walked down the air-conditioned corridors of Pentagon, wearing just as many security badges as rank and distinction strips. They controlled their voices and face expressions. It's how they managed in the fortress of authority and ambition. Cunningham didn't have to read a script every morning to know how to live and carry out his functions. His strength was his honesty, and soldiers were intuitive enough to feel when their peer or superior managed by control and ambition, and when by strength of character. "I doubt it'll be a vacation, sir. My journalistic skills are rusty,” Anderson said, rubbing away an itch on his temple where he still felt the rim of his ubiquitous cap, collecting sweat. "Rusty is not the word that sprung on my lips when I read your last report, Nick. Eloquent prose is common in Washington but only in bureaucrats’ reports that might land on the Oversight Committee's desk. Next time spare me the elegant bullshit. I walk around with a briefcase that weighs more that my grandson. Go check out the historical flag but don't write a history book." He chuckled. “Yes, sir. Is the historical reference source still available for duty?" "Duty? Well, if you want to put it to him that way, it's your life, Nick. Ruin it any way you like. The source has retired. I clearly recall you shaking his hand at his retirement function." "There's always the back door, sir, consulting and contracts." "Right. So you've developed psychic abilities, too. You're correct. The source is open for short-term consulting contracts. He's conveniently down there, where you are, but you knew that." "Then I have your permission, sir...?" "Permission granted, Nick ... but it might be wise for you to have a back-up source, at a manageable distance." Nick thought it might have been just the phone connection. He was calling from a public phone booth, or Cunningham could have been preoccupied with other issues he was shuffling on his desk. Still, he sounded displeased with his choice of the primary reference man. Was Cunningham's suggestion of acquiring a back-up reference source a product of worry? Two reference sources for any military field policeman was an uncommon luxury. "Is the Keys contractor still on friendly terms with us, sir?" This time Cunningham laughed. “Oh he must be, since he's not on friendly terms with anyone else from his home town. He betrayed them. Those were his own words. He skipped the ship, narrowed his horizon from the big sky to water. Make him your other back-up man, Nick, and if need be you should consider him to be your primary.... “Cunningham paused, then finished quietly, “and only reliable reference post." "Understood, sir.” He wondered why his boss would make such clear preference. Both contractors had served their country with integrity, not only during their active years but also in retirement. "Oh, Nick, and the next time you send me a report, make it an executive summary. Pulitzer prose around here makes everyone suspicious. We're soldiers, for crying out loud. The Hill bureaucrats will think I'm trying to upstage them." He acknowledged and was still grinning when he hung up. Not too many field operatives could boast having a boss like Brigadier General Eugene Cunningham.
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Chapter Five
"I thought you were tracking industrial averages right across the nation to make sure the contracting doesn't stumble again,” Mars Bolton remarked, trying to stab an olive with a gold toothpick. Although the table was shaded with a large blue-and-white striped umbrella, it sat next to the terrace railing. Now and then a stray sunray found the gold toothpick, and reflected its curiosity into Anderson's eyes. He knew Mars was showing off the curious tool on purpose. "Am I looking at a gift from our grateful taxpayers?” he asked, knowing it wasn't necessary to point. "I gave them thirty-five years of dedicated service.” Bolton held out the toothpick for inspection. “Do you see the head?” With his other hand he gripped the toothpick's pointed end, exposing a dime-sized custom feature that made it easier to handle the slippery tool. The circle was stamped with the countenance of Bolton's namesake, Mars, the Roman god of war. In the eighteen years he'd known Bolton, he'd seen not just coins but buttons, money clips, watches, signet rings, paper weights and even stationery, engraved with the face of the Roman deity. Though Bolton only used such fancy writing paper for personal correspondence. After all, the General Counsel of the Air Force was a proper soldier and civil servant. "It's original and definitely more practical than a gold watch,” he said. "Mind you, it's not as sharp as a less noble metal tool,” Bolton observed and resumed his effort to spear an olive. He succeeded piercing it on the fourth try and with exaggerated precision put it in his mouth. He closed his eyes and murmured, “Well, my boy, why can't you let the past sleep?" "It doesn't hurt to look over your shoulder, now and then,” he said. "Ten years ago you not just looked over your shoulder but leaped over the fence, into contracts, and pissed off a lot of people who outranked you. Once Harding slammed his hand on the table in the meeting, I knew the outcome of the inquiry. I had no choice but to present my legal opinion to Cunningham." "The functional boundaries were soft. It was our issue,” he said. "It may have looked like an issue for the Security Police, but Harding did his homework better than Cunningham. Still, you were lucky. You received a slap on the wrist and your boss sent you on a developmental opportunity to Europe. That's a good place to hide a subordinate you like and want out of harm's way. What's your official port on this assignment?" "The Kirtland Base, New Mexico." "I guess Gene Cunningham still likes you." "I still work for him,” he said and to hide his irritation he picked up his drink and swirled it. He studied the intricate mixing patterns of water and scotch, thinking that Mars was probably as well informed as when he was still the legal authority in the Air Force. Was he trying to make a point that five years in retirement hadn't softened him, or was it something else...? People who knew each other and connected through work in a span of eighteen years, would spend time reminiscing when work once again brought them together, but reminiscing only about career mistakes seemed to him needlessly malicious. A reminder and a warning were not synonymous. Mars's memories and recollections had an uncomfortable feel of a warning. Bolton, too, appeared to be preoccupied with private thoughts. He watched him prick another olive, then pop it unceremoniously this time into his mouth. He waited to see if the lawyer spit out the pit. It was an eccentric habit, swallowing pits without regard for his digestion. Nick thought that Bolton at sixty-six ought to look after his health with more diligence—and sense. The pit didn't come. Bolton's habit was ingrained. As long as he had known him, the lawyer was an olive freak, whether they were pickled in a Martini or civilized by olive oil. He scorned pitted olives, calling them ‘gutless'. "You've made a career out of being a rolling stone,” Bolton spoke again when he chewed another olive and swallowed another pit without as much as grimacing. "Did you memorize a list of my career mistakes?” he asked, swirling the scotch again, not lifting his eyes. Bolton laughed. “When you asked Cunningham to re-assign you from Intelligence two months before your rotation finished, he didn't ask for a reason." "Are you asking, Mars?" "I'm more curious than your boss. What did she want that sent you running from Intelligence?" "Which one?” He knew where Bolton headed. "Cynthia in logistics, Barbara in information systems, Danielle in the club where you used to work out. The waitress in Randy Rooster's where you spent nights getting plastered. The lady lawyer who got you off with a fine when the police nabbed you speeding on the back roads in Maryland pissed drunk. The female doctor who couldn't believe that a wound which required seventy stitches would let a man walk three miles before he sought medical assistance. Need I go on...?" "You're about half way down the list. Did you keep track of me after I switched to Special Investigations?" Bolton sighed. “A year with the Pacific Air Forces, four years with our forces in Europe, Italy and Turkey mostly, but nothing was off-limits to you. So tell me, what did the women who passed through your bed as if it was a supermarket checkout counter, want?" "Commitment, relationship, dedication.... “He lifted his head to make sure the lawyer would see his smirk. "You never married. No love, no family, no children." "My parents and siblings still live in Savannah, and I'm back with the Security Police, Industrial Security Programs. You're well informed and I'm impressed." "Thank you,” Bolton said. Nick couldn't decide whether the lawyer was laughing at him or being sincere. “So why do you want to rush to San Francisco, Nicholas, and don't tell me again you want to confront your destiny." He didn't say exactly that ten years ago when Bolton recalled him to face the inquiry panel, but it could have sounded like it to the lawyer. "My functional responsibility is Industrial Security. San Francisco issue could be once again related. Cunningham agreed." "When did you get back from Incirlik?" "A month ago." "And you're already anxious to drown yourself in our domestic troubles...?" He looked sharply at Bolton. “I'm not sure what you're saying, Mars. I'm home because my job is now home. When it leaves, for Turkey or elsewhere, I'll follow it." "Cunningham has you listed as working out of Kirtland, but you're in California, my boy, in San Diego. And that's after you've already made several visits upstate to the Edwards Base. Did it have to do anything with the F-16 crash a month ago over Nevada?" "You made your point, Mars, about being well informed. I don't doubt that you're current on all issues, and that you probably do as much work for the Air Force in retirement as you did while active." "Are you involved on the F-16 crash, Nick?" "No." "Fair enough. If I'm to be your checkpoint on the information highway, my boy, I have to make sure you understand the rules. You have permission to check out a historical nuisance. So be it. However, this time there will be no sideshows, and no distractions. You need information, and I'm here to provide it to you. We're a team." "Understood." "Do you?" "Do I what?" "Do you understand that I will tolerate no involvement, and no fraternizing within the framework of your assignment?" "Yes,” he said and wondered whether it was really a sin what he had done ten years ago, whether it was the reason why the assignment went into a tailspin and he was recalled to face an inquiry panel. He put down his drink on the table and lowered his hands out of sight, in his lap where he could let his fingers make desperate knots. "All right, I've officially accepted the contract,” Bolton said and turned his head to stare out at the marina. "This is where I keep her, my floating retirement,” he said after a long silence. “Look down there, next to the blue pinstripe." Nick raised his head and started to search the marina with his eyes until he saw what Bolton wanted him to see. "If the sail was unfurled you'd see her name. She's the Flaming Tiger. She came from Hong Kong, complete with Chinese characters, a mark of good fortune. I like this club. They take good care of my boat. They also make good Martinis." "I didn't know you sailed,” he said. Mars probably wanted him to say something appreciative, but he knew nothing about sailboats. "I flew a Cobra in Vietnam when we first came out with an attack chopper. It cleared my perspective and motivated me to finish my law degree. I spent fifteen years walking streets in Washington, and now that I'm retired what's left but water?” Bolton answered his own question. "That's a big boat,” Nick murmured, still not sure which one amongst the gently bobbing forest of masts was Bolton's. The lawyer threw his head back and laughed. His white hair, normally cropped short, was much longer than Nick remembered. He wore it now tied in the back into a ponytail, a style he'd have never adopted in Washington. "She's a tenth boat, berthed down this way,” Bolton raised his finger, inviting him to follow where he pointed to see the right boat. “She's a racing yacht, not just any boat. She's fifty-four-foot-one inch long, draft nine feet seven inches. She has a Volvo 4 cylinder that puts out ninety horsepower and it takes about eighty-five gallons of gas to fill her and she takes two hundred gallons of water. She's just over thirty eight thousand five hundred pounds weight. She's a little like the Baltic yachts though her design is original. It takes a crew of six to pilot her. She's built for racing, very swift and eager when she rides the waves. If you get lost in a fog in San Francisco, Nick, come down here and we'll take her out. There's plenty of big fish out there to catch. Actually, I think you stand a better chance of reeling in a big one out there, on the ocean. No need to rush off to San Francisco." "The message was sent from San Francisco. That's where I have to go. I will work within the rules and frame of my authority,” he said, wondering why Bolton was so concerned. Not just with the past failures, but also the timing of the current assignment seemed to bother him. If that was the case, why did he agree to take the contract? "You have a habit of making promises and not keeping them, my boy. You're thirty years younger than I am. You've had plenty of time to make up for your...." "Mistakes,” he interrupted calmly, without feeling. “I'll check in once a week, more often if required." "The same pattern, the same players,” Bolton murmured. “You have no idea how glorious the wind feels on your face when you're out there." "I guess I'll find out one of these days.” He rose, looked at the marina sprawling below the club's terrace and without saying anything else, walked away. They never said good-bye, never greeted each other either. As he walked down the steps and over the wooden sidewalk leading down the marina and out on to the street, he wondered how much would a fifty-four foot racing yacht from Hong Kong cost. * * * * The string of bare bulbs draped over the trees and bushes that defined the trailer park's perimeter blinked twice then went dark. Sam took a last pull on the cigarette then threw it down and turned his back on the dark trailer park. He climbed in and out of the ditch and headed down the road for a halo of pale light where he had left his car. It was a mile walk but he didn't mind. If anything, he needed this hike in fresh air after having the cigarette. It gave his body and clothes a chance to air. Habits were tags and tags were dangerous because people remembered them. His control man lectured him about habits all the time, how to acquire the ones he needed on the job and how to kill those that would blow his cover. Would it matter to Seabring if she found out he smoked? She disapproved in silence. It was worse than lectures. He shouldn't care one way or the other. Feelings weren't part of the job. Then again, when an assignment lasted as long his current job, it was inevitable that feelings and worries would come. He had learned all the details that women slowly reveal to their partner in a ‘growing’ relationship. She liked to play classical music at Christmastime. He'd already suffered two merry seasons in her flat, cringing when she turned up the stereo and the Hallelujah Chorus from Handel's Messiah shook the fake Christmas tree. She also played the Star Spangled Banner at the same volume on the 4th of July. Outside of religious and patriotic holidays, she liked to listen to the murmur of the sea, always from CDs even though the real article was just a few miles up-and-down hill from her house. She had twelve CDs that to him at first sounded blank, she made him listen longer, until he heard the glorious ‘sea-speak'. One CD he thought ruined proved to be a never-ending racket of waves crashing against the shore. She had every sound that an ocean could produce, burned on a CD. Whenever they'd go for a walk and she'd see a fountain or a sprinkler, she'd run and stand there, to feel the mist on her face. She was a water freak who never wanted to take a walk along the seashore. He figured that maybe she feared the real article. He wouldn't have minded sitting a few hours on the beach, watching legs and tits. She liked hot, spicy food and ground her own fresh peppercorns whenever she cooked for him, a rare occasion. She liked herbal shampoos and took organic vitamins. She liked to exercise, but not jog and she'd freeze and start to shake every time a jet roar split the air. He had given her a cactus plant once and she accidentally spilled bleach on it. She liked to live in libraries and do exhausting research. Well, what journalist didn't? It was hard for him to ‘adopt’ this particular job requirement. He liked to do his ‘investigative fieldwork’ in an air-conditioned bar with a shot of gin to fuel his ‘inspiration'. She never undressed unless the lights were out and never fucked him, not even once would she get on top of him. He thought of asking her to give him a blowjob, but she'd probably break-up with him, and he couldn't afford to fail. The assignment was a job but not the kind where he'd get fired. Hell, he'd be finished, dead. Her last night's kiss had shocked him. For two years, he was an epitome of consideration and loving attention. He knew the script. Had he misread her so badly, all this time...? From now on, he'd have to be more careful, observant when it came to her looks, gestures, and voice. She had two personalities, or rather two different states of mind, one for daytime and one for night. At work, she was a girl-scout, Barbara's darling protégé. She was a good reporter, tenacious and intuitive. At night, she was a basket case. She'd wake up drenched in sweat, shaking and mumbling incoherently. Sometimes he could make out words like ‘dust, bleach, tigers and bears'. He never stayed the night to find out whether, once she fell asleep again, she'd have more psychotic episodes. He was supposed to get her to talk about a suitcase. The control man insisted the damn bag existed. She had no luggage other than a couple of crush-proof travel bags, a staple of every reporter. Last night he had made an inspired move. He had proposed. She wouldn't talk about luggage with a lover, but she might do it with a future husband. He wasn't sure how his control man would receive the news. Proposing marriage was not in the script, neither was moving in with her. Fuck him! He had improvised, a bold move. He parked the car in the lot behind the roadside diner, Pete's Char Pit, a trucker's stop one hundred miles north of San Francisco. The public phone was outside on the wall, next to a pop machine that would screen him from anyone coming out of the diner. He dialed. "It's the Streetman,” he said, looking around even though the place looked deserted. "You were supposed to call last night.” It was a calm nevertheless annoying reproach. "I had to baby-sit." "More nightmares?" "We've settled things. I'm moving in." "That's not in the script. You've lost your objectivity." "Something happened last night. I think she's close to sending the message." "She might have already sent it. She's been trying to send it for ten years. I don't like your freestyle interpretation of your assigned function." "She might open up, about her nightmares and her suitcase, when I'm with living with her." "She's told you diddly-squat in two years. What makes you think she'll confide in you when you're there, watching her all the time? If anything, she'll become suspicious." "She'll tell me. We're getting married." There was a long silence on the line. He stared at the pop machine, dying for a can of pop. Then he heard a soft chuckle. "A brilliant move. I should have thought of it. Very well, perhaps that's all she needs, a feeling of security, loyalty—commitment." "Yeah, I figured as much.” He turned his head so the control man wouldn't hear the air swoosh out when he sighed. "When is the happy occasion?" "Six months or so, she's still sleeping on it." "Of course. She's not going to trust you the moment you propose. She's not ready to trust anyone soon. But with time, yes, I believe with time she will. However, your freestyle interpretation forces me to bring in secondary control." "I don't need anyone looking over my shoulder." "It's not your decision. She'll turn to you for comfort, protection—advice. That's still your function. I need someone to balance the situation." "Why risk inserting secondary control into the game now?” He didn't like this part at all. Once he moved in, Seabring would confide in him because he'd be there all the time, offering comfort. "It's necessary. Live with it." "All right,” he agreed, holding away the receiver so the control man wouldn't hear anything else that squeezed through his lips. He was about to hang up when he heard him again. "Streetman." "Yeah, still here." "Don't forget your practice run. That part's not just a suggestion, but also a stringent requirement. You wouldn't want to lose your objectivity, bridegroom, and bury yourself in your role." He hung up as violently as he dared, then swore. He vented his anger on the pop machine, but since he put in coins and the can dropped out, he could defend his action if someone came out of the diner. Did he ever neglect to make a practice run after he reported to the fucking asshole? And would the voice in the phone find out if he did? He started the car and slowly drove out onto the road. Five minutes later, he was on the highway, heading back for San Francisco. If he could go straight home, he'd be in bed beside her by midnight. Well, he'd make it to her apartment by tomorrow morning. He had to make a practice run to Curly's strip club, and spend the rest of the night with a couple of hookers. If he failed to carry out this job requirement, he would disappear. His bunkmate at Holden Hollow told him that a top graduate, assigned a plum job in the Bahamas, thumbed his nose at this particular job requirement and the day after he missed his ‘objectivity’ booster, his body washed out on the beach, a piece at a time. There had been reports of shark attacks in the coastal waters. * * * * Seabring woke up. She reared into upright position, her mind springing awake instantly. It always did when the nightmare ravaged her. Her thin cotton nightshirt was soaked with sweat. Her bedclothes were damp, too, and cold. She turned her head. The digital clock on the night table showed it was four-thirty in the morning. Tonight, the nightmare came rather late. She rose and went to the dresser where she kept her nightgowns. The apartment was silent. There were no noises outside either. She tossed the sweat-drenched gown on the floor, took out a fresh one and was about to put it on when she glanced at the mirror hanging above the dresser. The light from the street lamps filtered through the sheer ruffled curtains into the bedroom. It gave it a textured mood of twilight. The outline of her body in the mirror was smudged, like a suggestion without substance. She backed away, clutching the shirt to her chest, staring at her ghostly reflection. When her calves hit the edge of the mattress she slowly sank onto the bed, used her hands to slide into the middle, and then raised herself on her knees. The memories came back, obedient, almost regimented in how her mind disgorged them. The crystal moonlight and the discontented murmur of the sea, a blue pickup truck parked on the shore, far enough not to be swamped by the tide, but close enough to be the sea's companion, at least for the night. Two sleeping bags, spread out in the back of the pickup, served as a bed for them. Something woke her up. Not a nightmare but a startled cry—maybe a seagull, maybe a sudden noise from one of the villas rimming on the cliffs. The noise was an omen. A sign to wake up, rise and move out of his embrace. She always felt a wave of regret when she left his arms. But the warning cry came and she had to yield. She'd kneel, naked before him, head raised, apparently listening. Except she wasn't listening to the sea or the birds. She fought thoughts that intruded whenever she was with him. She fought urges from hell that pushed her to say things to him she knew she couldn't afford to speak. About a mining cabin in the desert, dusty and cold, where things she didn't understand as a seven-year old, grew up with her into adulthood until she understood only too well what the kidnappers were saying. Each time she woke up she wanted to make love to him as he wanted ... as she wanted—and never managed to rip-off the blindfold. Kiss me, love me, hold me—she had spoken those words to Sam the other night. She should have shouted with joy because they represented a personal victory. Except it was nothing of the kind. They were insincere demands, driven by desperation. Until the night, when Sam kissed her the way she demanded he kiss her, she couldn't admit that after all these years she still wanted Nick. She looked down at the bed, pushing her memories to produce an outline of Nick's naked body. After a while, when shadows wouldn't move, she closed her eyes. "I can't marry Sam,” she whispered. “But I can't stop him from moving in. Maybe it'll work out. Maybe ... I'm drowning in the dust again." She put on the clean shirt, tossed off the sweat-soaked bed sheets and lay down on the bare mattress. It felt almost as punishing as a cold, dusty cabin floor.
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Chapter Six
While in San Diego, Nick rented an efficiency unit at the Glenrose Apartments. The complex consisted of four hi-rise and four mid-rise buildings. It wasn't on a flight path but whenever he came to San Diego, he flew the chopper over the corner of Broadway and Fern just to see whether the dwelling cluster looked the way it struck him the first time he saw it from the air—as a gull's nest. The complex was more than a couple of miles from the sea but sometimes a flock of gulls wandered over from the nearby Grant Hill Park. His forehead always tightened when he saw them and the memories came back as vivid as if made only hours ago. He remembered a seaside villa, fifty miles north of San Francisco, a strip of beach, calm and serene. The coast was postcard-perfect, the rocks and sand a balanced combination of robust and subtle. Just standing on the beach, bare feet cushioned by moist sand, he felt energized and drained at once. The only way to get down to the beach was through a private access path from the villas or by a rough road falling down steeply from the rocky embankment. There were no groomed roads, no inviting access to the water's edge. They drove out in the pickup truck, as often as two, three times a week to Granmora Cove. The truck's cab had a sway bar canopy, in addition to other military custom features. He pulled off the highway, pointed the truck's nose down the steep pathway, looked at her and asked, “Ready, my love?" She fastened her hands on the bar, flashed him a smile and said, “Let'er rip." All they needed was a couple of sleeping bags and each other. Sometimes, after he made love to her and they fell asleep, she woke up suddenly and rose on her knees. He never let her know that the moment her body was missing from his arms he woke up. The silvery moonlight shone like pixie dust on her bare skin. Her breasts, full and up thrust, made the rest of her torso and shoulders look small. They glistened as if the moonlight bathing them was wet. He'd lie very still and imagine a mermaid, rising out of the sea. She had long, dark hair like Seabring, and a strand or two might blow across her cheek in the sea breeze. He waited for her to wake him up. He wanted her to start the seduction. When she didn't he told himself he didn't mind, but deep down he knew that at least once he wanted to be the one to surrender to her. It wasn't what she wanted. It would have made him hers, and she didn't want to keep him. Bolton was right. He ran into a headwall because the hand he wanted to stop him wouldn't do it. He had spent ten years running into headwalls, feeling pain and not caring whether it grew. They always watched the sunrise from the truck. When the fiery orb finished delivering its scorching message across the ocean, they'd walk along the beach. He liked the villa daringly perched on the cliff above. It was a textbook example of cliff-hanger. Perhaps that's what made it so exciting. A million years from now, the elements would erode the cliff and the villa would topple. But for now, in their lifetime, it sat there mocking the sea, sun, and the wind. It was white washed, with a red-clay roof. It flaunted its rich Mediterranean flavor. Years later, his heart squeezed whenever he looked up from the seaside in Italy, France or Spain and saw similar villas, shrouded in greenery. "If I had the money, and it was for sale, that's what I'd buy you,” he told her one night, his eyes pinning on the irreverent house perched so close to the edge. "It looks like it's inching toward disaster,” she whispered. Ten years later, he felt those words once again applied to him. * * * * Today, he had nothing to throw to the seagulls. They must have felt it and ignored him. He entered the apartment, not bothering to look around. He had nothing to protect. He put the envelope that Bolton had given him and the information he had picked up in the narrow room into his blue knapsack. It went with him everywhere. Bolton would give him further information, as required. For now, he felt he had everything he needed to start his new assignment. It was Thursday. He had four more days in San Diego. It felt like eternity. If Bolton new how anxious he was to get to San Francisco, he'd see that he ended end up sweeping hangars at Edwards Base for the rest of his life. No involvement. No fraternizing. He had promised. Hell, he might as well have promised to knock the Moon out of its orbit. He threw down the knapsack beside the couch and took out the brown envelope. He tossed it onto the coffee table and sat down. Nothing in the apartment was his except a change of clothes and toiletries. It was the way he had lived these past ten years. He wanted nothing to keep, nothing to call his own. He drove a rental car, lived in a rented apartment, and ate food prepared and served by others. He had no roots, rights, or hope. Well, maybe there was hope. Then again, Bolton's warning was not to be ignored. I'm older now, he thought. I won't ignore it. Yeah, he chuckled. Growing old did nothing. It didn't bring wisdom. It didn't make him more resilient. It only made him lonely ... and sensitive to pain. He spilled the envelope's contents onto the coffee table. The hardcopy of information he got in the narrow room was crumpled more than the rest of the documents. The analyst had asked whether he wanted a file photo. He had refused and didn't give her any reason. Why didn't he want to see her photograph? Did he fear he wouldn't recognize her? Or did he fear that she had changed? He sighed. He knew he'd recognize her only too well. The same heart-shaped face, same dark-blue eyes, wide-apart and holding the look of wonder, their visionary quality was like something that kept reaching out to him from the depth of the ocean, wanting to leave its watery prison and live in sunlight. Past and its events lived in her eyes, things she didn't want anyone to see and quickly banished by blinking or looking away. He feared that if he saw her photo he might press his mouth against it and kiss it. He studied her academic credentials. She graduated from the University of California in 1996, did a year of post grad studies at the San Diego campus in La Jolla then found a job in San Francisco with the Daily Chapter. She had made two appearances on the local TV and radio, interviewed about controversial issues. A marina development that shouldn't have been approved since the land was protected shoreline. One issue concerned underhanded dealings and coercion by enforcers from a local union of its own members. The union president had threatened to sue the Daily Chapter. So far, no lawsuit was launched, but the police started investigating threats to the union members. Her last job assignment was on Marcheson Pharmaceuticals, focused on its triple change of ownership that saw the company land in the hands of the Vietnamese Mafia. The story was just breaking. She was keeping a low profile. Was that what had prompted her to send the message on the Internet, he wondered? He started to crumple the page and stopped when he realized what he was doing. Time to stop playing these games, he told himself. It's there. You can't rub it away. Read it. It doesn't matter. He scanned the first paragraph of personal details and knew he was fooling himself. She was engaged to marry Samuel V. Falkner, a colleague and another investigative journalist with the Daily Chapter. He felt like shouting congratulations then diving head first off the balcony. Falkner had moved in with her after a two-year relationship. It finally came to head, after two years. Was it significant? He wanted it to be significant in a way that related to his job and nothing else. At the same time, he knew he had no right to intrude into her personal life. Bolton's fact sheet on Sam Falkner was dry. It bothered him. Then again, Bolton was a lawyer. His facts were usually dry and succinct. Sam Falkner was thirty-four years old, a native of Chicago. He graduated from New York State University at Buffalo in 1990 with a degree in general arts. He spent a year in upstate New York, doing freelance articles for local sports publications then went back to Chicago and did two years at the Crosswarren Institute of Journalism. Crosswarren should have been a natural stepping-stone for the Chicago Tribune, however Falkner didn't make a bid for the prestigious staff position with the newspaper. Instead he accepted a contributing editor's position with the Akron Examiner in Akron, Ohio. The Examiner had a circulation of fifty thousand. It wasn't a prestigious publication, just meat and potatoes. He lasted six years with the Examiner and then made a huge leap to the New York Times. He stayed just over two years with the Times and then made a transition to the San Francisco Daily Chapter. Something bothered him about the clean, almost boring fact sheet. He didn't want to think about it, started to crumple the fact sheet and stopped. Rules and regulations, he told himself, then smoothed out the piece of paper and put it back with the rest. It was late afternoon. He didn't know what to do. There was no purpose any more to go and serve a shift in the narrow room. He was committed, on assignment. But it was still four days away. Eternity. He rose and went to take a shower. * * * * He decided to spend the four days he had left in San Diego checking out consumer buying guides. When he thought he knew everything there was to know about boats, he dialed a twelve-digit number. Someone in the Florida Keys picked up the phone. "Jean-Jacques, how's it going? Still delivering crocodiles to stag parties?" There was a long chortle of deep, rusty laughter. “Nah. These days, I'm teaching tourists how to skewer the fish." The passwords were all in order, the updated code phrase and the identity. "What's up, mon ami?” The voice grew crisp. "Line secure?" "Would I be talking to you if it wasn't?" "Reproach registered. I need to know something ... quite ordinary." "You wouldn't be calling me if it was." "It will sound that way." "I'm warned. I won't think you're losing it." "You may." "Let me be the judge of that." "How much would a fifty-foot racing yacht, possibly built in Hong Kong, cost?" "Gotta name?" "The Flaming Tiger." "A beauty.” He heard an appreciative lip-smack. "You know her?" "Like I know all the women of the sea. She's a racer. She's won five races in her category in just as many years. Keys to Bahamas, Virgin Islands and I think there was a trip around the world that gathered her much respect. She's a swift one all right." "How much?” he asked, thinking that he shouldn't have neglected the sea and its women. He knew the air and its roaring birds, and he knew the land with its fire-crackling terrain vehicles, but not the sea bird. Then again, he was Air Force. He had no business thinking Navy. "The kind of money that normally requires split ownership. Companies build ships like that. Large corporations commission them and have racing teams pilot them. Not so the Flaming Tiger. She's a one-man woman. Nineteen million of pro-rated money went into her in Hong Kong, a handsome investment. She was sold for twenty one." "When?” he asked because that's all that his shocked mind could come up with. "Six years ago. She's ten years old, just a rambunctious teenaged lady. Hardly broken in." "How well known is this information?" "Not too secret, not too well known either. Sailors know each other and their boats like Hell knows its ranks. Mind you, it's hard to determine a boat's appreciation or depreciation. I'd say she's worth twenty-eight million. Maybe more." "Do you know who owns her?” He knew it was a dangerous question. "I gather you wish to compare information, mon ami.” Jean-Jacques didn't have an accent. Or rather he had any accent he pleased to copy. He was a good linguist. He was also a great nuts-and-bolts man. ‘Give an engine, will overhaul’ was his motto. He liked to be called mechanic. His CalTech diplomas hung next to his tools in his workshop. The PhD from MIT hung in his wine cellar. He claimed it was in bootlegging. Nick knew that a retired NASA engineer who could take apart anything that flew, soared, crawled or churned the water in a matter of a single working day didn't have to bolster his ‘spirits'. "I wish to compare,” he confirmed. "You're a gambler. I always knew that. But I didn't know that you were also low down on life." "A few days ago I sat on a terrace of the Del Fiori Yacht Club and Marina with a man who gave me an impression that he was the boat's owner." "You must be in San Diego then." He felt a great deal of admiration for the man down in the Keys. When the ‘mechanic’ retired from fixing and designing aircraft engines, and focused on designing sea birds, he made sure all ports of call were imprinted into his memory. "Not for long,” he said. “I'm just biding my time before I go out." "Another port, another job, tired feet and aching back. Do you wear sunglasses, mon ami?" It was a curious question. Then again, with Jean-Jacques, all questions had a purpose. “No." "You might have to acquire the habit, if I tell you." "I'm willing." He heard a soft, displeased hiss. “You really don't want to see just how little pension you're going to collect when you retire? The Soobrian Standards Corporation." "It doesn't ring a bell,” he tested. "It should. You must be tired or hung over. The Soobrian Standards owns Bermuda though some claim it's more like owning the Bermuda Triangle. The Soobrian Island Bank, the Soobrian Caribbean Investments, the Soobrian Shipping and Dry Docks, the Soobrian Far Eastern Ventures, the Soobrian Eldrich Luxury Cruise line...." "The Soobrian Technologies of San Francisco?” The outfit was one of many subsidiaries of the Soobrian Standards Corporation, a mega-consortium of industries. It was so large even the Moody's found it difficult to compact its entry. "That's one of its children, but there are many more, all over the globe. Do you get the picture?" "It's too big for me to see, but I'm thinking." "The Flaming Tiger was commissioned by a French consortium. They held onto her for six years before selling her to Soobrian Standards. I've toasted with some legal types who were involved in the deal. The Soobrian Standards bought the yacht and turned it over to single ownership. That's most unusual for a company to do that. Normally, they like to hire their own crew and race the boat in international competitions. Beer and booze companies do it all the time." "Do you know this single owner?" "It was never revealed. Could be the man you talked to. He could be skippering it for them, on contract. The ownership could be part of the deal. It doesn't necessarily mean the individual owns the boat. Just the money he gets from winning cups. There's prestige and glory in it, too, but those are usually passed on to the sponsor." "So it could be legit,” he murmured, vaguely disturbed. Why didn't he want it to be legit? Was it because he wanted something to hold over Bolton's head? Or because he wanted something that would be an effective tool if the rules proved to be too stifling? "Could be,” Jean-Jacques agreed. “Though that kind of sweetening of pot is not done too often. The man—or the woman as the case may be in these politically correct times—would have to be a hell of a skipper. The kind who puts together a winning crew, one race after another." "That seems to be the case with the Flaming Tiger." "She's a winner all right." "So it could be legit." "Could be,” Jean-Jacques agreed laconically, paused and added more sharply, “but don't bet your life on it, mon ami. You're much younger than I am." "Much appreciated. Thanks,” he said and hung up. Jean-Jacques never said goodbye either, and hello was just too general to be used as a code word. * * * * Sam felt sick. Not physically but mentally sick. He went to Curly's to pay his dues. Now he would spend a week or two suffering flashbacks. He liked what the two hookers at Curly's did to him. The problem was that he wanted Seabring to do to him what the Hell's Sisters did for two hours he paid them to entertain him. He liked it, craved more of the same and the woman he slept with all night long wouldn't even undress with the lights on. "Will you relax?” It took all of his composure not to growl but whisper. "I'm relaxed,” she said in a hollow voice. Well, that's true enough, he thought. Any more relaxed and you'd be dead. "What feels good?” he persisted. "Everything ... nothing." He finished making love to her as roughly as he dared and got up. Images of what the hookers did to him were flashing like actions strips in his head. He left the bedroom when he heard her muffled sobbing. He went to the window. It was a clear, moonlit night. If someone stood in the street below, they'd see his naked silhouette. Its profile wasn't quite flat yet. That's what came of those flashes in his head. He gained partial release and left, not caring to quench the ache in his loins. Not when she was in that goddamned awful dark mood. I should hit the road again, he thought. A week or two out, chasing the trailer park story ought to set things straight. He turned and headed back to the bedroom. There was no sound from the bed. "Sam, I'm sorry,” he heard her murmur when he leaned over her. "Shut up,” he said roughly and threw himself across her. He pinned her hands and mouth at the same time and with his knees forced her legs apart. If you won't take the initiative, I damn well will suit myself, he thought. He thrust inside her so roughly she gasped. He didn't care. She brought it upon herself. He allowed her a gasp before punishing her mouth with predatory kisses. He pumped in a tempo that was even painful for him. It didn't matter. He wouldn't be able to sustain it for long. He knew he was close to coming and didn't care about her climax. Afterward, lying beside her and recovering his breath, he thought she'd start crying again. He had never been this rough before. Not even after he got back from Curly's, or another strip club. The phone call made him do it. Once again it reminded him of how disposable he was if he failed. That's what he feared the most. "I'm sorry, honey. It's just that you drive me so crazy,” he murmured. It was a line from the script. "It was rough, and it hurt but I liked it.” Her voice was dry, but also strangely reflective. Was that it, he wondered and felt a surge of panic? Had he misread that part, as well? He had spent two years being attentive and considerate. And all along she wanted him to be rough. Suddenly, he wasn't sure that moving in was such a good idea. * * * * Sanjay's story on the F-16 crash was mothballed—on Barbara's orders. "She's killing my opportunity for advancement,” he complained, sitting down on the edge of Seabring's desk. “Now I'm supposed to investigate old waste dumps, see which developer has bribed the government to release an abandoned waste dump for subdivision or industrial land use." "That sounds interesting,” she offered. She sympathized but only to a degree. Sanjay never took his complaints where they would be most effective—to Barbara. His colleagues had to suffer his endless worries about a lack of opportunities. "That's not the point.” He stared at her. “I was actually getting somewhere on the F-16 story. I got a very reliable source of information that says the crash was due to sabotage. My source says that it wasn't a design fault, but rather a failure of the electrical system, a peculiar failure. It blew-up for no reason. There was no stress, no excessive demand for power. The electrical system failed suddenly—a switch shut-off when it wasn't supposed to. The company that designs and refurbishes the electrical systems is already in receivership. They're out in Hopland, south of Ukiah. They were one of the small business outfits that got the contract through an effort of the Director of Small and Disadvantaged Business Utilization. It came straight from the office of the Secretary of the Air Force. A woman owned the company, and Small Business has a mandate to extend extra support to companies bidding for Air Force contracts if the owner's a woman. The company was having problems even before the crash. I wanted to follow up on it. I mean if the internal intelligence pins the crash on the Prahms-Bristol Electrical Systems of Hopland, there's no one to sue, much less to blame. They're history, in receivership, and padlocked." "The waste dumps may prove to be equally challenging, Sanj.” She tapped her keyboard impatiently to make a point. She didn't like Barbara's editing of her Marcheson story. Sam left after six a.m. He was staking out the Rafael Park, documenting the residents’ comings and goings. Once that was done, he planned to become an interested buyer of a trailer and park it at Rafael. His story was moving. He left in a good mood, back to his breezy self after a disturbing night. What he did frightened her. Suddenly, the easygoing Sam who chased clouds and skipped stones across a pond in the park showed her his dark side. Was the change a result of what happened the night when she desperately lunged at him and kissed him? Could any man suffer such an abrupt change of personality? It had been a week since she had posted her message on the Internet. She hadn't gotten a chance to log-on yet and see whether she'd had replies. Once Sam moved in, he was there, each and every night. The brown suitcase had to go. Sam was bound to find it and ask questions. He probably knew about it already. Did he ever lift the carpet and pop the boards in the closet? Was he ever in her apartment when she was out? She didn't notice anything amiss with her foxhole. Then again, he'd have been careful. When his can of shaving cream ran out he didn't throw it in the garbage in the bathroom but came out and put it in the wastebasket by the dresser. That's where she put all the cans, jars, and bottles to be sorted later on, for recycling. But in two years, Sam never stayed long enough in her apartment to shave. How could he be familiar with her disposing habits? Men were hard to train. Sam moved in, fully trained, and attuned to her habits. Who exactly was Sam? "What?” Sanjay's face bobbed in front of her screen. She leaned back, startled. "You said, ‘Who exactly is Sam?’” "Did I?” She lowered her head, pretending to look for something on her desk. “It's one of the key players in my Marcheson story." Sanjay accepted her explanation. “So, what do you think?" "Go do the waste dumps and leave the F-16 crash alone,” she said. "I'm mothballing it,” he murmured grievously, “but I'm keeping it on a disk. Barbara wants me to clear it off my hard drive. She said the military insisted on it. But I've spent months on the story. I'm storing it on a disk, at home." She gave up editing and logged off her computer. She had to go and rent a storage box. The suitcase had to go. She was already in the parking lot and fumbling for car keys when something occurred to her. It might be a while before she got another assignment. The Marcheson story would keep her busy sporadically. In the meantime, it might not be a bad idea to find out more about Sam Falkner. Not his work credentials. That part checked out. Barbara would have made sure it did. But about family, past relationships, education ... roots! * * * * Once home, she called Rita. “Sam left a message,” she said, sounding almost relieved. “He's holed up in a motel near the trailer park, counting cars, flies, and for all I know stars. Come on over." Rita came over at six o'clock. “How's it going so far?” She picked up a dry pretzel from a bowl on the coffee table and started to munch it. "Sam moved in less than a week ago. It's hard to tell,” she said. "I'm not being nosy. I'm just making conversation,” Rita said. "I know. It's ... still new to me, that's all." "Still new after two years? I envy you." "New as in concentrated companionship." "I thought the two of you have been living together on and off all along." "No." "Having doubts?" "Just wondering, like all decisions, it begs to be analyzed over and over." "Sounds more like a business merger than a partnership leading to marriage." She shrugged and went to change her shirt and put on dressier pants because they were going to a show. "You're not sure about marrying him, Sea, are you?” Rita asked when she returned. "Is any woman ever sure?" "I suppose not, but Sam was sure. Hell, he was ready to call it a national holiday. That's what bothers you, doesn't it?" "He's so brash, breezy—impulsive, and he clowns around a lot, especially when he wants to avoid a discussion." "He's also very nosy and secretive, and sometimes downright unethical because he's not above paraphrasing someone else's research." Seabring looked at her, alarmed. Rita nodded, and picked up another pretzel. “This isn't a warning. It's just a friend's observation. For a man who's done a stint with the Times, Sam's journalistic skills are feeble at best. He's resourceful, though. He knows how to suck up the right stuff off the LAN and though he doesn't plagiarize outright, he'll use whatever he can to fill out his drafts. He plugged a couple of my stories and took out scraps, nothing major. I would have gladly offered it had he asked." "The Times has a different style.” She was profoundly disturbed. "Not so different that a man can't compose a good reporting prose on his own." "What are you saying?" "He may have been with the Times in New York but not as a journalist." "Then as what?" "Maybe as a security guard,” Rita grinned. “He's always nosing around about things that don't pertain to his work." "Like what?" "Personal details, habits, family history and such." "He's just being friendly." "Maybe. But then why doesn't he just ask you or whomever else he's tapping? Why break codes and scroll through personnel files?" "He did that?” She was shocked. "Last year, I dated Grant from Information Systems. He told me. It happened a couple of times. Grant was about to raise a flag. Then it stopped." "I don't know anything about Sam.” She hung her head. "He seems to know everything about you. That's what I meant when I said he's a catch because he's caught you in his nets from day one." "I'm going to have to talk to him." "Maybe not yet. Sleep on it for a while. I may be way off base. As your friend, the last thing I want is to ruin your relationship because Sam clowns around when he gets bored. I think that's mostly the case." "Let's take in that show. I need something to take my mind off this." "Sure. But if you want something else to think about, I have nifty news for you. Barbara came out after you left. We're getting a new team member, fresh from an overseas assignment. She made it sound like he was a war correspondent, coming straight from the front lines in Kosovo or wherever the conflict is these days." "Really.” She wasn't interested in office news. It was going to be a rough century. "He's coming in Monday morning. Say, Sea, if he's a hunk would you mind moving so he can take your station?" Finally she laughed.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Seven
Sam came home on Friday at one ‘clock in the morning. She sat at her computer, checking her e-mail. She found three messages in her mailbox and was about to print them out when she heard his car. She logged out and shut down her computer by normal means. By the time Sam's key was scratching in the lock, she was in bed. He spent Friday in the office and they went home together. She didn't dare to log on and check her mail. On Saturday, she felt like rushing out of the apartment to make an anonymous phone call from the public phone across the street about the Rafael Park. She couldn't think of anything else that might get him to leave. Keith, Jenny, and Rita came over and they ended up spending Saturday with friends. At one point Rita asked about Seabring's mother who lived in Upper Lake. She was still the quiet, shadowy librarian who refused to acknowledge life existed anywhere else but in books. It had been twenty-three years and Marla Roberts's shattered life was still in pieces. "I talked to Mom the other day. She's thinking about taking a Caribbean cruise,” Seabring said, though her mother only wondered what would be the cost of such adventure. The talk turned to vacations. "Don't you ever go back to New York to visit family, old friends, colleagues ... girlfriends?” Rita tipped her brows at Sam. He grimaced and stuck out his tongue. Rita laughed. Seabring knew what she was trying to do and felt grateful, but also worried. Sam was more than just a light-hearted clown. He wore a harsh, punishing look when he thought no one was watching him. Sunday wasn't much better. They slept until ten a.m. then Sam made love to her in his old, breezy style. He worked hard to give her a shattering climax then took his own casually, almost without interest. She pretended she didn't notice and went to cook him lasagna for lunch. They made plans to go to the art gallery, take a walk in the park and talk about a new busy week ahead, then have dinner in Chinatown. She was just looking for her purse when the phone rang. Sam was in the kitchen, cleaning the lasagna pan. She picked it up. A throaty, slightly raspy voice asked for Sam. It was a woman. She walked into the kitchen, handed him the handset and walked out. Instinct told her that if she stayed he'd either look trapped the moment he heard the voice, or leave. A few minutes later, he walked out of the kitchen with an apologetic smile. "Rafael?” she asked mildly. "Actually no. It wasn't my Rafael contact.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It was an old colleague from New York. She's in town. She called the Daily Chapter and they gave her my number—yours." "An old girlfriend.” She clicked her tongue, hoping she looked amused, not relieved. He laughed. “It's nothing like that. She had it rough in New York when I was still there. She filed sexual harassment charges against one of the editors. She had a case but lost in the end, even though she actually won. She had to quit and went to the Miami Examiner. Now, she's here, looking for a job." "She quit Miami?" He shrugged. “I guess so. I didn't ask." "I guess you'll have to ask then.” She threw down her purse and laughed. “Go see your old colleague, girlfriend or not. After all that's what colleagues are for, to help each other. The art gallery can wait. Maybe I'll call Rita, go see a show or something. Or maybe we'll go visit my mother. It's only a couple of hours drive to Upper Lake. We'll surprise her.” She wanted to leave him with an impression that she wasn't staying home—at her computer. He put his arms around her and gave her a flat, dry kiss on the cheek. “That's a good idea. When are you going to take me home to mother? Don't you think it's time we broke the news to your only living relative?" Mother wasn't her only living relative. There were Dad's Robertses in New Mexico and Kansas City. And there were mother's Brighams in Salt Lake and Grand Junction. She had a ton of relatives, a few living as far away as Australia. Just that she didn't keep in touch with any of them. No one wanted to call a family re-union. After all, Tom Roberts had died a saboteur, in disgrace. Was Sam's question meant to get information from her? "Soon,” she promised. The moment the door closed behind him she dialed Rita. She knew he could be listening at the door so she raised her voice. And long after Rita promised to come over, Seabring talked into the silent handset, discussing details of her mother's pending Caribbean cruise. It was only when she sat down at her computer station that she realized she no longer trusted Sam. When did I stop trusting him, she wondered? As she waited for her computer to boot-up, she thought about the moment, four days ago, the one she wasn't supposed to see. She had finished taking a shower and since she always showered with lights off, the washroom was dark. It didn't matter that the door was slightly open. Sam was sleeping when she went to take a shower but when she finished Sam was on his knees, in the closet. The thin streamers of early morning light filtered through the nylon ruffled window sheers. She was used to seeing in the dark. She knew by instinct what showed on people's faces when she wore a blindfold. What sprang on Sam's face, when he didn't find what he was looking for were alarm, then fear, and finally fury. He had moved in and waited too long to search the place. * * * * On Monday morning, Barbara announced to her staff that she had a surprise. "This is Cora Miller,” she said as she introduced a sultry blonde, dressed in a pale cream silk blouse, a light cream linen jacket and black jeans so tight they looked as if they'd split if she moved. “Cora will be with us for three months. She comes from our sister publication in Houston and she's here to learn. That's a warning to all of you not to make her into your gofer. She'll spend time with each of you, and you're to share with her your craft, styles and your excellent knowledge of how this paper's run. Perry will take charge of Cora for the first couple of weeks,” Barbara paused then continued, “I'll leave the rotation schedule up to you. Cora holds a degree in journalism from Tufts University. She's been with the Houston Chapter the last nine months, post graduation. Welcome,” Barbara turned, smiling at the newcomer. “And I hope you have a pleasant training rotation with us." No sooner had she finished than Perry moved forward, hands smoothing his shirtfront. Seabring watched and wondered what Perry's wife might say if she saw her husband's preening approach. They spent the next two hours entertaining Cora. Sam did his best impersonation for her. She laughed so hard her eyes filled with tears. She focused her attention on one man at a time in a way that made him the center of her world. Seabring watched as Cora's huge brown eyes fixed on the speaker, soaking up his words as if they were life-saving medication. She tried to look humble and didn't manage. Seabring found it amusing. Cora laughed but she didn't giggle. They had their share of fresh new graduates in the office, as trainees. Cora wasn't shy or nervous. She wasn't eager in that youthful, immature way. If anything she was an experienced handler, not just of men, but senior editors like Barbara. Was this a result of her nine months with the Houston Chapter, Seabring wondered? Something bothered her about Cora, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it. Cora apologized for inconveniencing Jill who asked Perry to move her desk and a partition so Cora could get working space next to him. But she didn't look abashed when she sat down. She took her temporary station with a right that made Jill tighten her lips, though she managed a gracious smile. "Son-of-a-gun,” Rita whispered to Seabring. “Barbara gave me an impression that we'd be welcoming a man into our midst, and not a trainee either." "That's a fatal mistake to make, especially for a reporter,” Seabring teased her. “At least now I won't have to offer her my work station." "Perry will offer her his firstborn if that's what she wants.” Rita, too, noticed the readiness with which the men were willing to accommodate the new trainee, at the expense of their female colleagues. "She's sexy,” Seabring murmured, wondering what kind of stress and strain this attribute would put on the team members. "She's a stray missile, searching for a target,” Rita grumbled. "You're just sore because you thought Barbara was going to give you a new man to harass." "I never harass,” Rita objected. “I'm very subtle, professional. I ask if he wants to take me out and I never force a man to go to bed." Seabring laughed. “You have a lamp in your bedroom that comes with two light bulbs—red and green." "I won that in a raffle when I was still in college, a gag,” Rita laughed. “Sam seems to be captivated by our Houston trainee." "Every male in this office is.” Seabring shrugged. With Cora around, Sam wouldn't keep coming to check on her, and she needed to read her email messages, a total of six by now. She'd printed them out at home and put them in her purse, hoping to read them at the office during frequent washroom breaks. Now, with Cora here, her absence would be less noticeable. She had nothing to worry about. As it turned out she did. The biggest worry of her life came just half an hour before lunchtime. * * * * "This is indeed a very significant day for us,” Barbara announced when she appeared around the corner once again. “Everyone, I want your attention.” She waited until everyone was looking at her, then stepped to a side and waved someone to come forward. "This is the new member of our team I was talking about last Friday. Mr. Nick Anderson...." Seabring didn't hear anything else. She turned her head a fraction when Barbara called her name, but kept her eyes trained on the monitor. When the introductions were over, she bent down and took out her purse from the desk drawer. She rose just as someone's back screened her from Barbara and the new employee then ran to the washroom. She made it to a stall just in time to throw up. "Are you all right?” She heard a voice behind her. It didn't even occur to her to check whether the washroom was empty. "Stomach flu.” She half turned, waving to show that she was okay. She knew the woman by sight but not her name. "I just finished a bout last week.” The woman offered her wet paper towels. “Don't try to be brave. You can't outrun it. Take it easy, go home and rest." She took the towels, thanked her, thinking, I can't outrun it. You're right about that. But I sure can distance myself from it. She spent ten minutes in the washroom, cleaning up and sorting her thoughts. When she looked in the mirror, she saw a chalk-white face twisted in a painful grimace. She couldn't quite figure out what hurt. Then again, everything should hurt after a jolt such as she received. Nick Anderson, a war correspondent. Was that what he's been doing these past ten years? He disappeared after the first year and she thought he simply transferred to another college. She could have gone to the administration office and found out where he transferred. She didn't. It was what she regretted the most. "Hello, Mr. Anderson,” she whispered, staring at the mirror where a face so sickly pale stared back at her that she knew no one should see her this way. “Exit Ms. Roberts." * * * * She had her purse. Everything else she left at her desk could stay there. She couldn't go back. She leaned on the reception desk downstairs. “Maria, I'm not feeling well today. I think I've caught flu. I'm going home. Please tell Barbara and if you can manage, tell Sam. Thanks." She didn't have flu. She had terminal illness. Its name wouldn't be found in any medical journal. Nick Anderson. She felt her knees buckle as she walked for the parking lot. She drove aimlessly for half an hour then her nerves settled down and she parked the car at the curb. Think like a journalist. You've no choice, she told herself. She had six messages in her purse. She had to read them before she went home. She took them out. Ten minutes later she felt more confused than before. Two replies were cranks. She knew salamanders lived in a zoo. The third one was from New Jersey. It was from an analyst who worked for a research outfit. She had to sideline that one for a while. New Jersey was too far. The fourth one was from Corpus Christi. Benedict W. claimed that the Salamander Protocol was a religious cult. She wasn't sure whether this message was a crank, too, but only because she had never considered it from that angle. It could be a society, rather than an organization. Or maybe it was a society within an organization. She'd follow up on Benedict's message later because he was in Texas. The fifth and the sixth message came from California. The Mendocino reply said that the Salamander Protocol was an operating password. The sender's mailbox was registered to initials, TMS. The Boonville reply was most disturbing. It said that the Salamander Protocol should be given a wide berth and that no further inquiries should be made on the Internet. "I'm not sure what exactly it is,” the message ran, “but I know that it's not safe to keep sending out these kinds of inquiries. Not if you want to stay alive.” It was signed once again with initials, PB. New Jersey was far away. Corpus Christi could be just a speculation, someone sounding off his pet-theory. California replies were the ones to go after. Neither location was far. Mendocino was an hour northwest of Upper Lake and Boonville was an hour west of Hopland. She squinted, feeling pinpricks in the back of her neck. She opened the glove compartment and took out a road map. "Interesting,” she murmured. “What was it Sanjay said ... Prahms-Bristol, the company that went bankrupt, was located in Hopland.” Was it just coincidence that Mendocino was fifty miles north of Hopland, while Boonville lay west of it? But Sanjay's story was about the F-16 crash and had nothing to do with what she was trying to find out ... or did it? Twenty-three years ago, a similar crash of a prototype jet killed two pilots. It was a result of sabotage by the chief engineer, in charge of the project, Tom Roberts.... She shook her head, folded the messages and replaced them in her purse, then drove home. However, she first stopped at a neighborhood clinic and wasted sixty dollars on a doctor who told her that there was nothing wrong with her other than stress. In retrospect, the sixty dollars were well spent. With Sam sharing her apartment, it was a good precautionary measure to make sure her story about the flu checked out. * * * * When she got home, she had three phone messages. Two were from Sam, one from Rita. Both worried about her health. She called Sam and was relieved to get his electronic voice messaging. She told the machine that she was at home resting, and to tell Rita not to worry about her like a mother hen then hung up. She glanced at her purse and tightened her mouth. Those six messages could not spend the night in the apartment. She called Sam's voice mail again and said that she had gone to a clinic to make sure it wasn't serious, and the doctor said it was a virus and to rest. He also advised plenty of fluids like ginger ale and she was all out. Instead of waiting for him, she would go out and get some pop and spring water. She had been eighteen years old when a piece of puzzle fell into place. As an editor of her high school newspaper, she searched for articles that dealt with telecommunications and satellite dishes when these were just starting to appear in the tiny community of Lakeport. That was how she came across the Soobrian Communications. It was a large company, located in Sacramento and specialized in manufacture of satellite dishes, cellular phones, and telecommunications networks. She asked her mother to proofread her article before it went into the Lakeport Minuteman and she spotted an error. "Soobrian, that's double ‘O’ dear,” her mother said with no interest whatsoever. Then, just as she turned to go sit in the small dining room that served her as library, she murmured. “Double deal, double meaning, double O. The victim should be spelled with a ‘W'. It was your father's middle initial, you know." A double meaning, that's what she needed. Two suitcases—to mislead. "I need a decoy,” she murmured and drove to Threshier's Luggage and Repair, near Berkeley campus. It had been there since time immemorial. It was a family-owned business that survived because all the family members made a tremendous effort to keep it afloat. It was an old-fashioned store, one that stocked old-fashioned suitcases, to be sold as resurgent souvenirs to college kids. Two days before Sam went exploring the closet floorboards, she had removed her suitcase and put it in the trunk of her car, covering it with a couple of old jackets. She showed it now to an elderly man behind the counter and waited. What if they didn't have anything that looked like Dad's ancient suitcase...? "I think I got one somewhere in the back that's just like this one,” the senior citizen murmured, peering at her above his bifocals. “They don't make them like this anymore, you know. It's all plastic and polystuff these days. This is nice leather. It held up nicely, too." Five minutes later he brought out a suitcase that wasn't identical to her Dad's but it was a close match. She stopped at the University library, but first remembered to get change at the convenience store. She photocopied ten dollars worth of material from her father's suitcase, whatever fitted under the copier's cover. It was all evidence in addition to other crucial articles she'd kept hidden in the suitcase's lining. It was the evidence that the police, the FBI and the Air Force investigators kept looking for—and never found. There was a little plastic bag with a dozen small, hard shapes that looked like rat-droppings, and a large gold button. If the FBI had the button today, they'd be able to find out quickly where it came from, who made it, what it stood for and who loved such custom trinkets. The gold pin she had pried out of her father's fingers and kept hidden inside the lining would probably clinch the kidnapper's identity. It took her ten years to find out that the pin stood for the highest Presidential award that a civilian could earn, for distinguished service in any worthwhile field. Finally, there was a piece of cloth. It was faded but not tattered. The blue-and-white kerchief was a type normally worn around the neck. The kidnapper used it to blindfold her once he removed the duct tape from her eyes. It wasn't such a great clue but it was a part of her ordeal. That's why she kept it. She also put the messages in Dad's briefcase. She read them and once she read something, she had no need to read it again. She couldn't take a chance that Sam might see them and start asking questions. The old evidence would also stay in the original suitcase. After all, she didn't plan for her father's bag to fall into the wrong hands. She had managed to keep it safe all these years. Next she stopped at the Prepare-Vous, a shop that catered mostly to what used to be known as preppies. She got three U of Oklahoma stickers and a couple of no-name, college-type slogans as well. Precaution, insurance, double meaning, decoy, she told herself, driving to Chinatown. The Wang-Ho Storage Rentals was a low-profile outfit that she felt wouldn't draw attention. She rented a nine cubic foot storage container because it was the smallest they had. It was overkill, since it only had to hold one small (original!) beat-up brown suitcase but that was a minor quibble. Next stop came at the Camden Postal Outlet Depot. She filled out a card, and the clerk gave her a key for a storage box in the adjacent room. It looked like a public waiting room. She stored her decoy, but first she spent fifteen minutes stuffing the suitcase in, pulling it out, throwing it down then kicking it around to make sure the leather lost its pristine look. Once she was satisfied that the bag no longer looked new, she pushed it deep inside, turned the key and took it out. By the time she stopped at a convenience store to pick up ginger ale and groceries, she felt so tired that she wondered whether she was indeed not coming down with flu.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Eight
There was no way to avoid the war correspondent. She resigned herself to it. Last night Sam came home early. He brought a case of ginger ale and what seemed like an entire over-the-counter supply of stomach medicine. He was so kind and solicitous that she had to grit her teeth as not to cry out to leave her alone. She settled for a can of ginger ale and told him that he, too, should rest, though not necessarily in bed. He went to watch TV. It made her happy. These last two weeks, her life felt as if thrown into a blender. Nothing was safe. Nothing was normal. Everything was constantly in an upheaval. In the morning, she had to convince Sam that she felt well enough to go to work by letting him make love to her. "Perry, Keith, and I took Cora to lunch,” he said when he came to the kitchen to grab a piece of toast and a glass of juice. She wondered why he shared the information. Then she realized that she would hear about it the moment she sat down at her desk and Rita leaned over. He was protecting himself, much like she had protected herself yesterday by going to the clinic. "She's quite a trainee,” she remarked dryly. "She's a really nice kid.” He laughed, throwing her a speculative look. “You're not jealous, are you?" "Not about kids, Sam." "You are jealous.” He sounded pleased. She wasn't jealous, but it was smart to make him think otherwise. He came around and fingered her chin, tipping it upward until she stared at him. "She's a nice kid and that's all,” he said. “She's aware of the effect she has on men. It bothers her because she wants to be treated as a professional. She was supposed to stay in Houston for two years but ran into problems. A couple of older colleagues harassed her. The management sent her here on rotation, to avoid confrontation." "Speaking of harassment, how did the date with your old colleague go the other night?" "It wasn't a date,” he said quickly, almost with hostility. "You're so touchy these days, Sam. I can't say anything without using a politically correct dictionary first,” she said, and went to find her purse. He didn't speak again until they were both down on the street, heading for their cars. "She's not staying in San Francisco after all. She's going down to L.A.,” he mumbled and pulled her in for a quick kiss. “There, you have nothing to worry about." It took all of her composure not to say, “Why would I be worried, Sam? After all, these topics never came up during the last two years. But suddenly, we're drowning in old colleagues and new trainees. Isn't that a coincidence?" * * * * It was a difficult morning. Ten feet behind and diagonally across from her work-station sat the war correspondent. She couldn't decide what was worse, Nick sitting behind her or Nick sitting in front of her. Rita kept asking her all morning to trade her workstation with him. “I'll go ask him if you don't want to,” she whispered. "Why would he want to sit in my spot? He looks happy where he is,” she mumbled back. "But I'm not,” Rita snapped. After a dozen such energy-draining exchanges, Seabring rose, turned and approached his desk. "Good morning,” she said as evenly as possible. She wondered whether it wouldn't be a good idea to stop at the clinic again and ask for Valium. “My friend Rita would like you to take my work-station. She's not happy with you sitting where you are.” She made sure that she stared past his shoulder, not at him. "How about you?” his deep voice rumbled. “Aren't you happy sitting where you are?” The moment he spoke she felt her eyes closing. It took superhuman effort to keep them open. "Rita can be an awful drain on your nerves if she's not happy, and at the moment she's not happy sitting next to me. You'd be doing me a huge favor if you changed workstations.” She turned because she didn't want to stay until he decided. "How are you?” His voice dropped down so low it was barely a murmur. She turned back but kept her eyes pinned on a spot, just over his shoulder. She felt strange twitches in her chest. “Fine,” she said. "Seahhh...." She hasn't heard her name spoken so softly in ten years. “Nick, please.... “She knew things flashed on her face, in her eyes, things only he would recognize and understand. "You haven't changed at all. You're as beautiful as ever,” he finished. "You realize that what you said can see you before the employee conduct review board...?” She kept her voice low. He hadn't changed either. Age made him look rugged, entrenched in masculinity. He still liked short haircuts. He had light brown hair, the color wouldn't show gray for a long time but she felt that upon closer look, she'd see touches of gray on his temples. She almost leaned forward to see and stopped. “What are you doing here?” she asked. "Working, a new job. How about a coffee break?" "Can't ... shouldn't." "You can buy me coffee this time." "Nick!" "I'm back.” His lips hardly moved. "I'm busy." "Fifteen minutes." "Are you going to trade places?” She remembered why she approached him. "Do you want me?" She knew what he was asking. “Yes,” she sighed and looked at him. “That's what's so sad about it." He always moved quickly. She only took a step when he grabbed her elbow. “Let's finalize these seating arrangements,” he said cheerfully. She motioned at Rita and the three of them went to the cafeteria. She thought that at least for now, it was a balanced situation. * * * * Sam had to leave for a few days and worried. The secondary control was in place. Why did he have to leave? He made the phone call on time, reported on the situation and still was ordered to use the Rafael connection as a reason to travel to Vancouver, a week or two, maybe more. "Everything's going according to the script,” he said, forcing calm into his voice. “The secondary control arrived and insertion is complete. We're moving according to...." The voice interrupted. “Did you find the suitcase yet?" "No. There's nothing ... anywhere. I'll keep looking." "She hasn't told you about it yet either, has she? The chances that she'll tell you now are nil." "Then let me stay and keep looking for it.” He didn't want to be recalled. He didn't like what it meant. "Idiot! What do you think you're going to be doing those two weeks in Vancouver?" "You want me to look for the suitcase in Vancouver?" "Moron. It's obvious she's stored it somewhere. You can't leave your job and look for it. With you out of town, she won't have to be cautious. This moving-in business was not a good idea. You'll stay in the area and watch her. Track her moves. See where she goes, but make sure she doesn't see you. Remember, you're supposed to be in Vancouver therefore your phone calls will come from Vancouver. Don't use your cell phone." "All right.” He was about to hang up when he heard, “Stay on the line. We have a reason to believe that she posted an open message inquiry on the Internet." "No!” He was taken aback. He'd have known. It was his job to know. "Shut up and listen. It's confirmed. She received six replies. She'll try to contact one or more of the sources that replied to her query. If you have to follow her, be discreet. Report as usual and do not improvise.” The line went dead. He tried to hang up the receiver, but it slipped out of his fingers. He wiped his hand on his pants, picked up the phone and hung up then stood there, steadying his breathing. When the cold sweat started to trickle into his eyes he wiped it into his shirtsleeve. * * * * Nick couldn't sleep. He'd pulled the window shades all the way down but darkness didn't bring relief. He turned the travel-clock face down so its luminous dial wouldn't glow. He buried his diver's chronometer under the pillow, next to his cell phone, and shut the washroom door so he wouldn't hear the dripping faucet. He was tempted to turn off the air-conditioning but sanity prevailed. The room was as quiet and dark as a grave. Still, the sleep wouldn't come. He spent an hour analyzing the office situation. Something bothered him about Cora. Bolton would have mentioned that there would be another arrival, on the same day as his insertion into the office. He didn't. Did it mean he didn't know about it, or was Cora's arrival a result of last minute arrangements? The kind that even Bolton couldn't catch in time. Either way, it made Bolton's information lose integrity. He was supposed to have taken care of all details. As things stood, there was an un-referenced staff member at the Chapter. He had no information on Cora Miller. He sat up, reached for the bedside lamp and clicked it on. He took out his cell phone from under the pillow and dialed. His call was picked up on the tenth ring. "You're getting a little lazy, Mars,” he said. "There's a cyclone brewing over the Pacific." He smirked and thought, you're not playing by the rules, Mars, why should I? Six rings and I should have hung up—then reported ‘broken’ control. "It'll play out by Easter time,” he responded. "Don't do it again,” Bolton warned. “I distinctly remember giving you a lecture about rules and regulations." "In that case, I'm not supposed to be talking to you. Thank God I've saintly patience. You're fringing your own rules, Mars. Ten rings, that's quite a transgression." "It's two a.m. I have to sleep sometimes." "You never used to. At least that's what you used to say." "I'm old now and retired. All right, what's up?" "An extra player appeared on the scene, unaccounted for. A trainee transferred from Houston. She made her debut two hours ahead of me." "You've got a name for me?" "Cora Miller, graduate of Tufts. She spent nine months in Houston with the sister publication. She's on rotation for three months in San Francisco, maybe more. And if the guys at the office have any influence with the editor, she'll never leave. I also need more information on Sam Falkner." "My fact sheet was complete." He felt it was about as complete as a four-letter word. “I've spent only two days with his colleagues and I could already write a biography on any one of them. Not so on Falkner. He doesn't seem to be alive. Not on your fact sheet and not in the office." "What's bothering you about him?" "He's tolerated by his colleagues, but that's a far cry from being liked. He works on his assignments, but that's not to say he contributes anything of importance. He claims he's ambitious but doesn't strive hard to deliver his ambition on paper. His colleagues think that his girlfriend serves as his editor, and also ghost-writes most of his articles. Why would a man who graduated from Crosswarren which breeds Pulitzer Prize winners in journalism waste six years in backwoods, Ohio?" "It was his stepping stone to the New York Times. New York likes humble beginnings, my boy." "For a Crosswarren graduate going to work at the Akron Examiner is a little bit like an MIT doctoral fellow going to work at a 7-eleven." "Is it really Falkner's slow progress up the ranks that bothers you, or is it something else?" "I'd like to have a detailed background on him. I'd like to see testimonies from his colleagues, Akron and New York. He spent six years in Akron. What did he do in terms of community involvement, social life, political ... hell Mars, he's a journalist. They get involved in high-profile community issues." "It sounds like you want depositions and testimonies on his character, my boy." "That wouldn't hurt either,” he said and heard Bolton's displeased hiss. "All right. I'll see what I can do. I'll get back to you in forty-eight hours." "It used to be twenty-four." "Things have changed, times have changed. You're asking for a lot of hearsay, a lot of details that take time. You're a patient man. Sit tight and reflect on your sins." "I'll do that,” he acknowledged, hung up and thought, and maybe I'll reflect on yours, Mars. He reached for the lamp to shut it off and stopped, hefting his cell phone. Ten rings and forty-eight hours. It used to be six rings and twenty-four hours. Was Bolton making up new rules as the game progressed, or was it just as he said, a factor of age and retirement? This conversation would have never happened—if they were playing by the original set of rules. I'm a patient man, he thought, but it may not be a bad idea to take insurance while I'm waiting. He tapped the cell phone and dialed again, this time a twelve-digit number. "The alligators are crossing the street,” he said. "On this side they're still sleeping in the swamp. What's up, mon ami?" "I am. It's two a.m. here." "It's not much better here. I'm up, too. They say as you grow older you need a hell of a lot less sleep. I never believed it, until now." "Glad to hear it. If memory serves, you used to have quite a crowd of admirers at the Houston Mission Control." "I still do. When I cast my magic spell, people stay devoted to me forever." "I sure hope so. I may be out of line but it's something that wouldn't let me sleep if I let it hang on for forty-eight hours." "I may not be able to serve you in a shorter time either." "I'll risk it. You used to take the floor and give a press briefing now and then back in Houston." "Affirmative." "Do you still have reliable connections at the Houston Daily Chapter?" "You wouldn't be calling me if you thought I didn't." He laughed and told Jean-Jacques what he needed him to check out. "Give me ten hours. I actually do a monthly piece for the Houston's Daily Chapter on sailing and Everglades. Just something I do as a hobby. The Houston Chapter has an Outer Interests corner. Mind you, I can't say that my journalistic skills are great. I do it just to keep my hand in." He thanked him, hung up and once again reached to shut off the lamp—and stopped. What the hell, he thought. If Mars can fringe the rules, so can I. This time he used the phone that came with the rented flat. His call was picked up on the third ring. It shocked him to hear the voice so quickly. You can't sleep either, he thought. "Hello. Who's there?” She sounded impatient. "It's not Sam. He's in Vancouver or so goes the office grapevine." "Nick." "How are you?" "It's two a.m." "And neither of us can sleep." "I was just ... never mind. What do you want?" He was tempted to say, “What I wanted all along, you in my arms, sleeping beside me wherever I happen to be." "How about a dinner tomorrow?" "You called at two a.m. to ask me that?” She didn't sound outraged, just tired. Not exactly, he thought. I called to hear your voice. I've made two business calls. I should be stretched out here, snoring. Instead, I'm breaking the rules again because I'm so damn good at justifying why I should. "I was afraid I'd forget in the morning, and in the office you're so busy and preoccupied I didn't want to risk annoying you." "I don't think it would be a good idea,” she said. He could almost see her frown. "I've been briefed on the situation. Your friend, Rita, is an office biographer. I know you're off limits, but I'd like to talk to you." "I'm willing to have lunch." "The cafeteria is busy and any restaurant within fifty miles will be crowded. I don't want to spend the lunch hour, watching you greet people.” That was the case when he took her and Rita for coffee. What seemed like an army of people had stopped by to say hello. "Nick, I'm ... I ... not sure ... considering the situation. It's been ten years, for God's sake!" "Then we have a lot to talk about,” he said calmly. What he felt inside would have rivaled a cyclone over the Pacific. It's been ten years, he thought and I convinced myself that I'm impervious to pain. Hours before I saw your message on the Internet, I felt like a bullet-riddled target range—wasted. But the moment I saw you.... "I don't want to remember,” he heard her whisper and knew she was choking back tears. She'd cry when the call was over. He felt like crying, too. "I'll be your colleague. Don't worry. It'll be nothing more than a dinner out with an old friend." "Should I bring Rita along then?” she asked and he heard her chuckle. He could see her swiping tears, a tiny smile breaking out. "You would do that to me, wouldn't you?" "Not to a colleague." "I stand warned. I promise." "Six o'clock then. I like an early dinner. I have to ... anyway, I'm going out on a story early the next day and I need to sleep. I can't sleep when I'm stuffed." "Some things never change,” he said and immediately regretted it when he heard her soft hiss. “All right, I won't. It was just a slip, really." "Good night,” she said and hung up. He shut his eyes, feeling them grow hot. He said her name, drawing it out in a ghostly whisper, no longer fighting images of what they had shared in the past. He had fallen in love with her ten years ago, but she had thrown him out of her life. Perhaps that was a fitting punishment because he didn't come into her life honestly. Not ten years ago, and not now. Back then, it was Cunningham's initiative—and suspicions. Two people died in the F-16 crash back in 1981. One of them was Cunningham's younger brother. The crash investigation was closed because Tom Roberts, the saboteur, was dead. The kidnappers who forced him to betray his country were never apprehended. The survivor, a seven-year old girl was so traumatized by the ordeal that for two years after the kidnapping, she wouldn't speak. When she did, she had no memory of the two days she'd spent with her kidnappers. Many top-notch therapists confirmed it. But Cunningham didn't believe it was that simple and sent Captain Anderson to check it out on the Berkeley campus. He enrolled in a first year journalism course to get close to her. It was Cunningham's plan. It called for him to become her friend, her confidant. It did not call for Captain Anderson to become her lover, and it certainly didn't call for him to fall in love with the subject under surveillance. Cunningham was pissed off, Bolton—furious. However, at least one of them saw merit in the unauthorized developments because he let it grow, and grow, and grow.... Ten years later, he felt it still grew. He was the first man to make love to her. She wasn't the first woman in his life, but she was the first and the last he fell in love with and wanted to keep, except she didn't want him to stay. She didn't want to share her nightmares with him. She didn't want to remember for him what had happened thirteen years ago. It was his job to make her. He recalled a point in their relationship when he actually considered finishing college just to stay beside her, a stunt that would have seen him graduate with a degree in journalism, in addition to having graduated from the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, and two years at the University of Colorado where he earned his Master's Degree in Systems and Logistics. Bolton insisted on a cover story and truth about his age. He said that she would confide in him easier if she thought he was older, mature. Bolton wanted him to become her ‘big brother'. The man in him just couldn't keep the relationship on the handshake level. From the moment she landed in his arms, after she hit the fire hydrant, he knew he'd end up breaking the rules—and didn't care. He had spent six weeks in the lecture hall, observing her. While his mind wanted to carry out the orders, his body mutinied each and every time he looked at her. It was worse than the puppy love that found him in the fifth grade when he sat behind Mary-Lou Francis and stared at her little pink ears. The officer, who could hold his own in a bar filled with bare-legged women straddling stools and inviting airmen to buy them drinks with their sultry looks, lost his bearings. Back then he only had to compete with her past. Today, there was a man who not only shared her life, but her apartment. It was what wouldn't let him rest. It was what tortured him. It was what made him want to kill. * * * * The next day, at noon, as he headed out of the office, Rita intercepted him and invited him for lunch. It took all his composure not to snap at her. He apologized and said he had to take a rain check, and then ran out to the parking lot. By the time he reached his car, his cell phone inside was ringing. He fumbled with the keyless entry buttons but managed to open the car door in time to pick up the call. He glanced at the dashboard clock. It was two minutes to twelve. Jean-Jacques was punctual. When he said ten hours, he meant it. If he didn't answer his cell phone after six rings, it would grow silent. The man in the Keys would not call again. He'd have to call him, and if he wanted to take Seabring to dinner, he'd have to postpone the call.... "There is silence across the swamp." "The rangers must be observing a siesta,” he gave a response from the codebook that was as thick as a corporate ledger and just as challenging to memorize. "Cora Miller is five foot seven, with a beach volleyball-body and sun-washed hair. That's the extent of my venture into poetry." "So far you're doing just fine,” he assured him. "She's a graduate of Tufts, but her degree is a little worn, mon ami. She's class of ‘94, not a fresh young chick. Do they still call them chicks, or am I hopelessly behind times?" "Today, if you'd call a young woman ‘chick’ you'd find yourself behind bars." "I prefer to think I'm hopelessly old-fashioned. Anyway, her degree shines, she graduated with top honors. There's no picture in the yearbook but the blurb beside it claims she was renowned for her tenacity and dedication to her studies." "If there's no picture in the yearbook, how could you describe her...?" "Age brings on clarity of vision. I also know that in Ms. Miller's case ‘tops’ is the studying position she prefers, if you know what I mean." "She ran into unwanted male attention in Houston. That's why she's on rotation in San Francisco." "Well, some habits are difficult to shake, especially it you don't want to lose them." "I'm not sure I understand what you're saying." "My ex-wife went to Tufts. Sociology. I guess that's why she divorced me after twenty-four years. That seems to be the optimum range for marriage to a man who kisses an engine with more passion than he does a woman, those were her parting words, don't laugh. She said she stayed that long only because of the kids. She couldn't afford to put them through college on her social salary and benefits, and needed mine. I appreciate honesty, even when it hurts. But we parted on good terms, if there's such a thing as an amicable divorce. Your inquiry gave me a chance to call her again. We're having dinner tomorrow but that's my problem, not yours. I'm not kissing boats, but she's not having fun either. I guess we want to compare the scope of our individual misery. Who knows, one of these days I may sail off into the sunset with her. I suspect she'd still want nothing better than to see me drown at sea. My information is reliable because Gloria has a phenomenal memory. Cora Miller graduated in ‘94, top of her class, because she slept with most of her professors. Ten years ago, Gloria went to finish her PhD at Tufts. Our kids were teenagers, so she finally had a chance ... never mind. One professor's wife named Cora Miller as a culprit in her divorce correspondence. She went to her hubby's boss, demanding he chop-off the guy's head—cancel his tenure. It started to get ugly and media came around, then it sort of deflated. The wife must have gotten a good settlement. Cora Miller vanished and all was well. Gloria remembers the episode because she used it as one of ‘social extreme’ cases in her thesis. She remembers how the enterprising co-ed looked. I have no information where Ms. Miller spent the next ten years, but when she surfaced in Houston, she knew how to milk an opportunity to secure a rotation. No mistake about that." "Yeah. That's the impression of her I got at the office." "That's the way it was at Tufts, and that's the way it was shaping to be at the Houston Chapter." "Then what?" "The Chief Editor's wife found out." "And Cora was suddenly ready for a developmental rotation." "You have no idea, mon ami, how quickly those arrangements were made." "It's just the timing that bothers me. She was introduced on the same day I arrived." "Like I said, the arrangements were made in a hurry." "I can understand that." "That's all I was able to get in ten hours. There may be more. Do you want me to keep on it?" "I'd appreciate it. Thanks. And while you're at it, toss out a line on Sam Falkner. The New York Times, he left them two years ago." "This one doesn't sound like a surprise player." "He's not." "Far be it from me to reproach you, mon ami, but why not try the regular channels? They're cannons in comparison to my sources which are mosquitoes." "I'm not quite sure where the cannons are trained these days,” he confessed. "Jesus!” Jean-Jacques let out a dismayed hiss. There was a silence on the line for a few seconds then the voice from the Keys said, “Get out, mon ami. Get out while you still can. If you can't swim in your own channel that's bad news, man. I always had a fear of sinking, maybe that's why I retired early. But if I had felt at any point that I could drown in my own channel ... get out, Nick, get out now." "I can't. Not yet." "The Flaming Tiger is a big prize to scoop. Civil servants don't merit such prizes, no matter how high in the service they stand. Maybe not even our President would merit such a reward upon retirement. Are you following me, mon ami?" "Yes. Very well. But I have to stay. I'm committed." "I hate military funerals,” Jean-Jacques growled. “Our flag is meant to flutter in a breeze, high on a pole, not lie folded on a shelf, like a book." He laughed. “I'll keep that in mind. When should I check back?" "Give me a week,” Jean-Jacques said unhappily and hung up.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Nine
Seabring stopped by Nick's desk. “I'll have to leave early, run some errands. Pick me up at my place, six o'clock.” She glanced at her watch. It was four-thirty. “Do you know where I live?" "Your friend Rita does, therefore I do, too. Where would you like to go for dinner?” he asked. "Did Rita also give you my home phone number?" "No. Lauren in personnel did." "You asked for it?" "I asked for a colleague's phone number. This office is a sharing environment. Where would you like to go for dinner?" She shook her head. “I don't care. You pick the place." "Some things never change,” she heard him whisper. She turned, squared her shoulders and walked away. She reached the parking lot, got in her car—and the car wouldn't start. Great, she thought, getting out. She opened the hood because that's what people did when their cars refused to kick over. But even as she looked over the dust and oil-coated innards, she knew it was no use to stare at the assembly of metal blocks, rings and hoses. She knew nothing about car engines. "I'll give you a lift,” a voice startled her from behind. She spun around, her ears already telling her who it was. "Cora.” She smiled at the trainee who waved at her from a red car. "Thanks,” she said when she walked around to the passenger side. Later on, as she checked the message board, she thought about the ‘lucky’ coincidence. Cora drove her home but also came up to her apartment because she needed to use the washroom. Then she asked for a glass of water. That seemed normal enough. But then she became curious. Was that normal, too? Well, she was a reporter. However, now Cora also knew what software packages Seabring used. While Seabring went to get a bottle of water from the fridge, Cora booted-up Sam's computer, to take a look at what software he used. She looked at the two smoke detectors, one in the hallway and one in the living room, then ‘discovered’ the fire escape when she mistook the back door for the entrance. She ‘loved’ the old-fashioned stove and tested its knobs. Now she knew that the stove worked on three burners and the fridge had to be de-frosted ... an antique. She skipped around the place until she ‘discovered’ the squeaking floorboard, and she lifted her head to admire the stain on the ceiling in the living room, a result of last year's roof leak. She laughed and said the apartment's windows, two facing east and one facing north, gave it its character. Seabring saw her out and Cora ‘discovered’ that the downstairs tenant was a real estate agent when she pulled out a large business envelope that had been stuck under the door and examined it. She ‘noticed’ the mailbox, too, and asked whether both, Sam and Seabring had keys to it. She knew the TV, the VCR, and the DVD player were all by different manufacturers and thought such mismatch of electronic equipment ‘charming'. She had such phenomenal ears she heard the shower drip and asked whether the superintendent had been told to fix it. Cora was curious like a puppy, running around, nosing and nibbling at everything. Seabring felt that her skipping interest was not as haphazard as Cora would have her believe. A young woman, a newcomer to San Francisco, might want to make friends, but the part of Seabring that had spent two days blindfolded insisted on hearing echoes behind innocent questions. "You didn't look this worried and preoccupied all day at the office. What happened in less than two hours?” Nick asked her when he came to pick her up as she waited for him on the street, outside her apartment. "Nothing." "Some things just don't change, no matter what,” he said and she turned to head back up the stairs. He gripped her elbow. "Sorry. I'll behave, really I will. Don't run away." "Something that shouldn't have upset me, did,” she said, head down on her chest. “That's the best I can describe it. I don't want to talk about it because it's silly. It's ordinary ... I'm strung out and stressed out because of this dinner. There.” She lifted her head and stuck her chin at him. "Chinese, Greek, Japanese or Italian,” he said in what she remembered as his peace-offering voice. "Yes." The Jungle Wok on Turk Street in Japantown filled the tall order. "Why are you here, Nick?” she asked when they ordered. "I got tired of sight-seeing the world. I came home." "You're not from San Francisco." "No. I'm still from Georgia." "Savannah." "The same. Some things ... all right. I won't say it." "How come you never had an accent?" "I worked hard on losing it." "You should have kept it, if only as a ... souvenir,” she finished, though she wanted to say memory. "I wanted to fit in with the rest of California." "You still don't fit in. You're tanned. Californians stay out of the sun as much as possible." "I came home." "I'm living with Sam. I can't have any more dinners with you, or anything else." "We're talking. What could be more innocent than that?" She looked down, pretending to be studying the chopsticks and thought, but for how long? You have no idea what it takes for me to sit here, talking like old friends. "Seahhh...." "Don't ... don't call me that." "What do you want me to call you?" "Nothing." "Don't you have any use for friends?" "Nick, we can never be friends,” she burst out, fingers twisting a napkin. He remembered what Jean-Jacques said about there being no such thing as an amicable divorce. Maybe there was also no such thing as old lovers turning up old friends. "Don't you even have use for a handyman?” He remembered it was one talent she used to value, that and his lovemaking. It's what she had shouted at him the day he disappeared from her life. "I live with Sam." Her reminder scored. He'd forgotten about it. Hell, he kept wiping Sam from memory and wanted to wipe him out—permanently. He saw her start twisting the napkin the other way. It meant she was fighting memories. "Sam's not handy with tools or electrical things ... or cars.” She looked at him with a tight expression. "How is your car?” he asked. He knew there was something wrong. "It wouldn't start this afternoon when I left the office. Cora gave me a ride home. My car's still back at the office, in the parking lot." "Cora gave you a ride home?” he murmured, wondering why he felt it was significant. "That's what's bothering me. She was there, ready to offer me a lift as if ... as if...." "...as if she knew your car wouldn't start,” he finished and regretted speaking his mind because it made her eyes narrow in fear. He knew the fear was justified. After all, she had finally done what she had struggled to do for ten years—she had sent a message, an Internet broadcast for information on the Salamander Protocol. Things were starting to move. "Do you want me to take a look at your car?” he offered. "Right now?" "After dinner. It's not even seven-thirty. Remember, you said you wanted an early dinner." "By the time we get there it might be too dark for you to see." "I own a flashlight." "You always did." "That's only because you like to live in the dark as much as possible." "I still have the habit,” she admitted and it shocked him. They were now discussing memories and she wasn't frowning or squinting. He realized that she was not only upset about Cora giving her a ride, but afraid to think about what else it could mean. She knew she should and didn't want to. She hadn't settled things with herself when she posted the message. Something had happened that made her do it. "Do you still keep dry pretzels in straw baskets around your place?” He wanted to see if she was willing to remember. "Rita eats more of them than I do but I still like to keep them around to munch on when I'm working." "Are you still a Democrat?” He had to press his fingers against the side of the wooden bench when she looked at him and laughed. "Are you still a Republican?” Ten years vanished as if time was an elastic strip and someone peeled it back. "These days I actually find myself hoping there was a third party." "That's heretic, Nick. You used to be very pro-R." "That's only because you were so very pro-D." "Is that why you did it, to annoy me?" "To challenge you, not annoy you. My beard used to annoy you." "Your electric shaver used to annoy me. It had the most sickening buzz." "I gave it up. I use a chisel now." She hugged herself, shaking from laughter. When they finished coffee, she asked, “Would you be willing to take a look at my car now?" "Yep. Let's go while there's still some light left." "Let's split the bill." "I asked you to dinner. It's mine. But if that'll start a revolution, I'll let you pick it up." She raised her hand then looked at him. The waiter took away his VISA card and she leaned back with a sigh. He didn't expect her relaxed moment to be a set-up. "Where did you finally graduate from?" "University of Colorado.” He was quick. That was probably why he was still alive. "Nice place. What made you choose it?" "Fresh air, snow, serious environment." "That sounds more like your home." "I'm from Georgia. There's no doubt about it." "I meant home-away-from-home. That sounds much more like it than San Francisco." "Let's take a look at your car.” He rose. Suddenly he wasn't sure who was in control. “The waiter's not back with your credit card." "I'll tackle him at the door." "You don't want to talk to a journalist, do you?” She grabbed his shirtsleeve. "No." "But you're one, too." "That's why. Now I know how it works." "Who are you Sam ... I mean Nick?” She closed her eyes in effort to control the flush that rose in her cheeks. He saw it. The lights were not so dim that he couldn't see her face, inches away from being kissed. So she started to wonder about Sam, too. That was interesting. The Internet message must have really scored many targets. "I'm Nick Anderson. That's not a lie. I can't tell you who Sam is, but as your colleague I may be able to help you find out who he isn't. Now, let's see what ails your car." * * * * It turned out to be spark plugs. Three of them were missing. He reflected that two would have done the trick on a 4-cylinder engine. That was what he might have done if he couldn't get at the ignition wire or the fuse box panel. Whoever had removed the spark plugs from her car wanted to be very sure. Just in case the car manufacturer's specs were exceeded and the car somehow kicked in on two spark plugs. "Is it serious?” she asked, holding up the flashlight. He reached, grabbed her wrist then pointed the flashlight down where he wanted her to look. “It depends on how you want to look at it. Financially, I'd say it's a minor nuisance, a matter of few dollars. But what it means, well ... see those holes? That's where three of your car's spark plugs normally sit. They're gone. And since spark plugs don't walk away from cars, you figure." He felt her pulse where his fingers closed around her wrist. It pulsed so hard he felt the skin move as if something burrowed underneath. "Nick, do you remember ... my nightmares, about my past ... what happened years ago?" "Yeah,” he admitted dryly because he suddenly felt wretched. "I think it's about to catch up to me and knock me off my feet.” She dropped the flashlight, but he caught it before it hit the radiator. "What does Sam do when you have nightmares?" "Nothing. You were right. Some things never change." "But you're afraid they're about to." "Something like that and it's because of something I've done." * * * * He took her to an all-night automotive outlet and bought three spark plugs. They drove back to the parking lot and minutes later her car was running again. "Do you want me to follow you home?” he asked. "Where do you live?" "Pacific Heights. Ten minutes away from you." "Did you know I worked at the Chapter when you took this job?" "Yep.” The rules didn't require him to lie every step of the way. "Why are you here, Nick?" Unfortunately, this was the other step, the one called for ‘soft’ truth, though he knew it was just his way of trying to make lies sound honorable. “The job offer was good and I wanted to stay on the coast." "Good night.” She yanked the door open, ready to get inside her car. "I wanted to see you again.” The bold confession might well see him land in quicksand. Then again, Mars said times had changed. The situation was not the same as ten years ago. She was different, too. The rules had to be ... overhauled, updated. She held the door open. “Your timing was rotten and perfect at the same time. I'm not sure if I'm drowning again, but I can feel the undercurrent, pulling me. I still have the same nightmare but I'm indifferent to it because it's been haunting me for such a long time. Follow me home. For a change, I need to talk to you." * * * * "Don't you have to use a washroom?” She came around to lean on his car when he parked behind hers but didn't get out. "Is that what Cora used as an excuse to get into your apartment today?" "It worked for her so I figured you might want to use it, too." "A pre-emptive move then." She turned around, waving him on. A pre-emptive move, she thought walking up the steps. You have no idea how right you are. That's what it was ten years ago and that's what it's going to be now. I threw you out of my life because I feared that once you found out what was haunting me at night you'd leave. A pre-emptive move, if there ever was one, my form of protection. I told myself it would be easier to bear if I threw you out, than if you left, once you learned what you were trying to find out. This time I'm going to give you precisely what you were trying to find out ten years ago, knowing that it'll make you disappear for good this time. I know now you're after the same thing Sam's been trying to get me to talk about these past two years. So let's see how long this re-kindled friendship's going to last. * * * * "Small but neat,” he commented when she let him inside. "It was less crowded two weeks ago.” She tossed down her purse. “Do you want a drink or should I make coffee?" He couldn't afford to drink, not even a single shot. The way his mind ran, he was liable to do something foolish, like reach for her, put his hands on her ass and squeeze then kiss her. She went to make coffee and he started to look around. The living room was tiny. The two computer stations faced each other diagonally with the window between them. It brought a painful lump into his throat. This is where she worked at home with her roommate sitting across. Would he blow kisses at her when he got tired of editing a story? Would he walk over and massage her shoulders? And would he bend down, passing a hand over her keyboard to leave behind a chocolate kiss? It used to make her smile in the classroom. It used to make him want to leap out of his seat, take her in his arms then kiss her all over. It drove him crazy when she unwrapped the piece of chocolate and put it between her teeth. She'd suck it with her eyes closed, making satisfied noises ... humming. He saw two pairs of large sneakers and a good pair of black loafers on a mat by the door, an armload of man's shirts on a chair, obviously ready to be taken to the cleaners. A football jersey folded on a bookcase. A collection of empty beer cans on a windowsill, a blue windbreaker hanging on the closet handle. It would probably get worse if he walked into the bedroom or the washroom. Would he find a manual of perfect lovemaking on her night table? She used to carry a well-worn paperback, the Art of Seduction, in her knapsack. It wasn't hers, she said, but it was always there when she needed to ‘spark and enrich’ his imagination. And if he opened that other night table, the one on the side where the man slept, what would he find inside—a year's supply of condoms? Birth control pills in the washroom, his and hers jars of lubricant...? Two months after their first night spent on the seashore, she had climbed beside him into the pickup, her face as grave as if she'd just come from a wake. Ever since a condom packet had fallen out of his wallet when paying for groceries at Clappton's, his uncle's grocery mart in Savannah, he didn't like to carry them. He'd keep them in the car or buy a pack if he knew he'd end up in a woman's bed. And the one time when he slipped them into his shirt pocket, he picked up Cunningham's two-year old nephew and the kid dipped his chubby hand in his pocket and brought out what he thought was candy wrappers. After that uncomfortable episode, since the occasion was the ‘company’ picnic, he gave up stocking latex protection. If he needed it, he'd ask his companion well before the bedtime. He had picked her up after a doctor's appointment. She must have been served a dose of reality. She bit her lip and flushed deep red when he asked what was in the brown pharmacy bag. It took all of his composure not to laugh when she told him what the doctor said. Namely, that she was one lucky naive woman to have lasted two months on unprotected sex. She came away with two dozen condoms and a year's prescription of birth control pills. "I could have gotten pregnant,” she whispered, overwhelmed by the awesome implication. He reflected on the possibility in silence as he drove and wouldn't reply because he knew she wouldn't have liked what coursed through his head. It was the first time he had ever considered it. If she got pregnant he'd have married her and become a father. It was that simple. He was that sure. In so many respects, she was very naive, about life, human relationships, things that lived inside men and made them squint. He had never again thought about getting married or having a family. It just wasn't worth going through the motions because everyone else around you was doing it, not unless you had a partner you wanted by your side, and he only wanted one woman. Bolton was right. He had many one-night stands and affairs that lasted only as long as he was able to keep the memories buried. Then he'd catch a glimpse of a seaside villa with a red tiled roof, or a seagull scavenging for food, and head for the nearest bar. He knew he must have hurt many women and didn't care. Like an often-used practice target, time kept repairing him, fortifying him until he felt nothing. He learned to feel nothing because he knew that if he slipped the first thing he'd feel would be pain. His parents had a textile mill in Savannah, Anderson & Fortnum Spool Works. The early 1900s mom-and-pop operation, started by his great-grandfather, grew into a factory with twelve hundred workers by 1975. Today, the name was still the same, but his father sat on the Board of Directors. A year before the merger with the Hallmark Industries, his mother went back to school to earn a paralegal degree so she'd be able to ‘quality-control’ the corporate claws, as she called the parent company. His paternal grandfather had worked in the mill right until his late eighties. His grandmother died twenty years earlier, but grandpa never even as much as looked at another woman. Whenever his family kept urging him to join a senior citizen group or a church social club because they worried he was lonely, grandpa would say, “When the good Lord made me, he made one woman for me. It was up to me to find her and make her my partner for the rest of my life. I found her. I was lucky. The Lord saw it fit to end her life before mine. I don't question the Lord's wisdom. I'm just biding my time, counting grains. When they run out, I'll be allowed to join my partner again. That's the way I see life, and that's the way I live it." What grandpa said to his well-meaning relatives was to leave him alone. He wasn't lonely. He didn't need company, counting grains until it was time to rejoin his partner. From the moment he caught her when she walked into the fire hydrant, he felt that he had the woman the good Lord meant for him to find, have and hold for the rest of his life. His grandfather's words came as clearly across the distance that separates life from death as if he stood beside him. Ten years didn't invalidate the simple truth. If anything, ten years brought it into sharper focus because he was older, lonelier and wanted the woman the good Lord meant him to find and have, by his side. Was it possible that the good Lord screwed up in human fashion and created two men who were meant to find and to have the same woman? He didn't think so. Grandpa wouldn't have placed his trust in a deity that would be so fallible. She came out of the kitchen, handing him a coffee mug. “Do you remember how I used to logon, type a message, then pull the power plug?" "I need any information available on the Soobrian Standards Corporation, particularly its practices as reflected by the Salamander Protocol. Thanks. Annie.” He recited what never left his memory. She staggered backwards, mouth open. Finally, she managed. “Dear God, Nick, I never knew you actually read it. I never knew you saw the message ... knew...." "There's nothing wrong with my eyesight, ten years ago or now.” He knew he'd have to play by the rules. No screw-ups. "You have no idea how much I wanted to talk about it, share it ... tell someone.” He saw the grip on her mug was knuckle-white. "You weren't ready,” he said flatly. "Maybe not.” She took a sip of coffee. It must have hurt her throat because she grimaced. "Seah, remember what I kept telling you when you didn't want to talk about your nightmares?" "That I should continue seeking therapy until I found a method that worked." "Nothing wrong with your memory either." "Nick, I don't think there is any method that'll help me deal with my nightmare. There's nothing I can use when I can't even admit there's a problem. Two weeks ago, a couple of days before Sam moved in, I sent that message." "Well, ten years is an awfully long trial period.” He knew she didn't want to be lectured. Times had changed. She looked relieved. He realized that she wasn't sure of what his reaction would be and feared it. At the same time he wasn't sure it was the right reply. She was scared and tense, but he felt that she was also setting up something. He couldn't guess what. She was unpredictable. "I need your help. As a colleague and a friend." "You said we couldn't be old friends." "I didn't say we couldn't try. I got back six replies to my message inquiry. Two came from California, one from Mendocino, the other from Boonville. I've asked the sources if they'd see me, talk to me." "That's where you're going tomorrow morning.” He now understood why she agreed to have the dinner tonight. She wouldn't have told him any of this if not for those missing spark plugs. He should congratulate whoever removed them. It made his job easier, a confession at last. "Did Barbara give you an assignment yet?” she asked. "She assigned two toxic spills in the Bay area, near Palo Alto, supposedly cleaned up but.... “His voice trailed off. He saw her mouth twitch with disappointment. “It's nothing I can't handle before breakfast,” he finished hurriedly. The twitch turned into a timid smile and he felt wretched again. He was playing by the rules, doing his job. "I'd go alone but I'd much rather take someone with me,” she confessed. "Why not wait until Sam's back and take him?" "Sam may be busy for a while." "And you're impatient." "You don't have to come." "What are old friends for?" "Good night, Nick,” she dismissed him so abruptly he blinked from surprise. He watched her turn, and knew she expected him to be gone when she turned back again. Did she know the times had changed? "Are you throwing me out?" "You can be such a pain in the ass." "Did you want me to thank you for throwing me out ten years ago?" "It was the right decision, then and now." "So you made it for both of us. I like to make my own decisions." "Fine. I'm leaving at seven in the morning." He didn't expect her to set him up once again so cleverly, to trap him into leaving. By the time he got in his car, he was so furious for ending what could have been a shot at rekindling their relationship he flooded the carburetor, and had to sit there for ten minutes, airing the filter. That's how he noticed a car parked a little further ahead, across the street. It was too far to see whether it was empty, but once he saw a flicker of light, he knew otherwise. He had given up smoking when he was still in the Air Force Academy. Someone sat in that car, watching. He came prepared for an all-night vigil, complete with cigarettes and a lighter. He started his car and drove away but didn't go home. He parked two streets over, doubled back on foot, and used back alleys to weave his way under the staircase of the neighboring house. The stakeout car left at four a.m. Ten minute later, bone-weary but mentally sharp, he left his lookout post. He slept for an hour, woke up and spent an hour in the dark shower, under a lukewarm waterfall, reflecting and analyzing everything that happened for the last twenty-four hours, and then jumped in his car again. He made it to her place with two minutes to spare.
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Chapter Ten
"You lied,” she said as he drove north on the Interstate 101, heading for Boonville. “You don't even use a chisel. You just gave up shaving." He murmured something and flashed a rueful grin. Three minutes later, she shocked him by saying quietly, “We're being followed." He knew they were, ever since they had passed San Rafael. He didn't want to bring it up or the night vigil in her neighborhood. "Can you lose them, Nick?" "Sure, I'm a pilot driving a car.” He didn't realize what he said until he said it and froze. How would she take it? She didn't know he was Air Force. He was a journalist, ten years ago and now. "We could have hired a chopper, but I'm not working an assignment. Barbara would question my expense report, and I can't afford five-hundred dollars an hour on my salary.” She interpreted it innocently enough. "You didn't change much at all,” he commented, “or maybe you changed in a way I wanted to see." "We're colleagues, Nick." He sighed. “Sure, Seah. Old friends. So when's the happy occasion? That's one thing Rita couldn't tell me." "He's switched lanes now, but he's still following us." "You don't want to talk about it. That's interesting. A milestone event like that, you should be waxing poetic about marriage and life in the happy lane." "Did you get married?" He pursed his lips in admiration. She was good at turning the tables. "Nope." "Why not?" "No one wanted to be my domestic slave." "You're a better cook than I am. There are three women out there who used to be my roommates who would swear to that." "I guess I couldn't find anyone who liked my chili as much as you and your roommates did." "How about a serious relationship?" "One was more than enough to cure me.” He tightened his lips and thought, let's see if you're going to ask which one. "So, where exactly have you been these past ten years?" "In Europe mostly, sunning on the Riviera." "I'm impressed. Wish I could afford that kind of lifestyle." "You haven't done badly. You've got a job with a lot of prestige and flexibility and a man you're going to marry who'll make you happy." "Shut up. It's more than you would have ever been capable of." "You never wanted to find out what I was capable of other than.... “He still couldn't bring himself to say it. Relationships broke up all the time, with or without reason. However, to be told that you were used, and the woman you loved had kept you around for eight months because of sex—and when she had no more use even for that, erased you—was hell on his ego. She couldn't have picked a worse thing to shout at him back then—or a more painful reason because he was in love with her. "I'm sorry,” she shocked him with a quiet apology. He didn't expect to hear it. "Seah,” his voice caught. He had to clear it. “I won't bring it up again, but it's something I've got to know. Colleagues and old friends, I promise, but I have to know. Was it all ... was that all you stayed for, experimenting with sex because it was so new to you ... using me...?” He feared to continue because he felt he might start to shout. "For sex,” she supplied. "Yeah. I guess that's what I'm asking." "What if I say it was?" He gripped the steering wheel so hard the horn bleeped. “Dammit, don't play games. It shouldn't matter to you, one way or the other, not if it's the truth." "He's three car-lengths behind us." "Seah, please, I need to know." "Why? What good it'll do now? It serves no purpose to rehash the past. It's over." Maybe, he thought, but I need to know because for me it was never over. “I want to know,” he said. "What do you want me to say, Nick?" "Did I ever mean anything else to you than just ... just an experiment?" "An escapade, adventure, a quest for good sex and experience,” she corrected. “It was good while it lasted." "The sex?” He gripped the wheel again but had no more fury to make the horn bleep. “That, too,” she said. "You're not going to tell me the truth, are you?" "No." He let the stale air out of his lungs. Well, at least he got some kind of truth. Not a true answer, but truth nevertheless. In a sense, it was just as well she wouldn't tell him. Maybe he shouldn't know. Maybe he didn't want to because this way there was still hope, because if there wasn't hope, all that would be left was a single bullet somewhere out there—with his name. * * * * They left the car parked behind a local gas station and walked to a nice, gray-and-white stucco bungalow on Mutual Street. He was good at losing ‘tail’ but whoever followed them in a blue car was no amateur either. Half an hour outside of Boonville, he dodged two transport trucks and saw the blue car wedge between them—and get stuck. He took the next exit, clearing the median barrier by less than six inches, and shot up the ramp. He spent ten anxious seconds on a wrong-way stretch of the ramp that took him back down to the Interstate. He fitted the car between two transport trucks and traveled protected in an enclave for a while, before he took the next exit. This time he scraped by a stack of water-filled barrels and down the ramp to cruise an intricate underpass network. At sixty miles an hour, he was surprised he was able to read the signs, which exit would take him onto a local road to Lakeport. A mile further, he made a sudden sharp turn for Boonville. They took a five-minute tour of the town then returned to find the Mutual Street. He drove slowly by number sixty-six, a gray-stucco bungalow with a carport, a red-cobbled walkway and crushed-limestone landscaping. A couple of minutes later, when he saw a gas station, he filled up on gas, parked the car off to a side and they walked back to Mutual Street. "You're good at losing tails, so you're probably just as good at pursuit,” she mumbled, walking beside him. “Did you pick up such skills on the Riviera or in Kosovo?" He remembered the Kosovo part of his cover story and shook his head, non-committal. "You don't want to talk about it.” She smirked. "No.” He could tell the truth as well as she. Two hours later, they sat in a small snack bar, next door to the gas station, comparing impressions. "He's no family left. He's an old, lonely man who retired into an empty house. He's lost his objectivity. He wants company, that's why he surfs the Net. His story's just fantasy,” he said when the waitress brought them coffee and toasted bagels. "Come on, Nick, he's sixty years old and he is lonely, but I don't think Bert Murphy's into fantasy. He's an accountant. They don't get fanciful, no matter how old. He started with the Prahms-Bristol when the company was still run by Helen Bristol's father. He's been with them for more than thirty years. He's a loyal employee, almost part owner of the company. When he said the Prahms-Bristol was forced into bankruptcy because Helen refused to heed a warning, that's exactly what he meant." "Bristol was awarded a government contract to design and manufacture electrical systems for aircraft, commercial and military, as a special case, a disadvantaged business. The Air Force has a division that looks after such situations. Bristol's a small, high-specialized company, headed by a woman—that's why it got the contract. The Defense Department authorized such initiative. I'm sure the Navy has a similar division, looking to award contracts to small businesses, as means of assistance,” he said. "Murphy didn't say there was something wrong with the contract, Nick. He said he saw two military types, dressed in good business suits, visit Helen once or twice a week and after each such visit, she was unhappy. They scared her, but she was a fighter, like her father. That was two years ago. Murphy's not just Helen's accountant, he's her friend, a father figure." "Helen had a nervous breakdown, and a year later Murphy's wife died, so he found himself retiring into an empty house. That's enough to unhinge anyone. The stuff about Helen showing him cards stamped with salamanders is a cry for help. He saw your message inquiry on the Net, it struck his fancy and suddenly he has a reason to live, spin fantasies that'll bring him company,” he said. "Two years ago, however, Murphy's wife was still alive. He was fifty-eight, had a job and didn't need to worry or fantasize. He intended to work for another five, ten years. Helen needed him. He didn't strike me as senile, just lonely and maybe scared. He's worried about Helen far more than he's worried about himself." "As people grow older, they worry about everything,” he said and knew it wouldn't convince her. Then again, he wasn't sure he should be trying to convince her that Murphy was a crackpot. It unsettled him to realize that without breaking a single rule, he was in the middle of the recent F-16 crash situation. Bolton had worried about it so much he had warned him not to interfere with the internal guys heading the investigation. He reminded him what could happen if he once again nosed into territory outside of his jurisdiction, as it happened ten years ago, when Harding from Contracts accused him interfering without sanction. This time, Cunningham said to be super-careful when dealing with Special Investigations that kept blocking the Security Police from the issue. Only the SI had the authority to collect and analyze information on the F-16 crash. However, their findings were supposed to be made available to the Security Police who'd then try to determine whether the crash happened as a result of failure of one of their industrial security programs. This is how the system worked. Cunningham said it wasn't working well enough because the SI kept bottling the information at Edwards. That was why he had paid them a visit. He had just returned from an overseas assignment. Cunningham felt it was to his advantage. It would make the Special Investigations figure that the Security Police didn't know what to do with Anderson and since they had to provide meaningful work for him, he was given a ‘nuisance’ assignment, to keep him busy. It was precisely what they thought when he came to Edwards Base, that he was a ‘floater’ and didn't pay much attention to him. Except one person did pay attention, and he should have been the last person to do it because he had lived in retirement for the past five years. The F-16 crash was his primary assignment. He took a break and went to visit the CIA in San Diego, when Cunningham said that Ted Vanderhoffen was an old friend, collecting new historical data for him about a similar crash that occurred in Nevada twenty-three years ago. By the time he asked Cunningham for permission to make a detour to investigate ‘an old historical flag’ Vanderhoffen's analyst caught, Bolton knew about his Base visits, because he was ready with a timely warning. Was it normal for a retiree to be so well attuned to what was going on in the workplace he left five years ago? It looked like Bolton had left his back door ajar. He was still open for contracts and consulting jobs. Maybe it was normal, maybe.... "Murphy believes Helen was being intimidated to recall her bid for the Air Force contract,” he heard her say and refocused. "He also said Helen was the type of manager who sought divine guidance from psychics,” he murmured. "He's an accountant, Nick. That's how he probably interpreted those cards Helen showed him. He thought they were tarot or such stuff. She'd called them ‘unfortunate calling cards,’ but she wasn't hysterical or superstitious, just nervous, scared. That's probably why she showed them to him. He's her family, a trusted advisor. She's in a psychiatric facility now, but Murphy said she's a fighter. She went after the contract and won it. It saved her company from having to lay off its workforce. And no matter how much those cards scared her, she didn't back down." "No, she didn't back down, she went broke. Bristol went into bankruptcy a week after the F-16 crash. Now, that's mighty fast for a company to fail. When the auditors finally come to padlock the doors, it usually means there's been financial trouble for some time." "Murphy said the company went bankrupt the same week as he found nine cards in Helen's files. That's three more than he remembered her showing him. Nine cards, Nick, with printed instructions on how to withdraw her tender. Wouldn't you call that the Salamander Protocol?" "Seah, the man wanted company, anyone to talk to. The Salamander Protocol, hell, it sounds like line dancing in a zoo. Blackmailers are normally mirthless—and ruthless people. They don't play charades with lizards or leave behind instructions printed on a deck of cards." She frowned. “Nick, he wasn't talking about blackmailers. Intimidation and coercion is different from blackmail. These people don't want money. They want you off the field, out of the game. If you refuse, they take you out. They wanted Helen to withdraw her bid, knowing her business was going to be favored by the Air Force. The government intentions may be good, but they're bound to generate resentment among competition, regular companies who don't have small or disadvantaged designation." "You spent ten years, trying to break the secret of the Salamander Protocol,” he mumbled, not looking at her. "And you think I've grown so desperate that I'd even consider tarot cards, painted with salamanders, if it would promise to...." "Seah, Murphy may have read those instructions for withdrawing Helen's tender, but he also said Helen told him she immersed the ‘unfortunate calling cards’ in a mixture of water and baking soda to dissolve the incriminating evidence—as per instructions. Don't you think it's little convenient to ‘remember seeing’ but not being able to produce hard evidence?" "Maybe, but I don't think Bert Murphy's crazy. I believe him." "The man showed us nine makeshift cardboard cards, printed with dancing lizards—otherwise empty. For all I know, he could have made them himself, a hobby he picked up when he retired." "The Salamander Protocol exists. It was printed on those cards. There would be many such sets, printed with different instructions—custom-tailored for each company that was either forced into receivership or otherwise destroyed. Twenty-three years ago, I sat on a wood block, in a dusty cabin in the woods, listening to a conversation. They brought radios and electronic equipment for monitoring tower chatter and air traffic. They thought Dad wasn't complying fast enough. One of them wanted to go back to the Base, snoop around. He had clearance. He had to be a mechanic. He worried Dad might bring in the FBI. The leader at first wouldn't let him go. He said he had to first check-in with the Soobrian lizards. The Salamander Protocol was precise, rigid. It had to be followed. Dad ignored all nine steps of the Protocol. The Soobrian lizards would not tolerate such defiance. The leader let the mechanic go. He went to our house, to check for cops, and came back. The leader asked whether the test was still scheduled for fifteen hundred. When the man confirmed, the leader said Dad had followed the Salamander Protocol, down to its last step, because if he hadn't, they'd have canceled the test. I fell asleep. When I woke up I heard the leader say Dad had done it and that they'd read about it in the papers, the next day. That the Fitz & Wynd were finished and so was Roberts. The bidding was once again opened to all interested parties. "Like Bristol, the Fitz & Wynd were Air Force contractors. They went bankrupt the next day. The Air Force saw to it, I suppose." He stared at her, feeling hot and cold at once. What made the truth come out now, after twenty-three years? She had probably overheard more but what she already told him would have been more than sufficient for the Special Investigations to focus in the right direction. It would have been also more than enough for the therapists to map out a program that would see her live a normal life, without guilt and the need to constantly punish herself for things that were out of her control. Ten years ago, it would have been enough for him to leave a lot sooner than he did because Cunningham would have assigned him to investigate the Salamander Protocol. It just came out. Why? Was Murphy's silly story about salamander cards the password that had unlocked her memories? "Why did you tell me this now?" "The timing was right, I guess.” She blinked and dissolved her introspection. “You won't tell me who you are, and Sam won't tell me what else he is other than a career journalist. I could have handled one player, but not both of you." "One of us has to leave.” He realized why she finally ‘remembered'. "Twenty-three years ago I didn't want to speak. Ten years ago I felt the same but you came and I almost wanted to bring out my memories. Then you left...." "I didn't leave,” he said emphatically. She smiled in a way one might smile at funerals, through tears that'd sit and pool, until she used a tissue, tears that wouldn't be allowed to flow freely down her cheeks. She still sat in a dusty cabin in the woods, hands free but not rising to pull down her blindfold. "Sorry. I made you leave. You were after something I didn't want to share. You'd have left if I'd given it to you. When I couldn't stand the uncertainty, I decided for both of us." "So this is goodbye, Nick, again.” He felt the acid rise in his throat. He figured she'd banished him because she was no longer consumed with revenge against Bill Chalmers. He wanted to help the woman he loved come to terms with her painful past, so the two of them could have a future. He almost called Cunningham to resign his commission, end his job. He was just trying to figure out how to tell Bolton, when she made the decision—for both of them. "You have what you wanted ten years ago. Take it, don't bother to keep in touch.” She must have tried to sneer and ended up grimacing, as if pained. "You were wrong back then, and you're wrong now. I'm not facing off with you. I'm standing beside you. That's what I always wanted. I know women aren't supposed to be good at reading the signals from the sidelines, but you misread them so badly it makes me want to wring your neck." "Who are you, Nick?” she asked quietly, as if saying a prayer. He imagined her asking Sam the same question, in the same graveyard manner. “I'm Colonel Nicholas Dwayne Anderson of the United States Department of the Air Force, with the Office of the Security Police.” He broke all the rules at once and waited for something. Maybe a roar of godly wrath delivered by a Hornet on the tip of a Sidewinder missile, maybe Bolton's voice telling him he was yesterday's mail, about to be shredded. "Jesus! Nick...?" He dropped his gaze and saw that unaware, he was tapping the coffee cup's rim in a relaxed ditty. “How do you do, Ms. Roberts? It's a long way to Mendocino. Let's get going.” He tapped one last time, faster, rose and searched his pockets for change to leave a tip She sat in the booth, staring ahead. “Seah, let's go before the car that's tailing us finds us again." She shook her head. “It doesn't matter. I was right. I had nothing to lose back then and now. That's all you're after. Just that I thought you were unfriendly ... not to be trusted. Except you're the government. Of course, why didn't I think of that?" "I'm the Air Force, not exactly the government, but I guess it's close enough.” He didn't like her reasoning. He was government therefore she would trust him. She'd do her citizen's duty and nothing else. "My father was in the Air Force, but he was an engineer." "I know. Let's go." "Of course you'd know everything. It's your job." It took all of his composure not to grab her shoulders, bring her up and kiss her with passion that had lived imprisoned inside him far too long. "Seah, let's get going. You can interrogate me in the car all you want." "The Air Force sent you to shadow me in college.” Her memory would not quit the horrible analysis. "Yes. Let's go." "It was no accident, running into you by that fire hydrant." "It was an accident. You didn't see the fire hydrant, and I didn't want to see it. That's why I parked my truck beside it. Come on, let's get moving." "And making love to me was part of the plan." He knew this is where she was heading and dreaded it. "Let's go or I'll carry you out of here." "You're not going to answer me, are you?" "No.” Just hours ago he was in her position, asking a question to which he feared to hear an answer. "Maybe it's better that I don't know. I shouldn't want to anyway. It serves no purpose now." "It shouldn't matter to you, one way or the other. You're going to marry the man you love. He'll make you happy. It doesn't matter what happened ten years ago.” He wanted her to rise and walk out. He couldn't stand any more of the horrible interrogation. Not when he wanted to shout at her that he fell in love with her ten years ago and today, he was even more desperate to have her. “Do you know Sam? Is he also with the government?" "No. My information package says he's a journalist. He's not with the government, mine or yours, and even if he was I'm not in a habit of slicing my wrists twice in any given century." "Then who is he? If you're with the government, you'd have connections, and you could find out." "I charge for that kind of service, even old friends and colleagues.” He was pissed off with himself that he didn't know how to stop her questions. "Of course. Sure, I mean...." He took her elbow, spun her around and pushed her ahead of him. “Christ, Seah, you drove me insane ten years ago, and the situation's not improved. Sometimes, you can be such an idiot...." * * * * "Dwayne?” She said when they were already heading for Mendocino. He glanced in the side view mirror, checking, but their tail appeared to be clear. "What's wrong with Dwayne?” He suppressed a sigh. "It doesn't suit you." "Most people call me Nick. You didn't seem to have any problem with that, then and now." "Colonel Anderson then.” It sounded as if she was trying to come to terms with something. He just didn't know what it was—whether it was his past or their present situation. "People normally salute when they have to call me that so I'd advise you not to get into the habit." "You were done with schooling when you came to Berkeley." Ah, he thought, you're settling your head. That's bad news. But actually, it's more like I was done with life when I left, or rather when you threw me out. Schooling was never much of an issue for me. Less or more, I would've traveled either road just to remain beside you. "I enjoyed my year at Berkeley,” he said. It was true, but she wouldn't believe him anyway. "In addition to how many more that you've already spent in academic institutions?" "A few." "Where?" "Colorado mostly but I also done schooling in Washington D.C. Most jobs these days require you to keep up with the new developments and that means never ending studies." "I've done a year in San Diego, La Jolla campus, but I didn't finish my Master's." "I know." She turned. He felt her stare at his profile. “Did you keep track of me after you were recalled?" Oh, so she figured that one all by herself, clever, clever. “Seah, let's get something perfectly straight. You told me to get out of your life at the top of your lungs. I complied. And that's the truth.” He knew she wouldn't believe him but the truth had a way of burrowing under people's skin and eventually it would get into their blood. Then they'd have no choice but to believe. At least that's what he hoped would happen. His assignment was canceled but he wouldn't have gone if she hadn't kick him out. He would've taken a vacation, a sabbatical maybe, and stayed as long as it took both of them to figure out what they wanted and where to do it—together. "You were on assignment. I was your assignment,” she said suddenly with cool, journalistic objectivity. "Yes." "I played into your hands. It was what you wanted." There was no way of answering with lies. Truth, however, would see her turn even more distant, business-like. "The fire hydrant was an accident. I just happened to be there because I couldn't find any other place to park the truck. What happened to you with Bill Chalmers was not planned, not by me and not by you. It may have been planned by him, but not in a way it turned out. My assignment was to get you to remember, but I'm not such a bad investigator that it would take me eight months to figure out that I couldn't get you to do it." "You have my memories, Nick. There's no need to play the game." He felt like slamming on the brakes to send both of them through the windshield, since neither of them had buckled-up. "Put on your seat-belt,” he said. “You're a journalist. Use your analytical skills. I could have refused your desperate request for service. You were confused and hurt. You felt betrayed and wanted revenge on the man you thought you loved. What you needed far more than a lover was a friend, the kind who'd let you cry on his shoulder. That would have been a logical approach for an investigator. Normally, I'm very logical, or I wouldn't have survived in the Air Force." She must have puzzled over what he said all the way to Mendocino because she didn't say anything. When he parked the car in a lot across the street from the apartment where her second Internet contact lived, she got out still steeped in thought. "It was good while it lasted,” she nodded as if affirming it for herself. "It never finished for me,” he said quietly, and was almost relieved to see her pretend she didn't hear him.
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Chapter Eleven
It was eight o'clock. He was tempted to ask her if he should take a detour to the seashore. She looked preoccupied. He decided that he didn't want to piss her off—or deal with rejection. They had a productive day, comforting a lonely old man and humoring a graduate student in Mendocino who told them the Salamander Protocol was a computer virus that could not just disable company's functional operations, but altogether remove the business’ name from the Yellow Pages. They went through a tank of gas. He had to fill-up if they were to make it back to San Francisco tonight. "What's wrong? Why are you turning your head so much?” She must have seen him glancing at the road signs. "We're running on fumes. I'm taking the next exit to gas-up." She leaned over to look at the gas gauge. It forced him to press his back against the seat and move his head. That was how he caught a glimpse of the blue car in the side view mirror. He was sure it wasn't there just a few minutes ago, when he had checked. Whoever was following them knew where they'd been. He cursed himself for being inattentive. "Seah, do you remember that place we went to once, along the Sonoma Coast?” Without turning his head he knew her expression stiffened. "This is a business trip, Nick." "Whoever's following us means business, too, I'm sure." "Shit! I thought we lost him ... long time ago." "So did I,” he confessed, unhappy to admit it. “I want to try something. We're low on gas, but I think we can still make it across and down to that place. It was around Jenner I think." "It was." "The reason I asked whether you remember is that I think there was a motel and a gas station nearby." "It's been ten years, Nick. Neither might still be there." "I'm willing to risk it. I can't think of anything else." "What do you want to do?" "Find out who's tailing us." The motel was there, the gas station was just north of it, on the same side, within walking distance. He pulled beside a gas pump and honked the horn. "This is a self-serve, Nick,” she said. "We have car problems." Just then an attendant came out of the shack attached to a garage workshop. Ten minutes later, they walked across the paved back lot to see if the rustic restaurant, part of the roadside service complex, had a menu. Once inside, they barely glanced to see if the menu had potential then walked out through the back door and crossed the dirt strip dividing the roadside amenities from accommodations. They registered in the motel office, picked up a key and went to the room that faced the gas station. The manager was reluctant to give them the room because he said the air-conditioning had been turned off for some time and the room smelled stuffy. "I don't mind, dear. Do you?” He turned to her. "Not at all, mister. Whatever you pay for is just fine with me,” she said with a passable southern drawl and walked out. The manager just tipped his brows at him and smiled. "What if he didn't see us turn off?” she asked, looking out the window at the gas station. "He was behind, don't worry. I made sure he saw us turn for the coast." "But what if he didn't see us pull into the gas station?" "You were watching your VISA card printed. I watched the road. The car cruised by. He saw us." "There's nothing wrong with my car and I'm still going to have to pay ... for something." "You could have waited until I took out my credit card." "I don't need your charity." "Then stop complaining and watch the gas station while I go take a shower.” He knew it would make her suspicious. "Why do you need to take a shower?" He sighed. “Because I'm tired, dirty, and don't like my own smell. If I'm to keep an all night vigil by the window, I want to feel fresh. The shower will do it.” He saw she didn't like his logical explanation. She didn't want to be in a motel room with him. She feared memories. "Who do you think it is?” She asked just as he was stepping into the washroom. "You can come in here and I'll entertain you with theories as I shower." "I'm supposed to watch the gas station." "Then do so and quit asking me to gaze into a crystal ball.” He pushed the door harder than he meant to and it shut with a bang, instead of just a click. The moment he touched the soap the memories came. For ten years he had showered in pitch-black washrooms, always alone. It made the women he'd locked out frustrated. Sometimes it was enough to make them leave. Maybe that's why he did it. Deep down, however, he knew he did it to bring back what he wanted, if only for the few minutes it took to wash. He had spent hours with her, showering in a pitch-black washroom. Making love in the dark, standing up, was strangely erotic. She let him turn on the lights when it was time to shave. He'd plug the electric shaver into an outlet and guide it over his face while she'd come to wrap her hands around his waist, face pressed between his shoulder blades. "You ought to try it with a blindfold,” she'd murmur and he'd feel a huge sigh ripple against his back. "How about therapy, Seah?" "There's nothing to gain by therapy. I don't remember anything." "You remember being blindfolded." "That's about it." "I like your blind man's touch,” he'd whisper when her hands started to move across his stomach. "You may like it, but I know that you think it's quirky. Still, I believe you." "Making love to you is not quirky." "Likewise." "You never make love to me.” The pressure between his shoulder blades would vanish. Her hand across his stomach would leave a trail of comforting touch, growing cold. Tonight, there was no reason for him to shave. Times and things had changed. He couldn't pretend they haven't. Still, he dried himself in the dark then he flicked the lights on. He looked in the square mirror with chipped edges. His significant part was erect. There's no one out in the room, he thought and dressed. He opened the washroom door and walked into an empty room. Damn! He ran to the window and saw a streak of white t-shirt. Darkness had the transparent quality of a beautiful summer night. It was the only reason why he still saw her. He almost tackled her when he caught up with her in the back lot. "What are you doing?” he hissed and forced her down on her knees behind a stack of wooden crates that might have been the dumping containers for the restaurant. "Let me go. The car pulled into the station. I saw it.” She tried to point and he forced her hand down, pinning it by her side. "I can see myself. Don't advertise yourself like a billboard. The only other thing that could be worse is if you wore a glow-in-the-dark shirt.” He grabbed a handful of her white t-shirt. He made his point. "Sorry, I just wanted to see ... who's inside. He's just sitting in the car, not getting out." "I can see that, too, and I distinctly remember telling you to keep a watch and wait." "I just wanted to ... when I saw the car,” she murmured, lowering her head. He knew that if he pulled her under the light her face would be flushed red. She was embarrassed by her impulse. Then again she was always impulsive. A prime example of it was her request for sex-service from a total stranger to ‘punish’ Chalmers. "Stay here. I'll circle around the back and see who it is. He's parked in front of the restaurant. Obviously, he must think we're inside. That's the impression we wanted to leave. It worked. Now, stay here." "What if you won't know who it is?" "That's a possibility, but I can always find out later, during a follow-up." "I might know him ... or her." He wore a long-sleeved dark denim shirt. He seldom wore short sleeves, even in tropical climates. Long sleeves offered more flexibility. They could be rolled up if he was hot or rolled down if the mosquitoes were on a warpath. "Here, put this on, if you're coming with me we can't have you glowing in the dark.” He took off his shirt quickly and forced her hands into it before she could protest. "But that leaves you naked.” She sounded so confused he laughed again though what he wanted to do was neither funny nor safe. "Not quite. The most important parts are well covered. By that I mean my feet. Now, stay behind me and don't run into anything. Obey signs at all times. That's an order." "Yes, sir." She was a good soldier—until they made it close enough to see the car and its driver. He covered her mouth roughly with one hand and dragged her backwards then lifted her off the ground and carried her back behind the crates. "What did I tell you...?” He breathed hard, his hand still cupped tightly on her mouth. He was furious. She shook her head and he removed his hand. “It's Sam in the blue car. It's not his car, but that's him. He's supposed to be in Vancouver." "Maybe he's lost,” he mumbled cynically. She didn't even hear it. "He wants to find out where I keep my suitcase. That's what his two-week assignment is about. There may be a Rafael connection somewhere, but that's not the reason why he left." * * * * They returned to the motel room. He needed time to think, call Jean-Jacques. Unfortunately, that would have to wait. He couldn't use the phone in the room, and a public phone was where Sam kept watch in his blue sedan. Seabring's cell phone was just for ordering Chinese takeout, and his ... well, he didn't bring along the scrambler. "So, why's your fiancé so much in love with your suitcase? What do you keep in it?" "Stop saying that." "What?" "Never mind." "Then answer me.” He remembered seeing a battered brown suitcase ten years ago. Back then he had thought it was just a part of her college life. He used to have a knapsack in the academy, handed down to him by his grandfather. He thought it was the case with her suitcase. Her father's Alma matter was the University of Oklahoma. "Research, articles, journals, stuff I compiled over the years." There had to be more, otherwise she'd not have taken such pains to hide it from Sam. "What kind of research and articles?” He leaned on the window frame, his head pressed against his hands, and watching the blue sedan in the brightly lit parking lot. "About companies that went bankrupt in suspicious circumstances. Something like Lilly Simmons told us." Lilly Simmons was the graduate student from Mendocino. She was stressed-out, doing her Master's degree in information systems. She said the Salamander Protocol was a ‘multitasking’ computer virus that killed at least three companies, one of them the Taranco-Tynken Engineering Services of San Francisco, where Lilly worked for six months on contract. She said she didn't want to post such news on the Net, that's why her message said it was a password. "Lilly Simmons is in the habit of holding down two jobs while taking enough courses per semester to kill an elephant,” he said, half turning his head, “I would be very discriminating about anything that kind of stressed-out source gives me." "Why don't you want to believe that the Salamander Protocol exists?" Because I want you to tell me everything you know, give me everything you have and then I want you locked up in a fallout shelter for as long as it takes me to wrestle this invisible ogre into submission, he thought. I don't want you involved. Not then, and not now. "I believe something exists. But I'm not as eager as you to jump to conclusions.” He heard the bed creak behind him. Therefore she must have gone to sit down. "You're no better than Sam." "I take it that's a compliment." "I didn't expect you to take it any other way. You want to find out what I remember, what I keep in the suitcase, and then you'll put me under a diving bell somewhere where I can't move, can't see, where I can't do a thing. You want me out of it. Sam wants me out of it, too, but at least it's taken him two years to reach a point where he's tailing me because he's run out of options." "Are you saying that Sam has seniority over me?" "I'm just a target. That's what I've been all these years. When I was a child and when I ran into you by the fire hydrant." "People who won't leave well enough alone eventually manage to become targets,” he said roughly. “Why are you still obsessed with the Salamander Protocol? Why keep journals and collect articles when you know that it serves no purpose? Oh yeah,” he raised his voice even though she didn't speak up, “there's no purpose to your obsessive research since you can't tell me what you would do if you found something more than just circumstantial evidence." "I was wrong, Nick. You're much better than Sam. He's not this clever, though I have to say he's as determined as you are. There's a purpose to my obsessive research. There always was." "Let me guess. You want to find your father's killer. It's revenge that's driving your quest for truth. You want to uncover a conspiracy that has lain dormant for twenty-three years...." She surprised him. “Not at all. The Salamander Protocol is not about conspiracy. It's not about espionage either. It's just a patented name for a method used. There's a company, a tightly knit, well-run organization. I don't know what it's called, but it exists within the Soobrian Standards infrastructure. The Soobrian serves as a front for the other, hidden service that the company ‘offers’ to targeted clients it finds by normal means—in press and publications." He couldn't afford to turn around and to lose sight of the blue sedan but what she said.... "Seah, you don't know what you're into. This isn't about your father, and it's not a game." "It's about my father, but only because I still can't decide whether he was a conspirator or a victim. I know you think I remember more. You're right. But I'm not going to tell you. Not because I want you to stay, but because I won't give up my story. That's what the Salamander Protocol has been to me these past ten years. I have an edge. I know something about the history because I was its victim. This is my story and when I'm ready, I'll present my hard evidence." "Hard evidence!” He turned and took a step toward her. “You have evidence? Seah, all these years you kept evidence that you...? Dear God, woman, don't you know what can happen to you? You kept evidence of what?” He ended up shouting and saw her shrink back on the bed, moving all the way to the headboard. "You're supposed to be watching Sam." He clenched his hands, forcing as much calm into his voice as he could. "Your father and brother were killed. Two more people died in the F-16 crash twenty-three years ago. Your father's work was compromised. His engine design was mothballed and hasn't received a pardon since, though many people felt it should have. The design was not to blame. Your father sabotaged the test flight. He had to. Kidnappers held his children. As a child, you could have shed light on what happened, but didn't. You were traumatized. The doctors agreed. Twenty-three years later you still suffer the same nightmare and you're telling me that you not only remember what happened, but have evidence ... kept it...?" She crawled under covers and moments later he heard her sob. Evidence, he thought, turning back to watch the car. The Special Investigations combed the cabin for weeks, looking for evidence. They found nothing. Not even footprints in the dust though there was plenty of dust, all of it strangely smoothed, settled as if a quirky housekeeper had been at work. Cunningham gave him all the transcripts of the investigation before he sent him to shadow Miss Roberts on the Berkeley campus. A truck driver heading to Bakersfield had almost ran her over when she bolted out of the woods. Her eyes were open but she didn't see anything, neither could she speak. She remained catatonic for two years, while therapists tried to break her silence. The Special Investigations team, together with the local sheriff and his troops discovered the bodies of Tom Roberts and his four-year old son, lying twenty feet outside of the cabin. The cabin had been swept in a curious manner where dust was smoothed, spread out, shaken, and indeed arranged all over. Tom Roberts was shot inside the cabin. His son died from a head-trauma, a blow sustained in a fall. He, too, had died inside the cabin. The father and son died within minutes of each other. Why were the bodies not left inside? Why were they moved, and so far outside—more than twenty feet—then neatly laid out on a stretch of dry grass, side by side, unnaturally? The kidnappers had nothing to gain by moving the bodies outside. Cunningham said the kidnappers left quickly, leaving behind the blindfolded girl and the bodies of her father and brother. The girl must have sat there until she couldn't hear anything then removed her blindfold. The cabin was hidden in a clump of woods but it stood on a hill. From there, the dirt road snaked down through some pretty rocky terrain, nevertheless open. The girl would not have been lost in the woods. The truck driver who almost ran her over came upon her just before midnight. The highway was only a ten-minute walk from the cabin. Would she know the kidnappers planned to return and that's why she left so quickly, why she ran? Probably not. However, the kidnappers returned and moved the bodies of her father and brother outside. Why? Why risk returning to do something so ... so unnecessary? That's what bothered Cunningham. The kidnappers returned to make sure all the evidence of their stay had vanished. It was the obvious answer ... except not only Cunningham but also Anderson knew that the obvious answers were most often wrong. The kidnappers came back to find something. It wasn't the girl. The first time they left they were thorough, removing all their equipment and telltale marks of their presence from the cabin. Or did they? Tom Roberts was shot with his own gun. His son fell and hit his head on the stone fireplace. No food remnants were found in the cabin. If the kidnappers ate or brought food for the children, it came in take-out cartons or brown bags and left with them. What then did they come back for? And what prompted them to do the kind of housekeeping that saw dust spread out and smoothed everywhere, even where previously there was no dust? Evidence, he groaned inwardly, the seven-year old girl may have been in shock, but it didn't last two years. She must have removed her blindfold after the kidnappers left and ran to her father's body on the floor. Is that where she picked up hard evidence? It never occurred to her doctors and therapists that the child could be protecting herself by refusing to speak. She was in shock, and the trauma was real, but it didn't last two years. She spent two days in the cabin. She overheard the kidnappers discussing many things. Her seven-year old mind wouldn't understand much of what she overheard but children had good memories. Miss Roberts had an excellent memory, twenty-three years ago and now. Hard evidence! Dear God, it had taken twenty-three years of nightmares for her to confess, and for him ten years of dancing across floating icebergs to hear it. "Seah?" "Yes." "Sam left his car. I have to run over. I won't be long. Whatever happens, don't come after me. Do you understand?" "Like I said, I can't face off with both of you,” she whispered. "Fine, don't,” he said, and ran out the door. * * * * He ran quietly, using shadows for cover. He had to search Sam's car. He had finally stepped out and gone into the restaurant, maybe to see who was inside, maybe to use the washroom. Either way, he'd return soon enough. Well, he only needed thirty seconds to take a look. He crouched low and opened the front passenger door. The light came on the moment he cracked the door open, but that couldn't be helped. He opened the glove compartment, stuck his hand inside and brought out a gun. He almost whistled when he turned it over. It was a 0.357 Magnum, nine rounds ready to fit into a chamber and two full clips in the glove compartment. He's sure well armed, he thought, putting it back and quietly closing the flap. He might have chosen it for an assignment where he wouldn't want to leave any evidence behind.
You're not much different from Sam. He remembered what she said. Well, maybe she was right. Maybe he wasn't. Maybe they were both following orders. Just that Sam was probably more ruthless. He'd not question his orders. He would not break the rules. He returned to the room, pulled a chair and sat down by the window. Sam, too, kept a vigil at the gas station until the morning. At seven o'clock, the blue sedan pulled out and he saw it move very leisurely down the street. Seabring woke up and he remembered that she wasn't a morning person. "Good morning. Let's get your car back,” he said and left the room. Ten minutes later, she kept tightening her mouth as she studied her VISA bill. She said she'd drive the rest of the way. He didn't argue. It was her car. No one tailed them on the way home. He saw her looking in the rear-view mirror all the way until they pulled in front of her house. "I'll walk home,” he said, since he knew she'd have asked him where in Pacific Heights he lived had she wanted to drop him off first. She just nodded. She took a day off to work at home and rest. Rita told him she'd go visit her after work. He spent the day at work, fighting an urge to phone her just to hear her voice. When he came home, the urge followed him. Evidence. Evidence. The word kept running through his head. Ten years ago, he wasn't after evidence. He was only after her memories, what drove her nightmares. Sam was after the same thing. Today, he was a step ahead of Sam. He sat down and tried to sort a stack of reference material he had brought home and couldn't concentrate on work. The story on the toxic spill was not what he wanted to write. He turned on the TV and for once even sports network couldn't seduce him. He tried to sleep. His eyes closed but the mind kept on running. He rose, took a shower in the dark. It made things worse. At midnight, he went for a ten-minute jog. He stood across the street from her house, watching her window. It stayed dark for the two hours he stood there, feeling like an idiot. The next day he went to the office and worked on the toxic spill story. She came in late, at ten-thirty, with Sanjay following her, shrugging and flapping his arms. She must have been trying to get away from him, but he was obviously not finished airing his grievance. Fifteen minutes later, she stopped at his desk and asked him for coffee. "Sanjay thinks Sam's been browsing through his hard disk,” she said when they sat down in an empty corner of the cafeteria. "Anything's possible,” he agreed, and spread his hands to show her that he wasn't trying to be cynical or patronizing. "The other day, when we went up the coast, Sanjay was looking for something. He didn't tell me what. He went by Sam's desk and saw his password written on a scrap of paper, sticking out of Sam's folder. Well, you know how Sanjay would react to something like that." "Rightfully, too. Copying down a colleague's password without permission is theft,” he said. "Well, Sanjay now thinks Sam's been browsing through his files. Barbara asked him to purge the files off his hard disk, but I think he didn't wipe out the back-up files. Sanjay hates to destroy anything he's done. He's transferred the files to diskette and keeps them at home, but...." "We're talking about the F-16 crash story, right?” Rita told him why Sanjay kept looking at everyone with such wounded eyes and suspicion. "Sanjay wants me to ask Sam, directly." "No. It's not ... wise." "Sanjay won't leave me alone. I mean he's smoldering with suspicion. He's like my shadow, but he won't confront Sam and accuse him outright. He never takes his complaints to their source. He always bitches to an intermediary as if...." "The middleman's usually the one who gets squashed,” he interrupted. "I have to do it,” she sighed. "Where is Sam?" "I don't know. He didn't follow us back home. He's probably keeping an eye on me, day and night." He knew he wasn't because he'd have spotted him when he went out for a jog at one o'clock in the morning and ended up across the street from her apartment. “Did he leave you a phone number where he can be reached?" "A couple. I tried his cell phone. He didn't register in on roaming." "Have you phoned him yet, used those two numbers?" "Both are voice-message, his voice-message." "So you have tried." "I may still be somewhat naive, Nick, but I'm not stupid." "Well, what do you know? Finally, we both agree on something." "I'll let you know if he calls me,” she said, took her coffee and left.
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Chapter Twelve
"The Gulfstream is swinging wide this year.” It was Bolton's voice on the phone. You have no idea how wide Nick thought and said, “It'll be another cold winter. How did the search go?" "I'm here and talking to you.” Bolton sounded cranky. "Why don't you just fax it to me, Mars?” he offered in a neutral tone of voice he knew would infuriate Bolton even more. "Don't get facetious with me, Nick. I just bit into a rotten olive." "Maybe you ought to find another addiction, Mars. How about chocolate ... or sushi?" "Your sense of humor is droll, as always. Here goes. Cora Miller is a talented young woman who's blessed or cursed with looks that make men salivate. She's the type of woman that other women will always find threatening when it comes to their male companions. She's bright, a scholar from Tufts and didn't deserve the bum's rush she got at the Houston Chapter. The Chief Editor's wife there took an exception to her friendly disposition and made sure that Ms. Miller retired from Houston to training grounds in San Francisco." "In other words we're supposed to behave like perfect human beings when it comes to Cora and give her every advantage a trainee deserves to enjoy." "It wouldn't hurt, Nick, that's for sure." "How about Sam Falkner?" There was a silence for a long time. He could almost see Bolton debating the issue with himself, his hand circling above a dish filled with olives. “I'm afraid that part's going to be disappointing, Nick. Sam Falkner is really as ordinary as the fact sheet makes him out to be. I connected with a couple of sources in Akron. While with the Examiner, he was conscientious, worked hard, produced on time but, as you said, his work was unremarkable. The Times gave him a chance precisely because he was steady and reliable and that's what they needed to fill a hole on their staff. He did some volunteer work in the community, participated in organizing events for children, sports, picnics and such, but nothing extraordinary." "No vices, Mars? No faults, frailties, bad habits, addictions...?" There was another long pause, then, “Nick, I think it's time for you to look in the mirror. You may be surprised what you might see there." "You're probably right, Mars, since I haven't shaved yet,” he murmured back, thinking that Bolton didn't used to be so un-cooperative ten years ago. "Ah, so you not only know how to be facetious but sarcastic. Don't loose your objectivity, my boy. That'll take you over the cliff sooner than you'd like. Falkner is her live-in companion. He is her choice. Accept it and get on with your assignment. Don't complicate things again. You spent ten years changing women like most men change socks. She was smarter. She found a partner she likes to keep. Leave her and Falkner's relationship alone and concentrate on your assignment." "Play it by the rules, right Mars?" "You've got it.” Bolton's crisp answer came and then he hung up. Do I? He gritted his teeth. Do I really have what it takes to carry out this assignment according to your rules, Mars? Then again you're already fringing the rules. Are you testing them to see whether they'll hold or are you testing me to see whether I'll buckle again? He sat on the bed for a long time, head bowed down, thinking. Cora Miller was legit and so was Falkner—according to his reference man. He wondered what Mars would have said if he had told him that Falkner liked to travel with four pounds of lethal steel with an Israeli-made stamp and kept it in the glove compartment. I should have pushed Mars a little more, he thought. Hell, he might have come back to tell me that Falkner is a member of a gun club and a world champion target shooter. Maybe even a decathlete. He knew he didn't only because instinct told him it wasn't yet time to goad Mars, push him that far. It also wasn't safe. Well, let's rise and cleanse for another grueling day with the word processing packages, he told himself. He showered, shaved and arrived in the office at the same time as a squad of police cars. Three hours later, after the police questioned him about Sanjay Rahmani, and let him go back to his desk, he went to the washroom and from there walked out to the parking lot. With the police around, he had to look as concerned and confused as his colleagues. When he sat down in his car, he could take off the mask and let his face show its rightful expression—a tightly knit frown of fierce concentration. He took out his cell, plugged in the scrambler and dialed a number in the Keys. He hung up after ten rings when his call wasn't picked up. He was three days early, but he had to try again, later. After all, tomorrow he had to attend a funeral. * * * * "I know I'm calling early but I need information on the New York Times number,” he said quickly and knew such haste would make the party in the Keys draw back and stare at the receiver. Jean-Jacques asked him to repeat the code phrase. "The alligators are stuffed on the shelf. Did you get the information?" "Mon ami, perhaps a drink may be in order. I'm not suggesting anything treacherously reason-stripping but perhaps a glass of wine may settle your nerves." "Only if I spilled a bottle of Valium into it. Less than two weeks with the Daily Chapter in Frisco and I've just come back from a funeral." Jean-Jacques whistled softly. “Whose?" "A colleague, Sanjay Prishnu Rahmani." "Hindu funerals are very ritualistic, full of ancient history and traditions, very emotional, too. I told you I hate funerals. Now why do I feel chilled? It's ninety degrees outside,” Jean-Jacques finished dryly. "He was thirty one years old, in good health and a victim of a car crash. The coroner's verdict is that it was a classic case of drunken driving, an ugly statistic." "Except Hindus don't drink." "Sanjay might have. No one would have said a devout Hindu. Then again, I'm told these things are not necessarily said. They're not even assumed. They're just lived. Still, he was born and raised in San Francisco. He was coming home from a golf tournament, Chapter's own. He may have had a drink or two, though I really don't think he would have been drunk enough not to see a detour sign and go sailing straight into a cement mixer left there by the road works crews." "What was the late journalist working on?” As long he had known Jean-Jacques, he was a practical man. Death was long, life was short and since he was alive he couldn't afford to waste time. He would have plenty of it to waste when he was dead. "The recent F-16 crash out of Edwards. He spent three months on it and was taken off. The story was padlocked. The editor said the military pressured her to kill the story and obliterate all references to it. Bury it." "I get the picture, mon ami. This idealistic Hindu kept his work on a hard disk or on diskettes?" "His hard disk was wiped out. I heard he copied his work on to the diskettes and stored them at home." "His home was ransacked before the golf tournament or after?" He wished Jean-Jacques could see his appreciative smile. “Actually, during. That's what I heard the police say when they questioned me." "You're not working on the issue, mon ami, are you?" "Not at the moment." "I see. However, all roads lead to Mecca and all issues that happen to land in your lap relate to one another. No need to confirm or deny. I've got something on your friend and colleague. I just hope that you won't be disappointed." "He's legit.” He closed his eyes. After all, Bolton had said the same thing to him two days ago. Sam could be legit even if he packed a Magnum in his glove compartment. Quirky, jealous and paranoid didn't necessarily make him a bad guy. "Absolutely." "Thanks. I'll keep in touch...." "Hold on, mon ami. Mr. Samuel V. Falkner quit the New York Times two years ago." "That's about right." "He went to California." "He's here." "But only because his parents moved." "Uhm ... what?" "Mr. Samuel V. Falkner used to be a contributor to the New York Times, into its Square Corner feature, it ran once a week." "What exactly is a Square Corner?" "Sandbox I'd say, a children's corner. The Times runs it once a week in its weekend edition. Mr. Falkner was nine years old and very articulate. His father got a job on the West Coast. Mr. Falkner had no choice but to move with his family. His well-wishing colleagues, most of them three times his age, are under the impression that Mr. Falkner is now a similarly enterprising contributor to the San Francisco Daily Chapter. It's an elegantly set up cover. One of the best I've seen. You could be talking to people at the Times those who worked with Sam and you'd never realize they're talking about a nine-year old boy. They'd also not realize that you're quizzing them about an adult. Such covers last the longest, work like a charm, and can be dissolved without leaving anyone any wiser as to what could have precipitated such confusion." "How come you weren't confused?" "I told you I was taking my ex to dinner. And I did, last night. Had you called, I'd have let you hang up after the legit part. We went for a long ride down the memory lane, children mostly, that's always a safe subject between divorced parents. Gloria's teaching at the University of Miami. I remember once, during a family gathering, she complained about our son to a relative. Ronald is so stubborn about domestic issues. That's what my pedagogue said to her cousin who took it to mean that Ronald Reagan was a stubborn ass when it came to domestic policies. But Gloria was speaking about Ronnie who refused to help around the house with dishes and such. That's what got me thinking. The rest is, as they say, history." "I hope things work out for you and Gloria,” he said sincerely. "They're working out well for Gloria so they can't possibly work out well for me. That's Murphy's Law, but I'm trying, and she's thinking about sailing, though it's the drowning aspect that fascinates her—mine. So, mon ami, should I go on?" "Yes, but I think it's time I tapped my regular channels again." "Leave them alone for a while, mon ami, carefully. It's good to compare but don't be too anxious. Mr. Falkner is, after all, not contributing to the sandbox. And the journalist who died in the car crash was his colleague." "I'll be careful. Not to worry." "I'm never worried, mon ami. That's a waste of time. I pass all pre-requisites to that bothersome state and simply live in terror. How are things working out for you?" "What makes you think I have things to work on?" "I started reading the Daily Chapter, the San Francisco edition. I also have an excellent memory, or so Gloria tells me though she says that's not a compliment. Ten years ago you went to school at Berkeley. The academic life must be really something. I ought to give Gloria a benefit of doubt. I know what you're up against. Remember, I'm not your contemporary. I have a son close to your age.” Jean-Jacques fell silent for a few moments and he listened to his even breathing. Then the Keys voice spoke again. “I knew Tom Roberts when I was still back in Houston. He was a good mechanic. I'd trusted him to come over to the Mission Control. I knew his wife and daughter, too. She's about the same age as mine. I didn't know the little boy. He was born later, after Tom left for California. Serve and protect, mon ami. I always found it to be a useful advice. But don't forget to serve and protect ... yourself and those you care about.” And the voice in the Keys vanished, leaving behind only a telltale buzz. This time, Jean-Jacques didn't tell him when he should make the next check-in call. It meant he was free to call anytime he felt it was necessary. Sam came back from Vancouver and attended Sanjay's funeral with the rest of the office staff. Even though more than five hundred people attended services for Sanjay, he didn't try to talk to Seabring. He saw her standing in the crowd of mourners, Sam's hand around her shoulders, and kept his distance. He was surprised when she called him at home. "I'm responsible for Sanjay's death,” she said. For a moment he didn't know what to say, whether to shout or laugh. "The last time I checked, all the holy jobs were taken. Apparently there are already enough martyrs in the world. What the hell are you...?" She hung up. He pressed display to bring up her number and was about to hit dial when he remembered that her roommate had come back. By eleven o'clock, when he couldn't stand to watch TV any longer, he went out for a jog. He stopped to do his stretching routine on the street, across from her apartment. When the stretching started to feel even to him as a major workout, he stopped and stared at her apartment windows, shuffling his feet as if preparing to jog again. The lights were out. She'd like that. Was she in bed? Probably, with Sam beside her, it didn't matter. Go home, he told himself and turned—when the telephone in the booth behind him rang. The street was deserted. If nothing else, he had to stop the racket. "Since you can't sleep either, and must be tired after that ambitious stretching routine, why don't you come up?” He heard her voice and thought he was hallucinating. He looked up, staring at her windows, but he couldn't distinguish anything in the darkness. "Where are you?” he asked. "In my tiny living room, watching you stretch, because I know you can't see me. I've been down there at night, where you stand, so I know you can't see anything through my windows. Not unless I pull the curtains open and even then it might be hard to tell whether it's a male of female figure." "How did you get this number down here?" "Sometimes I can't sleep. When I can't sleep I have to pace. I can't pace up here. The sidewalk where you stand is a much better place for it. I took it down the night after we went to dinner at the Jungle Wok. That night, a car sat on the street. Someone was watching me. I figured that if it got spooky or annoying, I'd call the number and ... improvise. Threaten to call the police, try to get the creep off my street. Except it was probably Sam." "That reminds me, isn't your boarder listening to our conversation?" "He's not here." "I saw you at the funeral together. He went home with you." "You missed his departure. He got a call, said it was his Rafael contact and had to go back to Vancouver. He didn't say when he'd be back again." He stared at the cars parked on the other side of the street. “His car's parked here. I'm looking at it." "He took a taxi and pre-empted my questions by explaining that they'd be driving his contact's car to Vancouver. What's the matter, Colonel, did you blink and miss an event?" "I haven't had much sleep lately." "I'll throw you down a blanket. It's a fairly warm night, but the forecast said the fog's rolling in by morning." "I'm coming up,” he said and hung up. * * * * She was waiting for him with scotch-on-the-rocks in a wide, old-fashioned glass. "What is it you'd like me to do?” he asked, examining the drink. "Why do you think I want something?" He lifted the glass to her and smiled. "I want to make a deal,” she said and turned toward the kitchen. "No." "You don't even know what it is yet." "I know. You don't know what it's about, but you're hell bent on teasing an ugly beast. It bites." "Sounds like you. Deal or not?" "What do you want?” He felt like crossing his fingers behind his back. She must have felt it and asked him to keep his hands where she could see them. "I don't remember you being this suspicious ten years ago." "You have a poor memory. Besides, reporters are taught and trained to be suspicious, of everything. I want my story, all of it. I have most of it, I think. I just need you to fill-in-the-blanks, so to speak." "I can't share information. My assignments are classified.” He knew it wouldn't convince her. Hell, ten years ago he had been ready to scrub not just the assignment but also his entire career. "Come on, Nick, there are tons of people who know about the Salamander Protocol, just that they don't know how to put the pieces together. I want my story." "No deal. Too dangerous." "Fine. I'll continue alone, but Sam will come back. He wants the suitcase and he doesn't even know there's hard evidence in it. You're the only who does." "What's in the suitcase?" "Hard evidence." "What kind of hard evidence?" "I'd tell a partner." "It's not a game, Seah. We can both get killed." "What a horrible thought, having to spend eternity in Hell chained next to you,” she murmured, laughing. "That would be Heaven. Hell would be if you were chained between Sam and me. All right, let's say I let you work with me. What do I get in return?" "I'll tell you about the man who kidnapped me twenty-three years ago. You're military intelligence. You have access to all kind of technology to track him down, age him with computer graphics...." "I'm not military intelligence. I only did a rotation with them. How can you have seen anything when you were blindfolded?" "When you can't see, other senses take over. For example if someone passes fingers close to your nose you can tell if they'd been smoking. Sam started smoking again. I noticed it at the funeral, when he wiped my tears. The man who kidnapped me passed his fingers under my nose to make sure the blindfold held tight. Do you get my meaning?" "I want the hard evidence." "Eventually, when I'm ready to write the closing paragraph of my story." "How can you write a closing paragraph when I won't have evidence that I'll need to figure out what ought to go into your paragraph?" "Well, maybe something then but not yet." "Seah, it's suicidal to keep holding on to stuff like that. Sam's been after your nightmares and the suitcase for two years. The twenty-three year old tragedy is far from over. Whoever was interested back then is doubly interested now. I couldn't figure out why this historical case just wouldn't fade. Now I know. Evidence. That's what it's been about, all these years. Whoever they are, they suspect you have something that would incriminate them. They need to get it back. What is it?" "Do we have a deal?" "Seah, please, don't...!" "Yes or no, Colonel?" She left him no choice. “Very well. Partners." "Oh no, Colonel, colleagues who share work." He lowered his head to hide a smile. “All right, Seah, colleagues. Do you want a signed contract or will a handshake do?" "Your word's good enough,” she said and disappeared into the bedroom. Seconds later she came back with a blanket and a pillow. “That couch is quite comfortable.” She motioned at the sofa. "I don't doubt it.” He accepted the bedding. “Did you get any more replies to your message inquiry?” he called after her as she walked back to the bedroom. "Five or six more, I think. I haven't had a chance to look at them. Not with what happened to Sanjay...." "You'll have to, eventually, and that means we might be doing quite a lot of traveling. At least as long as Sam's up in Vancouver." She stopped and turned. “What are you trying to say, Nick?" "Nothing other than that I wanted to ask you what you thought of getting a van, or a pick-up truck." When he lay down on the couch he wore a grin. He wasn't sure whether she groaned or swore. * * * * In the morning he made breakfast while she showered. He was tempted to sneak a look to see whether there was a sliver of light underneath the washroom door. In the end he decided that well-done bacon was more important because of who would settle her critical eye upon it. She came out steam-cleaned and told him she'd wait until he finished his cleansing ritual. "No thanks. I don't smell that bad yet,” he refused. It didn't fool her. "Sam might have moved in but not much else of him made the move. Besides, he's off on assignment so he took his stuff with him. I've cleaned up the washroom. It's safe for you to use it. Go on, Nick, you look like you've just come back from a raid." "I don't have my shaving stuff,” he mumbled but knew he was weakening. She laughed. “Use mine and change the blade." "Commercial razors give me a rash." "There's a bottle of witch hazel in there that ought to sooth your sensitive skin. Go on, Nick, I'll wait." He mumbled about a change of clothes and underwear and that it was probably better if he went home. The staff that felt they needed a day of rest at home was welcome to partake of such company benefit, after all, the trauma of their colleague's death would linger in the office for some time. "Fine,” she snapped and turned. He thought she'd show him the door. However, she disappeared into the bedroom and reappeared a few minutes later, offering him a couple of sealed packages. He started to refuse because he wasn't going to wear another man's underwear, no matter what. It could still be in unopened package, it if was destined for Sam, he wouldn't touch it. "Go on, take it,” she urged. “It's not Sam's. I can see what's going through your head. There's a card. Read it.” She pushed the packages at him until he accepted. He opened the stiff white envelope, noticing the paper looked yellowed, old. He stared at the card for a long time, maybe that's why she decided to explain. "You left at the end of May. Your birthday's at the end of June. You didn't give me a chance to celebrate." His throat tightened with emotions he couldn't let her see. He opened the packages, keeping his mouth pursed in a neutral circle. Ten years ago, they'd have shared quite a few light moments. She got him a pair of gray cotton socks, the only kind he wore. They came customized with instructions: Left and Right, embroidered on the rim. The boxer shorts were a conversation piece. They would have a lot to talk about in the back of the pick-up truck, whenever he wore them. He reflected that today they were a collector's item since they were imprinted with super hero characters. The green University of California polo shirt with embroidered initials was the practical gift. She had ruined two of his on a camping trip when she accidentally soaked them with gasoline from a leaky can. "Other than your shaving kit, those used to be your essentials. Go shower. I'll get us some juice,” she said and without looking at him left for the kitchen. For a few moments he simply felt like killing her. There was no other punishment he could think of that would be fitting, that would compensate for all the misery and bleakness he had carried with him for ten years. She carved him out of her life in May, but had already bought his birthday present. Such great timing—wonderful impulse—then and now! However, when he glanced once again at the boxer shorts blazing with the colorful figures, he grinned. For the first time in ten years he showered quickly, with the lights on. He was anxious to see how he looked in the shorts. "The left-right socks are a godsend,” he said when he sat down at the breakfast table, “the shorts not only fit but I like the comfort of boxer shorts, the polo shirt is thoughtfully extra large. Thank you.” He set to do justice to the scrambled eggs. "All right, let's work out an agenda for the next few days. I'd like to hear what you have figured out so far and where your research is leading. By the way, where did you hide that suitcase?” He sneaked in quickly. "It's safely stored." "Did you used to keep it here?" "With me all the time." "But it's no longer here." "When Sam moved in I panicked." He looked up sharply. “A man you're going to marry moves in and you panic? That's a hell of a reaction, not exactly a solid base for lasting relationship. Didn't you invite him to move in?" "Not exactly, though I was getting pretty frustrated with the way the things were between us." He wondered just what it meant. She said she didn't want to talk about it. It made him angry. "Seah, we're talking about it because it's necessary. Did you or did you not invite Sam to move in with you?" "What does it matter?” she asked, irritated. It matters to me, he thought but said, “I would like to have a clear picture of the situation. Mr. Falkner is a field operative and not a friendly one either. If I happen to find myself in a situation which calls for removal of Mr. Falkner from the playing field, I'd like to know whom I'm taking out." "He invited himself, all right.” She started to pick on the toast crust. “Besides, you said he's not friendly so why should anything else matter?" "If you didn't want him to move in you could have said no." "It wasn't that simple." "You were very simple when you threw me out." "Don't keep harping on the past." "It's still running the show. You've lived with the guy for two years, knowing all along that he was after something you didn't want to share with anyone." "I haven't lived with him ... until now." "I stand corrected. You've carried on a relationship with the man for two years, knowing he was after your suitcase and whatever memories you still carry. Now, that's a mighty long time to play a game and still call it a game. It would be damn hard for you to convince anyone, least of all yourself, that there was nothing driving the relationship for two years. Nothing other than your spirit of adventure and your curiosity to see how far Sam would carry the game to get what he's after." "I didn't want to admit to myself that Sam was after my suitcase or whatever I had overheard that night in the cabin,” she admitted hesitantly. He knew it was part of the truth and dreaded to hear the rest. But it had to come out. Their lives depended on it. Their lives depended on her being honest with herself, once and for all. "Meaning you suspected but chose to close yourself off. Meaning that somewhere along the line, that relationship turned into far more than just an adventure for you." "I liked him.” It was a quiet admission. “Sam came when I needed someone to be with, someone to hold me when I couldn't stand being alone." "Are you in love with him?" She started to braid her fingers and he had to look away so as not to see that desperate gesture. “Answer me, Seah. I need to know." "Why? What does it matter?" "If you're going to work beside me as my colleague, Seah, I need to know. I need to know what you've told Sam, if anything, and I need to know how you feel about him." "I don't think that's any of your business,” she said tiredly. She left him no choice. “All right, let me spell it out for you. You keep saying that it's none of my business but consider this. If I happen to come across Mr. Sam V. Falkner in hostile circumstances and we're locked in a struggle while you stand on the sidelines holding a gun, which one of us would you choose to shoot, Seah?” Even before he finished her eyes pinned on him, growing wide with fear and disbelief that he had even thought of suggesting something like that. He nodded briskly, continuing, “If I'm to have partners, colleagues, who insist on coming along wherever this charade takes us, I need to know that I can trust that partner. I need to know that my partner won't suffer a change of heart at a moment when I'm engaged in conflict with her roommate, a conflict which will see only one of us come out of it alive. You threw me out once already but at least when I left I was able to turn my back on you without having to worry about my safety." "You don't have a very high opinion of me, Nick,” she said stiffly, rising, her hands clenching and unclenching. He rose, too, keeping what was brewing inside the man behind an inscrutable facade. “I'd hate to have you shoot me in the back, Seah, if by chance you suddenly suffered a change of heart because you're in love with Mr. Falkner.” He wasn't quite prepared for what came next. Or maybe deep down, he had hoped for it because he knew that in a way he had engineered the situation. Her hand shot out and landed with a smack on his cheek. The slap didn't move his head, but it did leave a sting. She stood there, shaking slightly and ready to cry but he knew that tight, stubborn look was going to keep the tears in check, at least for a while. "I suppose that's an answer of some kind,” he commented in a droll tone of voice. She had wrapped her hands around her to stop from shaking. He would have liked to do it himself and knew he might never have the chance. “Let's work out a plan which will keep Mr. Falkner intrigued.” He went to pour himself a cup of coffee and brought one back for her. "I'm not in love with Sam. I never was,” she pushed out with difficulty. "There's no need to talk about it any more,” he said gruffly. "I'm sorry, Nick. I didn't mean to do it." "Yes, you did, eight years ago and now. Just that you never got around to it until now." "Eight years ago I wanted to kill you,” she said in a stronger murmur with an undercurrent of humor. Perhaps that's why he relented. "If you didn't want him to move in, why didn't you tell him so plainly?" "In two years, Sam never once asked me about my nightmares. He never stayed the night either. I wanted to see what it would take for him to break out of that pattern. I was getting...." "...impatient?" "No. Scared. You stayed around for eight months and left without getting anything. Sam stayed two years. That's an awfully long time to stay without trying really hard to get what you're after. That's what was scaring me the most." "You feared that you were falling in love with him?" "No, you idiot.” She gave an irritated groan. “I feared to even consider to what limits he might carry this charade. When he proposed I realized that he was prepared to drag it out as long as it took, no matter what it took, no matter how long. Sam was determined to get what he was after and I knew that the time was on his side because he was wearing me down. He was driving me crazy." "I thought I was the one driving you crazy." "Not in that way.” She sighed and grimaced. “Crazy with uncertainty. I could no longer figure out what his strategy was." "But you still said yes when he asked you to marry him." "I said nothing. I was shocked that he intended to carry it that far. I panicked. That part is true. Sam is the one who decided to make the great announcement at the office." "And yet you still said nothing.” This part bothered him a lot because it was ambiguous. He knew she would argue it if he pressed in exploring the issue from this angle. But he felt that her relationship with Sam was far from settled, far from over. "I was confused and scared. Sam spent two years being incredibly patient and all of a sudden Sam was moving too fast for me. He had never stayed the night before, never as much as kissed me. Not in a way I wanted him to kiss me, then all of a sudden he's ... well, before I knew it the relationship's heading for marriage. It was the last thing I wanted." "You thought you were using him for two years, to see what kind of game he was playing and suddenly you realized that the tables had been turned and he was in control." "Something like that,” she admitted reluctantly. "Well, if nothing else, Seah, this conversation has cleared the air,” he declared with satisfaction that was as false as his smile. “Let's see now how we can set up a few smoke screens ... again."
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Chapter Thirteen
"I ought to cancel your service contract for that unsanctioned removal,” the voice growled. The fury of it bit deeply into Sam's ear canal. The vibrations set off were not just unpleasant but painful. "It was necessary. I knew Sanjay. He wasn't about to give up." "He was taken off the story. I saw to it that it was padlocked. Your orders were to find the suitcase and get the subject to talk. Follow the script and don't improvise." "There's a new player on the scene." "You're not telling me anything new. Stop wasting time and find the suitcase." "She took him with her to Boonville and Mendocino." "You already told me that,” the voice said with eerie calm that made Sam's hand on the receiver grow clammy. He had already reported on Seabring's trip, but he didn't mention that she took along Anderson. How did the voice know she did? Cora, of course, he fumed. She would have double-checked on him and his activity. It bothered him to have the secondary control in place, a source that was supposed to back him up but which would also check on his moves, report them—criticize if he screwed up. "She's investigating the Salamander Protocol again. It's not just sporadic research any longer. She's working with a partner." "Cora's doing her job far better than you. Stop sulking and do your job." "I don't like this sudden alliance with Anderson,” he murmured, deeply disturbed by the reminder that his back-up could any moment replace him. "Anderson's smarter than you are. That's what it looks like to me. The moment you're out of town, he moves in. That's a mighty fast player, fast and smart. Leave him alone. Cora will look after him." "I need to find out who he is. Seabring's never this familiar with strangers. It's out of character for her to be friendly so quickly with someone new." "I said leave him alone. He's not your concern. She was friendly with you two years ago, and you didn't consider that to be out of character. Stop sidetracking. Follow the script. Get the suitcase." "I have to find out who he is.” He wasn't ready to yield this point. "That's not your job. Don't concern yourself with things that are not in the script,” the voice barked at him. "He spent the night with her, in the apartment." "You're not paid to be jealous of your rivals. You're paid to follow the script and do your job." "He may be a part of it. If she's sleeping with him, she may confide in him. "She's been sleeping with you for two years and hasn't confided in you yet. Don't improvise. Shadow her and make sure you get the suitcase. All right,” the voice softened. “Since you're worried about it so much, I'll bend the rules. Anderson is exactly who he says he is. He's an old college schoolmate of hers. They went to Berkeley together but the relationship soured after a year. Does it make you feel any better ... or wiser?" It didn't. If anything, he was now even more worried. An old school boyfriend suddenly re-appears just when he was ready to make his move. "So he knows her well,” he murmured. "He knows her and her past. Your job's to get to know her past better than he does. Is that clear enough for you?" It was, except not in the way his control meant. What was clear enough to him was that the college boyfriend had to be removed, before Seabring rekindled her college romance to a degree where she'd take Anderson into her confidence. "Don't even think about it,” the voice warned, as if indeed his control read his thoughts. "He's complications and I don't like complications." "He serves a purpose and you'll follow it. Ten years ago he couldn't get her to share her memories. This time, he just might and that'll be a bonus for you—if you follow your orders." Sam gritted his teeth. So the control brought in not only Cora for a back-up, but another operative who had had his shot at this ten years ago, and failed. The playing field was getting crowded. He understood the need for back-up, but to bring in another operative from the past.... "All right, I'll let her play with her college boyfriend for a while,” he promised. "Leave him alone and whatever you do, stay out of his way. He's a hell of a better shot than you'll ever be, on the target range and in bed,” the voice finished and the line went dead. * * * * "It looks like I'm going to be stuck in Vancouver for another week or two, honey,” Sam's voice sounded so guilty it made Seabring cringe. “I'm sorry, sweetie, how are you holding up?" "The Marcheson story is keeping me busy. I'm fine, Sam." "How's the office holding up without me?" "So far so good but if you're going to stay away much longer you'll miss your rotational opportunity with Cora." "I'll try to hurry back. How's our trainee doing?" "The air-conditioning in the office is turned up full blast and the guys are still loosening their collars." "Poor Perry." "It's lucky Steve now." He laughed. “Well, I'm lucky to have you. I don't need to clock in my time with Cora. How's Anderson doing?" "All right. He's busy, too." "Did Rita ask him out to a boxing match yet?" "He took both of us to lunch." "Is that what's keeping you busy?” She heard him click his tongue. "Just practicing, Sam, since you're not here." "I deserve that and you really know how to hurt a guy long distance. Just don't let that practicing get out of hand." "You're not jealous, Sam, are you?" "You tell me whether I have something to be jealous about." "There's nothing to worry about. Nick's just being friendly." "Nick's kind of friendliness is enough to make me insecure. Old college chums can be rough competition." "Nick's no competition,” she said and wondered what Sam might say if he knew how true it was. "Better not be. I've got to go, honey. Good night and sweet dreams. Talk to you again soon." "Good night, Sam.” She hung up but kept staring at the phone. What was it that set off the alarm in her head? "Jesus!” she whispered when it dawned on her what it was. She dialed, holding her breath. When he answered, she said, “I just got a call from Sam. He's still in Vancouver, according to his tale so he may well be outside, watching my place. He asked about things—about me and the office and about you. I said you took Rita and me to lunch, being friendly and all. He said friendship was fine but old college chums can be rough competition. I never told him I knew you. I never told anyone you were my college chum. But Sam knew ... how?" "That's a good question, Seah. Let me take a midnight tour of your neighborhood. I won't let him see me. Don't worry." "Nick, this isn't a rough neighborhood, but it's not all that safe for you to prowl around at night. Not if Sam's keeping watch on my apartment." "I wasn't planning to come up but now that you mention it ... sit tight. I'll be there in an hour or so." * * * * Sam wondered whether his calculated move would yield results tonight. He had lived in her neighborhood only a month but he mapped it out a long time ago. He knew the back alleys and how well they served a man who wanted to move around, unobserved. If the control brought in Anderson as a wild card, then he'd have received the same training as Sam did at the Holden Hollow. He knew the route Anderson would take. It was the same one he used when leaving Seabring's apartment in the middle of the night. He pressed himself between a jutting portion of the wooden fence and the wall and waited. Now and then he'd lean out to check the shadows to the east. That's from where Anderson would approach. It was logical because that was where the houses stood so close together the back alley was hardly a sliver. He kept checking to the east, listening carefully for any sound that might be footsteps. * * * * Nick felt the tingling in the back of his neck. It always happened whenever someone watched him. It was his inner sonar, his warning system. He flattened himself against the wall and waited for shadows to move. There were two of them, one hidden just behind the fence and another farther away, crouching in the doorway of a garage. Both had to be wearing black, head to toe like cat burglars, because he didn't see even a glimmer of skin. The garage shadow moved whenever the fence shadow moved. One's watching the other, he concluded. All right, let's assume that one shadow's Sam. But who's the other one? And which of the two shadows should be taken seriously? Could he afford to ignore anything? He wasn't prepared for a double play. He expected Sam to be waiting for him, but not Sam's shadow. Sam wasn't such a fool that he'd give himself away with a careless remark, but he couldn't tell that to Seabring. It was a set-up, an ambush. The second visitor, however, was not part of Sam's set-up. The fire escape sat just behind the fence where Sam stood. To reach it, Nick had to round the corner of the house—and that's where Sam would be waiting for him. He took out his gun, started to remove the safety then thought better of it and stuck it back behind the waistband. No gunplay that would wake up the neighborhood. Well, let's start the show, he thought and keeping track of the shadow crouching in the garage doorway, moved. He ran into an outstretched gloved fist on purpose. The blow was poorly aimed. He pivoted out of reach at the last moment, pretended to double over but only to gain leverage to kick high into Sam's ribs. The kick scored and Sam doubled over with a groan. His recovery was swift. He blocked Nick's kick with a hand, tried to twist his ankle but Nick was faster and pulled back his foot. He threw himself to the side to avoid Sam's fist and still suffered a blow just below his chin. Salty liquid flooded his mouth. Oh, Sam wasn't as clumsy as he pretended to be, he thought as he slashed down his hand in a side-blow. Sam blocked it with a forearm. Nick let his next punch score in the ribs because he needed a chance to grip Sam's arm and twist it with a sickening crunch. Sam groaned and smacked his closed fist against Nick's shoulder when he moved his head at the last moment. Not a bad move, Nick wondered. But the groan gave you away. Still, Sam couldn't have been a star pupil, wherever he trained, because stifling noise was a first requirement on assignment that called for dressing up like a cat-burglar. At night, voice was a person's signature. Sam had come dressed for combat, but he was little more than an alley scrapper. The other shadow.... Nick blocked another punch then dropped down and scored a hard kick to Sam's left kneecap. Even as Sam's body keeled forward, Nick slashed down hard across his neck. The gurgling sound told him that it was time to pull back. He didn't mean to finish off Sam. It wasn't time yet. He turned when he felt movement behind him, spun then drove his fist into the assailant's upper chest. He must have miscalculated the distance to his new opponent because he lost balance, and knew it was a bad mistake. Something swished by his face. He couldn't stop his fall but managed to control it such that he rolled the moment his body hit the ground. Something swished over him again. A knife, he recognized the weapon. Sam had come armed only with fists. His shadow came better prepared. He tried to pull out his gun but the blade slashed so close to his face he had to raise his hand to protect it. The blade slashed again and he felt stinging pain across his shoulder. Roll! his mind commanded, or the next transit of the knife will see its blade buried in your chest. His shoulder punished him for trying to move out of the way. He caught the flash of the naked blade, rising to deliver a stab this time and hoped it wouldn't hit a vital organ. However, something else knocked the knife out of the assailant's hand. He heard a hard smack, a high-pitched scream then a grunt. Another sickening thud came and the blade disappeared. He heard a metallic clank, so it must have landed on the paved strip. He heard a scuffle of feet, running away, and struggled to sit up even as Seabring's trembling voice asked if he was all right. "Watch out. Behind you,” he groaned. She turned. “There's no one there, Nick.” She reached down, wrapped her arms around his shoulders and tried to raise him. He moaned. She stopped pulling. "I'm all right,” he managed but the fiery pain shot through his shoulder, and he gasped. Since it burned like hell, the knife must have cut deep into his muscle. “What did you use, a baseball bat?” He grabbed hold of her hands and slowly pulled himself up. "Not exactly. I don't have a bat but after tonight, I'll get one for sure. I used a rolling pin but I dropped it somewhere. I'll come later to get it. What are you doing here? I told you it's not safe in this neighborhood ... Jesus, Nick, there's blood all over your shirt." "Two shadows decided to come out and play,” he said, trying to find a way to stand that wouldn't keep shooting flaming spears through his shoulder. "I only saw one, the one with the knife. He was dressed in black and wore a mask. I couldn't tell who it was." He made it up the fire escape with her support. By the time he lay down on the couch, he was able to control the pain and think. "Sam got away. Are you sure you didn't see the other man's face?” He sucked-in his breath because she was cutting away his shirt. "No. I told you he wore black, head to toe. Nick, what was that ambush about?" "I'm not sure,” he mumbled. "You're sure. You just won't tell me. Nick, this wound's not looking good. Maybe we ought to go to the emergency. I'll take you...." "No emergency. You'll have to patch me up." "Nick, my first-aid course skill is not enough." "I trust your skill.” He groaned because she touched him with the cold steel of the scissors. “Oh, Seah.” He waited until she looked at him, then quickly raised his healthy hand and gripped her head. “Thanks,” he said and drew her down for a kiss that made the pain go away for as long as the kiss lasted. * * * * He slept on the couch while she slept in a recliner beside him. "You're running a fever. The wound's not looking very good,” she said, when she inspected the cut at five o'clock in the morning. She was only able to clean it and cover the raw flesh where the serrated blade tore the tissues, with sterile gauze while he thought of kissing her again which would make the pain more bearable. "You need stitches,” she said, tightening her mouth. "You're probably right but we can't afford a visit to a hospital. We can't risk involving the police, especially after a tragedy at the Daily Chapter. I'm willing to tease the Grim Reaper for a while,” he said, trying to laugh but felt his thoughts fading. He couldn't think clearly and started to shake. She ran to the kitchen and brought plastic bags filled with ice then tucked them all around his head and shoulders. “I think we may be able to get around the problem,” he said and went to call Rita. He must have lost consciousness because when he came to Rita was there, standing beside a shaggy-haired street person who looked as if he spent the night dredging sewers. "I'm fresh from a brutal shift in a place which would sizzle your eyeballs,” the scruffy character declared cheerfully. He continued, “Not to worry. I'll scrub down in a blink and then we'll see what needs to be done." He stripped his shirt that looked encrusted with brown sediment, and would have stripped his battle fatigues if not for Rita's discreet cough. Seabring pointed him to the washroom. "I've got everything I need.” He hefted his knapsack. “Down to a fresh change of clothes, even underwear. Of course, my professional magic travels with me wherever I go.” He pointed at a black medical bag on the living room floor. "He's not a pathologist, relax,” Rita said, and he saw her studying his chest, rippled with muscles. He knew that not even the bloodstained bandage was enough to camouflage his rope-twist hard physique that soldiers acquired honestly, in the course of duty. "What do you do, Nick?” she murmured. “Pump iron in the gym when you're not slugging it out with the computer?" He tried to speak and found that it hurt to even open his mouth. The skin, especially around his temples, felt as brittle as parchment. He managed to lift his head to see the shaggy-haired street person come out of the washroom, now dressed in clean khakis but barefoot. "Don't worry, Nick,” Rita said. “Ricky's a good doctor." Dr. Richard Sawyer introduced himself. He served on the front lines of social injustice, mostly in clinics in Calandria, but he also held an associate fellow position at the Loma Linda Medical Centre. "Half the time I teach. The other half I try to even the odds for the social vigilantes who live in boarded-up crack houses and bordellos in the lower Scranton district. I'm also well-known in the mission district and know most crack dealers and prostitutes on a first name basis." A couple of years ago, Rita had done a story on the seedy part of human nature. She did her research in Scranton and ended up in Calandria, getting a battery of booster shots. That was how she met Dr. Richard Sawyer. She dated him for a while but then the demands of their jobs forced them apart. They remained good friends. Sawyer also served three years with the Peace Corps and tended the street children and homeless in Brasilia. According to Rita, his head was screwed on right, and his heart beat with a noble rhythm. The social services usually stood up for him if the doctor stood in danger of running afoul of the authorities because of his lenient view of life and criminal activities. Ricky was an exceptional doctor—and character. "Stories that come hunting for a journalist with a sharp blade should be given more attention and respect,” he told him when he finished stitching the gaping wound with skill that was obvious even through the bloody encrustations. He didn't ask how Nick incurred the wound. Instead, he squinted down at him and said, “Whoever got pissed off with you was left handed. From the shape of the wound, its changing depth from left to right, your assailant had aimed in a backhand slash for left shoulder, and down across your chest. You moved and the blade sliced your right shoulder as the momentum carried the knife across. He held the knife for slashing, blade upright with the sharp end to the ground. When it's a stabbing attack the knife is held with the blade parallel to the wrist and the lower forearm, its sharp edge turned toward the wrist. I'd say the blade was about eight inches long. Not exactly a hunting knife, just a good street blade, the kind a lot of women I've treated favor. Don't move and rest. I'll drop by tomorrow to check on the wound and change the dressing. Until then, use your mind and nothing else." Rita left with him after promising to square things at the office for both of them. Nick's story was going to keep him in the field for a few days while Seabring worked from home. Dr. Sawyer left a prescription for a painkiller and antibiotics to control the infection. Seabring made him write out both in her name. "We both work for the same company. We have the same medical insurance benefits,” she explained. Dr. Sawyer leveled on her his world-weary look and said that her walk on the wild side of social transgressions would not even register on the scale he was used to seeing and waved good-bye. "You've heard the doctor.” She faced him. “Sleep and rest. If you need anything I'll go and get it from your apartment." "Is this a pull-out couch for two?” he murmured and bit his lip to stifle laughter when he saw the furious look spring in her eyes. "It's big enough as is for this place. Now for once do something right ... sleep." He murmured that a good night kiss might not be a bad idea. She pretended not to hear him because he saw her profile crease. She smiled. * * * * Three days later, he was able to get up. He had already provided her with a few anxious moments when a day earlier, he tried to stand up and his head spun. He collapsed, her arms around him. He had only one bad arm, the other was free to do what he wanted. He brought her down with him and wouldn't let go. "Seahhhh...” he whispered, his lips still dry from the fever. He kissed her softly, using the brushing kisses to moisten their lips. She struggled, but he didn't let go until she relaxed. For a moment, their bodies basked in the memories. He was full of painkillers and antibiotics, but his body didn't seem to notice such inconvenience. It reacted as it always reacted to her presence. He slid his healthy hand down her back, and pressed her against him. He was hard and could have made love to her if she'd let him. She wouldn't. "Nick, this is not good for your shoulder,” she murmured. He kissed her again, furiously. He raised her t-shirt as much as he managed with one hand, and sighed when her naked skin came in contact with his. Her breasts were squashed against his chest and he wanted to feel them without the thin layer of her cotton bra. "Seahhhh ... why can't you? Why won't you...?” he whispered against her lips. “I want you, always did.” Her skin felt even hotter than his and yet she still struggled with demons. He was about to break his stitches because the need to hold her and make love to her was more powerful than the pain. She pried off his hand and struggled out of his arms. He thought she'd start smoothing out her t-shirt, but she didn't notice it was bunched up around her shoulders. Her breasts stood full, stretching out the thin eyelet cotton. He reached with his healthy hand and she caught it and gripped hard. "Nick, you could have been killed. I'm not so sure this game ought to continue. I don't want to find out anything else about the Salamander Protocol. I should have given up years ago. You're right. It turned into an obsession, but I never expected it to come to this. When you're up and walking again, we'll go get the suitcase. Take whatever you need. I don't want to keep it any longer.” She closed her eyes. He saw her breasts tremble from unsteady breathing. He knew what she was saying. Take what you're after and leave. This time she wasn't throwing him out of her life. She was simply holding the door open for him to follow the road of duty. "I'm a soldier. We're expected to take risks. I ran into an obstacle and didn't handle it well. I'm alive and that's mostly your work. Now, we're in the middle of the game and this is no time to quit. Why are you so ready to give up when you've tracked this matter for years? You wanted to be my partner. Now, you're ready to run. That's not like you at all. If it were, you wouldn't have kept the suitcase hidden all these years. Why?" She spoke, not opening her eyes. “Do you or don't you want the suitcase?" "Answer me, Seah. Why are you so ready to give up everything?” He meant to say ‘me’ but settled for generality. "Nick, I'm used to giving up ... everything." He realized what she meant. That it went farther than just what they had shared ten years ago. "You were a child then, Seah. You were seven years old. There was nothing you could have done to help your father and brother. You lost your family, but it wasn't your fault. There's no need to continue punishing yourself for things that were always out of your control." "I lost everything, even Mother because she retreated into her world of books and reference materials." "You convinced yourself that someone locked you into a losing pattern when you were seven years old." "You've got a ten-inch scar on your shoulder, Nick. That was a close call." "I can take care of my scars, if only you'll give me a chance,” he said quietly. "A chance for what, Nick?” She finally opened her eyes and stared at him from sea-depths, filled with ancient pain. “A chance for Sam to ambush you again? A chance for whoever's working with him to finish what he started the other night? Take the suitcase and leave. You'll have enough evidence to work on it from the safety of your home base, or wherever you're stationed." "I've never had a home base because in my dreams I've always come back to you." "Nick, please don't!" "Seah, I'm alive and I'll heal. Don't lock yourself into the losing pattern." She shook her head then let it fall down on her chest. “I couldn't stand to ... couldn't take it again,” she whispered. "Couldn't stand what?” He sat up even though his shoulder punished him for it. He moved closer to her and wrapped his healthy hand around her waist to stop her from rising. “Seah, answer me, couldn't stand what?" "Losing you again." He hoped that Dr. Sawyer was as good as his reputation because his handiwork was about to be put to brutal test. He gripped her neck, forcing her head upward. “Ten years ago you shut me out because you convinced yourself that losing was the way of life for you? Hell, you didn't even give me a chance to argue my side of the story. You just carved me out of your life so you could tell yourself that you were right all along. That it's what'll happen each and every time someone tries to get close to you ... damn you, woman!" "Nick!” She tried to break his kiss, but he only stopped so he could growl back. "Shut up!” Then the space between their lips disappeared. He didn't feel pain, didn't hear anything his body was telling him other than the urgent messages flushing through him as heat and desire. He knew that she wouldn't struggle because she wouldn't want to hurt his shoulder. She surprised him. He didn't even notice when she tossed off her t-shirt and let her breasts settle against his chest. He was busy, punishing her skin with hot, moist kisses all over. She settled down into the still warm outline on the couch left by his body and he rose above her where he wanted to be. Her eyes bore into his. The contact was so intense he knew they couldn't continue looking at each other like this for long. Their bodies formed a closed loop. The desire made them shiver. He didn't want to loose contact with her body, not even for a second. But he was still wearing a pair of gray sweats she told him were hers, though she would have been lost in them. Stifling a moan he started to rise and felt her hands moving down his backside, taking the sweats with them. Now that was a bold new move for her, the kind he wanted to encourage very much. He'd have ripped them off. She chose to make it into a tantalizing, seductive exercise. Though he was so hard his loins throbbed, he let her do it. She closed her eyes and pressed her head into the pillow, hands sliding the fabric but moving over his buttocks at the same time. It was a massage, gentle and firm at once. When she drew her nails across his backside, he moaned and gave in to the pressure to kiss her with rough passion. Her hands rose in widening circles, exploring his body, driving him insane because it was what he had craved to feel all these years. What he always dreamed of her doing. He loved to be touched but only by the right pair of hands. Such exploration represented staking out her territory, taking possession, holding forever on to his body, in real life and in memory. "Seah, I can't ... much longer ... or I won't be much use to you pretty soon. You're driving me crazy." He had to move in order to be able to fit himself against her. She might have even done it for him this time. He felt that was where her hand was heading when it collided with his and his throat tightened with emotions that were soon going to choke him if he didn't give them a vent. He thrust inside her, but it wasn't an angry reaction, merely a desperate one and he knew she knew it. She lifted her hips, pressing against him, forcing him deeper inside. He kissed her again and settled his hands on her shoulders. She tried to make him ease up on the right hand, but he wouldn't let her. He needed full support to move in a rhythm his body craved. She pressed her lips softly just above the upper end of his scar. And as if by some magic, it made the pain fade into the dull ache that would no longer intrude on his lovemaking. "I love you.” His breath came in short blasts. “I've always loved you ... you have no idea how much I wanted you, all these years...." "You're the only man I could hold ... hold!” She gasped and he knew it was a command and obeyed. It was the first time she let him know she was ready. He thrust deep inside her, holding himself while her body spasmed with waves of pleasure that forced a cry out of her open mouth. He couldn't hold on any longer either. The pressure was overpowering. "Seah, hold me,” he gasped just as his body delivered the final thrusts, deep and hard, then the pressure exploded inside her. He relaxed against her with tail-end shivers of the heavenly release. She wrapped her hands around him, holding down, then let them travel again. She had never done that before either, the stroking, caressing of his tired muscles. "I love it when you do that as much as I love you,” he murmured sleepily into her shoulder. "Then why didn't you ever tell me?" He started to chuckle because he felt insanely carefree and happy. “Seah, we've got to work on our communications. There's not much else to work on." She nibbled on his ear and said, “Well, there's always the second coming...." He laughed until the shoulder once again reminded him that it wasn't wise to test Dr. Sawyer's stitches.
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Chapter Fourteen
Dr. Sawyer was as good as his promise. He came to check each and every day and changed the dressing. He took out the stitches on the fourth day, a day early but once Nick convinced him with his mobility, he agreed to speed up the healing process. Rita once again proved that good friends were worth their weight in gold. "He's yours, right,” she whispered furtively to Seabring after she followed her to the bedroom when Ricky came back the next morning to check on his handiwork. The question made Seabring uneasy, but she still laughed. This was Rita and that was just the way she was. She was grateful to her friend for what she did and wouldn't lie to her, neither was she comfortable admitting the truth because in a sense she wasn't quite sure of it herself. "He's an old friend, Rita,” she said, averting her face. “I met him in college. I was surprised to see him again, that's all." "It's not and no one knows it better than I.” Rita's candid estimate of the situation was right on target. “I just wanted to get things straight because he's ... well.” She gave out a throaty chuckle, “Hell, Sea, if he wasn't yours I'd give it a shot like never before. He's sure worth it. Don't bother denying it. He's yours. And when he looks at you it's game over for him. Don't worry.” She raised her hand placatingly. “I don't want details. Sam may have been in the picture these past couple of years, but he was never part of it. Your old college buddy was there all along. That's why your romance with Sam was always so lukewarm. Ricky's worried about him. He said that the kind of blade that scored Nick would fetch a good price on the street. People in this neighborhood don't normally carry those kinds of knives. That means someone from other parts of the city must have come to pay you a visit. It could be the fallout of your story on the Marcheson issue but somehow I don't think so. Be careful,” Rita said. "Thanks, Rita. I'll be all right.” She hugged her friend. "Barbara said it was fine whatever the two of you were doing. She's happy to leave you alone for a few days. Nick needs those few days to recuperate. I gather that he doesn't want anyone at the office to know what happened." "No. Is there something else bothering you?” She saw there was, but Rita wasn't sure whether she should be saying it. "I don't know.” Rita gave her a fierce hug and let go. “It may have nothing to do with anything, then again, who knows?" "Is it about Sam?” Seabring asked carefully. Rita shook her head. “Actually, it's about our trainee." "Is it my turn yet?” She didn't want Barbara saddling her with Ms. Miller right now. "Steve still has her for at least another week and then it'll be my turn. But she came in this morning with her arm in a sling. She said she went horseback riding yesterday and fell off a horse. She's got a good bruise under her chin, all the way up her neck and across a part of her cheek. That's where the leather strap caught her, or so she said." "What's so unusual about that?" "Well, Sea, I've done a lot of horseback riding and I've had my share of falls. All of them left me with a sore bum and scrapes all over my thighs and back. If the reins had whipped her under the chin, then she must have been in full gallop. And if that's the case, she shouldn't be alive. Her fingers are swollen and bruised, too. She must have forgotten her hand wrapped around the saddle horn. She must be a very ignorant rider. That's what bothers me. Our Cora is anything but ignorant." "Why would she lie about something like that?" "Precisely. In my experience, women lie about injuries for two reasons. One is insurance, and the other is if such injuries were incurred by their boyfriend or a husband or a male partner." "She hasn't been in San Francisco long enough to find friends never mind a boyfriend." "That's the way I reason it, Sea. Anyway, it might be just my overactive imagination but sunny Cora is one heck of a busybody trainee." "Snooping around?" "She's been asking Steve all kinds of questions. And that's after she has already de-briefed Perry. They told me, but they think she's naïve and innocent. Men can be such fools.” Rita groaned. "About me and Nick?" "Actually about you and Sam. It sounds like she'd like to squeeze in between the two of you. That was my gut feeling." "But Sam has hardly been in the office." "Fancy that, just what I thought. But sunny Cora seems to be clued into details which I don't think even you know about Sam. Do you know that he smokes? Cora seems to be sure of it. She let that one slip by when she was talking with Perry about addictions." "I never knew whether Sam smoked before, but he started again. I smelled it on his clothes,” she admitted. "Maybe our sunny Cora has a delicate nose.” Rita smirked and said it was enough gossip for one day. During the four days Nick spent at Seabring's apartment, Rita volunteered to go to his place, ten minutes away on foot, and bring him whatever he needed. "You live like a hermit and you own even less than a pilgrim who has pledged his life to poverty,” she said afterward. She'd brought back his shaving kit, a pair of pajamas and two sets of clean underwear and socks. "He keeps all his toys home with mama,” Seabring answered for him. "And where's that?” Rita's eyes twinkled. Seabring said it was in Savannah, Georgia. "Where's your Southern drawl, big boy?” Rita asked, hands on her hips and swinging from side to side. He laughed and said he had worked hard at loosing it. Rita said it was a pity. Southern drawl was so charming. On impulse, Nick obliged her with a few lines. On her second trip, Rita brought back his army knapsack. He thanked her. "You're welcome but you owe me something and I'll tell you what it is,” Rita declared in that half-serious voice. “I'd like to be here, standing somewhere out of harm's way when Sam gets back. Now that you've moved in, it's going to be a regular circus when the first roommate shows up. I'd like to be here to capture the moment. On second thought, I'd like to be holding up a phone with my finger on the 911 button, just in case,” she finished and sailed out the door. "Don't worry.” Nick said in the wake of Rita's reminder. “I know my way down the fire escape and I'm fast." "Sam will call first,” she murmured but didn't sound convincing. It was the fourth day post battle in the alley. Nick's stitches were out, his wound was still protectively bandaged but Dr. Sawyer said he needed to check in at his clinic in a week or two, no earlier. Sam didn't call her, not even once. It made her wonder about the scope of his injuries. "He was able to move fast enough to disappear quickly once you arrived on the scene,” Nick told her. “Don't worry. He's alive." "That's not why I'm worried, Nick. It's whoever Sam's working for that worries me.” She was also worried about Cora, considering what Rita said, but she wasn't going to speak up about that yet. Nick already suspected whom Sam was working for, but he still needed to check out some things. They spent the four days surfing on the Internet. "I can't believe it.” Seabring shook her head when they tied into dozens of databases and reference centers, checking out the roots of an inconsequential local newspaper serving an audience of fifty thousand readers in Akron, Ohio. The Akron Examiner seemed to have a never-ending string of owners and sub-owners. “I thought it would be a locally owned paper, a mom-and-pop operation,” she continued, shuffling dozens of sheets covered with replies to their search inquiry. The Examiner was a local paper. However it was owned by a Chicago publishing company, and that in turn was a fully owned subsidiary of a publishing syndicate from New York. The syndicate had so many members in every corner of the country it was hard to pin down the bookend outfit. Nick had suspected as much when Bolton gave him the name of Sam's Ohio employer. He told her succinctly why he was interested in finding the end-owners of the Akron Examiner. "So Sam was never with the New York Times,” she mumbled, remembering what Rita had told her about Sam's habit of pirating his colleagues’ work. "He's probably even less of a journalist than I ever was. At least I paid my dues for two semesters in a bona fide journalistic enclave,” he said, flashing a rueful grin. "Three more years and you would have been making an honest living of it,” she scolded him with a mock frown. "You don't have a very high opinion of those who serve their country." "Nick, what exactly did you hope to pull out with this search?” she asked. "I'm not sure but somehow this idea's taking shape in my head that all these stray leads, all these subsidiaries of subsidiaries lead to one main source." "And that is?" "Ever heard of the Soobrian Standards Corporation?" "I've already told you that my suitcase is crammed full of research on the Soobrian Standards,” she said. It made him wonder how she could have lasted eight years doing that kind of dangerous research. Then again would something like that be considered threatening to those who were after her suitcase? However, judging by Sam's dedication—two years living undercover—whoever was his boss must know that there would be more in her suitcase than just research papers. Sam wouldn't know. He wouldn't have been told. But his control knew. Therefore it had to be something incriminating. The Soobrian Standards was a giant and giants were hard to intimidate or implicate. But those who served in their ranks, at whatever rung of its hierarchy, were not. "The evidence in your suitcase must lead directly to an individual inside an organization that's blanketed by the Soobrian Standards." "I figured that out, too, Nick." "How easy would it be to trace the individual by your evidence alone? It's been more than twenty years." "I don't think the FBI would have a problem." "Is it that kind of specialized evidence?" "It's unique." "A signed confession,” he teased. "A signature of sorts, that's for sure.” She nodded. “Though I only figured it out much later. When I picked up those things in the cabin, they were just interesting trinkets. Things a child might notice and pick up as children do." "I'd like to take a look at that suitcase,” he murmured. "It might not be a safe thing to do right now,” she said. She was right. The only reason why she was still alive was that Sam hadn't gotten hold of it in time. Whoever wanted it must feel the same way as she did. Namely that the evidence was uniquely incriminating. That was probably the reason the kidnappers came back. Not to remove the bodies or to confuse those who would come searching for them. But to comb the cabin for incriminating evidence they had suddenly realized must have been left there. "So what do we do now?” she asked. "I'd like to find out who Sam's partner is. The one who is so handy with a blade,” he said. "No more set ups, Nick.” She looked at him, alarmed. He took her in his arms and told her without words why he wouldn't risk it again. "I had a different kind of set up in mind,” he murmured and tried to pick her up. She wouldn't let him. She did, however, pull him toward the bedroom, saying that a bed was a much better place than a couch. "It doesn't matter who has slept in this bed,” she told him in that stern, lecturing voice. “It's mine and that's all you should remember." "Yes ma'am,” he murmured, sinking down and taking her with him. She was right. The couch had served its purpose. It was time to lay his claim to the place where he wanted to spend all the rest of the nights ... beside her. * * * * "What are you doing?” she asked when she saw him reach for the phone on the night table. They had gone to bed at eight o'clock. Now it was ten and time for a well deserved rest. "I'm going to try and see whether someone else might not be able to set things up for us. It's just a hunch. I'm not sure if it'll work. A long shot, really. But I want to give it a try." "Should I leave?” She started to rise so he had to capture her with his legs. "I'm far from finished for the night.” He chuckled then raised his hand to caress her breast. He had turned on the night lamp. There was enough light in the bedroom for her to be concerned because she was naked. She didn't even seem to notice, her nakedness or the light. He found that very promising. "Stay,” he said, his hand cupping the breast, kneading softly its full, round shape. “I want you to listen to my side of the conversation. Tell me what you think." "I think you will have difficulties making that call with one hand.” She laughed and gripped his forearm. She started to massage it, her fingers pressing firmly into its sinewy muscle. Now and then she would ease on the pressure and the maddeningly sensuous touch made the hair on his forearm rise. He dropped the phone as if it turned into a hotplate. Her mouth was whispering an invitation to him. It could not be ignored. It was what he had always wanted, always hoped for. She touched the bandaged shoulder, her eyes closing. A spasm flashed across her face. He whispered that she should not dwell on the cause of the bandage. "The important part of me is healthy and ready as always whenever you're near me,” he told her. "I can feel it.” She chuckled and moved her hips from side to side, rubbing against him. “You're so ... so.... “She closed her eyes with that murmur. "Good,” he teased. "Smooth.” She surprised him with that. "I haven't shaved any part of me. That's not my style." "I was talking about the part of you that doesn't need to shave." "My palms,” he supplied ruefully. It made her laugh and suddenly he felt her hand sliding down the length of his body. This was another new, bold move for her, the kind that made his breath grow hot and short. "Smooth,” she murmured dreamily when she connected with the hardness that practically started to vibrate under her touch. She teased him for a while and he let her, feeling the shivers course through him, feeling his skin grow hot. She was defining his erection, measuring it with her fingers, stroking it in that possessive manner which made his chest tighten with emotion. "Mine,” she whispered, smiling. "All yours, always,” he breathed back and let her fit him inside, the first time she had done anything like that. Once again the entry was so intense they both gasped. Their hands grew busy, clutching each other, rubbing the muscles, pressing to find the support they needed to keep the rhythm strong and even. He kept whispering to her that he loved her, over and over, punctuating his declaration with fierce kisses. It was the way he had always imagined making love to her, freely and without any restrictions on his thoughts, his words, or his actions. He didn't need to ask her what felt good. He knew it, recognized what her body was telling him and knew it was the same for her. In his darkest moments, when he had female company for the sake of physical release and nothing else, he used to count his strokes. The fewer the better, he felt, though he knew it would be the opposite for his partner. He had even trained himself to come on a particular stroke, like a well-programmed machine. He felt his partners grow disgusted with this kind of calculated lovemaking and didn't care. Suddenly, all those dark years of empty release vanished. The memories passed through his mind like an ill wind and died out somewhere across the prairie. His mind was attuned to the presence of the woman he loved. His body coursed on its own, without a time or a beat-keeper. He felt her body shiver and knew her release was close behind. "I love it when you're all mine,” he whispered. “Love what your body does against mine. Let it go, Seah, let it.... “He could not finish. Their rhythm changed into a collision, one lightning striking after another. Their release came at the same time. He thrust into her a few more times because the shivers were still driving both of them. "Nick.” Her breathing came labored. “It was always you, never anyone else. In this bed, beside me, it was you I wanted. Even when I knew I might never see you again, it was you I held, you I loved." It had been the same for him. But there was no need to say it. She knew it. She felt it and both of them would feel it for the rest of the time to come. * * * * Ten minutes later he felt recovered sufficiently to reach for the phone again. "I couldn't leave even if I wanted to,” she told him sleepily. “I'm so tired I'll probably fall asleep as you're talking." He kissed her and said he would keep on checking on her to make sure she stayed awake, then finally dialed. His call was picked up on the sixth ring. It made him smile. There was readiness on the other end of the line, readiness and anticipation. It certainly meant something. "You're not sleeping much these days, Mars,” he remarked lazily when Bolton delivered the code-clear phrase and he responded with his clearance. "You're one of my leading sources of sleeplessness,” Bolton grumbled. “Why didn't you report on the accident?" For a moment, Nick was taken aback. How could have Bolton learned about the attack in the alley so soon? Then he realized that his run-in with Sam and the shadow was not the first accident. The team at the Daily Chapter had lost one of its members. He had decided not to report on it to Bolton and yet Bolton knew. "I didn't think there was much to report on a case of drunk driving." "It's been confirmed then?" "That's the way the police are treating it. Actually, it's case closed or no case at all." "Is that what you think?" The question surprised him. “Am I supposed to be thinking more deeply about it?" "Do what is necessary. You're on the job." "I remember distinctly that you warned me not to stick my nose where it shouldn't go. I'm behaving." "That'll be the day. Don't you think that accident was just too accidental? He was working on the crash but was taken off the story shortly before his death." "Everyone in the office knew what he was working on and how sore he was about being taken off the story. That's probably why he got drunk." "He was a Hindu. They don't drink. Did that ever occur to you?" Bolton was well informed. He also sounded anxious to re-direct Nick's attention. Now that was definitely curious. Why was Bolton so worried, all of a sudden? "Like I said, Mars, it's not within the scope of my job." "Then perhaps you should include it. It's been almost a week since the funeral. I would prefer not to learn about these things from obituaries." "I'd have to run it by Cunningham first,” Nick said, thinking: And since when did you start reading obituaries, Mars? "Can't you do anything on your own initiative,” he said morosely, snappily. "You warned me not to. I'm being a good boy scout. Still that's not scoring me any points with whoever wanted to see the other day whether I have a glass jaw." "What are you talking about?” Bolton's voice sharpened with caution. "Four days ago, the lady in question thought she heard a prowler outside her house. Her roommate is off on an assignment in Vancouver. Old friends being what they are, she gave me a call. I went over to check things out for her and ran into some nasty temper." "Are you alright?” Bolton sounded more disturbed than concerned. “Why did you wait four days to report on this?" "I wasn't in a conversational mood for a while, Mars, but I'm okay now. Just a sore spot or two and a bruised ego but I'll live. There were two of them, a curious team of hard black shadows." "Did you get to see one or the other?" "Yes and no. It was dark and I was checking the fire escape. I'm pretty sure that the fist that came at my jaw belonged to the roommate. We've met in the office, ships passing in the night, but that was enough. He must have learned how to fly since he's supposed to be up in Canada. Didn't see the other, just felt the sting." "It sounds to me like you haven't moved fast enough, my boy,” Bolton said pensively and then paused. “How are things shaping up otherwise?" "The lady's scared. I didn't tell her it was her roommate. They're getting married. It's not the kind of wedge I would want to drive between two lovers. But she was scared enough afterward to be in a reminiscing mood." "So you broke the rules again?” Ominously but Nick felt the threatening tone was more theatrical than genuine. "Not at all. I capitalized on the advantage. Isn't that what you would have done?" "Don't get cocky,” Bolton grumbled, then, “so what did you find out so far?" "There's more than just nightmares and memories." "There always was,” Bolton agreed dryly. Nick though he heard a faint clink. He could imagine Bolton stirring a martini with his gold toothpick, fishing for olives. Would he swallow the pit? Most likely. He claimed he had been doing it for twenty years. "There's also a suitcase. It's full of memorabilia." "What kind of memorabilia?" "Research on a single theme." "The kind of theme which normally slithers in a zoo?" "Related. She wouldn't say much but I gathered it's mostly companies which have come to no good after making ambitious—however honest—moves on the government tendering circuit." "Sounds like a curious research." Nick glanced at Seabring, raising his finger in a warning to stay quiet, then fired his shot. “What it really sounds like to me, Mars, is that the creature which normally slithers in a zoo is high-stepping all over the territory, squashing the hapless victims who dare to ignore its serious warning." "Now you're talking about an organization, my boy. That's a very mighty leap of deduction there." On your side, too, Mars, Nick thought and smiled. “That could very well be the case." "A conspiracy, my boy, which spans two decades?” Bolton sounded skeptical. "Not exactly a conspiracy, Mars. A sound business arrangement, organized and well run, serving a market need wherever that market need crops up." "Don't over-dramatize the situation, my boy. And don't fantasize. Extrapolations are fine but not when they lead to fantasy." "I don't think we're talking fantasy here, Mars." "What are we talking about then?" "A strong organization within an even stronger organization, thriving in the business world." "Do you have a name for me? I could check out quite a few of your fantasies that way." "Not yet Mars. The lady's not sure enough to trust me that much ... yet. But I do have a couple of fresh victims for you. The Prahms-Bristol of Hopland and the Taranco-Tynken Engineering Services of San Francisco.” Those were the companies they had gone to investigate with Bert Murphy in Boonville and the graduate student from Mendocino who liked to surf on the Internet. "Did the lady supply you with this information?" "Indirectly." "Is that the kind of information that's in the suitcase?" "Along those lines." "Then get busy, my boy. Get the lady's trust and get that suitcase." "I might have scored the other night in that department if the roommate hadn't flown in from Vancouver with a vengeance. The shadow didn't help either." "Don't worry about them. I'll flush the channels all the way to the Chronicle. The editor will see to it that the boyfriend is kept busy." You're a very influential man, Mars, Nick thought and said, “He's already supposed to be busy in Vancouver, but he came back and ran into my fist. He's AWOL now." "I said I'll take care of it.” Bolton's voice colored with impatience. “You just go after that suitcase." "I'll do my best and I'll watch the rules." "They never bothered you before. Don't think I don't know it. Do whatever it takes to do your job—right." "Will you run my authorization on that by Cunningham?” This was a necessary reminder and a test of sorts, as well. "Haven't I always covered for you?" "You're reliable, Mars, always were,” Nick said and thought, but I didn't ask you to cover for me. I asked you to clear me with Cunningham when it comes to stealing evidence and delivering it to you for dispersion to appropriate spheres. It sounds to me like you don't want Cunningham to know that there is a suitcase, and I didn't even tell you there's hard evidence but could it be possible that you already know that? "Just remember that, my boy. My side never errs." "Almost never.” He mad a quick left jab. "What's that supposed to mean?" "The Akron Examiner. It's a maze in a haze." "Then leave the mazes to rats and go where you can see the forest for the trees. And report periodically.” Bolton finished with that irritated reminder and the line went dead. "Was that your boss?” Seabring wondered quietly. "No.” He smiled at her tightly. “That's supposed to be my safety net, except I suspect it's turned into a sticky web. What did you think of that conversation?" "You don't trust him." "Clever journalist,” he praised with a foxy smile. "Who is he?" "Someone who used to be a very powerful man, legally and, I suspect, otherwise." "Is his name Mars?" "I can't tell you the other part." "You don't have to.” She shook her head, frowning. He hated to see her frown and said so. She asked what he was going to do about it. It was just the kind of question he had hoped for. * * * * "This is your last chance.” The words turned into a furious hiss that sizzled in Sam's ear. “If I ever hear again you're writing your own script, you're history. Do you understand?" So Cora has already reported on him, Sam thought, gritting his teeth. The bitch moved quickly. She was shadowing him, second-guessing, too. He should take her out and to hell with the control, primary and secondary. "Anderson's taking over my territory. I want to go back. Watching her serves no purpose now,” Sam said, controlling his fury. "I told you that Anderson is serving a purpose. You were not authorized to leave your observation post. You broke the orders. That alone's enough to make me ... never mind.” The voice trailed off grittily. “Cora made her point. Things will move now. The lady will react. She's not stupid. She'll move to protect her boyfriend. It's more than she would have done for you. You failed even in that respect. She'll make a move to get her suitcase soon enough. Anderson would have told her by now who he is...." "Who is he?” Sam interjected anxiously. He was instantly rebuked. “That's none of your concern. The situation's developing just as I expected. He's even more predictable than you are when it comes to breaking rules. You will remain on the watch duty. Do not attempt to go back now. Cora will work the day shift. You make sure the night moves are covered. Watch her but do not interfere with Anderson again. She would have hidden the suitcase within a reasonable distance. Track her moves, see where she goes. If you feel she's heading for a place where logic dictates one could keep things stored, don't hesitate to follow. Report back to me immediately." "Why can't Cora watch her? I'll be in a far better position to track her movements if I get back to the apartment and the office,” Sam objected sourly. "You're not the one she trusts. Anderson is. He's her old college boyfriend. That relationship has never quit for either of them. Do as you're told and don't improvise." "Was Anderson your last minute substitute?” Sam hated the mere idea that there was now a player who could not only upstage Cora but him. "Not at all and he's no substitute,” the man came back with a dry chuckle. “In fact, I would say it's the other way around. I would say I was his idea. Anderson is high caliber. It wouldn't hurt you to learn from a thing or two from him.” The line went dead. Sam felt like swearing. So Anderson was not just another field operative. He was a big gun. The kind who would be given preferential treatment, given another operative's assignment just before it was to yield results. He was a golden boy, ranked right up there with the scheming lizard. Sam had spent two years working on what he was told was a very important assignment. His paycheck reflected that and it made him happy. He was made to believe that when he finished, when he was successful, there would be an even bigger bonus. Now, inches away from the finish line, they put in a pinch hitter. It was enough to make him grind his teeth and swear all over again. However, he made sure the receiver was securely in its cradle before he vented his fury. * * * * "I need you to get a message to Cunningham,” Nick said when the brief but peculiar conversation about the mating habits of alligators in the Everglades swamp played out. "Are you alright, mon ami?” Jean-Jacques sounded worried. "I have a brand new ten inch scar on my shoulder, nicely stitched up by a renegade medic who's well respected at the Loma Linda Medical Centre. I'm just great. I need new transportation. My current one no longer meets my needs. I need something very rugged, very fast, very durable and very, very secure. Bulk and size would be nice to have, too, but I'm not after an all-terrain vehicle." He heard Jean-Jacques sigh. “Mon ami, these kind of requests are normally cleared through your point of control. The one that keeps track of all the safety features you will enjoy on any job, the one that's supposed to serve as your Kevlar umbrella, shielding the nasty bullets from finding their target, the one that's your reference source and your depository of field data. I'm not happy about your request and you know exactly what I mean. I never considered scars to be battle decorations. I will defend that opinion to death if need be. You're not taking care." "I'm alive therefore I must be. Can you accommodate?" "I'll do my best. But I suspect that if you'll want fancy special features Cunningham will garnish your salary to pay for them. His budget is strained as is." "Nothing overly fancy. I need good side protection. Roll bars, sway bars, excellent brakes, bullet-proof glass would be nice, but I'll settle for whatever comes with the vehicle if that'll take too long to fill." "What kind of terrain are you planning to scour with such a proud vehicle, the Mojave Desert?" "Just a humble distance between here and San Diego, but I may not be allowed to take the shortest route between two points." "How many state troopers will be chasing you?" "I'm not aiming to tease the law of the land. I just want to make sure that the passengers will reach their destination alive. There will be one or two unfriendlies around. Nothing drastic." "I'm taking down your order. Anything else, while you are stressing the taxpayers?" And when Nick finished describing the kind of vehicle he had in mind, Jean-Jacques acknowledged and said it would take a day or two to set up a delivery for the order. "Should it also be blue, mon ami?” The voice in the Keys shook with laughter, the first such sign of merriment. "Wouldn't hurt but speed of delivery is of the essence,” Nick replied and hung up.
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Chapter Fifteen
"Hi, honey. How's it going?” It took all of her composure not to jump up from her desk when she picked up the call. She forced herself to lower her head down, as if checking her notes. She heard the highway traffic, buzzing in the background. "Fine on this side, a quiet break for a change. How are things with you?” She knew she should have asked why he didn't call for almost a week and couldn't force herself to do it. "Very good, hon, very good, in fact so good that I'm coming home. I'll be there when you get back from the office. Let's celebrate with dinner out in Chinatown, even though I'd love to have your home-made pasta." "Glad to hear it.” She couldn't think of anything else to say. She had to end the call, somehow. Nick's eyes were burning holes in the back of her head. “We'll talk when you get back. I've a call coming on the other line." "Sure will, love ya, sweetie. Bye.” She heard a telltale smack of lips, then he hung up. She put down the phone and stared at the paper mess on her desk, imploring it to give her inspiration, what to do. Finally, she forced herself to turn around and found Nick staring at her. She couldn't deny it. He'd see it from her expression. He knew who had made the call. She nodded at him then turned back to face the monitor. Ten minutes to lunchtime, he came over. Rita was out somewhere, doing homework in a public library. "When?" "He's coming back tomorrow,” she lied on sudden inspiration. She didn't want him near Sam, in the office and otherwise. He still winced when he leaned to the right, far from recovered. Yesterday morning, he had packed up his belongings that had migrated into her apartment and put them in a nylon travel bag, then into his car. Precaution, he said and she understood. There was nothing left in her apartment that would tell Sam she had had a male guest if he suddenly came home. She didn't expect Sam to come home tonight. Whoever was giving him orders must have decided things were not moving fast enough. "Don't go home tonight,” she heard him whisper. “Stay the night at my place." "That's not a good idea, Nick. Sam's coming tomorrow. It'll give me a chance to clean up tonight, you know, make sure there's nothing to alarm him." "Let's go to lunch.” He took her elbow. “I need to talk to you." They went outside, bought hot dogs from a street vendor and ate them on a park bench. "You have to hold on for a couple of days. I need to get something and then we'll go collect the suitcase and deliver it, personally, where it wants to head." "Where does it want to head?" "I'm pretty sure where, but I still have to ... I haven't decided how to ... the research in your suitcase, I'm sure it's good but I have a feeling that no matter how incriminating it is, it won't be strong enough to implicate Soobrian Standards." "What are you saying, Nick?" "You can't shut down a giant corporation like the Soobrian Standards. An organization like that is like an iceberg, four-fifths submerged. I think we'll have to settle for taking out one of its key players. Oh, come on, don't look so crestfallen.” He smiled at her then tipped her chin up and kissed her. He continued, “You didn't do all that research for nothing. I'll make sure it'll get to where people who have the authority to investigate corporate business will dissect it and start looking very closely at how the Soobrian subsidiaries won tenders, how many companies that also bid on the same tender were forced into bankruptcy. The past, unfortunately, can't be changed. Your father's reputation ... well, he did sabotage the test flight." "He had no other choice,” she said quietly. “The Salamander Protocol left him no other choice. I can't imagine what it was like for him, living with their threats for two weeks, having to work, and wondering whether his family was safe. They must have threatened him with other things, and he wouldn't yield. He would have realized that they had agents on the inside, where he worked, maybe even on his team, watching him to make sure he didn't tell anyone. Every day he had to be thinking whether he'd find his family alive when he came home from work. The stress he must have lived under, trying to protect his family and at the same time not betray his country, not compromise his work.... He had to know who it was on the inside and followed him when it was over. The mayhem in the wake of the crash would have allowed him to slip away and follow, to get his children. He was a good soldier, but he was also a father—and the father in him won." "Yes, Seah, the father in him won. I might be able to pass on a suggestion to re-open the old files, consider mitigating circumstances that forced the soldier...." "It's all right. He made a choice that was forced upon him. He didn't dishonor the man, just the soldier." "Once we map-out the intimidation business practices, I'm sure the Air Force Special Investigations and the FBI will re-open quite a few historical tendering cases and once an investigation of such magnitude is underway, those who use the Salamander Protocol to force competition into bankruptcy will think twice about targeting the next company. In time, we may even compile enough evidence to go after the parent organization. For now, however, we'll have to settle for one of the key players. The most important thing now is your safety. In a couple of days, we'll go get the suitcase and deliver it. I hate letting you out of my sight but can you hang on for a while?" He sat in profile and when she looked at him she saw he was squinting though they sat in the shade. Did he know what he was asking and that was what produced the creases on his temples? Did he know that was what she dreaded the most—two days with Sam, in the apartment, at night...? "Sam's coming back tomorrow,” she said, looking ahead. "Yeah, I know." "I live with Sam. I can't run away from home. That would only make him suspicious and right now it's the last thing we want.” She looked at him. He shut his eyes so he had to be fighting images of what the next couple of days represented, Seabring and Sam, sleeping in the same bed. "Sam's already suspicious,” he said after a while. “He wouldn't be coming home if he wasn't. Whoever's managing him, has taken him off surveillance. He's coming back to shake things up. The problem is that I don't want things to move yet." "All right, Nick, but if I'm to stall Sam for a couple of days, I need to know details. You have a pretty good idea where we'll head two days from now, with the suitcase. Sam will follow us. It's what you want. But someone else might follow us, too. I don't think Sam has a partner. He just doesn't behave like he does, that's all. So, where are we going to deliver my suitcase, Nick?" "It's not yet time to...." "Yes, it is,” she interrupted. "San Diego." "Ah, your boss, your reference man." "Mars was never my boss. I report to Brigadier General Eugene Cunningham. He's in Washington. When branching from the main assignment, into another, that may be connected to the primary one, the protocol calls for indirect reporting procedures. Officially, I'm working out of the Kirtland Base in New Mexico, doing my job as defined by a function of Industrial Security Programs. But my assignment is at Edwards, the test flight crash over Nevada." "I remember a name, Robert J. Cunningham, a pilot killed in the ‘81 crash." "Cunningham's younger brother. That was the reason why he sent me to keep an eye on you at Berkeley. I wasn't after your suitcase, just your memories. I wanted to help, get you to reconcile with the past. Cunningham always thought that you'd remember what you overheard in the cabin when the childhood trauma played out. He's a father, I guess he knows how well children retain what they'd heard or seen. He gave me a year. You cancelled me after eight months, but you're right, I was recalled the same day you walked out of the kitchen. "Mars was my control on that assignment, advising and serving as a conduit of any information I gave him. He didn't like the way I changed his script. I became involved with my subject. It made me unreliable. He put up Harding from Contracts to file an official complaint against me, an old issue I had thought long settled when I was doing a rotation with Special Investigations. It was sufficient to get me back to Washington, to face an inquiry panel. Cunningham sent me overseas to get me out of harm's way. Back in ‘81, he was with the Special Investigations and he knew your father. He didn't think he was a part of it in any way but a victim. Like you said, the kidnappers left him no choice. Ten years later, you finally posted your message inquiry on the Internet. People whose job it is to monitor for such things flagged it. I happened to be there when the flag came up. When I saw ... well, I couldn't believe it. I alerted Cunningham. He sanctioned my side-trip to San Francisco. Once again, I needed a reference man. Mars retired, five years ago, but he was open for short-term contracts. It always bothered me that he put up Harding to file the complaint. I didn't see a reason for him to be so heavy-handed. Then I realized that pulling me in wasn't enough. He had to punish me for changing his script, getting involved. Maybe he knew that I was crack-close to quitting, not just my job, but also the Air Force. And you can't quit when you have a complaint logged against you. That's dishonorable discharge at best." "Why did you want to quit? Your Air Force career was still young, you were only twenty-eight." He took her hand and clasped it between his. “I wanted to stay with you. I'd have stayed even if it meant quitting Air Force, if you hadn't...." "I fell in love with you. It scared me." He raised her hand and kissed her fingers. “And you never talk about your fears to anyone. My grandfather used to say that the Lord makes one woman for every man and that it's up to the man to find her. Grandma died twenty years before him, and he never once looked at another woman. He said he found his partner, kept her as long as the good Lord allowed him such happiness and that he was just biding his time, until he joined her again. Seah, it didn't take me long to realize that I found the woman the good Lord meant for me to have. Except she didn't want to keep me, and I didn't know how to convince her that I was worth keeping." She cupped his cheek with her free hand and kissed him. She pulled away to be able to run the tip of her finger over his lips and whispered, “Let's take the next plane to Australia. I have a family there, and they speak English. They have newspapers and reporters and you can be a bush-pilot or a mercenary, if that's the kind of work that appeals to you." He laughed. “I'd settle for a seashore and a red-roofed villa, remember, the one we used to watch, perched above on the cliffs...?" "I think we could afford the part that's already hanging over the cliff." Poised on the edge of disaster, he remembered what she said about the house ten years ago. Once again, it could be applied to their situation. * * * * "Your performance is unsatisfactory. Follow the script, don't improvise,” Sam mumbled, sinking his teeth into a cigarette filter so hard he bit right through it. He flung away the butt. What was he, a fucking trained seal? First Cora, then Anderson. Did the bastard think he was that stupid and fall for his, “Watch her every move. She'll lead you to the suitcase soon enough, then report back to me." Hell, Cora probably had orders to kill him once he found where Seabring had hid the suitcase and reported it. That's why she was brought in, to remove him when he succeeded. He was nothing but a tool, used to set things up—for Anderson. That was why the control was stalling. Don't improve, just let yourself be used. Oh yeah, he knew why two players were inserted—on the same day. Sam made a bold, brilliant move. He moved in with Seabring, proposed marriage. She was ready to trust him. That's not what the fucking lizard wanted. So he brought in Cora and Anderson and sidelined Sam to surveillance duty. Like hell! He was going home, where he should have stayed all along. With him home, Anderson was stuck outside. And if Anderson couldn't get to Seabring, he'd try to hurry things along. He'd worry that Sam might beat him to the suitcase and urge her to tell him where she hid it. When that happened, Sam would be there to collect the prize. I've been used as a decoy for two years, he thought. Let's see how the game shapes when I become a catalyst. * * * * She left her windbreaker at her desk. It was the only way she could get away from the office without Nick following her. She picked up her purse, motioned at Jill to come along, and headed for the washroom. On their way back, she ‘forgot’ something, watched Jill disappear around the corner then ran for the elevator. It was a hot day. Her car hood felt like a hotplate when she put her purse on it, looking for car keys. She dumped the purse contents, spread them over the hood, but the car keys were not there. Without them the car wouldn't start. Taxi, she thought and swept everything off the hood and into the purse. "Need a ride?” She heard a shout and looked up. Deja vu, she thought when she saw Cora inch closer in her red car. How fortunate that Cora, too, decided to leave work early and came along to offer her a ride—again. "I heard about your horseback riding accident,” she said when she sat beside her, wondering when Cora had gotten her driving license or how many accidents she had, because she drove like a teenager taking a driving test and making sure it was an uneventful and safe ride. Cora laughed. “The guys at the office won't let me forget it. I'm not much good around horses." "Then why did you go riding?" "A kid delivered one of those advertising flyers to my place with a coupon for one free riding lesson,” she confessed with disarming simplicity. "You should have taken the lesson first,” she murmured and wondered why she was so critical. Cora wasn't offended. She laughed again and agreed, adding that the lesson had to be booked well in advance, and she had acted on impulse. She parked the car in front of the house just as a water truck came down the street. What a luxury, Seabring thought, getting out of the car. Just then, the truck raised its water fans and she hastily crawled back inside to avoid being washed with re-cycled water. She ended up kneeling on the passenger seat, hands down on the driver's seat, for support. As she struggled to turn around, she noticed something wedged between the centre console and the driver's seat. She arched her back to see it better. Afterward, she reflected that Cora was a sensible and cautious woman, to keep a knife wedged beside her in the car. The knife's handle looked like leather and though she didn't see the whole blade, she felt it would be respectably, if not impressively long. Was it also shiny? Absolutely. After all, Cora was efficient. If the knife was ever used and came back with bloodstains, she'd scrub it clean. * * * * Sam said he'd be home before her, but it was only four o'clock. She normally didn't get home until seven or eight o'clock. Do I have three or four hours in which to figure out something to get rid of Sam, she wondered? Or is time running out, even as I stand here? Nick would probably phone. He didn't know Sam was coming home tonight. She took the phone off its answering mode. Nick couldn't be allowed to leave a message. If Sam called in the meantime, she'd let the phone ring and tell him later on that she was in the shower. If Nick called, it was best to let him think she wasn't home yet, that she stopped by Rita's or went to get groceries. She turned, intending to get out of the kitchen and ended up turning around, spinning, not able to decide what she should do. "No more games,” she said out loud. “Sam's coming back. You know he'll be here tonight. He'll push-spin you for the bedroom.... He'll make love to you, kiss you the way you asked to be kissed ... I can't do it. I can't play the victim...." She thought it would be easier on Nick if he didn't know that Sam was coming home tonight, and she'd have to spend the night with him. Even though he had asked her to hold on for a couple of days, she knew he didn't mean for her to continue sleeping with Sam. She nodded as if to re-affirm something then picked up the phone. "Rita? Listen and don't talk. You're very, very sick. In fact you're an emergency case. Do you think we can swing the emergency without stressing your medical insurance too much...?" Rita was quick—and smart. “Sam's coming home tonight, got it. Yep, I'm an emergency case. Get right over here. I need you. I can't drive myself, can't see, can't breathe ... I think it's an asthma attack but it could be anything. My lips are turning blue. It's an allergic reaction. I don't know, just get over here." "Love you,” she said and tossed down the handset. Ten minutes later, she sat in a taxi, heading for Rita's place. She left Sam a note, explaining the situation. She had lost her car keys. Her car was back at the office parking lot. She was taking a taxi to pick up Rita and take her to an emergency room. She'd call him from the hospital. * * * * Rita owned a Doberman. "Pix is an excellent companion, gentle and obedient,” she said, “but my trained security dog doesn't listen to anyone else but me. Guarding isn't the only thing he's good at." "Come on, Rita, what harm will it do? I just need to borrow Pix for a while,” she said, but Rita only shook her head. "Please, come on." "It's after nine o'clock. I never take him out for a walk at night. He'd only get confused." "Confused about what, for God's sake?" "His job. I can't let you take out a dog that could eat his way through a crowd of holy pilgrims at Mecca, not when it's outside of his routine,” Rita maintained. "Sam's home. I need to see who else is watching my apartment.” They had already phoned him from Ricky's clinic in Calandria. Once again Dr. Sawyer did a favor for his casual girlfriend and provided medical alibi for her to endorse her friend's nursing presence by her side. Sam sounded unhappy, but he couldn't miss the bustle of a busy medical clinic in the background. The announcements over the speaker, the nurses calling out patients’ names, the curses and groans of patients, and the constant chime of cell phones, arranging a new time for a drug deal. Sam's voice betrayed his irritation, but he believed and that's all she wanted. "I'll come with you,” Rita said. "I don't want you to get involved. Besides, you need to sleep. Your eyes are closing as we speak." "I'm involved, even though I don't know in what. I need my sleep, but I won't die if I don't get it. The most important reason why I have to go with you is that Pix may decide he's hungry and eat you en route. He's not choosy either. He likes you now, but an hour from now, when he's hungry, you won't be safe. And he's thorough, leaves nothing but belt buckles and glasses." * * * * Nick had never felt so desperate and powerless at once. Not even ten years ago. Back then the situation was desperate but not hopeless. He told himself that when she finished college, he'd re-appear in her life. He knew the longer he stayed away, the less courage he'd have to find her but in spite of procrastinating, he never lost hope that some day he'd sneak into her life again. It was different now. Instinct told him she had lied when she said Sam was coming home tomorrow. He didn't expect her to use the washroom ploy to leave the office. When he realized she wasn't coming back, he ran out to the parking lot and found her car. Why didn't she take it? Was Sam waiting for her already and picked her up? Did he phone her from his car? But Sam had called in the morning. She waited until three o'clock to get away. He called her apartment and let the phone ring twenty times. The machine didn't come on. He was ready to call the police and report her missing. He sat in his car until he felt that once again the soldier was in control, then drove to Fulton Street and parked across the street where he'd be able to see her house. He called again from his cell phone. No one answered. He sat in the car, trying to figure out what to do. Now and then, he'd check the mirrors. At six-thirty, he saw Cora's car roll slowly over the hill and leisurely cruise down the street. She made a left hand turn onto Shaw, but five minutes later re-appeared over the hill for another slow drive-by. The third time, she parked half a block north of where he was parked, on the other side. At a quarter to seven, he saw Sam's car pull up in front of the house. He got out, went to get his bulging black travel bag from the trunk and ran up the steps. Nick drummed his fingers on the dashboard, swore then took out his cell phone. He didn't know what he'd say and was about to punch the number when he noticed movement up the street. Cora's car pulled away from the curb. This time she drove by at normal speed and when he glanced in the rear view mirror, he saw her make a right turn onto Britton Street. He waited five more minutes but she didn't return. He hefted the cell phone, sighed and called her apartment. "Hi,” he said when Sam's voice bit his ear. “It's Nick Anderson. I'm sorry to bother you. I know you must have just come home. I overheard Seabring telling Jill that you were coming back tonight from Vancouver. I'm working on a toxic spill in the Bay Area and I'm not having much luck with the track record of companies that were supposed to do a thorough cleanup. Barbara told me that I might want to touch base with you. Apparently, you've done a piece on toxic waste a few months back. I was wondering whether you'd let me have a look at it?” It occurred to him that Sam might ask why his colleague hadn't used the company library and asked the library technician to track down the article for him. He waited. When the silence grew uncomfortable, he said, “I know what you must think. I'm bothering you and you must be tired from the trip. I told Barbara that I'd look up the article in the library but she gave me an impression that a colleague's work ought not to be searched without permission." Finally, he heard him laugh. “Barbara's a very diplomatic boss. I'm not like that. You could have looked up the article. It's been a while, like you said. I'm not sure whether I even remember it." "So you don't keep copies of your work at home, that's too bad." He surprised him. “I might. I could have a look around, see what I have on my hard disk.” He sounded as if he wanted to get to it tomorrow. He spoke up hurriedly. "Barbara wants to see a draft by tomorrow morning on her desk. That's why I'm sweating over it at home. I know I'm being a pain in the ass, but would you mind taking a look tonight? I could come over,” he offered quickly, and crossed his fingers. Sam was silent for a long time, then said, “Sure, why not. Come on over. I'll just take a shower and get a bite to eat, then we can take a look at what I have here." "Thanks, thanks a lot,” he said with genuine relief, and closed the phone. He slumped down in the seat, such that even if Sam looked out the window he wouldn't be able to see him, and sat there, watching the dashboard clock. He had expected Sam to at least mention that he'd have to ask his partner whether she felt like company tonight. Sam didn't mention her. Was that good or bad? Did it mean she was inside with him or that she wasn't home yet? And if she wasn't home yet, where the hell was she? Well, he'd find out when it was time to visit Sam. At quarter to nine, he rang the bell under the nameplate that still bore only one name—S. Roberts. * * * * "This is insane,” Rita grumbled. “We're dressed in black, head to toe, like burglars. We're only missing the balaclavas. There's a hellhound breathing down my neck and we're parked in front of your house, watching your apartment at ten o'clock at night. If I ever get an urge to write fiction, this will be my opening paragraph. What are we waiting for? Who are we looking for? Sam's car is parked over there. It means Sam is home since his car doesn't drive itself." Seabring didn't answer her. The flimsy window curtains fanned the light into a gentle halo. Once or twice, she saw Sam's silhouette move across the window. He was pacing the living room. That meant he was busy—but with what? Suddenly, another silhouette moved across the window, taller, wider than Sam's lanky frame. She sucked in a hard gasp. Sam had company. "He's not alone.” Rita, too, saw the difference. "I wonder who it is." "His partner,” Rita suggested. "What partner?" "You tell me." "I need to know. I've got to know,” she kept murmuring. "It's your apartment. Go home and find out." She groaned. Simple solutions were often the most difficult. “We'll wait a while longer. Maybe we'll see him when he leaves." "Or her,” Rita pointed out. She didn't think Sam's visitor was a woman. The shadow was too tall, too large to be a woman. There was a street lamp in front of the house, and ever since she had complained to the landlord that the front steps were so dark she fell when coming home late, he'd turn on the coach lamps by the front door. The exit from the house was well lit. She'd be able to see Sam's visitor when he came outside. They sat in the car for half an hour, petting Pix, feeding him doggy biscuits and watching the apartment window. On a weekday, the traffic on Fulton Street thinned down by ten o'clock, since it was a residential street. The joggers never stopped to peer into cars to see if someone sat in them on a stakeout. They were interested only in their exercise routine. Five minutes would go by before car lights came over the hill, a resident either returning from eating out, or a workaholic coming home. She thought that was the case when she saw a set of headlights emerge over the hill, but something about the way they struggled to rise and then equally leisurely moved down the street, made her look until the car passed by. "That was Cora,” she whispered when the car turned left at the bottom of the hill. "I have a feeling that things are going to move now,” Rita, too, whispered. She was right. Cora must have drove around and doubled back because five minutes later she came by again, this time parking five spots ahead of Sam's car. "I can never find a parking spot on my street,” Rita murmured. "That's because there are no back lanes on your street. Here, residents usually park their cars in the back lane, in the garage, and leave the front for their tenants and visitors." "How thoughtful.” Rita smirked. "Very. It also adds another two hundred dollars to my rent." Even as she talked, she kept watching as Cora got out of her car, turned her head both ways and studied the empty street, and only then walked down to Seabring's house. She climbed half way up the stairs when the front door opened. "Jesus...!” Rita blew a shocked whisper. Sam and Nick came out and stopped, side-by-side. Seeing Cora on the stairs must have surprised them. She waved at them and they came down to join her. All three stood there for a few moments, obviously talking, then finished coming down. She didn't see Nick's car and wondered whether he had walked over, his favorite evening stroll. They got in Cora's car and the car pulled out swiftly, made a u-turn, climbed the hill and disappeared. Suddenly, she heard her mother's voice. There are two ‘Os’ in Soobrian, dear. A double meaning, a double cross. She had used the reminder to safeguard her suitcase. Was anything worth preserving anymore? Did she ever have anything worth saving, ten years ago or now? "I'm tired, Rita. Let's go back to your place." "You don't even want to think what it was all about, do you?” Rita asked quietly. "No need to. I know." "Sea, how about a vacation, somewhere off the beaten path, somewhere nice and quiet, or maybe nice and busy where it's easy to get lost in a crowd?" "Maybe. First I need to take a look in Sam's car.” She grabbed her purse and jumped out of the car before Rita could stop her. She came back five minutes later, carrying her purse as if it was full of rocks." "How did you get in his car?” Rita was a good reporter, analytical. "He keeps a valet key taped under his back bumper. I'm ready now. Start the car." When they got back to Rita's place, she said, “You're right. I need to think things over for a couple of days. I can't do it in the city and I don't want to lead anyone to mother's place." "I can get us a place, and I'll stay out of your way if you let me come along,” Rita said. It was not what she wanted but Rita's company would not be overly intrusive. "Ricky has a place. It's three hours from here. It's a cabin with a hot tub outside with no civilization around miles. I've been up there. There's nothing much to do there but run around naked, soak in the tub.... You know what I mean. It's a good place to unwind." "Tell Ricky that I'll do a story on his genius and dedication that'll earn him a presidential citation,” she said. "The last thing he wants is publicity,” Rita grinned and said she'd give Ricky a call. The doctor hardly ever slept anyway. She came back from the bedroom ten minutes later. "He said we're welcome to use it. Mind you, he mentioned something about having to clean it up because he hasn't been there in months." "No problem and thank you.” She nodded and that was the end of conversation for the night. * * * * Sam felt like smashing the phone against the kitchen counter when he listened to her message. Rita needed to see a specialist in L.A. Seabring was going with her friend and he should tell Barbara that they would be absent for a few days for medical reasons. Not only did she think that he was stupid, but also her gofer—tell Barbara.... Fuck! Rita was just an excuse to stay away from him. Oh, she was off somewhere with her, but not because of medical emergency. She didn't want to come home to the man who had proposed marriage to her because while he ‘ran around Vancouver’ on assignment, she had re-kindled her old romance with a college boyfriend. Anderson became her first choice and Sam Falkner was ... what—a historical mistake? He felt like smashing and breaking everything within reach and knew he couldn't vent his rage, not this close to the end of assignment that he would finish, not the other two fuckers. He found a bottle of scotch whiskey in a cupboard above the sink and though he preferred gin, it was liquor and he needed to get some sleep. It also helped the pain, another surprise that literally kicked him in the dark, when he came home from a dinner on the town, with Anderson, who must have been just as shocked as he was when he saw Cora on the stairs, just as they walked out. It took him five minutes after Anderson came over to realize that he had to get rid of him—permanently. His jaw was still sore when he chewed food and his ribs hurt where the man's kick scored that night in the back lane when he had jumped him in the dark. If Anderson recognized his attacker, he didn't show it when he came over. He was a grateful and apologetic colleague, nothing else. When he turned his back, Sam thought about how it would feel, to drive a knife between his shoulder blades and hear the scraping of the blade against the bone. He had left his gun in the glove compartment. If he had had it with him, Anderson would not have left alive. The very notion that Anderson became her choice, not to speak of being the control's number one, fuelled his rage. Two years he had followed the script, two years he kept forcing himself to follow the rules, just as the fucking lizard wanted, and all the time he was just a set-up man, a stagehand. Anderson had suggested going out for a dinner and drink when Sam couldn't find anything on his hard disk that would help him with the clean-up companies. He agreed, hardly able to contain his excitement. They'd take his car, but he'd ask Anderson to drive because, after all, Sam had just returned from a long business trip. And once Anderson was in the car, it wouldn't take much to distract him with work chat long enough to get the gun out of the glove compartment. Cora spoiled his plan by appearing on the stairs. The moment he saw the fucking bitch, he knew what it was—a warning. She would have checked with the control man, reported that Sam wasn't following the script. She came to remind him. She must have watched the place, saw him come home when it wasn't in the script and moved to deliver ... a warning, punishment, cancellation...? Yes, everything the control would have asked her to do. They spent the evening like perfect colleagues, having dinner at Mar Cruises because Cora ‘remembered’ she hadn't eaten. Then they went to Mitrano's Sports Bar to watch a ballgame because Cora knew nothing about baseball ... yeah, right. They dropped off Anderson at his place on Ramirez Street and drove to Seabring's apartment in total silence. When they stood on the sidewalk in front of the house, Cora finally spoke, “Don't ever do something stupid like this again.” Her voice was as pleasant as a screech of rock against glass. "He came over...” he started. She cut him off. “That's what he's supposed to do, you imbecile. You're not supposed to be here. You're supposed to be on surveillance. Your stupidity has endangered this whole assignment. She's gone...." "She's gone because her friend's sick. She's staying with Rita." "She shouldn't be staying with Rita!” Her anger blasted him. “She wouldn't have gone to Rita's if you hadn't showed up, you fucking moron! I saw her with Anderson in the park, at lunchtime. She's ready to tell him where she keeps the suitcase. She might have done it tonight, but you have to go berserk like a jealous fool and rush back.” She stood five feet away from him, in profile. He didn't expect her to move so quickly. Her scissor kick caught him under the chin. His head snapped back with such force everything blacked out for a moment. He came to, sprawled on the sidewalk, his head throbbing. "I should have killed you,” Cora hissed down at him. “Consider this your last warning." In the morning, before he left for work, he had to use Seabring's make-up to cover the bruise. The whiskey wasn't enough. He took two painkillers and when he woke up his head still throbbed. Only when Barbara asked him whether he felt sick was he able to straighten up and mumble an excuse that he was worried about Seabring and Rita. "You didn't stay up all night, looking for that article, did you?” Anderson stopped by his desk, on his way to get coffee. He managed a chuckle and said he wasn't much of a drinker, and his puffy eyes were a result of last night's beers at Mitrano's. Anderson patted his shoulder. It took all of his composure not to lunge at him with outstretched hands. * * * * Walking away, heading for the kitchenette, Nick wondered whether Sam ran into a fist or a boot. He bet it was the latter. After all, as he passed by Cora's desk, he stopped to greet her and make small talk, mostly about last night and baseball. It gave him a chance to examine her hands. They were perfectly smooth, lightly tanned and elegantly manicured. It meant she was a very smart woman with a powerful and accurate drop kick.
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Chapter Sixteen
"The ladies left me with an impression that they didn't want to be disturbed, Nick,” Dr. Sawyer said, smiling apologetically. "I'm worried about them,” he said simply. "Nothing much out there to harm them. I'd say the lady ought to worry about your safety far more than her own. How's my handiwork?" "You've checked it. You tell me.” He finished buttoning his shirt. The doctor said that no further check-ups were needed. The rest of the stitches had dissolved, the scar was healing nicely and the red seam would pale eventually. But that wasn't to say he was supposed to forget how he came by the scar. "Reprimand well registered, sir.” He grinned. "I'm glad to hear that I outrank you,” the doctor deadpanned, but he wouldn't tell him where Rita and Seabring had gone. “Do what I suspect comes naturally to you,” he advised. “Prowl the fire escapes and watch her apartment. She'll come back, trust me. If nothing else, Rita will drag her back because that woman can take only so much of solitude." That's a splendid advice, he though. Except I can't be in three places at once, and I have at least that many people to keep track of. It was a tough choice. He could only track one person if he was to do a good job of it. Who would it be? Cora, Sam—or Seabring's apartment? The shadow that had attacked him in the alley was Cora. Her horseback riding accident injury was a result of Seabring's rolling pin. Cora was shadowing Sam that night, but he felt that she wasn't his partner. She was more like a watchdog, the secondary control that could, at any time, turn into an executioner. He didn't need to track Sam. Cora would do it for him. If he stayed on Cora, he would be in essence tailing Sam and through Sam, finally Seabring. He knew why she left, or at least he hoped that was the reason. He wouldn't have advised her to do it because he hated not knowing where she was. Still, he was deliriously happy to know she wasn't with Sam. The man was bad news. Outwardly, he was as average as a fence post, and just as dynamic. At work, he slapped his male colleagues’ shoulders in a greeting, and performed a shuffle-jig for women to entertain them. If he saw more than two people in the kitchenette, he'd grab his coffee cup and join them. If he needed a stapler, he'd spend five minutes socializing with Jill before asking to borrow hers. He was the type of colleague that no one found threatening—doing his work but not a workaholic. In the few weeks since Nick had joined the staff, Rita had three verbal fights with Sanjay. Keith refused to let Perry borrow his reference material, and grudgingly agreed only when his boss intervened. Jill barged into Barbara's office to complain about the night-cleaning staff's careless vacuuming that cracked her power-bar. Reporters in general were dynamic, temperamental people. Sam Falkner, other than when he chose to be a clown, had no temper or personality. Was that why Seah let him be a part of her life for two years, because Sam was safe...? She was intuitive, though she tried to kill any twinge of doubt about something, someone she didn't want to analyze. If, during the two years, she'd at least peeked from under the blindfold, she'd have seen that Sam Falkner was a dangerous, unstable character. His mask was not securely glued on his face. Now and then it slipped, like the night when he let a colleague impose upon him, no doubt against his better judgment. The way Sam stared at his back, when he sat at the computer, reading an old article, made him wonder whether Sam's control man knew that his authority over this operative had eroded to where he had become unreliable, a rogue-agent. He saw Sam's look reflected in the dark screen of Seabring's monitor that sat next to Sam's. It was not just hate, but insecurities surfacing because Sam must have felt, or recognized, that he'd been relegated to a minor role. Whoever controlled him had made a tactical mistake—misread him. Sam could be bullied and ordered around but only to a point. If he worked for me, he thought, I'd let him think he's in control and the most important factor of any assignment, right until the end. Depending upon whether I'd plan to use him again or not, I would ‘motivate’ him with money and praise. He needs both to feel important. He spent two days feeling as if holding a live electrical wire. His shoulder muscles ached from looking up to see what Sam was doing, and he couldn't compose two sentences without a spelling mistake. If Sam thought it suspicious that his colleague took a washroom break every time he did, he didn't show it. On the third day, just after lunch, Seabring phoned Sam. He knew it was Seabring on the other side of the call. Cora, sitting across from Sam, knew it, too, because she leaned forward so suddenly it looked as if she ducked. The way Sam's hands grew busy, doodling on the notepad as he listened, settled the issue. It was mostly a one-sided conversation, she talked and Sam listened. She's giving him instructions, he thought. What's she up to and why hasn't she called me? She couldn't possibly think of leaving me out of it, for safety reasons. It was what he had dreaded all along. * * * * "Jill, cover for me with Barbara.” Sam rose, looking distressed, even disoriented. He knew how to create the right impression so she wouldn't ask questions. He spun around a few times, reached for his briefcase, dropped it and ended up picking up his folder and keys. "That was the police.” He moved his head from side to side then tossed the folder on his desk. “There's been an accident. It's Seabring. They didn't tell me much, but I think she's okay, so is Rita. They were returning from L.A. and a truck cut them off. The car's a write-off, but they're okay, still...” He paused to let Jill make all the sputtering noises she wanted, then glanced to see whether the other two overheard what he had meant for them to hear. I'm a great actor, he thought, running for the elevator. All right, let's get things moving now. He had come an hour late this morning because the back of his head throbbed as badly as when the bitch had laid him out on the sidewalk with her fucking kick. The parking lot was full. He had a reserved paid spot but didn't feel like arguing with the lot attendant. Besides, the plastic pass was back at the office, in his desk, because he was away doing fieldwork. He backed out of the parking entrance and parked down the street on a meter. He'd probably get a parking ticket. Well, he'd claim it on the expense report, official or unofficial. It didn't matter which one. The full parking lot this morning had to be fate because those who'd follow him now would waste time, watching for his car around the lot. It left him free to take Seabring's car, since it was still here and he had duplicate keys. Cora must have stolen her keys ... He had to get rid of the bitch, sooner than later. He knew she'd be the first to figure out he took Seabring's car, then again, Anderson probably would, too. It wasn't important. All he needed was a head start. * * * * Seabring couldn't stand still, even though Sam might miss the place and drive by. The business had a sign above the plate-glass window, Camden Postal Outlet and Storage, but if he was as excited as she was nervous, he might miss it because the blue lettering had faded. She couldn't stand on the spot, hugging herself to stop shivers and decided to follow an elderly couple because it forced her to walk slowly. When the urge to overtake them grew to where she thought she'd barge right between them, she turned around and walked back. Rita sat in a coffee shop across the street and probably thought her friend was having a nervous breakdown. She couldn't persuade her to leave, but she had made her promise not to interfere, no matter what. "Just sit by the window and watch, okay?” she pleaded with her. "What are you going to do?" "Stand in front of the outlet, pace up and down, flag him down when he drives by, I don't know. Just stay here and watch, okay." "If you stand in front long enough, someone might proposition you. This is not a boring district, you know. Just around the corner, there's a tattoo parlor, on Castro. That's where I did my research on bikers’ tattoos last year." "Really? I missed that story." "Everyone did. Barbara killed it when I was still on the first edit because the FDA launched an investigation into tattoo dyes, a client died of a septic shock, because the place where he got his tattoo used metallic dye. Stay here until he comes. Even better, let's get out of here...." "It's too late for that,” she said and went outside. She didn't have to act when she called him. She couldn't stop her voice from trembling even if she wanted to. "Sam, there's something I've been working on for a long time. It's a conspiracy, it's big and it's scaring me to death. I've compiled a lot of material over the years. It's in my brown suitcase. I used to hide it under the bed, but then I got scared. Someone's been following me. I want to get my suitcase out of storage and need you to help me get it back home. I'm at the Camden Postal Outlet and Storage, in the Mission district. It's on Dolores and 16th." She glanced at her watch. It was just after three o'clock. When she lifted her head, she saw him rushing towards her. For a moment it looked to her as if he might rush right by and run into Camden. Then he remembered himself and stopped. "I'm sorry it took me so long. The traffic was horrible. Where is it?" Not even a kiss, she thought. Would his partner Nick behave the same or was Nick more astute, better at concealing his anxiety? She showed him the key and though she didn't feel anything, not even fear, she recoiled when he lunged at it, snatching it out of her hand. She might have felt angry had she picked Nick for this honorary ‘surrender', perhaps that was why she chose Sam, the partner with a better endurance record, indeed seniority. He started to run inside, remembered himself and stopped to wait for her. She saw him switch the key from one hand to the other, as if it was a hot rock. "What are we going to do, Sam?” He didn't want to talk now. His eyes skipped over the numbers as he sought to find the one that fitted the key. "365S, here it is,” he murmured with satisfaction. She raised her voice. “Sam, what are we going to do?” She made sure it was loud enough for him not to be able to ignore it. Any louder and he'd have a hysterical woman beside him. She knew it was the last thing he could afford right now. The outburst might draw an audience. After all, this was a public place. "Calm down, honey, calm down. Everything will be all right. I'll take care of it. Don't worry about anything,” he kept murmuring in a mechanical fashion. He unlocked the box, grabbed hold of the suitcase then yanked it out. She leaned closer to see his face and shivered. If victory could be described in a single look, Sam wore it. His expression bordered on ecstasy. "Is this is, honey?” He finally remembered she was beside him. She shook her head in the affirmative, squeezing her eyes to bring out tears. "All of it?” A shadow fell briefly across his forehead. "All of what?” She decided to stretch the charade. "All of your stuff, research, papers, documents." "All of it, Sam. It took me years to put together. I'm not sure where we're going to go with it." "Not to worry, sweets. It'll go where it should have traveled all along, to the proper authorities that'll see it's given a top priority." "You're going to take it to the FBI?" His eyes flashed with alarm. “Did you call anyone? Did you call anyone else but me?" "No, Sam. That's why I kept it hidden and then stored it. I didn't know whom I could trust with it." "Well, I'm here now. You have nothing to worry about.” He couldn't decide how to carry the suitcase, under his arm or clutched to his chest. Suddenly, she wasn't sure what she was doing. Mission district was an anthill, a hundred years ago or now, but even if they stood in a crowd, she didn't feel safe beside him. Who had set up the alley attack to wound Nick so she'd once again care for him, nurse him ... Sam or Nick ... or Cora? Or was their partnership democratic and each had his and her role to play? "Sam, I think Nick Anderson's after this suitcase, too,” she murmured, knowing she shouldn't have done it but in a situation where she had nothing to lose it felt right to push and prod wounds. Pain meant she was still alive. "What makes you think so?” He sounded less disturbed than she expected him to be. If anything, he sounded preoccupied. She scrunched-up her face, hoping the expression went beyond the cliché ‘picture of misery’ and said, “I knew him in college. I think he was after the suitcase even back then, but I didn't realize it until I saw him again. He came to visit me when you were up in Vancouver, kept asking questions, about you and my past—the nightmares ... Sam, he frightens me." "Come on, honey. We've got to get out of here.” He didn't seem to be overly concerned with her confession. It wasn't what she had expected. Then again, Nick was his partner. Sam had no need to ask questions about someone he would know better than she did. "Where did you park your car, Sam?” she asked and didn't expect the question to shake him as if someone bumped into him. "My car ... got a flat. It's back at the office parking lot. I took your car. Hope you don't mind...?" "No, but where did you park?” She turned her head, shrugging. This was Mission district, not Fulton Street. To get a parking spot when you needed to park ranked way up there with winning a lottery. "Just across over there, in the coffee shop parking lot." * * * * Rita didn't like the hurried way Sam arrived, or the way he leaped out of the car without parking it properly in a spot. "What a hog, takes up two parking spots,” she murmured, watching him run across the coffee shop parking lot, cross the street and rush at Seabring. For a moment it looked as if he might run past her, then he stopped turned around. "I promised,” she murmured, looking at her cell phone. “But what the hell! I don't like this one bit, not one friggin’ bit.” She stabbed three numbers, grimaced then cleared the call. The next number connected her with Nick. She told him tersely to listen and not interrupt, then sketched the situation with precision and economy. In spite of what the two of them had seen when they staked-out Seabring's apartment, Nick just didn't fit in with Cora and Sam. Sea insisted that Nick's wound was a brilliant sacrifice, scripted and therefore necessary action. She didn't argue with her. Instead she called Ricky, and felt vindicated when the doctor said that another inch closer to Nick's neck and his severed artery would have seen him AWOL from human ranks in a matter of two minutes. "My very confused friend insists that the wound was inflicted as part of a dangerous game, that it was orchestrated, you know, he let himself be wounded." "If I had to let myself be wounded to get close to you and have you nurse me,” Ricky told her, “it wouldn't be anywhere in the neck or the shoulder area. It would be a thigh, a forearm or at the most daring, my gluteus maximus." She laughed and promised to take him out to dinner in a place where no one ever heard of drugs, junkies or crime lords, except in bad scripts. "I've been meaning to reserve a seat on the next shuttle out of our solar system,” Ricky deadpanned. She would have smothered him with kisses had he stood beside her. Ricky didn't think Nick's wound was a part of a fiendish set-up. That was good enough for her to call him when she wanted reinforcements. "I'm a few blocks away. I'll be there in minutes. Don't let him take her.” He spoke so fast she could hardly distinguish his words. She held her cell phone, mumbling, “Did he say let him take her or don't let him take her...?” She stared at her purse, since that was all she had brought with her. All right, so it made more sense not to let him take her, but how was she supposed to do it? She glanced at her hands. Well, that was definitely not the answer. She had taken three self-defense lessons at the Jefferson Gym—last year. Sam might have weighed only thirty pounds more than she did, but he still possessed a man's strength, and when it came to hand-combat, she was definitely biologically disadvantaged. But if she had an armor.... She put down change for a tip, since she had already paid for coffee and hurried out of the coffee shop. She started up her car and slowly cruised through the parking lot. She'd parked three rows over from where he took up two parking spots with Seabring's car. The lot was full and there wasn't much space for maneuvering, but if she could somehow block at least one exit.... * * * * "Where are we going, Sam?” Seabring asked. He must have grown tired of her questions and stalling, because he pushed her roughly into the car, slammed the door shut, then ran around and slid inside, still clutching the suitcase. "Let me hold it,” she offered and was driven back by his wild, menacing look. "Sam, what's the matter? Why are you looking so ... so worried?” He really looked as if he wanted to lunge at her, but she couldn't say that. "We may be followed,” he murmured, taking deep breaths. After all, he had spent two years working diligently on this scenario, hoping for precisely this outcome, and now that he had it, he felt a little dizzy from such a sudden victory. He wasn't sure where he ought to put the suitcase. He certainly didn't want her to hold it. She suggested the back seat. It seemed to be the only place because he had to drive. "There.” He tossed it into the back seat, turning around and finally managing a sickly smile. “We're on our way.” He fit the key into the ignition, but it took him two tries because his hands shook so badly. "Where are we going, Sam?” she repeated. "Authorities honey. Don't worry. Everything will be all right.” He spun the wheel, almost hitting the car parked next to them and finished backing out. He stomped on the gas pedal so hard her head banged against the headrest. Ahead, a car moved slowly across the outer drive lane, then stopped and backed up to block the exit. He swore and slammed into reverse. She turned her head to see a truck pull across the back drive lane, cutting off the other exit. He hit the shift a notch down into drive and stomped on the gas pedal again. "Sam!” she screamed as the car leaped forward. There was no doubt that he meant to ram his way out of the two-way block. The truck behind them was a bigger obstacle to remove, but the car ahead offered a better chance for a clear path out of the parking lot. "Sam, that's Rita's car, don't ... stop!” she screamed at him again. He ignored her. "No, no!” She lunged for the steering wheel, fighting to pry off his hands. “It's Rita, Sam no! You can't ... it's...." He lifted his elbow then drove it sideways at her. His forearm smashed under her chin, in the hollow. The elbow bone hit her just under the ear. She let go of the wheel, gasping, choking on pain and bitter, salty taste. The fucking bastard...! The resistance flashed just as strong as pain. This was not a blindfold situation. This was ... payback time. She made a fist and punched his cheek hard enough to bounce his head. She did it again then the impact of her car ramming into the back passenger door of Rita's car, bounced her forward then sideways, against the door. Glass spilled into her lap and on the dashboard. Sam was already backing up, ready to repeat his ramming maneuver. She knew he would not stop until his way was clear. The car around her started to fade. Everything turned hazy, even Sam's profile, and then quickly, as if someone snapped fingers in front of her face, her vision cleared but only in one spot—the target—his neck. She stretched out her hands like a sleepwalker and thrust them at his neck. She gripped it as if it was a stake in the ground and she had to pull it out, squeezing and lifting at the same time. He punched her in the face because she had to get close, but she didn't feel the hit or pain. She just felt a strange intensity, almost a perverse desire to continue squeezing until she wrung every drop of moisture and his neck turned into a dry knot. Suddenly, she felt herself dragged backwards. Steel band encircled her ribcage and applied crushing force that sucked her from the seat. She felt herself fly out of the car. Her leg scraped against something sharp. This time she felt pain and cried out. For a few seconds, her feet threaded air. What happened? She struggled to turn her head and managed just enough to see her car scrape by Rita's mangled car, turn sharply onto the exit ramp from the parking lot, and with a sickening crunch of metal hitting the steep concrete lip, burst across the street, right-itself northward and finally disappear with only the echo of screeching tires. If she ever saw her car again, she'd have to get a brand new suspension because after Sam's maneuver, it was shot. "Rita.... “But Rita was already standing beside her car, hands on hips, head tilted backward as if seeking counsel from the authorities that lived in the clouds. "Are you all right?” Nick's voice sounded in her ear. “Jesus, Seah, what the hell were you trying to do...? We'll have to get you to a doctor quickly." "He's got the suitcase.... “That couldn't possibly be her voice. It sounded like a mangled tape played in reverse. "I don't give a shit about the suitcase.” He sat her down on a car hood, his fingers moving over her face, tapping, pressing to see what hurt and what was only dirt mixed with blood. "I gave it to him.” Once again the hoarse croak sounded. What had happened to her voice? "I hope it makes you happy.” He continued his examination while she tried to focus on his face because it kept blurring as she moved her eyes. "Aren't you going to go after him? He double crossed you, running away when he saw you coming to help him...." "How can you be such an idiot is beyond me. What did he do, smash his fist into your face?" "I smashed mine into his.” She meant to chuckle but a bulge of acid, worse than spoiled tomato sauce, rose in her throat. She gagged and almost passed out from the pain. "We're going to see a doctor. Rita...?” He raised his voice. “Are you're staying or do you want to come along?" "I have to stay,” Rita shouted back. “I can't leave my car here like this. My insurance company would decimate me." "Call me on the cell phone and I'll let you know how we're doing." "Calandria, right?” She waved him off. He picked her up and carried her to what even through tears looked like a brand new, blue truck. "You've changed vehicles,” she croaked. "Don't speak. Relax and don't move around, though I don't think anything's broken, but you probably have a slight concussion, and I'm not happy about your throat either." "I'm happy,” she whispered. The pain was getting worse, sharp, nauseating. “Sam has the prize. There's nothing for you to...." "Shut up.” He leaned so close his face blurred once again. He gave her a careful kiss just above her upper lip. “I've already heard what you're trying to say. Save yourself the trouble. It worked once. It won't work again. I'm smarter this time, unfortunately, the same can't be said about you." He backed up the truck from between the rows of parked cars. Minutes later, they were on the freeway, heading for Dr. Sawyer's clinic in Calandria. * * * * Dr. Sawyer changed his mind. Nick and Seabring should find a deserted island and give the taxpayers a break by staying there, preferably for the rest of their lives. "If that elbow had caught you across the windpipe, you'd have been entered into some unfortunate emergency medic's log as D.O.A.,” he said. “Next time hold still when someone's aiming to deliver a crushing blow to your throat. Things are bruised, but not crushed. You'll have a sore throat for a few days and a neck that'll feel as if it's been used as a guitar string. Don't ride any roller coasters for a while. Screaming will only remind you what a reckless woman you are. If you plan to live out the week, I'd like to see you for a check-up.” He wrapped a thermal bandage around her neck, prescribed painkillers and said to take them sensibly. He cleaned her cuts and bruises, asked her whether she wanted to keep all the glass he took out, for good luck, then stitched up the leg wound. "Only ten stitches,” he remarked. “Either I'm neat or you've once again snatched your leg away before the claw could finish the job. Mind you, one more stitch and I'd have to call it a gash, not just a deep scratch.” He released her into Nick's custody with a short lecture on the fragility of the human body and a finite amount of luck afforded to human beings. When she sat in the pickup truck once again, Nick smacked the steering wheel in a way that told her he was going to expand on the doctor's lecture. "What the hell did you think you were doing back there? And even if you felt you had to surrender the suitcase to Sam, why not just hand it to him and say good-bye? Why would you even walk with him, never mind let him push you into the car? Don't you know that once you gave him the suitcase, you were disposable...?” He stopped to steady his breathing because even he must have heard that he sounded more like a steam engine, than a human being. "As soon as it was dark, he'd have pulled into the first gas station and that would have become your last pit stop. Or were you planning to offer him your throat to strangle you when the urge struck, not that I don't feel like doing it myself...!” His command voice fractured into a less dignified pitch, and he had to breathe through his nose and mouth, settling down. "I saw you...” she whispered with difficulty. He swished a hand in front of her face and mumbled something. A moment later, he said, “I know what you saw. Rita told me what the two of you did that night. A stakeout. Except you saw something you didn't expect and immediately I'm judged and condemned by the company I keep. What happened to your common sense, your journalistic objectivity? You weren't this reckless ten years ago when Chalmers pissed you off. Back then you only stormed out to get a male body. Not exactly a rational thing to do, but that was one impulse I never complained about.” His mouth pulled into a lopsided smile. "You were with Sam and Cora,” she whispered, hands clasped in her lap. She didn't dare to look at him because he made sense. "I was desperate. I didn't want you near Sam that night, or any other night for that matter. You lied to me. I knew the moment you hung up that it was Sam. I went there to get you, except you were smarter and went to stay with Rita. It was an excellent solution, but you should have shared it with me. I thought I've earned your trust,” he finished on a quieter note. "I didn't want you doing anything ... foolish,” she rasped. "Foolish, Seah, foolish...?” He might have said more but the back end of the car ahead of them came upon them so quickly he had to wrench the steering wheel to the side to avoid a collision. When the truck swerved, her hands rose automatically and fastened on the overhead roll bar. The truck settled into a smooth ride. When she turned her head, she found him staring at her with amusement. "So you still remember how that life preserving feature works,” he quipped. "Turn around,” she mouthed silently. "We're going to my place. You need to rest." "Turn around, Nick,” she forced the sound out of her throat and grimaced, because the effort and vibrations made her throat burn. She swallowed the pain and continued, “Sam has a Xerox copy. The original article is still in storage, in Chinatown." It was enough to make him take his foot off the gas pedal. “Seah...!" "Wang-Ho Storage Rentals,” she whispered, holding her throat. "Jesus, woman, you're enough to drive a man insane,” he groaned but he was already switching lanes, aiming to take the next exit. * * * * "Where do you think Sam's heading?” she asked when they returned to the truck again, parked between two delivery vans. The battered brown suitcase with the University of Oklahoma stickers sat on the back seat, because his new truck had bucket seats, with a command console between them, dotted with so many buttons she kept her elbow wedged tight against her body in case she touched something and activated the truck's defense system. "San Diego. So is Cora. Rita told me she saw Cora parked on the street, watching Sam ram her car and when he took off, Cora followed him. They will probably chase each other all the way down the interstate." "And where are you going, now that you have the real article?" He shook his head with a mumble and started the truck. "Where are we going, Nick?” she asked a little later. "My place, where else? I need to think ... and I need to tie you down somewhere and tape your mouth. I won't blindfold you because I need to see your eyes when I ask the question.” He reached for her hand across the console when she refused to look at him. “You haven't been honest with me yet. I want to see if things improve when I have you for better not worse." "Are you proposing, Nick?" "Sounds like it, doesn't it?" "It sounds like a threat." "The way I feel right now, you're probably right. Well, am I going to get an answer?" She turned and touched her bandaged throat, mouthing the words, “I can't talk." He laughed. “But you sure can nod and blink. That's good enough for me." She moved her head from side to side. "Maybe's not good enough." She blinked then smiled in a way that made his eyes tighten. "We'll work out the details later,” he said. “For now, I just wanted to know where I stand since with you I can never be sure...." "Likewise,” she whispered. * * * * Considering she had done it often enough through the years, opening her suitcase should not have been an event. That's why she was surprised by the ritualistic mood that fell around them as they knelt on the bare wooden floor, the suitcase between them, watching each other. "If you're going to keep looking at me like that, this suitcase won't get opened tonight,” Nick said, half-serious. "The doctor said I should take it easy,” she whispered back, trying not to let her smile grow too wide. “You open it." "The doctor's probably right, but that doesn't mean I like those kind of negative diagnoses,” he grumbled and clicked the locks open. He lifted the lid slowly, almost with reverence. He was an officer and he was on assignment but that wasn't what drove the man she knew as Nick Anderson. She sensed that he knew the suitcase represented not just years of research for her but the past with its painful memories. And since these were still painful, he didn't want to add any more pain to them by reacting with haste. In a way, his dignified motion was a tribute to those whose lives were extinguished by those whose vile history has slept inside this suitcase for many years. She was grateful to him for being so considerate, grateful that he had put her feelings first before his duty. It was something Sam never did, not even once during their two-year relationship. Now she knew that was what had bothered her about him all along. Sam had stayed for two years, following his secret goal but he had never tried to be considerate, not even fake it. He had played a game according to the rules that were written for him and he never once tried to fringe them. Had he even once whispered to her what was the matter when she woke up beside him, covered in cold sweat, she might have shared her nightmare with him. But Sam's script called for calculated avoidance of the issue. Pretend it doesn't exist until she's so frustrated that she'll beg you to listen to her, beg you to help her sort out her terrible memories. She begged but not to let her tell him about her nightmare. She begged for a sliver of passion—and got back a spectacular sexual performance and bait in terms of a marriage proposal. She wondered whether Sam had stopped en route to San Diego to open up the suitcase and rifle through it. Would he be disciplined enough to carry out the orders or would he sneak a look at the contents? He had finally got hold of the prize. He would look to see whether it was worth the two years he had to spend making love to her. "It's intact,” she whispered when he started to carefully sort through the jumble of papers, books, journals and clippings. “The last time I opened it was to put inside the replies I got to my Internet inquiry.” She knew that he wouldn't know what to look for. She had hid her evidence out of sight. “Here.” She reached forward and touched his hand. “Let me show you.” When he sat back she dipped her hand inside and felt for the little bulge in the lining that made such a handy hiding place. She took out her first piece of evidence, a plastic bag filled with what looked like small dark pebbles. "The man who kept checking whether my blindfold was on tight kept munching on something,” she said, when he took the bag and studied its contents. “His fingers smelled. It was a strong oily smell, strange, too. I didn't know what it was at the time. I only figured it out later when I got older. Those brown shapes are olive pits, a dozen or so. They're old and dry but still recognizable for what they are. I picked them up around my father's body. I was seven years old. I kept picking up these pits, like jacks, thinking that dad would wake up any moment. I put them in my pocket. I don't know if I tried to wake up dad. Maybe I did because I touched his hand. It was curled up into a fist. I tried to fit my hand into his, to grip it and help him get up. That's how I found the rest.” With those words she reached into the suitcase again and brought out the last two pieces of her evidence, handing them to Nick. "That's a button,” she said when he started to inspect the round brass shape. “A fancy brass button at that, stamped with what my foray into the Roman mythology says is a god of war.... “She trailed off on purpose, feeling he wanted to be the one to supply the name to that title. "Mars,” Nick's lips hardly moved. He had never thought, never imagined she would have this kind of evidence. Had the investigators got hold of this twenty years ago, the man who had a penchant for these kind of buttons would still be rotting in prison. "The gold pin's actually the most revealing and the most incriminating piece of evidence,” she said when he picked up the last object and twirled it between his fingers. "The Presidential Pin of Service, the Rank of Peace and Freedom,” Nick's voice came thickly, “it's the highest civilian award in peacetimes for achievement in various fields, including the law.” He held it closer to be able to see what was stamped on the back. Seabring supplied it for him. “Initials, M.S.B. and a date, November 10, 1970. That's during the Nixon's administration." "Yeah, I know,” he acknowledged heavily. There weren't too many pins like this in existence. Then again, since it was the highest Presidential honor, these would not be dispensed on a daily basis. “This one came as a result of the Haig Negotiations in 1969. In a sense, it launched the career of the owner of this award into orbit." "My dad must have grabbed the man's jacket. I heard them struggling. He must have ripped off the button and the pin as he fought with him. He was shot at close range. I saw the powder burns, but I thought they were cigarette burns. Dad was trying to quit smoking. You know the man very well, don't you?" "Mars Stewart Bolton.” His voice was hollow but there was a trace of pain in it, too. "Your contact man, your control." "He's in San Diego, retired but he still does a contract now and then. Cunningham must have always felt Bolton was just too vague when it came to the evidence the Special Investigation guys brought back. He was the one who was supposed to check out the peripheral sources that might have played a part in the sabotage, except he didn't try very hard. He was happy to label your father a traitor. It went down as collaboration with the Soviets. Mars hinted that they had recruited your father as a spy even though there was little evidence to support such a theory. Twenty years ago it was too damn easy to pin everything on the Soviet moles operating in the U.S. Sometimes it sounded as if they were recruiting every other citizen into their ranks as spies, military or industrial. Your father came into some money just before the kidnapping. It was confirmed as bona fide inheritance but when you have one burned out wreckage of a multi-million dollar craft testing a new engine and its chief engineer shot in a cabin in the woods, who's going to believe that kind of coincidence?” He smiled sadly. “Mind you, Cunningham believed well enough. I guess he knew your father, too. He wouldn't settle for Mars’ legal opinion that it was the moles, teaching us a lesson through our own people. I'm surprised Mars didn't get rid of him somehow, all these years ... Seah, remember what I told you a few days ago?" "That we can't get at Soobrian but we might be able to stop it from using its Salamander Step intimidation method...." "Cunningham will settle for Mars. We're not in a position to go after Soobrian." "So what do we do?” she asked. He looked at her and knew that she would know he wanted to keep her out of it. He couldn't even entertain a distant notion that she might get hurt, killed. Hell, she had already had a narrow escape and what a horrible moment it was when he saw Sam's car crashing into Rita's. For a second the world around him turned black. He couldn't stand the mere idea that he might lose her in the ramming battle. How fortunate that she didn't lock her door. He wouldn't have let go of the door handle either. If she was going to meet her death somewhere along the road to San Diego, he was going to be there, right beside her. Those were the kind of thoughts that had flashed through his head as he yanked the door open. He had found the woman the good Lord meant for him to have and he wasn't going to let her go again. In a short span of time between yanking the door open and grabbing her, he knew what he wanted from life, what he deserved to have. A wife who would try hard to make herself a target of unsavory characters by exposing their dark deals in her articles and in the process drive him insane with worry, and a family who'd stake a claim to what little sanity the father had left. This would be his last assignment. He had no doubts about it. Whether he would stay in the Air Force and make a career of drinking coffee and trying to make sense of endless reports was still up in the air, but he knew that his feet had finally gotten off the treadmill and landed on firm ground. "You can't leave me behind, Nick.” She already had that stormy wrinkle between her sea-deep eyes. “If you do, I'll make sure that you never see me again." "It's a small world and I used to be a great pilot before I became a cop.” He grinned at her. "There are thousands of deserted islands in the Pacific.” She gave him a twisted smirk. "You do realize that this is blackmail." "Not at all.” She slid across the floor on her knees and wrapped her hands around his neck. “This is my definition of partnership, legal, physical and for all I know spiritual." "For now, I'll take the physical option if you don't mind,” he murmured, his mouth already seeking the source of those words. "I thought you'd never ask,” she murmured and settled into the kind of silence which still hurt her throat, but it was the kind of pain she didn't mind.
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Chapter Seventeen
"The status quo is over,” Nick said into the phone after the exchange of clearance codes. "And what a wake up call, my boy.” Bolton didn't bother stifling a yawn. Nick clearly heard it on his end. “So, what did you get that's worth waking me up at the crack of dawn?" "It's past six o'clock, Mars. I thought sailors were supposed to be up at the crack of dawn." "That's farmers, you pirate, not sailors. What have you got?" "The article that normally gets tagged as luggage." "That's good to hear. How about the memories?" "Those, I'm afraid, are still locked." "Do they form part of the luggage?" "Like I said, I'm not sure. They could be responsible for what's inside the luggage. Inspiration, you could say." "Did you check the contents then?" "The lady has an itemized list of the contents. It checked out." "Against her memories?" He's really worried, Nick thought. Then again that's what this call was about, to worry Mars far more so than to give him the good news. "Not exactly. They're really locked, Mars. The psychologists may have been right all along.” He knew Bolton wouldn't believe it. He never did, that was why he was so eager to see Nick go shadow Seabring on the campus ten years ago. Nick knew he was playing a dangerous game. He'd resigned himself to take Seabring along, but he wanted to see just how badly Bolton wanted her memories. Would Bolton order him to bring Seabring to San Diego? He had balked at doing so ten years ago. Today, the situation was different. Today, he might be less inclined to let the source of the memories he feared live. "You don't sound convinced, my boy." "I'm still bothered, Mars, but the bulk of the job's done. The evidence is here, sitting in front of me...." "What evidence?” Bolton took the bait. "Research papers, journals, clippings, reference material—tons of it. Very interesting though I only took a few glances to make sure the topic is correct." "Nothing more?” Bolton sounded disappointed and relieved at the same time. "Hard to say.” He hated this part, but it was necessary. "So she could still be hiding something, something more than just memories.” Bolton finally made the decision. “It looks like you should invite the author of the ambitious collection of curious research to come along. When you get here, don't bother checking in with the club staff. I'll clear you with the marina attendants. They'll tell you where I'm berthed. Use standard approach, nothing elaborate, nothing covert. As far as your guest is concerned, make up a plausible story why she should come along. Use the Internet. She did. She won't question that kind of reason for going with you. You're going to check out a source which likes to surf on the Internet and thinks the salamanders have broken out of the zoo." "Isn't that an elaborate cover, Mars?” He pushed the test another step further. “Why not just bring her in officially for questioning and have Cunningham clear it through the regular channels?" "Not a bad idea.” Bolton surprised him with a pensive acknowledgement, “but we're kind of pressed for time. There's a function in the Virgin Islands that calls for my presence, in my retirement capacity. I was hoping you'd check in with positive results before long because I would hate to miss the race. You can flush the channels all the way to Cunningham when you get here. And don't be late,” Bolton finished with peculiar hurry as if someone was ringing the doorbell on his side. The line went dead for a second or two then the dial tone returned. "You're invited, unofficially.” Nick tipped his brows at Seabring. “And I don't have to tell you that's bad news. He won't let me clear it thorough Cunningham, to make it into an official invitation to talk about the events of twenty years ago." Seabring knelt down on the bed all through the conversation. She was naked and toying with the thermal bandage wrapped around her neck. Now, she finally decided to take it off and was making it into a striptease that was enough for him to sit up. "We'll manage, officially and otherwise,” she murmured, tilting her head backwards, one hand airing her hair while the other drew the bandage down her chest and under each breast in that seductive fashion. "I'm not managing very well right now,” he mumbled and also knelt before her. She brought her head forward slowly, her eyes shining with a speculative gleam. "I think you're being very hard on yourself.” She smiled and looked down. "Ain't that the truth,” he groaned and captured her before it occurred to her to pull away. * * * * "I'm coming in and bringing a guest. She received an unofficial invitation and that worries me. The movie set is in San Diego and I would feel much better if I had some extras." "What's the time frame, mon ami?" "I'd say five, ten hours, tops." "Too close. Why didn't you realize your needs earlier? There may not be enough time to put the backups where they can serve you and your unofficial guest." "There are units in San Diego." "There are, mon ami,” Jean-Jacques agreed candidly, “but they're staffed with analysts. Your extras better be well trained. It sounds to me like you're heading for the strait.... again!" "Right you are. Can you accommodate?" "Hang up and take your foot off the gas pedal. There's no need to beat any road records. San Diego will be there long after you and I are history." "Thanks. I'll check in when we're approaching the safety perimeter." "I ought to be growing this phone out of my ear." "I would have thought NASA had planted one in your head as a retirement gift,” Nick chuckled and hung up. “That's my safety net,” he told Seabring, handing her the cellular to put back in its cradle. "I could tell.” She gave him a wise nod. "Uhm.” He gave her that squished skeptical grin. "Really, Nick. I'm serious,” she insisted. “It was pretty obvious you were talking to a friend, someone you trust. Whether you're serious or whether you're joking, there's none of that sarcastic undertone that comes through when you're talking to your reference man." He snapped his head around. What she said was worrisome. He was never aware of any difference between how he talked to Bolton on the phone and how he talked to Jean-Jacques. In fact, he thought he used the same relaxed, neutral tone in most conversations, over the phone or in person. Seabring had a good ear when it came to such things. She was probably right. "Seah,” he said, hoping he sounded grave enough for her to take him seriously, “when Jean-Jacques comes through with our back-up arrangements, there will be a couple of numbers. I want you to stay outside of what I'll define as the safety perimeter and just keep an eye on whatever's going around. Don't get out of the truck if you don't have to. Just stay and watch. If you feel there's too much traffic moving in the vicinity call those numbers.” He was no longer sure that bringing her along was a good idea. He had to keep her out of it without arousing her suspicions that he was sidelining her. By the time they made it to San Diego it would be dark. The club and the marina wouldn't be busy. That was why he told her to watch for a sudden flurry of activity, knowing it wouldn't happen. Whatever transpired would happen on a boat. He wanted Seabring safely away because Mars Bolton would make sure the finale played out to a very small audience. * * * * "He's riding in, on a cleanup mission.” Bolton's eyes settled on the open suitcase he pushed away as far as it could go on the small galley table flanked by built-in mahogany benches. "He's bluffing. You know that,” Sam said, toying with an unlit cigarette, rolling it between his fingers, longing to have a smoke. Bolton wouldn't allow it. Not even on the deck which was ridiculous because what was there to pollute with smoke—the air which was thick with the stench of oil and gas or the water which was covered with frothy scum left in the wake of the churning outboard motors? Sam didn't like boats. They bobbed up and down, and made for unsteady walking. Lack of balance could sink a man, literally. He wouldn't have minded so much staying on the deck, out in the open, where he could choose an exit route in case he had to leave in a hurry. Bolton, however, insisted on descending into the bowels of the ship. Sam hated cramped quarters. The galley was well equipped, but it was still no better than a rat hole. There was no place for him to pace and that was exactly what he felt like doing right now. He listened to Bolton's conversation, knowing it was Anderson on the other end. He didn't hear anything alarming and yet he was unhappy with what he heard. Bolton rifled through the suitcase eagerly enough, but he didn't lean back with a smug, satisfied expression. If anything, he looked critical. As if I didn't know what you're trying to pull here, Sam thought. You don't want to pay up, Mars. You think you can bluff your way out of it by pitting Anderson against me. Well, it's not going to work. "You wouldn't read the script, never mind follow it,” Bolton said. “That's most unfortunate, though I warned you often enough." "He's got nothing,” Sam said, swishing his fist through the air. He would have liked to have banged the wall but Bolton treated the frigging boat like a beloved pet. "He's got what you forgot to bring,” Bolton intoned calmly. "Nothing...!" "Memories." "He's got nothing. He's bluffing. He didn't get her to talk...." "Maybe he didn't, but he's still bringing that which you forgot." Sam grimaced and crushed the unlit cigarette in his hand. Bolton warned him not to throw it down on the floor or he would have him lick it clean. "I told you what happened in the parking lot,” he started. Bolton cut him off with a sharp look. "I keep telling you not to think or improvise. You keep turning a deaf ear to good advice. You've brought the suitcase but left behind the head inside which hides the decoding sequence to what's in this bag. That was a bad mistake." "He grabbed her and pulled her out,” he defended himself. “I told you I had to get out of there in a hurry.” He wasn't going to say that Cora appeared in his rear view mirror just moments after he fishtailed out of the parking lot. The bitch kept tailing him until he gave her that slip just outside of San Diego. She was probably still stuck out there in traffic. He wanted to get out of here with his paycheck before she appeared. "If you'd followed the script, there would have been no reason to hurry. Reach over there behind you, up in the cupboard.” Bolton wiggled his fingers. “There's a dish with olives inside. I need something to snack on while I think and analyze the situation." Sam turned, feeling with his hand for the cupboard handle while keeping his eyes trained on Bolton. He felt the dish with his fingers, grabbed it and put it on the table, forcing Bolton to reach forward. "Join me, won't you?” Bolton murmured, his hand with the gold toothpick circling the dish, choosing a victim. “Olives are great for you. A stick of cheese, a couple of crusty buns and a dish of olives will take care of your daily dietary snack. Of course, I always get an urge for a martini when I have a dish of olives before me but that's not such a healthy snack." "Quit stalling. I've done my job. My assignment's finished,” Sam said. "I'm not stalling. I would have thought that you'd want to stay and meet your rival. After all, he's bringing your future bride along. I would enjoy watching that kind of family reunion." "No thanks. I'm finished and I want to leave. Now, my paycheck normally fits into a large brown envelope but this time I understood it would be more like a bag, or a suitcase. I've spent two years on assignment. I need a vacation." "I agree—absolutely. You need to rest.” Bolton declared and speared an olive. He left the gold toothpick stuck in it. Sam stared at it, his mouth curving down in a sardonic smile. He might have heard the spitting swish of metal but it wouldn't have mattered. The bullets left the silencer much faster than his thoughts. The four-fold impact threw him backward. His lower back hit the wall. His light blue t-shirt spurted blood. The porous cotton made the bloodstain bloom across his chest bloom like some macabre red rose. The wall bounced his body back and the gravity made it sag and slide down to the floor. He ended up sitting down head slumped on his chest, legs spread out in front of him. If the sardonic smile had turned into his death mask, no one would be able to see it unless they came close and lifted his head. Bolton slid sideways on the bench and raised his hand with the gun. He pointed it at Sam. “You certainly need a long rest. However, first you have to go through a performance review and this is my estimate of your performance these last couple of years." * * * * "You sure like to make things difficult, any which way you can, Mars,” Cora said, stepping out of the narrow locker located just off the galley and normally used to store supplies. The main cabin was generous for a racing yacht but by landlubber standards, it was small. She didn't need to take a long look to size up the situation. Hands on her hips, she stared at the body slumped against the wall. “And what am I supposed to do with him now? We're going to have guests. We can't afford to show them our poor housekeeping practices." Bolton laughed and moved closer to her. He fingered a loose strand of her hair, brought it to his nose and gave it an appreciative sniff then let his hand slide caressingly down the side of her jaw. “You're a resourceful woman on the move. You'll figure out something. We can always take a nap in the forward cabin if we get tired of watching all those fleet-footed sea-boys hopping around with beer cans. You've been so good that I'm almost tempted to hire one of them for the time it takes us to make it to Virgin Islands. You deserve a reward." She smiled, eyes narrowing into crafty slits. She offered the side of her neck for his fingers and said, “Somehow, I don't think you're the kind of man who makes a habit of sacrificing anything." "Not without a good cause—or for a good cause,” he quipped back. She leaned forward and gave him a short, predatory kiss then drew back quickly. “I ought to pack him in your freezer. That should add a curious new flavor to your gourmet delights." "I don't keep you in the freezer and you're the only one whom I would classify in that category of gourmet delights. But it's not a bad idea,” he finished on a more serious note. “We'll be out of here by tonight. Our food supplies don't need to suffer Mr. Falkner's company for too long. The sea is a discreet undertaker. She'll never divulge her secrets. He wanted to have a vacation. We'll give him one, very deep and very peaceful." "When do you expect Anderson to arrive?” she asked, walking around Sam's legs, sizing up her job. "Tonight, of course." "What if he suspects?" "Of course he does. I expect him to. Nick has suspected all along. He just wouldn't let himself get in touch with his inner child, the one which harbors such deep suspicions. But his tone of voice gives him away each and every time. He should have kept his Georgia accent. It would have served him well to camouflage the skepticism which comes through as tiny, teeny bits of sarcasm. He sanded his accent down a bit too much. The civilized speech is so naked, so vulnerable. Accents and twangs, my dear, hide a hell of a lot of faults." "You sound very sure of yourself, Mars." "I've been playing this game far longer than you. I offered Miss Roberts a choice, something which I neglected to do ten years ago. That's the strategy, my dear that works every time. Faced with the prospect of trusting Sam or trusting Nick, she'll have to choose one to trust and believe. I didn't care which one she chose as long as she did. A black pawn and a white pawn, both serve me equally well. I motivated Anderson, de-moralized Sam and forced Miss Roberts’ hand such that she parted with her suitcase of her own free will." "Except that Sam didn't get hold of the real article,” Cora remarked casually. Bolton started to smile then pulled back on it. “What makes you say so, dear?" "Your eyes.” She tipped her brows at him. “They grow into suspicious slits when you think something's not the article you've come to expect." "I must cultivate a habit of wearing dark glasses. I was probably just trying to hide my annoyance with Sam's stupidity. But you're right. It's a decoy. Still, it doesn't matter. I wondered whether it wouldn't occur to her to take such action. After all, it occurred to me to provide her with two lovers, and as far as I'm concerned, both are decoys." "So the real suitcase arrives tonight,” Cora said. "With Miss Roberts, and that's what I wanted all along." "She'll sail with us then tonight?" "She'll sail—if you continue doing your job as conscientiously as you have done so far." "I'm shocked that you even thought of reminding me." "I like shocking you,” Bolton said. "You do try, Mars,” she agreed, her eyes poignantly resting on Sam's sprawled body. "Let me help.” He suddenly offered and moved to take the legs while Cora went to pick up the body under the arms, murmuring, “I thought you'd never ask ... not that I can't lift him myself, just that I like a gentleman to open the freezer door for me...." * * * * Joy Meredith was preparing to give her boss a summary of the last four-hour shift activity, when Vanderhoffen shocked her with a question, “Do you still maintain the weekend job at the yacht club?' "Yes sir.” She tried to contain her shock, wondering what Vanderhoffen was after. How could she not maintain something she was ordered to assume as part of field operations? Was this a test ... was this some kind of preamble to disciplinary action? Four years ago, Vanderhoffen had passed a list of a dozen commercial enterprises to his staff, asking them to pick one and establish themselves within its staff. He said it was a field requirement, a long shot security measure. A team of one male, one female were to pick an outfit from the list and infiltrate it in an honest way which would see them pay taxes. As a result, Joy Meredith and Jeff Church had worked part-time weekends at the Del Fiori Yacht Club and Marina for over four years. Joy had even been given a promotion to a weekend club manager's assistant. Church was one of the marina attendants. He was knowledgeable about boats, an expert scuba diver and held weekend sessions in boat handling and diving lessons for the kids of the boat owners and club members. "When was the last time you did your target practice?” Vanderhoffen peered down at her, once again confusing her by the sudden change of topic. "Once a week, sir, as usual. Last Tuesday.” She began to feel that perhaps it wasn't a preamble to disciplinary action at all. That it could be something very different, very exciting. She was about to speak up and ask where this peculiar questioning was leading when Vanderhoffen turned, addressing her neighbor. “Field training and orientation up to par, Mr. Church?" "Yes sir,” Church replied, equally disturbed by the sudden attention of his boss. "Good,” Vanderhoffen nodded in a way that included both of them. “Let's go out for lunch. Clock off in here. You won't be coming back today and maybe not for a couple of days. I'll brief you as we eat,” he said, walking back to his tiny office because he had to return the call that asked him to look after these special arrangements. Behind him, Joy made a fist and smacked it into the open palm of Jeff Church, “Arrr ... right!” She kept her voice low. "Betcha!” Church said and smiled. * * * * Four years ago, when Ted Vanderhoffen was given instructions to provide a few of his people with well-chosen part-time jobs, he didn't know what was behind such request. He complied and then made a few calls to find out. He was told that the Air Force asked for assistance with some issue that had long historical roots. The Chief of Security, Brigadier General Eugene Cunningham had friends in all the right places, friends who were willing to cross the ranks of service between the internal organizations whose bigwigs were not normally eager to assist outside of their jurisdiction. The CIA was not renowned for its charitable nature. Then again, if Cunningham thought the issue might reference back into their territory, such assistance was definitely warranted. A year later, Ted Vanderhoffen came across Cunningham in Washington and asked about this particular service at a social function, over drinks in a Georgetown bar. Cunningham told him that the outfits on the list were those that had recently offered post-retirement opportunities to some of the members of the Air Force Department. "In these difficult economic times, we just want to make sure that our retirees are not tempted to become in-discriminate entrepreneurs,” Cunningham said. “They're out of the Air Force. The Security Police has no jurisdiction, but we wouldn't have asked you guys to lend a hand if we didn't think some of the activity that may be contemplated crosses many global borders. If it was just a domestic problem, I'd have gone to the FBI." "Covert surveillance is our specialty, is that the line of reasoning?” Vanderhoffen laughed. "Keeps you guys employed,” Cunningham grumbled back. "You wouldn't by any chance want to make my job easier by giving me a list of retirees with notions of such high entrepreneurial spirit?” Vanderhoffen asked. Cunningham said that it could be arranged and kept his word. * * * * It was six o'clock in San Diego, a beautiful early evening in August. It was also Thursday. The upcoming weekend was shaping up to be a beauty. The weather forecast was perfect. Light wind, plenty of sunshine and perfect temperatures. The kind that made power utilities sigh with ecstasy because all the air-conditioning units would be going, full blast. Nick cruised down the Mission Boulevard twice before he settled on a parking place. The first time he drove all the way down to the loop that let him get back on to Ingraham Street. He took Ingraham back up, across the Mission Bay and to Garnet, then made a left on to Mission Boulevard and started a slow cruise again. The Del Fiori Yacht Club was across from the Bahia Point. He slowed down as much as the traffic behind would tolerate such a snail's pace, so Seabring could take a good look at the club. She told him that she had spent more than a year in San Diego, doing postgraduate studies at the San Diego campus and that she didn't need to be treated as a tourist. "The campus is up in La Jolla,” he said with tolerance, “we're riding the Mission Bay. If I let you have the wheel we'd find ourselves in Coronado." She served him a look of disgust and said he was being patronizing and a male chauvinist to boot. He smiled and thought, I'm just trying to keep you as far away from harm's way as I can. He finally parked near the West Mission Beach Park and said this was close enough when she started to object that the club was still far away and she wouldn't be able to see anything from here. "Nick,” she started threateningly, but he hurriedly slid over to her side and for a while neither could speak. When he gave her mouth a space to breathe she used it to accuse him of trying to keep her on the sidelines. He said that wasn't the case. It was just that the proximity of the sea and the seashore had that kind of effect on him. "Beaches around here are even better than up around San Francisco,” he murmured, kissing her fiercely and trying to forget why they were both there. She took his face between her hands and wouldn't let it turn. “Nick, you're avoiding the issue." He knew he was and wanted to avoid it until all the worlds sank into the abyss. She wouldn't settle for a couple of hours of activity that was hotter than the sunrays. She wanted to know what he was planning to do and that was the last thing he wanted to tell her. "Let me check in first on Jean-Jacques arrangements.” He sought escape in activity she would have to recognize as necessary, and reached for the cellular. "The key is Little Gray and Big Blue,” he said when the call was picked up. "Little Gray here,” the voice responded to the code. “The Big Blue is sleeping with both eyes open." "Have we met?” Nick inquired because the voice sounded familiar. "I normally wear a red cap when I'm reporting on the storms riding over the Pacific and that's because I'm a Kansas City Chiefs’ fan,” Jeff Church replied. Nick hurriedly scoured his memory and came up with the right picture. "Gotcha, Little Gray. Out on a day pass or was this an urge to volunteer?” He heard Church's chuckle. "A bit of both. Today I'm wearing my black jersey in honor of the San Diego Chargers." "That's good to know. I'm a fan, too, and you're right. Darker mood calls for darker colors." "Understood." "What's your position in terms of mobility?" "I'm a regular part-timer at the marina. Mostly weekend shifts, but I'm filling in for a fellow staffer this afternoon." Nick felt a twinge of admiration for his boss in Washington who had had the foresight to arrange for covert surveillance by calling in a few favors on the coast. Cunningham had mentioned it offhandedly when Nick got back from the overseas assignment. He had ignored it back in Washington because he didn't want anything to remind him of those eight months he had spent in San Francisco with the woman who kicked him out of her life. Less than four months ago, he wouldn't have dreamed that he'd find himself in her company once again even though he sensed that his boss hadn't given up on the Salamander Protocol. "I'm not all that familiar with the grounds set-up. Can you give me a clearer picture?" "The club terrace runs about one hundred and fifty feet. It faces the marina, way on its southern edge. The boats are berthed in rows. There are seventeen altogether. First five could be said to run the length of the terrace. The last five rows are reserved for larger craft. Row 16, Section D, slot 301 is of interest to you. Her companions are Bon Vivant portside—She's an Alden 54, that's fifty-four footer with 70hp diesel, great shape and great body. She came out of Alden Yachts in Melville, Rhode Island. She's a great piece of sail across the water. Sorry,” Church apologized when he must have realized he got carried away. “Starboard side is the Ambrosia. She's a Sou'Wester 59. She's got 135hp and is a Henry Hinckley lady from Maine. Tiger's in very good company. Then again, Ambrosia and Bon Vivant can claim the same." "Glad to hear they're not paying you just to keep the ladies of the sun happy,” Nick murmured, wondering how he would be able to read the boat names in the dark or even how he would be able to tell one sailboat from another. A heretic notion to mention to a sailing enthusiast and Little Gray definitely sounded enthralled with the craft that liked to ride the crests. "There's good security lighting,” Church, as if sensing what was going on in the head on the other side of the line, spoke up. “High illumination, expensive kind. This is not a cheap place to keep your boat in. Then again, boats that we keep are anything but cheap." "You're then advising against a casual approach, down the wooden ramp and over the boards...." "Good visibility,” Church confirmed. “And Tiger's alert. She's aiming to sail out beyond the Foghorn tonight. The word is that she's hired a pilot to take her out before midnight. A few skippers opt for that solution when they want to escape the early weekend traffic. They sail out and stay the night just inside the coast guard's limit to get a jumpstart in the morning." It was Nick's turn to say, “Understood. I figured I'd hang on for a couple of hours, review my strategy. What would be a good time for you to start things rolling?" "Nine-thirty is kind of quiet around here. Those who are staying on their boats would have either gone out to dinner or gone for a short stroll in the park before retiring. The night security does his rounds at eleven, two, and five." "Sounds okay, Little Gray,” Nick said because he didn't want to repeat the time with Seabring listening. "Nine thirty I'll be checking out a banging noise two berths down from Ambrosia. Sometimes the rope gets loose ... sometimes it's the local teenage crowd, sneaking through the fence and barriers. Once it was a poor dog the owners left tied on the deck while they went out to dinner. He was supposed to guard and got scared of his reflection in the water." "This part-time job sure keeps you busy, Little Gray. I don't know how you keep your eyes open when you get to your home room." "That's sure not easy. Once your eyes are closed your sea dream takes over." "For me it's the seashore,” he said, softening his voice. He glanced at Seabring, who kept watching him, listening. "You have that much in common with Primrose. She manages what's standing well above the shore line." "I'll double back and check on that similarity.” He realized the other back up was a female. An idea started to take shape in his head. However, it wasn't something he wanted to show to Seabring. “Standby and thanks.” He ended the call. "I'm not going to sit here while you're going to make yourself a target,” she said in a voice that told him it would be useless to argue with her. "Let me just check out the other half of the arrangements.” He raised a finger, pointing her silent. This time, the conversation was considerably shorter. Primrose was not inclined to chatting therefore she had to be busier than her counterpart at the marina. Then again, since she was inside the club that was probably the norm. Not wanting to repeat the arrangements and time he had discussed with Little Gray, he told her to check in with her partner to make sure the story lines didn't get crossed. When he finished he knew that Seabring would ask what the arrangements were and was prepared. “For now, we just sit here and wait until it's dark,” he said. "Sam's on the boat, isn't he?” She wouldn't quit. He nodded. “So is probably Cora and Bolton." "What are you planning to do?” she persisted. "Take the suitcase and go have a chat with my reference man.” He tipped his brows at her. “It's no use to make elaborate plans. Simple situations call for simple solutions.” He saw she didn't believe him but that was exactly what he had been planning to do—until he found out he had a female in the back up unit.
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Chapter Eighteen
Nick realized Bolton must have planned the meeting as far back as six weeks ago when he came to see him at the marina. Boat races, whether held in U.S. or elsewhere, were scheduled months in advance, well, at least a season or two, depending on long-term weather forecasts. Eligible participants would be notified early, too. Or maybe the boat racing organizations sent invitations, either way, when he had sat on the terrace, watching Bolton stab olives with a toothpick, the lawyer knew that six weeks down the road he'd be heading for the Virgin Islands. That was why he wanted to meet on the boat. He didn't plan to set a foot on dry land again. And whoever would sail out with him, breathing or not, would never return to walk the U.S. soil. He wanted to see whether Bolton was ready to end the game. That was why he had pushed him. He was almost sure he wouldn't do it. Yet it happened. It made him feel manipulated, not in control. As a man, he didn't want to think about it clearly, but the soldier knew that once Bolton agreed it was a splendid idea to bring Seabring, he couldn't leave her in San Francisco. He might never see her again. Bolton's Salamander associates would see to it that she vanished. He glanced at her, alarmed as if there was a possibility that a steel claw would rip through the roof and snatch her from him. Ten years ago, his truck had been an economy model. Other than its custom safety features and reinforcements, it had a hard utility fabric bench that didn't pamper its occupants. The new truck had leather-contoured bucket seats, with orthopedic inserts, ready for a vibrating massage upon the touch of a button. The air-conditioning was now digital climate control, and the headrest practically invited the passenger to lean against it and relax. She relaxed so much she fell asleep. He smiled and looked at the ten-inch square, color display screen. His plan was simple. He had called for a backup to keep an eye on her, because he planned to leave her in the truck, monitoring. When she grew tired of watching the GPS monitor, she could slip in a CD and watch a movie. Even if Bolton had Sam and Cora beside him, he wouldn't resort to violence. He couldn't afford to kill Cunningham's man. He knew what Cunningham was capable of, and being chased by coast guard, then the Air Force and finally other government factions willing to loan their resources, from here to South America, was not what he wanted. He wanted to sail his boat in a prestigious race that would see him live and celebrate. If Anderson disappeared and the Air Force set to pursue Bolton, his Salamander associates would not be left behind. Those were perhaps to fear even more than his countrymen. Bolton wanted the suitcase and Seabring. He'd use her as hostage, to negotiate himself a state of grace. The suitcase, well, he sailed deep water. Bolton had known all along what had to be in the suitcase. After all, twenty-three years ago he had returned to the cabin to look for it. Well, if the legal counsel lived in fear, he never showed it. Those few occasions when he had seen him socially at a Washington function certain didn't betray anxiety. As a lawyer, he always appeared to be in control, though he ‘directed’ those around him with humor and tolerance. They were his hallmarks, his stepping-stones to success. Five years ago when he retired, three thousand people came to his retirement dinner. He flew in from Turkey just to shake Mars's hand. The General Counsel of the Air Force was that well liked and respected. How much damage had this extraordinary patriot done to his country in his off-stage role? Two decades ago, once the psychologists took over, he couldn't go near the child he'd kidnapped. Catatonic and traumatized, she still might recognize his voice. He settled down to watch her from a distance, watched her grow up. The child slowly emerged from her cocoon, and though academically she fell two years behind, she became a reporter and the reporter started to research, gather material on a dangerous subject. That's when Bolton had decided to make a bid for her memories. That's when Captain Nicholas Anderson had appeared on the Berkeley Campus. He now knew that he had scrambled Bolton's plans when he became involved with Seabring. An operative who falls in love with his subject is not about to make it vulnerable. If anything, he would have become suspicious if ten years ago, Bolton had asked him to bring her in for questioning. Bolton had hurriedly recalled him, but Seabring's guilt and fear had played right into his hands. He settled down to watch her for ten more years, watching what she would do with her research. When his curiosity outgrew caution he sent in his agent, Sam. Except the man who twenty-three years ago lost a brother in a plane crash, didn't give up either. He wondered whether Cunningham felt that Seabring was on the verge of sending her message, once again turning herself into a target, and that was why he had recalled him from Italy. Did he also suspect that Falkner was Bolton's agent? Probably. Finally, the situation looped back to San Diego. Bolton's agent delivered a decoy. The lawyer would know it immediately. There was no brass button, no gold pin, though he felt Bolton would not worry about the olive pits. Then again, since he'd been swallowing olive pits for two decades, he probably realized that the child had picked up the curious evidence along with the artifacts. Twenty years ago, detecting methods were simple compared to what existed now. Today, mummified remains were successfully subjected to DNA sampling. The olive pits might still hold traces of saliva and pits alone would point in the right direction to the individual to be sampled. Bolton wanted it all back, olive pits notwithstanding. He had to reclaim every single piece of evidence that could implicate him in the kidnapping. His Salamander colleagues would insist on such thoroughness. Nick was coming with the evidence—or was he? Before they left San Francisco, they had spent three hours visiting pawnshops, looking for similar articles, with no success. Finally, Rita had suggested a goldsmith who had made a custom signet ring for her. Mr. Jung-Ping smiled at them and said he would work all night if the price were right. When Seabring saw what Mr. Jung-Ping stamped into his VISA, she gasped. The goldsmith told them with a solemn look that the gold and brass cost about five hundred dollars. Five thousand dollars was for his artistry, speed, and discretion though they hadn't sworn him to secrecy. "There goes your diamond ring,” he said to her outside the shop. "What makes you think I want a diamond?” She turned to look away. "Fine. I'll get you a sapphire for your belly button." Their light mood lasted only until they made it back to the truck because it once again reminded them where they had to go. The original evidence sat in his knapsack, stuffed deep under his bucket seat. The replacements looked convincing but if Bolton looked close, he'd know what they were—decoys, fakes. His simple plan was intimidation. That was what Cunningham had meant when he said he would settle for removing the head pin. They couldn't touch the organization, but they could remove one of its key players. Cunningham's message was not ambiguous. The Salamander Protocol must be retired. Those who wanted to see such retirement had hard evidence that would see Bolton charged with treason. There was a witness. Not an eyewitness because she was blindfolded, but a witness nevertheless because she had picked up evidence that would reveal the identity of her kidnappers. If Bolton didn't take the message seriously, the Air Force would launch a full-scale investigation into his activities for the past twenty-three years, in absentia. The findings would be made public. Many damaging things about Mars Bolton would come out. Such negative publicity would make him worthless to his Salamander colleagues. It would make him a pariah in their circles. He'd become a wanted man—by those he had betrayed, and by those who had paid him to do it. The latter party would make sure Bolton never surfaced again. Bolton knew probably better than anyone else that his Salamander associates were not inclined to hide him, not unless the hiding place was dark and deep. The moment Bolton's Salamander buddies learned that his countrymen had hard evidence linking him to the old kidnapping it was as good as a signed execution. He would tell Bolton, “Make sure that your lizards do not operate in the U.S. and the evidence that's locked in the suitcase will never surface. It won't disappear. It's insurance, but as long as there are no signs of the Salamander Protocol operating in the U.S., you're free to live out your life anywhere else but in this country." It was up to Bolton to choose how he wanted to live out his life, whether he wanted to sail and sometimes make foreign port, or to spend it dodging lizards or his countrymen. Either way, he wouldn't enjoy his retirement benefits. Anyone he'd meet, anywhere, could be an enemy, working on contract for CIA or its global counterparts, British, French, or these days even Russian. An old woman, peddling wares on a beach in Mexico might draw a knife and stab him in the back. A squinty-eyed official might come on board to collect a fee-for-passage through the Panama Canal and either take the boat or leave it adrift. A pretty bank-teller with gold-hoop earrings in Santa Marta might hand him change with one hand and shoot him with the other. A street urchin in Punto Fijo or a blind beggar in the streets of Port of Spain might wail for alms, while aiming a gun at him from underneath their rags. A South American pygmy with a blow-dart or a pinstriped bespectacled commuter in Rio—anyone could be a potential assassin, with a U.S. payroll number in someone's department. In spite of his unflappable disposition, his inhuman calm and composure, he felt that Bolton had lived for more than two decades in spine-tingling uncertainty. He didn't want such a threat to plague his retirement. He felt it even as he sat across from him on the club's terrace, watching, waiting to see him swallow another olive pit. Oh yeah, Bolton was ready. He yearned to spit them out. * * * * Cora was sulking. Bolton wouldn't let her hide in the utility storage. "It would serve no purpose,” he replied calmly, ignoring the storm brewing in the sultry eyes. “Same goes for that piece you're packing, my dear.” He indicated the 15-shot, Sig-Sauer P-226 pistol which was a favorite of German police officers and obviously Cora's, as well. Bolton had always considered all 9mm guns ‘flesh-wolves’ and this time he could not afford to let one loose—before its time. “This is going to be a civilized meeting,” he continued, nodding his head until she grimaced and stuck the gun in the back of her jeans. “Nick is coming to dictate his conditions and I'm expected to negotiate. Words will be the only bullets that will be exchanged here. Do not act in haste,” he cautioned. "But he suspects.” Her grimace deepened. Bolton silenced her with a raised hand. "No, my dear. He knows. That's vastly different from suspecting. We have long sailed by the rocky coast of suspicion and are now cruising the open sea, very silent, very deep—very pregnant with meaningful shadows." "Then why don't you let me kill him and the woman and we'll be out of here before midnight?" "I said do not act in haste.” His voice sharpened. “Anderson won't be carrying a weapon. He's an officer. They have to live by the rules and laws of this country. I told you he has orders to carry out this transaction in a civilized manner." She remained sullen, but she did puff up her t-shirt to balloon over in the back and hide the gun bulge. Bolton saw the look of defiance and wondered whether he shouldn't have packed this operative in ice, as well. She was good company in bed but that was a secondary consideration. He could get himself any number of Coras down in the southern latitudes, more attentive and appreciative, too. He knew that when he sailed out of San Diego tonight he would never return to see the U.S. shores again. Not in this lifetime. He knew what kind of directive was coming. He had been playing the game for a long time. He knew that the situation had only two possible outcomes. Either his operative whom he had planted on the Roberts girl would get hold of the evidence, or the evidence would fall into Cunningham's hands. If Sam had succeeded, Bolton would have called Nick in, with or without the Roberts girl, then let Sam or Cora kill him. It would have been his poignant message to Cunningham. Unfortunately, Sam had failed and the second option came into play. Sam was in the freezer where he deserved to be. Cora should be there, as well, but he wasn't going to worry about that now. He could take care of that later, when he was sailing the open seas. Nick was coming in a state of grace afforded him by the Roberts girl's clever move to have a decoy suitcase. Bolton couldn't afford to kill him any more. He had to listen to Cunningham's ultimatum and then judge, by the nature of the evidence, whether he should heed it or not. The rules of the game were pretty well defined. Mind you, there was still one degree of uncertainty ... the Roberts girl. He knew Nick would have brought her along. He wouldn't have dared to leave her in San Francisco. Would he actually bring her along? What would Nick do about the Roberts girl? It was the only unknown factor in an otherwise open book script. Briefly, Bolton considered sending Cora out to scout the marina and its surroundings. He might have done it if he could trust her not to do something stupid, like shoot both of them. She didn't realize that Nick had to stay alive or Cunningham would leave no divot, no shingle on Earth unturned in his search for Mars Bolton. What that kind of global publicity would do to him in terms of his Salamander associates was too fearful to contemplate. The moment Bolton's name hit the public airwaves, alluding at conspiracy that had roots going back more than twenty years, the Salamander organization was compromised. I wouldn't live out forty-eight hours after that, Bolton thought, cringing inwardly at the thought of having his associates gunning for him. He told Cora to go and sit at the chart table, with the navigation station overhead, while he took the table in the main cabin that served as a dining table for the galley across. It had a half-moon settee around it, looking at the transom and pilot's berths. The stairs had a locker above them and were so steep they looked more like a ladder than a stair passage to the main cabin. When Anderson came down those stairs, he would have to squeeze by the chart table and approach the dining table. He'd end up with his back to Cora all the time he was in the main cabin. Bolton knew Anderson wouldn't want to do that. "On second thought, my dear, why don't you go to the forward cabin and leave the door open so you can follow what shall transpire in here,” he said. "Why don't you just let me pack him in ice the moment you're sure you've got the right suitcase?” Her hands settled around her waist, not reaching for the gun but staying close nevertheless. "Dear, dear, such impetuousness. So young and so.... “He wanted to say foolish but knew that Cora's estimate of herself was much higher than that. “Eager to serve,” he compromised, “I'd like to settle something here between us, my dear. You'll promise me that Colonel Anderson won't be harmed while we're defining the commandments, and I give you my word that there will definitely be an opportunity for you to shoot someone tonight—and no, it won't be Anderson but it will be just as satisfying." "Don't play games, Mars,” she grumbled. “I'm not a child. Don't patronize me.” But she was heading for the forward cabin and that was all he wanted from her right now. "There, my dear.” He smiled after her, indicating the ceiling which started to echo with hard footsteps. “That's Colonel Anderson, wearing cowboy boots on the deck. I guess I should have given him a quick lesson in sailboat etiquette but that can't be helped just now. Our deck may suffer a little but his boots won't serve him well if he has to move in a hurry. Down here, my boy,” he raised his voice when the hard clicks above halted. "Glad to see you're punctual, my boy,” Bolton said, eyeing Nick with amusement when he straightened to full height with caution even though there was plenty of head room. “Nine-thirty is a witching hour around the marina. It's a good time to arrive if you don't want too many curious eyes tracking you." "There's plenty of activity around here, Mars,” Nick said. “I stopped in at the club house. I didn't want the staff calling police, reporting a prowler." Bolton laughed. “Such caution, my boy. It didn't used to be that way." "True enough,” he agreed, looking down the length of the main cabin and seeing Cora standing in the mahogany framed doorway. “Then again, considering the kind of company you like to keep these days, perhaps caution is warranted.” He gave a slight shake to the suitcase in his hand to draw Bolton's attention. "It took you less than two months this time, my boy.” Bolton's voice was deceptively mild. “I guess it wasn't such a challenge for you any longer. Miss Roberts never got over your charms. I should have thought of recalling you a lot earlier. Perhaps even spared myself the aggravation with Sam. Still, I think he served his purpose. He set up the scene for you very nicely. All you had to do was walk in and pick up where you left off. Miss Roberts was ready to...." "Don't waste your energy, Mars. She's not here. There's no one to overhear your clever remarks." "Where is she?” Bolton asked without interest. "At the club house. She needed something to settle her stomach. We grabbed a bite to eat on the way down and I guess it was too greasy. The manager said she would bring her down here herself. Your club is a nice place, Mars. The staff is eager to please." "Shall we get down to business, my boy?” he asked. “What have you got there for me?" Nick put the suitcase on the table. "Open it.” Bolton waved at the suitcase. “And while I look through the contents, why don't you recite for me all the conditions your boss means to impose upon me." Bolton was still sifting through the contents when Nick finished outlining all the conditions. "They say that vanity can be a virtue or a fault.” Bolton picked up the brass button, head rising, his eyes boring into Nick's with curious intensity. “I have such a large collection of trinkets stamped with the god of war that this one would get lost amongst them." "Perhaps,” Nick agreed. “But this one is the only such trinket that's evidence." Bolton chuckled. “You wouldn't make a very good lawyer, Nick. I expected you to hedge and allege. I hate statements that feel like naked concrete. Actually, this one is the one that would sink the Titanic.” He picked up the gold pin, turning it delicately between his fingers, tightening his mouth when he saw the back engraved with his initials and the date when such honor was bestowed upon him. “And these,” he brought out the plastic bag filled with olive pits, “have caused me many a heartburn. Very well, Nick, I capitulate. Historically correct. You have what it takes for me to raise the white flag.” He threw it all down. “Of course, these are just decoys. Where are the real articles?" "Safely stored. Insurance,” Nick said. "Of course,” Bolton intoned in a way that left Nick with an impression that he had expected to hear just that. "As long as the Salamander Protocol is never again executed on the U.S. soil, the insurance will remain safely locked away,” he said. "Total silence on the global scale." "Affirmative." "I'm supposed to trust Cunningham's word?" "You have no choice, Mars. You alone know whose word is better—Cunningham's or your Salamander colleagues'." "Clever, my boy, clever. So be it. However, while I may have to trust Gene Cunningham, can I trust Miss Roberts? She doesn't report to Cunningham. Indeed, she's one tenacious young lady, looking at all this wonderful research. Who's going to guarantee me her silence? She's a journalist. A very nasty profession, so nosy and indiscreet." "I'll guarantee you her silence,” he said. He knew Bolton was maneuvering him for the strait and didn't know how to turn around. "How noble.” Bolton smirked. “But you, Nicky, are just Cunningham's flunkie. You can't keep a woman interested for more than a few months at any given time. Miss Roberts turned her back on you once. Who's to say she won't do it again?” Bolton rose and slammed the suitcase lid shut. “Let's go to the club house. It's a beautiful night, perfect for a walk. I need to talk with Miss Roberts, convince myself that she will manage within the scope of Cunningham's word and our agreement." "All right,” he agreed, not daring to look at his watch. Joy Meredith should be arriving any moment now. Church would be immediately behind. Perhaps it was better if the club staff saw all of them up on the deck, or even already on the walkway. The marina was well lit. Still, something was bothering him and it wasn't Cora glowering from the doorway and listening in on what was going on between him and Bolton. Bolton had no choice, but he had capitulated too quickly. He was pressed for time if he wanted to sail out by ten-thirty, but he could have at least gone a couple of rounds of negotiations. After all, he was a lawyer. Bolton had analyzed the situation and knew he had no choice but to agree to Cunningham's ultimatum. Still, he had expected him to at least try and get a few concessions. Where would the evidence live? Under what roof and under what kind of circumstances would Cunningham consider the arrangements compromised? After all, what if Bolton's Salamander colleagues didn't agree to cease their operation on the U.S. soil? What kind of evidence would Cunningham need to believe the Salamander wasn't active in the U.S.? Bolton didn't ask any such vital question. It meant only one thing. The lawyer was up to something. * * * * It was Seabring Bolton had wanted all along. But he couldn't afford to kill her until he learned about the evidence. That was the only thing that had kept her alive all these years. He would have killed Nick if Sam had succeeded, a clean sweep that would have made him feel totally secure. He could no longer afford to kill Nick. He had made a deal with Cunningham. However, he couldn't make a deal with Seabring. She was the solitary witness who gave all the evidence against Bolton its weight. Without Seabring, the evidence was worthless, circumstantial at best. As long as Seabring was alive, Bolton would never be safe. But with her out of the picture, all Cunningham held was a collection of curios without history. She was the key witness, whose existence had epitomized the Damocles sword hanging over Bolton's head all these years, and she was a civilian. Cunningham couldn't afford to mobilize his resources in a hunt for Mars Bolton if a civilian was killed. All this had flashed through Nick's head even as the first battery of shots rang out. Cunningham had approved his simple plan. Nick changed a few scenarios at the last moment when the opportunity presented itself to make the simple plan foolproof. Seabring scrambled them all. Nick, with Bolton and Cora following, made it all the way to the spot where the dock was anchored against the gently sloping ground when they saw a figure emerge on to the well-lit terrace. By then, his stomach was tied in knots. Joy Meredith should have long come down the wooden walkway, delivering her news about the emergency. She hadn't and he had started to worry. Church was nowhere either. Bolton, carrying the suitcase, increased his stride when they were about to step on to the firm ground, overtaking him. The lawyer's anxiety set Nick's stomach churning with acid. He reached out, grabbing Bolton's arm, intending to slow him down. He feared the lawyer might spring ahead. It was the last thing he wanted. "Let him go and don't make another move unless you're told,” Cora's gritty voice sounded behind him. She jabbed the gun barrel between his shoulder blades. Bolton turned and gave a displeased hiss. “I told you not to act in haste. Put away the gun." Slowly, Nick turned and found the gun jabbed into his ribs, Cora's face crack close to his. “I said don't move unless you're told to. Do that again and...." "Put it away!” Bolton raised his voice. Just then Nick caught a ripple of motion on the terrace. Finally, he thought. Joy Meredith, coming late but at least she was here. The figure came down the slope, heading for them. Nick spun around when he recognized who it was. He groaned and started to move. Cora was faster. She slashed him with the gun behind his right ear. Even before he landed on his knees he heard Bolton say, “How do you do? Miss Roberts. I hoped that I would have a chance to deliver back your suitcase." "I may not have seen your face twenty years ago but the voice is the same,” Seabring said. Nick realized that she didn't see him because Cora was blocking her view. "You can't possibly remember,” he said in a deceptively pleasant tone of voice. "I will always remember your voice. You killed my father and my little brother." "That was most unfortunate. I assure you the plan didn't call for such a messy solution. However, it was a solution and it worked." "Not exactly because I'm alive." "Yes,” Bolton agreed, sounding chagrined. “That was a mistake which I recognized too late. Then again, I didn't expect a child to collect the evidence which you have so thoughtfully preserved all these years." "You botched up the whole job.” Seabring's voice was coldly contemptuous. Nick heard she wasn't playing a game. She was finally facing the man who had killed her family without a blindfold. It was something she had been waiting to do all these years. She was here to prove something to herself. Except, she didn't have enough experience to know that the situation was not in her favor. Bolton wouldn't leave this time until she was dead. He might engage in a bit of conversation but that wouldn't last long either. Cora would get the signal.... "You judge me so harshly, Miss Roberts,” Bolton said. “Actually, I think I handled the situation very well, considering so many things went wrong." Still kneeling, Nick raised his head. This was it. He had to time his spring just right. Cora stood three feet away from him. He felt her eyes trained on the top of his head. To respond to Bolton's signal she had to look up. He caught the shuffle of Cora's feet. She was balancing herself for better aim. He sprung up from the ground. "Nick!” Seabring screamed. "Down, Seah, get down!” he shouted and charged Cora from the side. She squeezed off two shots. The silencer's muffled splat told him that at least one of them hit something. Before she could fire again, he grabbed her wrist, leaving his body unprotected. She capitalized on it and drove her knee into his stomach. He gave her wrist a wrenching twist until she dropped the gun. He raised his other hand to block her punch and drove his elbow into her face at the same time, then moved forward, though he couldn't see Seabring or Bolton. "Seah...!” he shouted. It was a mistake. A spitting stream of muffled shots twanged through the air. A body moved past him, collided with him and spun around. He let it go because it wasn't Seabring. He heard Bolton's voice, trembling with fury and pain as he shouted at Cora to stop shooting, at least not until he was out of the target range. "You idiot!” he heard Bolton's painful groan. “Wait until I am.... “He never finished. Three more spitting shots connected with a target. Without turning around, Nick knew that Cora made Bolton's retirement permanent. "Don't move!” He heard Cora's order. It sounded so close he wondered how she managed to find her gun and get this close so fast. The terrace on the crest of the hill was well lit but the slope below was not. It was shrouded in twilight shadows that made it difficult to see and target. It also made it hard for him to see where Seabring had disappeared. He didn't remember seeing anything to use for cover on the shore. Once again he felt the hard metal of Cora's silencer press, this time against the back of his head. Her breathing was irregular. His elbow hit must have damaged her nose. "I'm going to blow your head off,” she growled but the rest of her words dissolved in a spitting curse. He felt droplets of moisture on his neck. It could have been her spittle—or blood. "Do you hear me, bitch?” Cora raised her voice. “I've got your boyfriend's head right where I can put a slug straight through it. Come on out if you want him to live." "No, Seah. Don't do it. She's going to kill me anyway,” he shouted. Cora's fist drove her punishing message into his left kidney. She hissed at him to shut up or she would carry out her threat sooner than he liked. He cleared the pain with two quick breaths and started to turn his head. He no longer cared whether Cora's hand with the gun would swipe across his neck. He had realized, in that moment when Bolton's body collided with his as he rushed back to stop Cora from shooting that the lawyer had not only miscalculated but also erred and badly at that. Bolton's Salamander colleagues had allowed him to play the game for more than twenty years. His time limit had finally run out. Sam was his plant in Seabring's life to get the evidence Bolton knew Seabring had been hiding all these years. Sam was Bolton's pawn, but Cora wasn't. Bolton might have brought her in, but she came in well pre-selected, and the lawyer didn't know that. She also came pre-packaged with orders Bolton knew nothing about. Cora was the Salamander terminator and her orders were to terminate all, not just Seabring which would have been Bolton's aim all along but Sam, Nick and finally Bolton. When Cora squeezed off her first salvo of shots, they were heading in Seabring's direction since she stood before Bolton but at least one of those shots must have winged Bolton. That was when he realized what Cora was about. He fell back on his authority. It was all he had left and it wasn't enough. He was Cora's prime target. Seabring was probably the next and Colonel Anderson would be left until the end. After all, Cora wanted to play a little with her last victim. Abstractedly, he wondered what had happened to Sam and where on the boat had Cora hid his body. Then again, she could have rented a powerboat to take the body out to sea. "I'm running out of time,” Cora shouted again, voice laced with fury this time. “I'll give you to the count of three. One, two...." "Three.” Seabring's voice came from behind. It surprised not only Nick but also Cora. Perhaps that's why neither used the element of surprise to their advantage. "There is a gun trained at you,” Nick heard Seabring say. “You're welcome to turn around and see for yourself, but I advise you to do it slowly." Cora hesitated but something about Seabring's silent appearance, from behind, must have convinced her that she wasn't kidding. Nick felt the pressure of the metal ease then disappear. He had to be very careful now. Very careful what he did and how fast. Dear god, where did she get a gun? Suddenly, there came the unmistakable pounding of feet along the walkway. It confused an already difficult situation. Nick's only aim became to get to Seabring, bring her down and roll on the grassy slope far enough and fast enough for Cora's bullets to miss. He hoped she wouldn't squeeze the trigger just as he was lunging at her. She did and so did Cora. He made one of those out-of-body sacred vows never, ever again to get caught between two women holding a gun, whether they were good shots or not. He threw himself more into Cora's line of fire than directly at Seabring though he did put enough effort into the leap to reach her. The impact of his body was enough to make them a part of the textured shadows crawling along the ground. He felt a sharp jab of pain in his left thigh but ignored it. The air around them strummed with the hot, violent passage of bullets. He felt another stab of burning pain, this time as he rolled, his arms tightly locked around Seabring. Too many bullets to be coming from Cora's gun, the soldier in him started to analyze the situation. She would have gone through one magazine and he felt there was no time to ram in another. The bullets had to be coming from someone else and that meant they had to stay low or they'd get caught in the crossfire. He heard Seabring pant his name and all he could manage was to give her ear a quick kiss and whisper to shut up. "Nick, Nick.” Her hot breath scorched his ear. “The gun ... I dropped it ... the gun...." He was glad she did. The strange burning that was creeping along his left side was probably her handiwork. She must have at least winged him. Suddenly, his ears became blocked. The sound of shots and voices started to fade as if someone had turned down the volume. The fog came off the sea, enveloping the shore in its heavy blanket of moisture. It was so thick he felt it settling on his face as fine misty rain. Somewhere in the distance a foghorn sounded its warning drone. If the fog settled on the harbor, Bolton would not be able to sail out tonight. Did it matter any more, he wondered, his thoughts fading even as he tried to hang on to them, but they slipped off their moorings and everything drowned in the fog.
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Chapter Nineteen
Ted Vanderhoffen looked grim and ready to start grinding his teeth. The attending nurse had already warned him not to go into a pacing frenzy where he ended up running up and down the hospital room, much to the amusement of its solitary occupant, and mumbling about demotions and transfers. "I don't think you ought to take it out on your staff, Ted,” Colonel Anderson drawled with heavy-duty Georgia twang this time. “When civilians start to play James Bond, the honest folk who earn their living doing such service as a matter of course, get the short shrift. Church made it just in the nick of time. He was pulling double duty. You have to give him that much. And Meredith used everything including her teeth to get out of the storage room so it's not as if they didn't try. Just that Miss Roberts is a very crafty actress." "I'm still not sure whether I should release her into your custody,” Ted Vanderhoffen murmured, but he was smiling. “She said something which sounded like a solemn promise to let the subject of the Salamander Step sleep the sleep of the dead but, like you said, she's a journalist and those are not to be trusted by definition.” He continued on a more serious note. “We've got her statement, on the historical and the current events. She was exhausted when it was over. Actually, she could hardly speak but whatever she said is now on record and that's where it's going to stay, buried in the records. There's not much anyone can do with the evidence now. Her research will keep a few of us employed for quite some time, though.” He lowered his voice. “You know, Bolton got a quasi-honorable funeral. He's not heading for Arlington but there were quite a few big brass in attendance.” Vanderhoffen grimaced. “Appearances. We couldn't afford to let any speculations loose. If we're to track down the source organization that operates behind the Salamander Protocol, we can't let it out. He was a traitor and he didn't deserve the honors but that's the way we have to play the game. Sacrifice a bit of your integrity so you can safeguard quite a lot of the country's honest folk, the plucky entrepreneurs who go by the law of the land." "Did you manage to reference Cora's identity?” Nick asked, shifting on the bed because the wounds left by three bullets that tattooed a straight line into his left thigh that stopped just two inches away from his groin, now throbbed instead of burned. He couldn't decide what was worse, the arthritic throbbing or the reason-stripping burning pain. "That's still a negative.” Vanderhoffen shook his head. “She was one well-seeded mole. Other than her time with the Houston Chapter, Cora Miller didn't exist. We have no idea where she came from and the same goes for Sam Falkner. He was a short fuse, as well. Two years background, tops, then it just vanishes.” He squinted at Nick. “Bolton didn't have any immediate survivors. We've put together a legal team to look for distant relatives but in the meantime we're going to take a look at his financial affairs, discreetly and within the law, of course. The Flaming Tiger will draw the first slot on the inspection tour." "You may get a good lead through her to Soobrian Standards, but I doubt it will be solid enough to implicate them in any way,” Nick said and Vanderhoffen agreed with him. "Well, shall I leave once again without telling you just whose bullets the doctors took out of your thigh?” Vanderhoffen moved for the door, face in profile to Nick, stifling laughter. Nick briefly closed his eyes, mumbling, “I don't want to know. I'm still pissed off with that woman. Out she comes, saying, ‘I have a gun trained at you'. She had Sam's Magnum and not once did I notice anything as we drove down to San Diego.” He ended up mumbling to himself. "What would you do if you found out it was her gun which is responsible for you being shackled to that bed?” Vanderhoffen inquired. "Strangle her,” Nick groaned. "Just as well you don't want to know.” Vanderhoffen nodded and headed out of the room. Five seconds later, he popped his head back in, grinning, “All three bullets the doctors dug out from your leg were from a Sig-Sauer, P226 9mm pistol. Sam owned a Desert Eagle, a point-three-fifty-seven Magnum, nine shot, three-pounds-four-ounces of alloy. Had she scored even with one shot, you would now be missing a leg and a part of your body most likely. That's why the forensics had such a rough time patching up Ms. Miller's cold cadaver for funeral. Miss Roberts’ Magnum scored twice against Cora-target and boy, was she ever lucky she dropped it when she did. She came out of it with a bruised tailbone, a bruised chin and a mild sprain of her shoulder. That's why she behaved so meekly when you tackled her. She was stunned and bruised by the kick back of that ferocious beast. An Israeli-made Desert Eagle, dear god.” Vanderhoffen rolled his eyes. “I guess Sam liked to give his victims a sporting chance. That thing is good for more than six hundred feet of hot message.” He stared at Nick with an enigmatic smile and finished, “I thought you would have figured it out by now. The caliber, that is. Magnum would not have you feel any pain at all and Miss Roberts told us that you deserve to suffer for being such a chauvinist and leaving her under guard.” He disappeared once again. Sam's Magnum, Nick thought when the door closed after Vanderhoffen. She had almost four pounds of deadly alloy with her all the way down to San Diego and he had never noticed anything. Where in the heavenly stars had she kept it, he wondered? He concluded that it would have had to be in that all purpose fortress which traveled with women ... in her purse. * * * * Nick was discharged a week later from the Coronado Naval Hospital where he had been flown in a Seal and Air rescue chopper. Ted Vanderhoffen was a conscientious supervisor. He had arrived at the marina club just in time to release Joy Meredith from the storage room and the two played the part of the proverbial cavalry to the rescue. Brigadier General Cunningham flew in from Washington for two reasons. One was to give Nick a lecture about rules and regulations and how these were meant to safeguard the soldier when that soldier found himself in the darkest situation a military man could imagine—namely being surrounded by civilians who were hell bent on shooting with their eyes closed. The other was to participate in a series of meetings conducted behind closed doors in a non-descript office building in San Diego where Seabring Roberts was a witness giving her testimony on the events of twenty years ago. When Cunningham finished chastising his officer who had listened to the irate lecture with a sheepish look, he authorized two months of medical leave for Colonel Anderson, as per doctors’ advice. He left with a poignant reminder that those two months were to be spent healing not only physically but mentally because that performance needed upgrading, as well. Seabring phoned Barbara Ferguson and without going into details, told her about the situation. She asked and was given a two month leave-of-absence. When Barbara asked what her reporter planned to do during those two months, Seabring answered, “I suspect that most of the time I'll be fighting with someone over the need for occupational therapy versus self-styled means and what little time and sanity I will have left, I'll be trying to figure out whether there might not be a story in this somewhere that I would be allowed to write." "Sounds like one of those getting-to-know-you vacations,” Barbara remarked. Seabring laughed and said that stage had long been negotiated and it was time to move on to the next step. "Now that sounds like you're getting ready to make something permanent,” Barbara quipped. "Very,” Seabring replied crisply. “I'm going to kill him if he won't listen to me.” And hung up before Barbara asked just who was that ‘him'. A few days later, in the afternoon, Seabring came to claim the honors of pushing Nick's wheelchair through the hospital corridors while he kept sticking out his healthy foot in an attempt to get out of it. The doctor who signed his release form forced upon him a cane which Nick tried to stick in the garbage can once outside and which Seabring told him she would use as a weapon if he didn't do as the doctor said and use it. She walked beside him through the parking lot, indeed like a nurse on duty, reading the doctor's report and recommendation on the form of therapy needed and the length of time. When they were far away from human traffic, Nick pretended to stumble which made Seabring abandon her reading and reach out to help him. "Works every time,” he mumbled, capturing her with both arms and trying to sneak a kiss even as he pressed her backside against him. "Well it's not going to work for a long time,” she moved her head, staring into his twinkling gray eyes with a frown. He moved his hips against hers, his mouth pulled into a grin. “It'll work. Trust me. That's not the part that got shot." "Thank god for that,” she said deadpan. She forced him to release her and they made it to where the truck was parked. Out of habit he started to head for the driver's side, but she pulled him toward the passenger side. “I'm driving, you're riding. That's an order." "Yes, ma'am.” He let the smile grow as wide as it wanted to. She reached for the door handle, then turned and looked around. "We're on friendly territory,” he teased. “No need to do surveillance. This is a hospital parking lot. It doesn't get any safer than that." "I'm glad you said that,” she murmured and before he knew what was happening her hand slid inside his pants. He was so shocked, he couldn't even gasp. Her fingers entered gently enough into his briefs then closed around him. It was enough to make him moan. What fitted into her cupped hand just seconds before no longer did. She pressed herself against him, face lifted, eyes twinkling with that liquid invitation and maybe laughter. “Just making sure that claim of yours is good." "You're taking huge advantage of this cane,” he murmured, feeling the heat rise below and spreading above, feeling her fingers applying pressure he craved so much. "Not yet. That'll come the moment we're home and you're on the bed.” Her other hand wrapped around his neck and her kiss was that seal of passion he wanted to feel as long as he lived, as long as he could breathe. "You just wanted to make sure that I stretch out my leg, just like the doctor ordered,” he murmured against her lips. Her hand moved in a few tentative strokes. “If you're going to keep this up while we're riding, you'll have no choice. Alright, I'll be merciful.” She kissed him again, a hard smack which he didn't let escape and turned into a harder, deeper kiss. A wave of regret washed over him when she took her hand out. He turned his head, as if checking whether he could indeed take this opportunity to stoke the furnace. "Not on your life.” She tweaked his ear and opened the door. She didn't help him up. She only held his cane and handed it to him when he was inside. He liked the meaning implied in that standby gesture. If he needed help he would ask. Otherwise, she would simply stand there beside him, a partner and a lover. She had already staked her claim. He was hers and she was his. There would be no need to surrender, for either of them. And when they lay with arms wrapped around each other, their security would be joint. They drove for a while in silence then he spoke up. “You missed a turn. This is not the way for San Diego Freeway. We're heading for the coast." "Yep.” And she said no more. He glanced at his watch. It was past six o'clock. He wasn't hungry and knew she wasn't either. He wondered where she was going. They were close to the University campus, but he felt that wasn't where she would head. Then he saw a straggly shape flap by the roadside and take to the sky and suddenly he knew. "Ready, my love?” She turned and looked at him with a tight-lipped smile which made her cheeks grow dimples when they made a turn on to a sloping dirt road which would take them down to Torrey Pines Beach Park. "I'm at a disadvantage here. I can't brace my feet." "Then hold on to the bar and trust me,” she said and pointed the nose of the truck down the rugged pathway. "It was a much rougher ride than the one we used to take down to Granmora Cove,” he commented when the truck finally came to a stop on a flat stretch of the beach. He looked at her, his eyes growing soft and misty with memories, “but you handled it like a pro. I'd ride down these roads with you any time." He had to bend his leg to climb into the back of the pickup and that hurt but he managed. She leaped up like a jungle cat and had the sleeping bags spread out and ready in seconds. "We used to take a walk on the beach first,” he said, eyes narrowing with the memories. "We'll do that again when your leg's in better shape." "That might take a while,” he mumbled, remembering the doctor's prognosis and the warning that extensive therapy would be needed. "The sea will be here long after we're gone. At the same time, we have all the time in the world,” she said and made him lie down. She lay down beside him and he turned, his hands reaching out automatically but hers were already wrapping around him, pulling him closer. They lay like that for a long, silent time. Neither felt the pressure to speak. It was time to listen. When their heartbeats settled into a single rhythm, Seabring moved her head but only to find his mouth. "I love you,” she whispered and somehow that soft sound managed to drown out even the sea-speak, even the rush of the waves crashing against the shore. "I've loved you from the first moment I put my arms around you,” he whispered back. His hands started to raise her shirt even as his mouth fastened on hers in a kiss that would define all the rest of the kisses for tonight and all the nights to come. She pulled away from him so suddenly he wondered whether he had said something wrong. Then he realized that it was still daylight and she didn't like to undress when there was still light. However, she surprised him. She rose on her knees but kept her eyes trained on his and slowly, in that deliberately uncertain manner started to unbutton her shirt. He watched her with slitted eyes, his mouth partly open to ventilate his throat. She undressed for him, her smile twitching through a range of seductive expressions. He raised a hand when she unhooked her bra and caught it before it fell down. She leaned forward and let his other hand close around her breast. She slid her jeans down her hips, wiggling out of them and that drove him crazy. She wiggled out of her panties, too, and it was too much for him. He sat up, hands closed firmly around her breasts. Somehow she found a way to start unbuttoning his shirt. He wasn't aware when the shirt slid off his shoulders and fell down because he was busy kissing every part of her breasts and neck and shoulders, wherever his mouth could reach. "Lie down,” she breathed out. "I want to...." "Lie down so I can take off your pants." He helped her with that part because they now both wanted to be rid of the clothing in a hurry. He started to roll sideways but she slid over his loins so quickly he never stood a chance. Languidly, she stretched over him and he lunged for her mouth. Then she rose above him again, breathing hard, looking down at him. “What feels good, Nick?” It was a whisper in the breeze. "Everything you want to do." "You're asking for it.” She was moving her hips, rubbing him with tantalizing pressure but wouldn't allow him to enter yet. "Yeah, I guess I am.” His breath was hot. “I always was. That's what I always wanted." "I know.” She grasped his hands reaching out to her and settled atop his loins. “I know that now. Then again, I guess I always knew ... Nick, I've never done this before,” she said, a disturbed murmur. It forced a chuckle into his parched throat, his eyes slitted in laughter. "Figure it out. I'm all yours to command." "You could help." "Nope.” He knew he would, eventually. He would always help. It didn't matter whether he was watching the darkening sky or seeing its reflection in her eyes. Both sights were worth watching. Both were equally captivating. Both were his ... and hers. The End
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