Lost Lake

CHAPTER ONE

PORTLAND, OREGON-THE PRESENT

The organizers of the Portland Spring Art Fair had lucked out. It had been a very wet March in Oregon and the weather seers were predicting rain through most of April. But Mother Nature had redecorated in the nick of time, storing away the endless precipitation and gloomy black clouds for another day and setting out sunshine and clear blue skies for the weekend of the fair.

Ami Vergano had dressed in a multicolored peasant skirt and a white blouse with short puffed sleeves to celebrate the pleasant weather. Ami was just over five-four and still had the solid build of the gymnast she’d been until she grew in high school. She kept her brown hair short because it was easy to care for. Her big brown eyes dominated her face. Circumstances had turned Ami serious, but her wide, bright smile could light up a room.

Ami was delighted at the large crowds that were taking advantage of the first sunny days of spring to roam the Park Blocks in search of art. Her booth had attracted people since the fair opened, and three of her oils had sold already. She was putting the money from her most recent sale into her purse when someone spoke.

“I like that. Is it imaginary or did you paint a real scene?”

Ami turned and found a broad-shouldered man admiring one of her landscapes. His face had the tanned, leathery look of someone who spends a lot of time outdoors. Ami figured him for five-ten and in his mid- to late forties. He was dressed in jeans, moccasins, and a plaid long-sleeved shirt. His long hair was gathered in a ponytail, and he had a scraggly mustache and goatee. He brought to mind the hippies of the peace and love generation in the 1960s.

“That’s a forest glade not far from my house,” Ami said.

“I love the way you’ve captured the light.”

Ami smiled. “Thanks. You have no idea how long I worked to get it just right.”

“Dan Morelli,” the man said, offering his hand. “I have the booth next door. I saw how many people have been going in and out of yours and decided to see what the fuss was all about.”

“Ami Vergano,” she said as she took Morelli’s hand. It was large and comforting, like his smile. “What are you showing? I’ve been so busy that I haven’t had a chance to look around yet.”

“I build custom-made furniture. Take a peek if you get a chance.”

“I will. Are you from around here? I haven’t seen you at our shows before.”

“First time in Oregon,” Morelli said.

“Where’s home?”

“No place, really. I was an army brat. We moved from town to town. I’ve been living in Arizona, but it’s too dry. I like the woods, the ocean.”

“There’s not much of that in Arizona.”

“No, there’s not. Anyway, I heard about the fair and thought I’d see if I could get a few orders.”

“How’s it going?”

“Good. One fellow who stopped by just opened an accounting office and he wants a desk, bookshelves, and some other stuff. That should keep me busy for a while. Now I just have to find somewhere to stay and a place to work.”

Ami hesitated. She didn’t know a thing about Morelli, but he seemed nice. She made a snap decision.

“You might be in luck. I have an apartment over my garage that I rent out, and my studio is in a barn behind the house. It has plenty of room for carpentry. There’s even a workshop and power tools. A student was renting but he had to leave school early because of an illness in the family, so the apartment is empty.”

“I have my own tools, but that does sound just right. Can I drive out after the fair shuts down and have a look?”

“Sure.”

“What’s the rent?”

She told him and Morelli smiled shyly. “I can make that.” He stepped out of Ami’s booth and looked over at his own. “Got to go. Looks like I have customers. I’d better sell something now that I have to pay rent.”

Ami laughed and waved. “See you around five.”

Morelli ducked out, and Ami wrapped her arms around herself. Finances had been tight since her tenant left. She could use the extra money. And it would be fun to have another artist around the place. Morelli seemed nice. She hoped it would work out.

Ami Vergano closed the screen door as quietly as she could and stood on the front porch watching Daniel Morelli teach her ten-year-old son how to throw a curveball. They were in the front yard under the aged oak tree that Ami called Methuselah. Morelli was squatting beside Ryan and gently adjusting his fingers on the seams of a badly scuffed hardball that, along with his mitt, was her son’s prize possession. Ryan’s brow wrinkled as he concentrated on getting the grip right, oblivious of the darkness that was descending at the end of a perfect spring day.

Morelli was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt advertising a local microbrew. When he stretched out his arm, his biceps, triceps, and forearm looked like coiled rope. For someone approaching fifty, Morelli was in good shape. Ami knew that he ran for miles in the morning because she’d seen him returning to his apartment lathered in sweat when she was leaving for work. Once she’d seen him with his shirt off and had been impressed by the etched perfection of his physique. She had also been surprised to see more than one long scar cutting across his back and stomach.

“That’s right,” Morelli said, and Ryan grinned with pride. Her son was an energetic, gawky towhead who played Little League with a passion and loved anything to do with baseball. Since moving into the apartment over her garage three weeks ago, Morelli had kept pretty much to himself, but he and Ryan had struck up a friendship when her son learned that her lodger had played shortstop in middle school. There was no man in Ami’s life, and Ryan gravitated toward any adult male who showed an interest in him. Ryan followed her tenant around like a puppy. Morelli didn’t seem to mind. He appeared to enjoy explaining woodcraft to Ryan as well as the proper way to turn a double play.

Ryan looked so serious that Ami couldn’t help smiling. She wished that she could freeze this tableau, but her duties as a mother forced her into the role of the Grinch.

“Time for bed,” Ami said as the sun edged below the horizon.

“Can’t I stay up a little longer?” Ryan begged.

Morelli stood up and tousled Ryan’s hair. “We’ll work on the curve tomorrow, little buddy. I promise.”

“But I’ve almost got it.”

“You do, but it’s too dark now and this old man is getting tired. So listen to your mother.”

“Okay,” Ryan said reluctantly as he trudged up the porch steps and into the house.

“Thanks for playing with Ryan,” Ami said. “If he gets to be too much for you, let me know.”

“He’s no trouble. He listens and tries real hard.”

“But he can be exhausting. I’m serious. I appreciate the time you spend with him but don’t feel bad about turning him down once in a while.”

“Don’t worry. He’s a good kid. I enjoy working with him.”

“Do you want a cup of coffee?” Ami asked. “I’m going to fix one as soon as I get Ryan tucked away.”

“That sounds good.”

“I’ve got some cake if you’re interested.”

“Coffee will be fine.”

“Take a seat, then, and I’ll be out as soon as I get Ryan settled.”

There were several wicker chairs on the porch. Morelli plopped into one and stretched his legs. The spring evening was balmy, and he closed his eyes. He was just shy of falling asleep when the screen door snapped open and Ami handed him a mug.

“Did I wake you?” she joked.

“I did almost nod off. It’s so nice tonight.”

“How’s the work coming?”

“I brought over the desk two days ago and Mr. DeWitt was real happy.”

“Good. Maybe he’ll get you some more orders.”

“He already has. The real estate agent in the office next door to his wants me to build a desk for his home office.”

“That’s great.”

They sat in silence for a while and sipped their coffee.

“This weather is perfect,” Ami said after a while.

“You can’t beat spring and summer in Oregon,” Morelli answered.

“It’s the winters that get me down, but once you get through December, January, and February the weather is fine.”

Ami had turned toward Morelli when she spoke and she saw his eyes start to close again. She laughed.

“Looks like Ryan did you in.”

Morelli grinned. “I am wiped. I put in a real full day.”

“Don’t stand on ceremony if you want to get to sleep.”

“No, I think I’ll sit a while more. I’m usually on my own and I’m enjoying the company.”

“Have you ever thought of staying in one place and opening a store? Your stuff is good. I bet you could build up a clientele pretty fast.”

“I’m a drifter, Ami. I get too restless.”

Ami thought Morelli sounded a little sad when he confessed his wanderlust. She imagined that it must be lonely always moving from place to place. Then she remembered that solitary men who liked its vast and empty expanses had built the west. Morelli was just a modern-day version of mountain men like Jim Bridger and Joe Meek. He even looked as she imagined they would have looked with his long hair and hard, lined face.

They talked for a while more before Ami told Morelli that she had to finish up some chores. Morelli thanked her for the coffee and walked across the lawn to his apartment. As Ami watched him she remembered something he’d said earlier when they were discussing the weather. He’d just told her that you couldn’t beat spring and summer in Oregon, but she was almost certain that the day they’d met, at the art fair, Morelli had told her that he’d never been in the state before.

CHAPTER TWO

WASHINGTON, D.C.-TWO MONTHS LATER

Vanessa Kohler hadn’t chosen to conduct the interview with Terri Warmouth at the Cruise On Inn because the thirty-six-year-old shipping clerk had claimed she’d been abducted from its parking lot. Vanessa had chosen the tavern because it had cheap scotch and she could smoke there without getting dirty looks from her politically correct colleagues.

Vanessa was a hard-drinking, rail-thin chain-smoker with snarled blond hair and pale blue eyes. The forty-nine-year-old reporter paid no attention to her looks and favored baggy jeans and bulky sweaters, unless she was on assignment. Tonight, she’d cleaned up a little and was wearing a black leather jacket over a T-shirt and tight jeans.

Vanessa looked at her watch. It was almost nine, and Warmouth had said she’d be at the tavern at eight-thirty. Vanessa decided to give her another scotch’s worth of time before heading home. Sam Cutler, her boyfriend, was out on an assignment at some rock concert anyway, and there was nothing on the tube. She could think of worse ways to spend her time than drinking in the ambience created by smoke, loud country music, and raucous pool players.

A sudden draft told Vanessa that someone had opened the door. She shifted her gaze from the scarred tabletop to the front of the tavern. A heavyset, big-haired woman wearing too much makeup was bathed in the red-green light of the jukebox. She cast anxious glances around the bar until Vanessa raised her hand. The woman hurried over.

“Vanessa Kohler from Exposed,” she said as she handed Warmouth her card. The woman’s hand shook when she took it.

“Sorry I’m late,” Warmouth apologized. She sat down and laid Vanessa’s card on the table next to a puddle of beer. “This is Larry’s bowling night and his ride was late.”

“Perfectly understandable,” Vanessa said.

“I couldn’t let him know I was going out. He’d want to know where I was going and who I was meeting. I just hope he doesn’t call from the alley. I’ll be up all night getting grilled.”

She flashed a weak smile, looking for sympathy. It took Vanessa a moment to catch on. She flashed back a smile that she hoped conveyed female solidarity.

“Can I buy you a beer?” the reporter asked.

“That sounds good.”

Vanessa signaled for the waitress and ordered a pitcher.

“So, Terri, you ready to tell your story?” Vanessa asked when the waitress left.

“Yeah, sure,” she said, though she didn’t sound so sure.

Vanessa placed a tape recorder on the table between them. “Do you mind if I record this so I can report what you tell me accurately?” she asked, omitting the part about the recording being primo evidence whenever a fruitcake decided to sue.

Warmouth hesitated but then said, “Sure, okay.”

Vanessa pressed “record.”

“This is going to be in the paper, right, with my real name and everything?” Warmouth asked.

“You bet.”

“Because it’s the only way Larry will believe it, if it’s in Exposed. He reads it like the Bible, every week. He says it’s the only paper he can trust.”

“It’s good to know we have such loyal readers.”

“That’s why I called you, on account of Larry being such a loyal reader.”

“Right. So, as I understand it, you’re pregnant?”

Warmouth looked down at the table and nodded.

“You’ve got to speak up for the recorder, Terri,” Vanessa reminded her.

“Oh, right. Yeah, I’m…I got…”

“Pregnant.”

“Right.”

“And this was a surprise?”

Warmouth reddened. “Yeah, I’ll say.” She looked up, her eyes begging for understanding. “Larry’s going to know it’s not his. We tried like crazy after we was married.” Warmouth hesitated. “You ain’t going to put this part in the paper, are you?”

“Not if you don’t want me to.”

“Well, don’t. It would embarrass him something awful.”

“What would?”

“The doctor told us I’m okay, but Larry’s sperm don’t swim so fast. I don’t understand all of it, but it made him feel terrible, unmanly, you know. So, he’ll know it weren’t his kid.”

“And whose kid will it be?” Vanessa prodded.

“The alien’s.”

“The ones who abducted you from the parking lot of the Cruise On Inn?”

“Yes,” Warmouth answered in a little voice that Vanessa could barely hear over the noise in the bar.

“Tell me how it happened.”

“I was here…”

“What night was this?”

“Same as tonight. Larry’s bowling night.”

“So, Larry didn’t know you were out on the town?”

“Uh, no.”

“Were you alone?” Vanessa asked, watching Warmouth carefully when she answered. Her interviewee ducked her head and turned deep red.

“Yeah, just me,” she said.

“How come you came here? The Cruise On is pretty far from your house.”

“It ain’t so far from work.”

“Been here with some of your pals from work, have you?”

“Some of my girlfriends,” she answered too quickly.

“But that night you were on your own?”

“Yes. And it got late, so I knew I’d have to go so I’d be home when Larry got home. He doesn’t like me going off on my own.”

“Larry’s the jealous type?”

“I’ll say. He’s always going on about how guys stare at me and accusing me of staring back, when I’m not. It’s sort of flattering, but it can get on your nerves, if you know what I mean.”

“You bet,” Vanessa answered with a nod. “So, tell me about the aliens.”

“Yeah, okay. So I went out to my car, which was over at the end of the lot, and I was just about to open the door when I heard this like humming sound, and I looked up and there it was.”

“There what was?”

“The ship. It was big and spinning and it looked like a saucer, but with lights.”

“Any special color lights?”

“Uh, green, I think. I don’t remember real well. I was pretty shook. But it did look like a lot of those alien ships you write about in your paper. So it was probably from the same planet.”

“Which planet is that?”

“They never said, but some of the other ones who got abducted knew the name of the planet and I bet it was one of those, since the ship was so similar.”

“What happened after you saw the ship?”

“Well, that’s where it gets hazy. I do recall a beam of light coming down. But after that it’s like you get when you have an operation and they give you drugs.”

“Some of our abductees have said it’s like a good high.”

“Yeah, sort of like that. You know how you sort of float. Well that’s what I was doing. But I do remember I was strapped down on this table and I didn’t have any clothes on. And this tall one was on top of me.”

“Having sex?”

“I don’t know what they do. I didn’t really feel anything. And then I was back in the parking lot.”

“Naked?”

“Uh, no, the aliens must have put my clothes on.”

“And the ship was nowhere to be seen?”

“No, they must have left after they beamed me back down.”

“Made their getaway before anyone could see them?”

“Yeah, made their getaway,” Terri echoed softly.

Terri was crying. Vanessa switched off the tape recorder. She reached across the table and took Warmouth’s hand.

“Larry’s not going to buy this, Terri. I know you’re hoping he will because he likes my paper, but he’s going to know.”

Terri’s shoulders were shaking, and the tears were pouring down.

“Who is it? Someone from work?”

Warmouth’s head bobbed up and down for a second. When she lifted her tear-streaked face Vanessa tried to remember if she’d ever seen anyone who looked so miserable.

“But he says it isn’t his,” Warmouth said between gulps for air. “He…he says I must have been sleeping around or it’s Larry’s.”

“Sounds like a real nice guy,” Vanessa observed.

Warmouth wiped her eyes. “I sure thought he was.”

“So you can’t count on this guy and you can’t tell your husband.”

Warmouth’s head bobbed yes.

“What about an abortion?”

“How would I pay for it? Larry has all the money. If I asked him for some, I’d have to explain why I wanted it. He’d ask for receipts if I said I was buying something. He watches money like a hawk.”

Vanessa made a decision. She reached across the table and picked up the business card she’d handed Terri Warmouth. Then she wrote a name and phone number on the back of it.

“You call this doctor, Terri. You tell her I told you to call. I’ll clear it with her first thing in the morning, so call from work around ten. She’ll take care of you.”

“But the money…?”

Vanessa squeezed Terri’s hand. “Don’t worry about the money. Just get this taken care of.”

“I really want a baby,” Warmouth sobbed. “I don’t know if I can do it.”

“That’s up to you. You don’t have to. Think about it. I know it’s a hard choice.” Vanessa paused. “You could leave Larry, you know. Leave him and have the baby.”

Warmouth looked stricken. “I couldn’t leave Larry. I love him.”

“Would he accept a child that wasn’t his?”

“No, never! He’d kill me. Being a man, it’s real important to him. If he knew I cheated…and I love him. I don’t want to leave him.” She seemed to be in agony.

Vanessa stood up. “I’m going to call my friend in the morning. Then it’s up to you.” She dropped some money on the table and slipped the tape recorder back into her purse. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” Vanessa smiled. “I’ll walk you to your car. Make sure the aliens don’t get you.”

Terri Warmouth didn’t smile back. “I wish they would,” she said.

Vanessa drove from the tavern to the offices of Exposed to finish a story about a giant rat that was stealing slum babies. The rat was supposed to be as big as a German shepherd. Patrick Gorman, Vanessa’s boss, had made up the story at the weekly staff meeting and assigned Vanessa to write it. Vanessa had thought it was disgusting and had protested, finally getting Gorman to agree that she could substitute Terri Warmouth’s alien abduction tale if it panned out. But it hadn’t.

The paper took up two floors of a remodeled warehouse within sight of the Capitol dome in a section of Washington, D.C., that teetered between gentrification and decay. Abandoned buildings and vacant lots-the habitat of junkies and the homeless-could be found within blocks of multicolored, rehabilitated row houses owned by young professionals. Vanessa unlocked the front door, relocked it, and walked past the Personals office. When she had started with the paper, the personals amused her. In recent years they had become bizarre enough to freak her out. She hoped that they were genuinely weirder, because the alternative was that she was getting old.

Vanessa walked up the stairs to the second floor and checked in with the security guard. He told her that no one else was around. That was fine with Vanessa. After her meeting with Terri Warmouth she craved solitude. Warmouth had exhausted her. Needy people always made Vanessa uncomfortable, which was odd considering her line of work. Supermarket tabloids lived off the exotic and psychotic tales told by people who had a tough time fitting into the real world. The people she interviewed talked themselves into believing in another Earth where the strange and wonderful occurred with enough frequency to let them escape from the demands of their drab existence.

Vanessa punched in her security code and used her key to get into the second floor, where the work of creating each edition was carried on. The office seemed bigger than it was because of the vaulted ceiling, which was painted gray like the thick cross beams. Vanessa fixed herself a cup of instant coffee in the staff kitchen before turning on the fluorescent lights that illuminated the cubicles where the reporters worked. Her cubicle was across the floor from a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf that held back issues of Exposed and other tabloids. It was filled with two black metal filing cabinets and a desk on which perched her file holder and computer monitor.

Vanessa was one of the lucky few with a window, but it was too dark to see anything outside. She sipped her coffee and toiled on her story to the accompaniment of the night noises that haunted the floor where the minions of Exposed worked for low wages and no prestige. Vanessa’s salary at Exposed was ridiculous, but she didn’t need the money. What she did need was access to press credentials and databases so that she could proceed with her research.

Vanessa lived in a redbrick row house in the Adams Morgan section of Washington. The area off Eighteenth Northwest was funky and crowded with Ethiopian restaurants, jazz nightclubs, bars, and pizza parlors. Most nights, a rowdy college crowd packed the streets. Vanessa enjoyed the chaotic scene, and her apartment was far enough from Eighteenth to muffle the noise. It was well after one when she opened the door to her fourth-floor apartment. She could afford something better, but she had lived in Adams Morgan for years. Her neighbors kept to themselves, and there was plenty of room for her research materials, which were mostly in the spare bedroom but had started to spill out into the living room. They consisted of the Warren Commission Report and books critical of it, tomes on the Roswell cover-up, and magazines with stories about the CIA’s covert operations and the like. If a book or article alleged a government conspiracy, Vanessa had it or had read it.

Vanessa flipped on the lights. The sight of a parcel with a return address from New York made her heart sink. The package was sitting on a small table in the foyer where Sam had stacked the mail. Vanessa carried it into the living room. She switched on the lamp beside the sofa and sat down to the groan of aged springs, placing the package on top of the magazines and days-old newspapers that littered her coffee table. She stared at the package for a minute before ripping off the brown paper wrapper. A letter lay on top of her manuscript, covering the title and her assertion of authorship. Vanessa hesitated before picking up the letter. It was signed by an editor at Parthenon Press who was supposed to be open to new ideas and was not afraid to challenge the establishment. He had published a number of controversial exposes of government cover-ups. A book of his about a Marine who’d blown the whistle on a training maneuver that had left two recruits dead had just fallen off the best-seller list.

Dear Ms. Kohler: I read Phantoms with great interest. Unfortunately, I have decided that your book is not right for Parthenon Press. I wish you the best of luck placing your manuscript. Yours truly, Walter Randolph

Vanessa squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted to fling the manuscript across the room and break things. She fought to keep her rage in check and tried to dissipate her hostile energy by pacing the worn carpet that covered her hardwood floor. Something was going on here. It could be as simple as the fact that her press credentials were from Exposed instead of The New York Times. Of course, that level of credibility was closed to her. No reputable paper was going to hire someone with her history. But Vanessa was certain that something darker was at work.

Vanessa was a superb researcher and had ferreted out Walter Randolph’s unlisted home phone number as part of her background check on the editor when she was deciding to whom she would send her book. Vanessa dialed a number in Connecticut and waited while the phone rang several times.

“Hello,” answered a voice groggy with sleep.

“Walter Randolph?”

“Who is this?”

“Vanessa Kohler.”

“Who?”

“Phantoms. You just rejected it.”

“It’s one-thirty in the morning, Ms. Kohler,” Randolph answered, fighting to sound civil. “Would you please call me at work?”

“Who got to you?”

“I will not continue this discussion at this time.”

“Was it my father? Did someone from the government visit you? Did someone threaten you or buy you off?”

“I rejected your book because of insufficient documentation, Ms. Kohler. There was nothing sinister about the decision.”

“You don’t expect me to believe that?”

Vanessa heard a sigh on the other end of the line. “I don’t know how you got this number, but a call at this hour is a violation of my privacy. I am going to end it in a moment, but, since you insist on knowing, not only have you failed to verify your rather dramatic claims, but your past makes it highly unlikely that any publishing house would give them any credence.”

“My past?”

“Your mental history, Ms. Kohler. And now I must hang up. I have a hard day tomorrow and I need my sleep.”

“Who told you I was hospitalized, who told you that?”

But Vanessa found herself talking to a dead line. She slammed down the phone, redialed, and got a busy signal for her efforts. She was about to throw the phone at the wall when the front door opened and Sam Cutler walked in carrying his camera equipment. He was dressed in jeans and wore a tight black T-shirt under a windbreaker.

Vanessa was five-ten. Sam was a little taller-and solid, while Vanessa verged on anorexic. He was a few years older than Vanessa, and his gray-streaked brown hair was receding up front.

Sam stopped in his tracks and Vanessa froze, arm cocked, the phone a moment away from destruction. Sam saw the manuscript on the coffee table.

“A rejection, huh? I was going to hide it until I came home. Then I got a call and forgot.”

The arm holding the phone dropped to Vanessa’s side. “Someone got to the editor. I’m sure of it.”

“How do you know that?” Sam asked, keeping his voice neutral because he knew that the slightest sign of doubt where this subject was concerned could push Vanessa into an uncontrollable rage.

“He knew I was hospitalized. How did he find out about the sanatorium if someone didn’t tell him?”

Sam crossed the room. He knew better than to try for physical contact now. He hoped that standing close would calm her.

“Maybe there was something in the papers,” he suggested. “Your father is big news right now. There might have been a sidebar about the family.”

Vanessa shook her head vehemently. “They want to discredit me. There’s no way they’re going to let this get out.”

“Who is ‘they’?” Sam asked, knowing that he was treading on thin ice.

“My father, the military, the CIA. You don’t think they were all involved? Once the truth gets out, Watergate will look like a tea party. They can’t afford to let the public get even a hint of what I know.”

Sam had been down this road before. “If that’s true, why hasn’t anyone tried to kill you?” he asked calmly. “Why hasn’t anyone stolen your manuscript? You haven’t made a secret of what you’re doing. Everyone knows about your book. You even tried to interview that guy at the CIA, and nothing happened.”

Vanessa glared at Sam. “You don’t understand how they work. They could steal my manuscript, but they know I’d just write the book again. Besides, my attorney has a copy. And killing me would let everyone know that I was telling the truth.”

“Everyone who? Come on, Vanessa. I respect what you’re trying to do. I know you think you’re right, but most people who know about this…Well, they don’t believe it. And the CIA could make your death look like an accident, if they wanted to. You know that. No one would think you were killed to suppress your book. People would think you were the victim of a hit and run or had a heart attack or something like that.”

Vanessa slumped down on the couch. “You’re right,” she said. She sounded very tired. “Randolph is right.” She closed her eyes and laid her head back. “I’m an ex-mental patient and I don’t have a shred of evidence that proves that the Unit ever existed. There never was much evidence, anyway-just a few sheets of paper, and they’re gone.”

“You look all in, babe. Let’s get to bed. You’ll think better in the morning. You’ll figure out what to do when your mind is clear.”

“He’s going to win, Sam. He always wins and he’s going to win again. I can’t stop him, I never could. No one can.”

Vanessa’s hands curled into fists and her eyes snapped open. A vivid anger was sizzling in them.

“Do you know how my father made his bones in the intelligence community?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Think about this. Daddy was promoted very rapidly starting in early 1964, right after the Kennedy assassination.”

Sam’s mouth gaped open. “You don’t think…?”

“I think my mother knew. I think that’s why he killed her, to keep her from telling the truth about who was really on the grassy knoll.”

“Did your mother tell you she thought that…?” Sam couldn’t even finish the sentence.

“She was always upset on the date of Kennedy’s death. When I asked her why, she would never tell me. And she looked scared to death if I asked while my father was in the room.”

“Ah, Van,” Sam said, dropping onto the couch beside her and wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “You’ve got yourself in a knot. You’re not thinking straight.”

Vanessa’s rage disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. She laid her head on Sam’s shoulder and started to cry.

“I hate him, Sam. I hate him. I wish he were dead.”