The Cove

"That takes care of the theory that Doc Spiver murdered the woman and then felt so guilty that he killed himself."

"Blows it straight to hell."

"You know what it sounds like to me? Just maybe the person really believed everyone would think Doc Spiver killed himself. Maybe an older person who doesn't know all about things a good M.E. can determine. Your man, Ponser, didn't know, after all. You could say you just lucked out because of how good the M.E. is in Portland."

"That sounds right to me." He sighed. "What we've got is a killer loose, Quinlan, and I'm so stuck I don't know what to do.

"My men and I have been questioning every damned person in this beautiful little town, and just like with Laura Strather, no one knows a damned thing. I still can't buy it that one of the local folk is involved in this."

"One of them is, David, no way around it."

"You want me to take plaster casts of those footprints?"

"No, don't bother. But take a look, one impression goes deeper than the other. You ever see anything Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

like that?"

David was down on his hands and knees, studying the footprints. He measured the depth with his pinky finger, just as Quinlan had done. "Strange," he said. "I don't have a clue."

"I was thinking the guy had a limp, but it wouldn't look like that if he did. There'd be more of a rolling to one side, but there's not."

"You got me, Quinlan." David stood up and looked toward the ocean. "It's going to be a beautiful day. I used to bring my kids here at least twice a week for the World's Greatest Ice Cream. I haven't wanted them to get near The Cove since that first murder."

And, Quinlan knew, besides that killer, there was another man here who was out to make Sally believe she was crazy. It had to be her husband, Scott Brainerd.

He dusted his hands off on his dark-brown corduroy pants. "Oh, David, which one got to you first?"

"What?"

"Which of your daughters got her arms around your neck first?"

David laughed. "The littlest one. She climbed right up my leg like a monkey. Her name's Deirdre."

James left David Mountebank and returned to Thelma's Bed and Breakfast.

When he opened the door to his tower room, Sally was standing in the doorway of the bathroom. Her hair was wet and plastered to her head, strands falling to her shoulders. She had a towel in her left hand.

She stared at him.

She was stark naked.

She was so damned thin and so damned perfect, and he realized it in just the split second before she pulled the towel in front of herself.

"Where did you go?" she asked, still not moving, just standing there, wet and thin and perfect, and covered with a white towel.

"He wears an eleven-and-a-half shoe."

She tightened the towel, rolling it over above her breasts. She just stared at him.

"The man pretending to be your father," he said, watching her closely.

"You found him?"

"Not yet, but I found his footprints beneath your bedroom window and the indentations of the ladder feet. Yeah, our man was there. What size shoe does your husband wear, Sally?"

She was very pale. Now she was so colorless that he imagined even her hair was fading as he looked at her. "I don't know what size. I never asked, I never bought him shoes. My father wears an eleven and a half."

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"Sally, your father is dead. He was murdered more than two weeks ago. He was buried. The cops saw the body. It was your father. The man last night, it wasn't your father. If you can't think of any other man who's trying to drive you nuts, then it has to be your husband. Did you see him the night your father was murdered?''

"No," she whispered, backing away from him, retreating into the bathroom, shaking her head, wet strands of hair slapping her cheeks. "No, no."

She didn't slam the door, just quietly pushed it closed. He heard the lock click on the other side.

He knew he would never look at her quite in the same way again. She could be wearing a bear coat and he knew he would still see her standing naked in the bathroom doorway, so pale and beautiful that he'd wanted to pick her up and very gently lay her on his bed. But that would never happen. He had to get a grip.

"Hi," he said when she came out a while later, wrapped in one of the white robes, her hair dry, her eyes not meeting his.

She just nodded, her eyes still on her bare feet, and began to collect her clothing.

"Sally, we're both adults."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

At least she was looking at him now, and there wasn't an ounce of fear in her voice or in her eyes. He was pleased. She trusted him not to hurt her.

"I didn't mean as in consenting adults. I just meant that you're no more a kid than I am. There's no reason for you to be embarrassed."

"I suppose you'd be the one to be embarrassed since I'm so skinny and ugly."

"Yeah, right."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I think you're very-no, never mind that. Now, smile."

She gave him a ghastly smile, but again, there was no fear in it. She did trust him not to rape her. He heard himself say, completely unplanned, "Was it your husband who humiliated you and beat you in that sanitarium?"

She didn't move, didn't change expressions, but she withdrew from him. She just shut down.

"Answer me, Sally. Was it your damned husband?"

She looked at him straight on and said, "I don't know you. You could be the man calling me, mimicking my father, you could be the man last night at my window. He could have sent you. I want to leave now, James, and never come back here. I want to disappear. Will you help me do that?"

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Jesus, he wanted to help her. He wanted to disappear with her. He wanted-He shook his head. "That's no answer to anything. You couldn't run forever, Sally."

"I wouldn't bet on it." She turned, clutching her clothes to her chest, and went back into the bathroom.

He started to shout through the bathroom door that he liked the small black mole on the right side of her belly. But he didn't. He sat down on the chintz sofa and tried to figure things out.

"Thelma," he said after he'd swallowed a spoonful of the lightest, most beautifully seasoned scrambled eggs he'd ever tasted in his life, "if you were a stranger and you wanted to hide here in The Cove, where would you go?'' Thelma ate one of her fat sausages, wiped the grease off her chin, and said, "Well, let me see. There's that dilapidated little shack just up on that hillock behind Doc Spiver's house. But I tell you, boy, I'd have to be real desperate to hole up in that place. All filled with dirt and spiders and probably rats. Nasty place that probably leaks real bad when it rains." She ate another sausage, just forked the whole thing up and stuffed it into her mouth.

Martha came up beside her and handed her a fresh napkin. Thelma gave her a nasty look. "You think I'm one of those old ladies who will dribble on themselves if a handmaiden isn't right on the spot to keep her clean?"

"Now, Thelma, you've been twisting the other napkin around until it's a crumpled ball. Here, take this one. Oh, look, you got some sausage grease on your diary. You've got to be more careful."

“ need more ink. Go buy me some, Martha. Hey, you got young Ed back there in the kitchen? You're feeding him, aren't you, Martha? You're buying my food with my money and you're feeding him just so he'll go to bed with you."

Martha rolled her eyes and looked at Sally's plate. "You don't like the toast? It's a little on the pale side.

You want it better toasted?"

"No, no, it's fine, truly. I'm just not hungry this morning."

"No man wants a skinny post, Sally," Thelma said, taking a noisy bite of toast. "A man's got to have something he can hang on to. Just look at Martha, bosom so big young Ed can't even walk past without seeing her poking out at him."

"Young Ed has prostate trouble," Martha said, raising a thick black eyebrow, and she left the dining room, saying over her shoulder, "I'll buy you some black ink, Thelma."

"I'm coming with you."

"But-"

Sally just shook her head and walked across the street toward the World's Greatest Ice Cream Shop.

She was limping only slightly today. A bell tinkled when she opened the door.

Amabel, dressed like a gypsy with a cute white apron, stood behind the counter, scooping up a French Vanilla double-dip cone for a young woman who was talking a mile a minute.

"... I heard that two people have been murdered here in the last several days. That's incredible! My mama said The Cove was the quietest little place she knew about, she said nothing ever happened here, Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

that it had to be one of those gangs from down south come up here to stir up misery."

"Hello, Sally, James. How are you this morning, baby?"

As she spoke, she handed the cone to the young woman, who immediately began licking and moaning in ecstasy.

"I'm fine," Sally said.

"That will be two dollars and sixty cents," Amabel said.

"Oh, it's wonderful," the young woman said. She alternately dug in her wallet and ate the ice cream.

Quinlan smiled at her. "It is excellent ice cream. Why don't you just keep eating and I'll treat you?"

"Taking ice cream from a stranger is okay," Sally said. "Besides, I know him. He's harmless."

Quinlan paid Amabel. Nothing else was said until the young woman left the shop.

"There hasn't been another call," Amabel said. "Either from Thelma or from your father."

"He knows that I've left your house," Sally said thoughtfully. "That's good. I don't want you in any danger."

"Don't be ridiculous, Sally. There's no danger for me."

"There was for Laura Strather and Doc Spiver," Quinlan said. "You be careful, Amabel. Sally and I are going exploring. Thelma told us about this shack up the hill behind Doc Spiver's house. We're going to check it out." "Watch out for snakes," Amabel called after them.

Which kind, Quinlan wondered.

Once they were rounding the corner to Doc Spiver's house, Sally said, "Why did you tell Amabel where we were going?"

"Seeding," he said. "Watch your step, Sally. You're not all that steady on your ankle just yet." He held back the stiff, gnarly branch of a yew tree. There was a barren hill behind the house, and tucked into a shallow recess was a small shack.

"What do you mean, seeding?"

"I don't like the fact that your dear auntie has treated you like you're so high-strung no one should trust what you say. I told her that just to see if perhaps something might happen. Then if it does-"

"Amabel would never hurt me, never."

He looked down at her and then at the shack. "Is that what you believed about your husband when you married him?"

He didn't wait for her to answer him, just pushed open the door. It was surprisingly solid. "Watch your head," he said over his shoulder as he stooped down and walked into the dim single room.

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"Yuck," Sally said. "This is pretty bad, James."

"Yeah, I'd say so." He didn't say anything else, just began to look around as he imagined the sheriff had done only days before. He found nothing. The small space was empty. There were no windows. It would be pitch black when the door was closed. Just plain nothing. A modicum of hope, that was all he'd had, but still, he was more than a modicum disappointed. "I'd say that if Laura Strather was kept prisoner here, the guy holding her was very thorough cleaning up. There's nothing, Sally, not a trace of anything.

Well, hell."

"He's not hiding in here, either," she said. "And that's what we're really doing here, isn't it?"

"Both, really. I have a feeling that your father wouldn't lower himself to stay in this place. There aren't even any free bathrobes."

* * *

That afternoon they ate lunch at the Hinterlands. This week Zeke was serving Spam burgers and variations on meat loaf.

They both ordered Zeke's original-recipe meat loaf.

"The smells make me salivate," Quinlan said, inhaling enthusiastically. “Zeke puts garlic in his mashed potatoes. Breathe deeply enough and no vampire will come near you."

Sally was toying with the curved slice of carrot in her salad. "I like garlic."

"Tell me about that night, Sally."

She'd picked up the carrot and was chewing on it. She dropped it. Then she picked it up again and slowly began eating it. "All right," she said finally. She smiled at him. "I might as well trust you. If you're going to betray me, then I might as well hang it up. The cops are right. I was there that night. But they're wrong about everything else. I don't remember a thing, James, not a blessed thing."

Well, hell, he thought, but he knew she was telling him the truth. "Do you think someone struck you?"

"No, I don't think so. I've thought and thought about it and all I can figure out is that I just don't want to remember, can't bear to, I guess, so my brain just closed it down."

"I've heard about hysterical amnesia and even seen it a couple of times. What usually happens is that you will remember, if not tomorrow, then next week. Your father wasn't killed in a horrific way. He was shot neatly through the heart, no muss, no fuss. So, it would seem to me that the people involved in his death shook you so much that's the reason you've blocked it all out."

"Yes," she said slowly, then turned around and saw the waitress bringing their plates. The smell of garlic, butter, roasted squash, and the rich aroma of the meat loaf filled the air around them.

"I couldn't live here and stay trim," James said. "It smells delicious, Nelda."

"Catsup for the meat loaf?"

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"Does a shark have a fin?"

Nelda, the waitress, laughed and set a Heinz ketchup bottle between them. "Enjoy," she said.

"Nelda, how often do young Ed and Martha eat here?"

"Oh, maybe twice a week," she said, looking a bit startled. "Martha says she gets tired of her own cooking. Young Ed is my older brother. Poor man. Every time he wants to see Martha, he has to endure Thelma's jokes. Can you believe that old woman is still alive, writing in that diary of hers every day and eating that sausage?"

"That's interesting," James said when Nelda left them. "Eat, Sally. That's right. You're perfect, but I'd be worried for you in a strong wind."

"I used to run every day," she said. "I used to be strong."

"You will be again. Just stick with me."

"I can't imagine running in Los Angeles. All I ever see is pictures of horrible fog and cars stacked up on the freeways."

"I live in a canyon. It's got healthy air and I run there as well."

"Somehow I can't imagine you living in Southern California. You just don't seem the type. Does your ex-wife still live there?"

"No, Teresa is back east. She married a crook, interestingly enough. I hope she doesn't have kids with the guy. Their genetic potential is hair-raising."

She laughed, actually laughed. It felt as wonderful to her as it felt to James hearing it.

"You have any idea how beautiful you are, Sally?"

Her fork stilled over the meat loaf. "You're into crazy freaks?"

"If you ever say anything like that again, you'll piss me off. When I get pissed off I do strange things, like take off all my clothes and chase ducks in the park." The tension fell away from her. He had no idea why he'd told her she was beautiful; it had just slipped out. Actually, she was more than beautiful-she was warm and caring, even while she was living this nightmare. He wished he knew what to do.

"You said you didn't remember about that night your father was killed. Do you have other gaps in your memory?"

"Yes. Sometimes when I think about that place, very sharp memories will come to me, but I couldn't swear if they are truly memories or just weird images stewed up by my brain. I remember everything very clearly until about six months ago."

"What happened six months ago?"

"That's when everything went dim."

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"What happened six months ago?"

"Senator Bainbridge retired suddenly, and I was out of a job. I remember that I was going to interview with Senator Irwin, but I never got to his office."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. I remember it was a sunny day. I was singing. The top was down on my Mustang. The air was sharp and warm." She paused, frowning, then shrugged. "I always sang when the top was down. I don't remember anything else, but I know I never saw Senator Irwin."

She said nothing more. She was eating her meat loaf. She probably didn't realize she was eating, but he wanted her to keep at it. He guessed he wanted her to eat more than he wanted her to talk. At least for now. What the hell had happened?

James paid their bill and walked outside while Sally went to the women's room. He wondered how he was going to keep his hands off her when they got back to his tower bedroom.

12

HE HEARD A whisper of sound that didn't belong in that small narrow space beside the Hinterlands. He turned around, wondering if Sally had come out of the cafe without his seeing her. That was when he heard it again. There it was, just a whisper of sound. He pivoted quickly on his heel, his hand inside his jacket on the butt of his German SIG-sauer, a 9 mm semiautomatic pistol that fit his hand and his personality perfectly. He was at one with that pistol, as he'd never been with any other before in his professional life. He was pulling it out, smooth and quick, but still, he was too late. The blow struck him just over his left ear. He went down without a sound.

"James?" Sally stuck her head out the door of the cafe. There was no one around. She waved to Nelda, then turned back. Where was James? She frowned and stepped down. She heard a whisper of sound that didn't seem like it belonged. She wheeled about to look in that sliver of space beside the building.

What she saw was James lying on his side on the ground, a trickle of blood trailing down his cheek toward his chin. She yelled his name and skidded onto her knees beside him, snaking him, then drawing back. She sucked in her breath. Gently she laid her fingers on the pulse in his throat. It was strong and slow. Thank God, he was all right. What was going on here? But then she knew.

It was her father, he'd finally come to get her, just as he'd promised he would. He'd hurt James, probably because he'd been protecting her.

She looked up for help, praying to see anyone, it didn't matter how old he was, just anyone. There was no one around, not a single soul.

Oh, God, what should she do? She was leaning down to look at the wound when the blow crashed directly down on the back of her head and she crumpled over James.

She heard the sound. It came at short intervals. It was water, one drop after another, hitting metal.

Plop.

She opened her eyes but couldn't seem to focus. Her brain felt loose, as if it were floating inside her Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

head. She couldn't seem to think, she could only hear that plop. She knew something wasn't right. She tried to remember but couldn't quite make her brain fasten onto something that would trigger a thought, any thought, anything that happened to her before she was here, wherever here was.

"You're awake. Good."

A voice, a man's voice, his voice. She managed to follow the sound of his face. It was Dr. Beadermeyer, the man who had tormented her for six long months.

Yes, she remembered that, not all of it, but enough to have it burn through her sleep and terrify her over and over in nightmares that still brought vivid pain.

Suddenly she remembered. She'd been with James. Yes, James Quinlan. He'd been struck on the head.

He was lying unconscious on the ground in that small sliver of land next to the Hinterlands.

"Nothing to say, Sally? I cut back on the dosage so you could talk to me." She felt a sharp slap on her cheek.

"Look at me, Sally. Don't pretend you're off in outer space. I know this time you can't be." He slapped her again.

He grabbed her shoulders and shook her hard.

"Is James all right?"

He stopped shaking her. "James?" He sounded surprised. "Oh, that man you were with in The Cove.

Yes, he's fine. No one wanted to take the risk of killing him. Was he your lover, Sally? You only had him a bit over a week. That's moving fast. He must have been desperate.

“Just look at you, all skinny and pathetic, your hair in strings, your clothes bagging around you. Come on, Sally, tell me about James. Tell me what you told him."

"I told him about you," she said. "I had a nightmare and he helped me through it. I told him what a piece of slime you are."

He slapped her again, not too hard, but hard enough to make her shrink away from him.

"You're rude, Sally. And you're lying. You've never lied well and I can always tell. You might have dreamed, but you didn't tell him about me. You want to know why? It's because you're crazy and I'm so deep a part of you that if you were to tell anyone about me, why, you'd just collapse in on yourself and die. You can't exist without me, Sally.

"You were away from me for just two weeks, and look what happened. You're a mess. You tried to pretend you were normal. You lost all your manners. Your mother would be appalled. Your husband would back away from you in disgust. As for your father, well-well, I suppose it's not worth speculating now that he's shuffled off his mortal coil."

"Where am I?"

"Ah, that's supposed to be the first thing out of your mouth, if books and TV stories are to be believed.

You're back where you belong, Sally. Just look around you. You're back in your room, the very same Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

one decorated especially for you by your dear father. I've kept you under for nearly a day and a half. I let up on the dosage about four hours ago. You took your time coming to the surface."

"What do you want?"

“I have what I want; at least I have the first installment of what I want. And that's you, my dear."

"I'm thirsty."

"I'll bet you are. Holland, where are you? Bring some water to our patient."

She remembered Holland, a skinny, furtive little man who'd been one of the two men to stare through the small square window while he was hitting her and caressing her, humiliating her. Holland had thinning brown hair and the deadest eyes she'd ever seen. He rarely said anything, at least to her.

She said nothing more until he appeared at her side, a glass of water in his hand.

"Here you are, Doctor," he said in that low, hoarse voice of his that lay like a covering of loose gravel in all those nightmares, making her want to be drugged so she wouldn't realize he was around her.

He was standing behind Beadermeyer, looking down at her, his eyes dead and hungry. She wanted to vomit.

Dr. Beadermeyer raised her and let her drink her fill.

"Soon you'll want to go to the bathroom. Holland will help you with that, won't you, Holland?"

Holland nodded, and she wanted to die. She fell back against the pillow, a hard, institutional pillow, and closed her eyes. She knew deep down she couldn't keep herself intact in this place again. She also realized that she would never escape again. This time it was over for her.

She kept her eyes closed, didn't turn toward him, just said, "I'm not crazy. I was never crazy. Why are you doing this? He's dead. What does it matter?"

"You still don't know, do you? You still have no memory of any of it. I realized that almost immediately.

Well, it isn't my place to tell you, my dear." She felt him pat her cheek. She flinched.

"Now, now, Sally, I'm not the one who tormented you, though I must admit that I enjoyed the one tape I saw. Except you weren't even there, you were just flopping back, your eyes closed, letting him do what whatever he wanted.

"You didn't have any fight in you. Why, you were so out of it, you barely flinched when he hit you. But even then you weren't afraid. I could tell. The contrast, at least, made for fascinating viewing."

She felt gooseflesh rise on her arms as remnants of memories flooded her-the movement of his hands over hers, the pushing and slapping, the caressing that turned to pain.

She heard the bed ease up and knew that Dr. Beader-meyer was standing beside her, looking down at her. She heard him say softly, "Holland, if she gets away again, I'll have to hurt you badly. Do you understand?"

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"Yes, Doctor Beadermeyer."

"It won't be like last time, Holland. I made a mistake on your punishment last time. You rather liked that little shock therapy, didn't you?"

"It won't happen again, Doctor Beadermeyer." Was there disappointment in that frightening little man's voice?

"Good. You know what happened to Nurse Krider when she let her hide those pills under her tongue.

Yes, of course you do. Be mindful, Holland.

"I must go now, Sally, but I'll be with you again this evening. We'll have to get you away from the sanitarium, probably tomorrow morning. The decision about what to do with you hasn't been made just yet. But you can't stay here. The FBI, this Quinlan fellow, he's got to know all about this place. I'm sure you did tell him some things about your past. And they'll come. But that isn't your problem.

“Now, let me give you a little shot of something that will make you drift and really feel quite good about things. Yes, Holland, hold her arm for me."

Sally felt the chill of the needle, felt the brief sting. Within moments, she felt herself begin to drift out of her brain, to float in nothingness. She felt the part of her that was real, the part of her that wanted life-such a small flicker, really-struggling briefly before it succumbed. She sighed deeply and was gone from herself.

She felt hands on her, taking off her clothes. She knew it was Holland. Probably Dr. Beadermeyer was watching.

She didn't struggle. There was nothing more to care about.

Quinlan woke up with a roaring headache that beat any hangover he'd ever had in college. He cursed, held his head in his hands, and cursed some more.

"You've got the mother of all headaches, right?"

"David," he said, and even that one word hurt. "What the devil happened?"

"Someone hit you good just above your left ear. Our doctor put three stitches in your head. Hold still and I'll get you a pill."

Quinlan focused on that pill. It had to help. If it didn't, his brain would break out of his skull.

"Here, Quinlan. It's strong stuff; you're supposed to have just one every four hours."

Quinlan took it and downed the entire glass of water. He lay back, his eyes closed, and waited.

"Doctor Grafft said it would kick in quickly."

"I sure as hell hope so. Talk to me, David. Where's Sally?"

"I'll tell you everything. Just lie still. I found you unconscious in that narrow little strip of alley beside the Hinterlands. Thelma Nettro had reported you and Sally missing, so I started looking.

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"You scared the shit out of me. When I found you lying there, I thought you were dead. I slung you over my shoulder and brought you to my house. Doctor Grafft met me here and stitched you up. I don't know about Sally. She's just gone, Quinlan. No trace, nothing. It's like she was never even here."

If he hadn't hurt so badly, Quinlan would have yelled. Instead, he just lay there, trying to figure things out, trying to think. For the moment, it was beyond him.

Sally was gone. That was all that was real to him. Gone, not found dead. Gone. But where?

He heard children's voices. Surely that couldn't be right. He heard David say, "Deirdre, come here and sit on my lap. You've got to keep very quiet, okay? Mr. Quinlan isn't feeling well, and we don't want to make him feel worse."

He heard a little girl whisper, but he couldn't make it out. Deirdre meant sorrow. He slept.

He awoke to see a young woman with a pale complexion and very dark red hair looking at him. She had the sweetest face he'd ever seen. "Who are you?"

"I'm Jane, David's wife. You just lie still, Mr. Quinlan." He felt her cool palm on his forehead. "I've got some nice hot chicken soup for you. Doctor Grafft said to keep it light until tomorrow. You just open your mouth and I'll feed you. That's right."

He ate the entire bowl and began to feel human. "Thank you," he said, and slowly, her hand under his elbow, he sat up.

"Your head ache?"

''It's just a dull thud now. What time is it? Rather, what day is it?"

"You were hurt early this afternoon. It's eight o'clock in the evening now. I hope the girls didn't disturb you."

"No, not at all. Thank you for taking me in."

"Let me get David. He's tucking the girls into bed. He should be just about through with the bedtime story."

Quinlan sat there, his head back against the cushions of the sofa, a nice comfortable sofa. The headache was gone now. He could get out of here soon. He could find Sally. He realized he was scared to his socks. What had happened to her?

Her father had come for her just as he'd promised he would. No, that was ridiculous. Amory St. John was long dead.

"You want some brandy in hot tea?"

"Nan, my pecker doesn't need optimism." Quinlan opened his eyes and smiled at David Mountebank.

"Your wife fed me. Great soup. I appreciate you taking me in, David."

"I couldn't leave you with Thelma Nettro, now, could I? I wouldn't leave my worst enemy there. That old lady gives me the willies. It's the weirdest thing. She always has that diary of hers with her and that Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

fountain pen in her hand. The tip of her tongue is practically tattooed from the pen tip."

"Tell me about Sally."

"Every man I could round up is talking to everybody in The Cove and looking for her. I've got an APB

out on her-''

"No APB," James said, sitting up straight now, his face paling. "No, David, cancel it now. It's critical."

"I won't buy any more of this national security shit, Quinlan. Tell me why or I won't do it."

"You're not being cooperative, David."

"Tell me and let me help you."

"She's Sally St. John Brainerd."

David just stared at him. "She's Amory St. John's daughter? The daughter who's nuts and who ran away from that sanitarium? The woman whose husband is frantic about her safety? I knew she looked familiar.

Damn, I'm slipping fast. I should have made the connection. Ah, that's the reason for the black wig. Then she just forgot to put it on, didn't she?"

"Yeah, that and I told her to relax, that you would never connect her to Susan Brainerd, at least I prayed you wouldn't."

"I wish I could say I would have, but hell, I probably never would have unless I saw her in person and then saw her again on TV. What were you doing with her, Quin-lan?"

Quinlan sighed. "She doesn't know I'm FBI. She bought that story about me being a PI and looking for those old folks who disappeared around here three years ago. I came here because I had this feeling she would run here, to her aunt. I was just going to take her back."

"But why is the FBI involved in a homicide?"

"It's not just a homicide at all. That's only part of it. We're in it for other reasons."

"I know. You're not going to tell me the rest of it."

"I'd prefer not to just yet. As I was saying, I was going to take her back, but then-"

"Then what?"

"Her father phoned her twice. Then she saw his face at her window in the middle of the night."

"And you found her father's footprints on the ground the next morning. Her father's dead, murdered.

Jesus, Quinlan, what's going on here?"

"I don't know. But I've got to find her. Someone was trying to scare the hell out of her-make her believe she was crazy-and that aunt of hers didn't help a bit, kept telling her in an understanding, tender voice that she'd be hearing things and seeing things too if she'd been through all that Sally had, and she had been in that sanitarium for so long, and that would make her think differently, wouldn't it?

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"Then the two murders. I've got to find her. Everything else is nuts, but not Sally."

"When you feel well enough, you and I will go see her aunt. I already spoke to her, but she just said that she hadn't seen Sally, that she was staying with you at Thelma's Bed and Breakfast. We searched your tower bedroom. Her duffel bag was gone and all her clothes, her blow dryer, everything. It's like she was never there. Look, Quinlan, maybe when she saw you unconscious, she got really scared and ran."

"No," James said, looking David straight in the eye. "I know she wouldn't leave me, not if I were lying there unconscious. She just wouldn't."

"It's like that, is it?"

"God only knows, but she has a thick streak of honor and she cares about me. She wouldn't have left."

"Then we've got to find her. Another thing-I'm an officer of the law. Now that I know who she is, it's my duty to report her."

"I'd appreciate it if you'd wait, David. There's more at stake here than just Amory St. John's murder, lots more. Trust me on this."

David looked at him for a long time. Finally, he said, "All right. Tell me what I can do to help."

"Let's go see Aunt Amabel Perdy."

Dr. Alfred Beadermeyer was enjoying himself. Sally didn't know the small new mirror in her room was two-way. No one knew, at least he didn't think so. He watched her sit up slowly, obviously trying to coordinate her arms and legs. Since her brain was fuzzy, it was difficult for her, but she just kept trying.

He admired that in her, and at the same time he wanted to destroy it. It seemed to take her several moments to realize she was naked.

Then, very slowly, as if she were an old woman, she rose and walked to the small closet. She pulled out a nightgown she'd left here when she escaped before. She didn't know it, but he had bought it for her.

She slipped it over her head, teetering a bit but managing finally. Then she walked back to sit on the edge of the bed. She held her head in her hands.

He was getting bored. Wouldn't she do anything? Wouldn't she start yelling? Something? He had nearly turned to go when at last she raised her head and he saw tears streaming down her cheeks.

This was better. Soon she would be ready to listen to him. Soon now. He would hold off on another shot for an hour or so. He turned away and unlocked the door of the tiny room.

Sally knew she was crying. She could feel the wet on her face, taste the salt when it trickled into her mouth. Why was she crying? James. She remembered James, how he lay there, blood streaming from the wound over his left ear. He'd been so still, so very still. Beadermeyer had promised he wasn't dead. How could she believe that devil?

He had to be all right. She looked at the soft silk gown that slithered against her skin. It was a lovely peach color with wide silk straps over her shoulders. Unfortunately it bagged on her now. She looked at the needle marks in her arm. There were five pinpricks. He'd drugged her five times. She felt her head begin to clear, slowly, so very slowly. More things, memories, began to filter through, take shape and Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

substance.

She had to get out of here before he either killed her or took her someplace else, someplace where nobody could find her. She thought of James. He could find her if anyone could.

She forced herself to her feet. She took one step, then another. Soon she was walking slowly, carefully, but naturally. She stood in front of the narrow window and stared out onto the sanitarium grounds.

The mowed lawn stretched a good hundred yards before it butted against a heavily wooded area. Surely she could walk that far; she had before. She just had to get to those woods. She could get lost in those woods, just as she had before. Eventually she'd found her way out. She would again.

She walked back to the closet. There was a bathrobe and two more nightgowns, a pair of slippers.

Nothing else. No pants, no dresses, no underwear.

She didn't care. She would walk in her bathrobe, to the ends of the earth if necessary. Then another veil lifted in her brain, and she remembered that she'd stolen one of the nurse's pantsuits that first time, and her shoes. Would it be possible to do that again?

Who had done this to her? She knew it wasn't her father. He was long dead. It had to be the man pretending to be her father, the man who'd called her, who'd appeared at her bedroom window. It could have been Scott, it could have been Dr. Beadermeyer, it could have been some man either of them had hired.

But not her father, thank God. That miserable bastard was finally dead. She prayed there really was a hell. If there was, she knew he was there, in the deepest pit.

She had to get to her mother. Noelle would help her. Noelle would protect her, once she knew the truth.

But why hadn't Noelle ever come to see her during the six months here? Why hadn't she demanded to know why her daughter was here? As far as Sally knew, Noelle hadn't done anything to help her. Did she believe her daughter was crazy? She'd believed her husband? She'd believed Sally's husband?

How to get out of here?

Amabel said, "Would either of you gentlemen care for a cup of coffee?''

"No," Quinlan said curtly. "Tell us where Sally is." Amabel sighed and motioned the two men to sit down.

"Listen, James, I already told the sheriff here that Sally must have gotten scared when she saw you were hurt, and she ran. That's the only explanation. Sally's not a strong girl. She's been through a lot. She was even in an asylum. You don't look shocked. I'm a bit surprised that she told you about it. Something like that shouldn't be talked about.

“But listen, she was very ill. She still is. It makes sense that she would run again, just like she ran away from what happened in Washington. If you doubt me, just go to Thelma's. Martha told me that all of Sally's things were gone from James's room. Isn't that odd? She left not even a memory of herself in that room.

"It was like she wanted to erase her very self." She paused a moment, then added in a faraway gypsy's voice, "It's almost as if she'd never really been there at all, as if we all just imagined she was here."

Quinlan jumped to his feet and stood over her. He looked as menacing as hell, but David didn't say a Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

word, just waited. Quinlan stuck his face very near hers and said slowly and very distinctly, "That's bullshit, Amabel. Sally wasn't an apparition, nor was she nuts, as you implied to her, like you're implying to us now. She didn't imagine hearing a woman scream those two nights. She didn't imagine seeing her father's face at her bedroom window in the middle of the night. You tried to make her doubt herself, didn't you, Amabel? You tried to make her think she was crazy."

"That is ridiculous."

Quinlan moved even closer, leaning over her now, forcing her to press her back against the chair. “Why did you do that, Amabel? You just said you knew she was in a sanitarium. You knew, didn't you, that someone put her there and kept her for six months drugged to her eyebrows? You didn't try to assure her that she was as sane as anyone-no, you kept on with the innuendos.

"Don't deny it, I heard you do it. You tried to make Sally doubt herself, her reason. Why?"

But Amabel just smiled sadly at him. She said to David, "Sheriff, I've been very patient. This man only knew Sally for a little over a week. I'm her aunt. I love her. There's no reason I would ever want to hurt her. I would always seek to protect her. I'm sorry, James, but she ran away. It's as simple as that. I pray the sheriff will find her. She's not strong. She needs to be taken care of."

Quinlan was so angry he was afraid he'd pull her out of the chair and shake her like a rat. He backed off and began pacing around the small living room. David watched him for a moment, then said, "Mrs.

Perdy, if

Sally ran, can you guess where she would go?"

“To Alaska. She said she wanted to go to Alaska. She said she preferred Mexico, but she didn't have her passport. That's all I can tell you, Sheriff. Of course, if I hear from her, I'll call you right away."

Amabel rose. "I'm sorry, James. You know who Sally is. It's likely you've told Sheriff Mountebank her real name. There's a lot for her to face, and she'll have to face it eventually. As to her mental status, who's to say? All we can do is pray."

James wanted to wrap his fingers around her gypsy neck and squeeze. She was lying, damn her, but she was doing it very well. Sally wouldn't have run away, not with him lying unconscious at her feet. She wouldn't.

That meant that someone had her.

And that someone was the person who had pretended to be her father. James would bet on it. Now he knew what to do. He even had a good idea where she was, and it curdled his blood to think about it.

13

IT WAS A black midnight, not even a sliver of moon or a single star to cast a dim light through that cauldron sky. Roiling black clouds moved and shifted, but never revealed anything except more blackness.

Sally stared out the window, drawing one deep breath after another. They would be here soon to give her another shot. No more pills, she'd heard Beadermeyer say, she just might be able to hide them again in her mouth. He announced that he didn't want her hurt again, the bastard.

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There was a new nurse-her name tag said Rosalee- and she was as blank-faced as Holland. She didn't speak to Sally except to tell her tersely what to do and when and how to do it. She watched Sally go to the bathroom, which, Sally supposed, was better than having Holland standing there.

Dr. Beadermeyer didn't want her hurt? That could only be because he himself wanted to be the one to hurt her. She'd seen no one except Beadermeyer and Holland and Nurse Rosalee. They'd forced her to keep to her room. She had nothing to read, no TV to watch. She didn't know anything about her mother or about Scott. Most of the time she was so drugged she didn't care, didn't even know who she was, but now she knew, now she could reason, and she was getting stronger by the minute.

If only Beadermeyer would wait just a few more minutes, maybe fifteen minutes then she'd be ready.

But he didn't give her even two more minutes. She jumped when she heard him unlock the door. No time to get into position. She stood stiffly by the window in her peach silk nightgown.

"Good evening, my dear Sally. You're looking chipper and really quite lovely in that nightgown. Would you like to take it off for me now?"

"No."

"Ah, so you've got your wits together, have you? Just as well. I'd like to have a conversation with you before I send you back into the ether. Do sit down, Sally."

"No. I want to stay as far away from you as possible."

"As you wish." He was wearing a dark-blue crew sweater and black slacks. His black hair was slicked back as if he'd just had a shower. His teeth were white, the front two top teeth overlapping.

"Your teeth are ugly," she said now. "Why didn't you wear braces as a kid?"

She'd spoken without thinking, another indication that her mind wasn't completely clear yet.

He looked as if he wanted to kill her. Without conscious thought, he raised his fingers to touch his teeth, then dropped his arm. There was only a thin veil of shadow separating them now, but she recognized the anger in him, knew he wanted to hurt her.

He got control of himself. "Well, you're a little bitch tonight, aren't you?"

"No," she said, still watching him, her body tensed, knowing he wanted to attack her, hurt her badly. She didn't know she could hate a person as much as she hated him. Other than her father. Other than her husband.

Finally, he sat down in the single chair and crossed his legs. He removed his glasses and put them on the small circular table beside the chair. There were a carafe of water and a single glass on the table, nothing more.

"What do you want?" The carafe was plastic-even if she struck him squarely on the head, it wouldn't hurt him.

But the table was sturdy. If only she were fast enough, she could grab it and smash him with it. But she knew she would have to be free of the drugs for at least another hour to be fast enough, strong enough, Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

to bring him down. Could she keep him talking that long? She doubted it, but it was worth a try.

"What do you want?" she said again. She couldn't bring herself to take a step closer to him.

"I'm bored," he said. "I'm making so much money, but I'm never free to leave this place. I want to enjoy my money. What do you suggest?"

"Let me go, and I'll see that you get even more money."

"That would defeat the purpose, wouldn't it?"

"Do you mean that you have other people in here who are perfectly sane? Other people you're holding prisoner? Other people you're being paid to keep here?"

"This is a very small, very private place, Sally. Not many people know about it. I gain all my patients through referrals, carefully screened referrals.

"Just listen to me. This is the first time I've ever talked to you as an adult. Six months I had you with me, six whole months, and you were always as interesting as a jointless doll, except for that time you jumped through the window in my office. If anything proved to your dear mother that you were nuts, that story did. That made me sit up and take notice of you, but not for long. This is much better. If only I could trust you not to try to escape me again, I would keep you just as you are now."

"How do you imagine that I can escape?"

"Unfortunately Holland is quite stupid, and he's the one who tends you most often. I do believe Nurse Rosalee is a bit afraid of you. Isn't that odd? As for Holland, he begged me to let him take care of you, the pathetic creature. Yes, I can imagine you waiting behind that door for him to come in.

"What would you do, Sally? Hit him on the head with this table? That would stun him. Then you could strip off his clothes, though I doubt you'd enjoy stripping him as much as he enjoys stripping you. No, you see, I'm in a bind. And please don't move. Remember, I'm not Holland. Stay where you are or you get a nice big shot right now."

"I haven't moved an inch. Why am I here? How did you find me? Amabel had to have called to tell you where I was. But why? And who wanted me back here? My husband? Were you the one who pretended to be my father or was it Scott?''

"You speak of your poor husband as if he's a stranger to you. It's that James Quinlan, isn't it? You slept with him, you enjoyed him, and now you want to dump poor Scott. I would never have taken you for such a fickle woman, Sally. Wait until I tell Scott what you've done."

"When you speak to Scott Brainerd, tell him I fully intend to kill him when I'm free of this place. And I will be free soon, Dr. Beadermeyer."

"Ah, Sally, I'm sure that Scott wants me to make you more malleable. He doesn't like women who are aggressive, all tied up in their careers. Trust me to see to it, Sally."

"Either you or Scott called me up in The Cove pretending to be my father. Either you or Scott came to The Cove and climbed that silly ladder to scare the hell out of me, to make me think I was crazy. There's no one else. My father is dead."

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"Yes, Amory is dead. I think personally that you killed him, Sally. Did you?"

"I don't know if you really want the truth. I have no memory of that night. It will come back, though. It has to."

"Don't count on it. One of the drugs I'm giving you is excellent at suppressing memory. No one really knows yet what the long-term side effects will be. And you will be taking it forever, Sally."

He rose and walked to her. "Now," he said. He was smiling. She couldn't help herself. When he reached for her, she cracked a fist as hard as she could against his jaw. His head flew back. She hit him again, kicked him in the groin with all her strength, and ran to grab that table.

But she stumbled, her head spinning, nausea flooding through her. Her legs collapsed beneath her. She fell to the floor.

She heard him panting behind her. She had to get to that table. She struggled to her feet, forced one foot in front of the other. He was close behind her now, panting, panting, he was in pain, she'd hurt him. If she didn't knock him out, he would take great pleasure in hurting her. Please, God, please, please.

She clutched the table, lifted it, turned to face him. He was so close, his arms stretched out toward her, his fingers curved, coming toward her throat. "Holland!"

"No," she said and swung the table at him. But it was a puny effort, and he blocked it with his shoulder.

"Holland!"

The door flew open and Holland ran into the room. "Hold the little bitch, hold her!" "No, no." She backed away from the men, but there was no room, just the narrow bed and the table she held as a shield in front of her.

Dr. Beadermeyer was holding his crotch, his face still drawn in pain. Good, she'd hurt him. Anything he did to her would be worth it. She'd hurt him.

"That's enough, Sally." Holland's voice, soft and hoarse, terrifying.

"I'll kill you, Holland. Stay away from me." But it was an empty threat. Her arms were trembling, her stomach roiling now. She tasted bile. She dropped the table, fell to her knees, and vomited on Dr.

Beadermeyer's Italian loafers.

"You either help me or you don't, Dillon, but you don't tell a soul about this."

"Damnation, Quinlan, do you know what you're asking?" Dillon Savich leaned back in his chair, nearly tipping it over, but not quite because he knew exactly how far to go. His computer screen was bright with the photo of a man's face, a youngish man who looked like a yuppie broker, well dressed, easy smile, well-groomed hair and clothes.

"Yes. You're going with me to that sanitarium and we're going to rescue Sally. Then we're going to clean up this mess. We'll be heroes. You won't be gone from your computer for more than a couple of hours.

Maybe three hours if you want to be a hero. Take your laptop and the modem. You can still hook in to any system you want."

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"Marvin will cut our balls off. You know he hates it when you try to go off on your own without talking to him."

"We'll give Marvin all the credit. The FBI will shine. Marvin will be grinning from ear to ear. He'll give the credit to his boss, Deputy Director Shruggs, so Shruggs won't cut Marvin's balls off. Shruggs will be happy as a loon.

"And on and on it goes. Sally will be safe and we'll get this damned murder solved."

"You still ignore the fact that she might have killed her father herself. It's a possibility. What's wrong with you? How can you ignore it?"

"Yeah, I do ignore it. I have to. But we'll find out, won't we?"

"You're involved with her, aren't you? It was only one bloody week you were with her. What is she, some sort of siren?''

"No, she's a skinny little blonde who's got more grit than you can begin to imagine."

"I don't believe this. No, shut up, Quinlan, I've got to think." Dillon leaned forward and stared fixedly at the man's photo on the computer screen. He said absently, "This creep is probably the one who's killing the homeless people in Minneapolis."

"Leave the creep for the moment. Think, brood, whatever. You're going to try to figure all the odds.

You're going to weigh every possible outcome with that computer brain of yours. Have you developed a program for that yet?"

"Not yet, but I'm close. Come on, Quinlan, my brain is why you love me. I've saved your ass at least three times. You wouldn't trade me for any other agent. Shut up. I've got to make an important decision here."

"You've got ten minutes. Not a second more. I've got to get to her. God knows what they're doing to her, what they're giving her. Jesus, she could be dead. Or they could have already moved her. If the guy who hit me bothered to check my ID, then they know I'm FBI. We haven't got much time even if they didn't check. I know they'll move her, it only makes sense."

"Why are you so sure she's at the sanitarium?"

"They wouldn't take the chance of taking her anywhere else."

" 'They' who? No, you don't know. Ten minutes, then. No, shut up, Quinlan."

"Thank God, you've already been to the gym this morning or I'd have to wait for you to lift your bloody weights. I'm getting some coffee."

Quinlan walked down to the small lounge at the end of the hall. It wasn't that the fifth floor was ugly and inhospitable. It couldn't be, since they let tourists get within a floor of them. It didn't look all that institutional, just tired. The linoleum was still pale brown with years of grit walked deep into it.

He poured a cup of coffee, sniffed it first, then took a cautious sip. Yep, it still made his Adam's apple shudder, but it kept the nerves finely tuned. Without it an agent would probably just fold up and die.

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He needed Dillon. He knew that Dillon would set up an appropriate backup in case it turned out they couldn't handle the job. He'd been tempted to go directly from Dulles to Maryland to that sanitarium, but he'd given the matter a good deal of thought. He was in this up to his neck, and he wanted to save Sally's neck as well.

He had no idea about the security at Beadermeyer's sanitarium, but Dillon would find out and then they'd get over there. He couldn't take the chance of alerting his boss, Brammer. He couldn't take the chance that Sally could be plowed under in this damned mess.

He drank more coffee, felt the caffeine jolt hit his brain and stomach at about the same time.

He wandered back into Dillon's office. "It's been ten minutes."

"I've been waiting for you, Quinlan. Let's go."

"Just like that? No more arguments? No more telling me there's a thirteen percent chance that one of us will end up in a ditch with a knife in his throat?"

"Nope," Dill said cheerfully, pulled several sheets out of his printer, and rose.

"Here's the layout for the sanitarium. I think I've found exactly where it's safest for us to go in."

"You made up your mind before you even kicked me out."

"Sure. I wanted to get a look at the plans, didn't really know if I could get my paws on them, but I did.

Come here and let me show you the best way into this place. Tell me what you think."

"Did you make her brush her teeth and wash her mouth out?"

"Yes, Doctor Beadermeyer. She spit the mouthwash on me, but she did get a bit of it in her mouth."

"I hate the smell of vomit," Beadermeyer said as he looked down at his shoes. He'd cleaned them as best he could. Just thinking about what she'd done made him want to hit her again, but it wouldn't gain him any pleasure. She was unconscious.

"She'll be out of it for a good four hours. Then I'll lighten the dose to keep her pleasantly sedated." "I hope the dose isn't too high." "Don't be a fool. I have no intention of killing her, at least not yet. I just don't know yet what will happen. I'm taking her out of here tomorrow morning." "Yes, before he comes to get her." "Why do you say that, Holland? How the hell do you know anything?"

"I was sitting beside her after you gave her the shot, and she was whispering that she knew he'd come here, she knew it."

"She's fucking crazy. You know that, Holland." "Yes, Doctor."

Damnation. Quinlan could find out everything he wanted to know about the sanitarium within computer minutes. He felt the wet of his own sweat in his armpits. Damn, this shouldn't have happened. He wondered if he should get her out of here tonight, right now.

They should have killed that damned agent while they'd had him, and because they'd been afraid to, now Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

he would have to deal with it.

If he was smart, if he wanted to make sure he was safe, he'd get Sally out of here now.

Where to take her? Jesus, he was tired. He rubbed the back of his neck as he walked back to his office.

Mrs. Willard hadn't left any coffee for him, damn her. He sat down behind the mahogany desk that kept patients a good three and a half feet from him and leaned back in his chair.

When would Quinlan and his FBI buddies show up? He would show up, Beadermeyer knew it. He'd followed her to The Cove. He would come here for sure. But how soon? How much time did he have?

He picked up the telephone and dialed. They would have to make a decision now. There was no more time for playing games.

The night was black as pitch. He and Dillon left the Olds-mobile sedan about twenty yards down the road from the wide gates of the Beadermeyer sanitarium. The words were scrolled in fancy script letters on top of the black iron gates.

"Pretentious bastard."

"Yeah," Dillon said. "Let me think if there's anything more to tell you about our doctor. First of all, I don't think many people have this information.

"He's brilliant and unscrupulous. Word has it that if you're rich enough and discreet enough and you want someone under wraps badly enough, then Beadermeyer will take that person off your hands. It's just rumors, of course, but who knows? Who did Sally piss off enough to get her sent here? Look, Quinlan, maybe she's really sick."

"She isn't sick. Who sent her here? I don't know. She never would tell me. She never even mentioned Beadermeyer by name. But it has to be him. Keep the flashlight down, Dillon. Yeah, better. Who knows what kind of security he has?"

"That I couldn't find out, but hey, the fence isn't electrified."

They were both wearing black, including heavily lined black gloves. The twelve-foot-high fence was no problem. They dropped lightly to the spongy grass on the other side.

"So far, so good," Quinlan said, keeping the flashlight low and moving it in a wide arc.

"Let's stay close to the tree line."

The two men moved quickly, hunkered down, the flashlight sending out a low beam just in front of them.

"Oh, shit," Dillon said.

"What? Oh, yeah." Two German shepherds came galloping toward them.

"Damn, I don't want to kill them."

"You won't have to. Just stand still, Dillon."

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"What are you going-"

Dillon watched Quinlan pull a plastic-wrapped package from inside his black jacket. He peeled it open to show three huge pieces of raw steak.

The dogs were within twelve feet of them. Still Quinlan held perfectly still, waiting, waiting.

"Just another second," he said, then threw one piece of raw steak in one direction and a second piece in the other direction. The dogs were on the meat in an instant.

"Let's get moving. I'm going to save this last piece as getaway meat."

"Not a bad security system," Dillon said.

They were running now, keeping low, the flashlight off because there were a few lights on in the long, sprawling building in front of them, enough to light their way.

"You said the patient rooms are all in the left wing."

"Right. Beadermeyer's office is in the far end of the right wing. If the bastard's still here, he's a good distance away."

"There should just be a small night shift complement."

"I hope. I didn't take the time to access their personnel and administration files. I don't know how many employees work the night shift."

"Damned useless machine."

Dillon laughed. "Don't accuse me of being married to my computer when you're at your damned club most weekends wailing away on your sax. Whoa, Quinlan, stop."

They froze in an instant, pressed against the brick building, just behind two tall bushes. Someone was coming, walking briskly, a flashlight in his hand.

He was whistling the theme from Gone with the Wind.

"A romantic security guard," Quinlan whispered.

The man waved the flashlight to both sides and back again to the front. He never stopped whistling. The light flowed right over their bent heads, showing the guard only black shadows.

"I just hope she's here," Quinlan said. "Beadermeyer has to know I'll come here. If he's the one who hit me, then he would have checked my ID. What if they've already taken her away?"

"She's here. Stop worrying. If she isn't, well, then, we'll find her soon enough. Did I tell you I had a date tonight? I had a damned date and look what I'm doing. Playing Rescue Squad with you. Stop worrying.

You're smarter than Beadermeyer. She's still here, I'll bet you on it. I get the feeling there's more arrogance in this Beadermeyer than in most folk. I think the bastard believes he's invincible."

They were moving again, bent nearly double, no flashlights, just two black shadows skimming over the Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

well-manicured lawn.

"We've got to get inside."

"Soon," Dillon said. "Just ahead. Then it's going to be tricky. Imagine seeing the two of us dressed like cat burglars roaming down the halls."

"We'll find a nurse soon enough. She'll tell us." "We're nearly to the back emergency entrance. Yeah, here we are. Help me pull up the doors, Quinlan."

Well oiled, thank God, Quinlan thought when they gently eased the doors back down. He turned up the flashlight. They were in an enclosed space that could hold at least six cars. There were four cars there.

They made their way around them, then Quinlan turned and trained his flashlight on the license plates.

"Look, Dillon. Good guess, huh? The bastard would have a luxury plate-BEADRMYR. So he's still here.

I wouldn't mind running into him." "Marvin would have our balls." Quinlan laughed.

Dillon used one of his lock picks to get into the door. It only took a moment.

"You're getting good at this."

"I practiced for at least six hours at Quantico. They have about three dozen kinds of locks. They use a stopwatch on you. I came in sixth."

"How many agents were entered?"

"Seven. Me and six women."

"I want to hear more about this later."

They were in a long hallway, low lights giving off a dim, mellow glow. There were no names on the doors, just numbers.

"We've got to get us a nurse," Dillon said.

They turned a corner to see a nurses' station just ahead. There was only one woman there, reading a novel. She looked up every once in a while at the TV screen in front of her. They were nearly upon her when she saw them. She gasped, her novel dropping to the linoleum floor as she tried to scoot off her chair and run.

Quinlan grabbed her arm and gently pressed his hand over her mouth. "We won't hurt you. Just hold still.

You got her chart, Dillon?''

"Yep, here it is. Room 222."

"Sorry," Quinlan said quietly as he struck her in the jaw. She collapsed against him and he lowered her to the floor, pushing her under the desk.

"We passed 222. Quick, Dillon, I've got a feeling that our charmed existence is about to be shot down in flames."

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They ran swiftly down the hallway, back the way they had come. "Here it is. No light. Good."

Quinlan slowly pushed at the door. The damned thing was locked, just as he'd known it would be. He motioned Dillon forward. Dillon examined the lock, then pulled out a pick. He didn't say a word, just changed to another pick. After a good three minutes, the lock slid open.

Quinlan pushed the door open. The soft light from the hallway beamed into the room, right on the face of a man who was seated on a narrow bed, leaning over a woman. He whipped around on the bed, half rising, his mouth open to yell.

14

"I DIDN'T KNOW you could move that fast," Dillon said in admiration after Quinlan had leaped across to the bed and slammed his fist into the man's mouth before he could let out a single sound. He dumped him off the bed to the floor.

"Is this Sally Brainerd?"

Quinlan looked briefly at the small man whose nose was flooding blood, then up at the woman on the bed. "It's Sally," he said, such rage in his voice that Dillon stared at him for a moment. "Let me get that door closed and then we'll use our flashlights. Take the little guy and tie him up with something."

Quinlan shone the flashlight in her face. He was shocked at her pallor and the slackness of her flesh.

"Sally," he said, gently slapping her face.

She didn't respond.

"Sally," he said, shaking her this time. The covers slid down and he saw that she was naked. He looked over at the slight man who was now tied up as well as unconscious. Had he been planning to rape her?

She was deeply unconscious. He shone the light on her bare arms. There were six needle marks.

The damned bastards. "Look, Dillon. Just look what they've done to her."

Dillon ran his fingers lightly over the needle marks. "It looks like they gave her a real heavy dose this time," he said as he leaned down and pulled up her eyelids. "Real heavy dose," he said again. "Bloody bastards."

"They'll pay. See what kind of clothes are in the closet."

Quinlan noticed that her hair was neatly brushed and smoothed back from her forehead. That little man who'd been leaning over her, he'd done that. Quinlan knew it. He felt himself shiver. Jesus, what went on in this place?

"Here's a nightgown and a robe and a pair of slippers. Nothing more."

Quinlan got her into the gown and robe within minutes. It was difficult dressing an unconscious person, even a small one. Finally, he lifted her over his shoulder. "Let's get the hell out of here."

They were through the back emergency door and nearly out the garage when the sirens went off.

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"The nurse," Quinlan said. "We should have tied her up, dammit."

"We've got time. We'll make it." When Quinlan tired, Dillon took Sally. They were almost to the fence when the German shepherds, barking louder than the hounds of Baskerville, came racing smoothly toward them.

Quinlan tossed out the other piece of meat. They didn't stop to see what the dogs did with it.

When they got to the fence, Quinlan climbed it faster than he'd ever climbed anything in his life. At the top, he straddled the fence on his belly and leaned back toward Dillon as far as he could. "Hand her up to me."

"She's like a boneless Foster Farms chicken," Dillon said, trying to get a firm grip on her. On the third try, Quinlan got hold of her wrists. He slowly pulled her up. He held her around the waist until Dillon was on top of the fence beside him. His arms were cramping by the time Dillon swiveled around and leaped to the ground. He brought her around and began to lower her. "Hurry, Quinlan, hurry. Okay, just another couple of inches. There, I've got her. Get down here!"

The dogs were barking louder. The meat had stopped them for all of forty-five seconds.

They heard several men yelling.

Guns fired, one bullet sparked off the iron fence, so close to Quinlan's head that he felt the searing heat from it.

A woman's sharp yell sounded behind the men.

"Let's get the hell out of here," Quinlan said as he hefted Sally over his shoulder and ran as fast as he could toward the Oldsmobile.

The guns didn't stop until they'd raced around the bend and were out of sight.

"If they let the dogs out on us, we're in deep shit," Dillon said.

Quinlan hoped they didn't. He didn't want to shoot those beautiful dogs.

He was relieved when they slammed the car doors some four minutes later. ' Thank God for good-sized favors."

"You got that right. Hey, that was fun. Now, your apartment, Quinlan?"

"Oh, no, we're going to Delaware, just another hour up the road, Dillon. I'll give you directions. What surprises me is that they took her back to this place at all. They must have figured I'd come here first thing. I'll just bet you she would have been gone tomorrow morning. So, I'm not going to be as stupid.

No way we're going back to my place."

"You're right. When someone hit you over the head in The Cove, he would have searched your pockets.

They know you're FBI. That's why they didn't kill you, I'd bet my Stairmaster on it. It would have been too big a risk for them."

"Yeah. We're going to my parents' lake cottage. It's safe. No one knows about it except you. You Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

haven't told anyone, have you, Dillon?"

Dillon shook his head. "What are you going to do with her, Quinlan? This is highly irregular."

Quinlan was holding her in his lap, her head cradled on his arm. He'd covered her with his black jacket.

It was warm in the car. "We're going to wait until she comes out from under this drug, then see what she knows. Then we're going to clean everything up. How's that sound to you?''

"Like we'll be a couple of damned heroes." Dillon sighed. "Brammer won't like it. He'll probably try to transfer us to Alaska for not being team players. But, hey, don't sell a hero short."

She woke up to see a strange man looking down at her, his nose not more than six inches from hers. It took her a moment to realize that he was indeed flesh and blood and not some specter dredged up from a drugged vision. Her lips felt cracked. It was hard to make herself talk, but she did.

"If Doctor Beadermeyer sent you, it won't matter." She spit on him.

Dillon jerked back, wiped the back of his hand across his nose and cheek. "I'm a hero, not a bad guy.

Beadermeyer didn't send me."

Sally tried to sift through his words, make some sense of them. Her brain still felt like it wanted to sleep, like parts of it were numb, like an arm or leg that had been in a single position for too long. "You're a hero?"

"Yeah, a real live hero."

"Then James must be here."

"You mean Quinlan?"

"Yes. He's a hero too. He was the first hero I ever met. I'm sorry I spit on you, but I thought you were another one of those horrible men."

"It's okay. You just lie still and I'll get Quinlan."

What did he think she would do? Jump up and race out of here, wherever here was?

"Good morning, Sally. Don't spit on me, okay?"

She stared up at him, so thirsty she could barely squeak out another word. Her brain was at last knitting itself back together, and all she could do was throw up her arms and pull him down to her. She said against his throat, "I knew you'd come, I just knew it. I'm so thirsty, James. Can I have some water?"

"You all right? Really? Let me up just a little, okay?"

"Yes. I'm so glad you're not dead. Someone hit you and I was bending over you." She pulled back from him, her fingers lightly tracing over the stitched wound over his left ear.

"I'm okay-don't worry about it."

"I didn't know who'd done it to you. Then someone hit me over the head. I woke up with Bead^rmeyer Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

leaning over me. I was back in that place."

"I know, but you're with me now and no one can possibly find you." He said over his shoulder, "Dillon, how about some water for the lady?''

"It's the drugs he gives me. They make my throat feel like a desert."

She felt the tightening in him at her words.

"Here, I'll hold the glass for you."

She drank her fill, then lay back and sighed. "I'll be back to normal in about ten more minutes-at least that's my best guess. James, who is that man I spit on?''

"He's a good friend of mine, name of Dillon Savich. He and I got you out of the sanitarium last night.

Dillon, come and say hello to Sally."

"Ma'am."

"He said he was a hero, just like you, James."

"It's possible. You can trust him, Sally."

She nodded, such a slight movement really, and he watched her eyes close again. "You're not ready to eat something?''

"No, not yet. You won't leave, will you?"

"Not ever."

He would have sworn that the corners of her mouth turned up just a bit into a very slight smile. Without thinking, he leaned down and kissed her closed mouth. "I'm glad I've got you again. When I woke up in David Mountebank's house, my head pounding like a watermelon with a stake in it, he told me you were gone. I've never been so scared in my life. You're not going to be out of my sight again, Sally."

"That sounds good to me," she said. In the next moment, she was asleep. Not unconscious but asleep, real sleep.

Quinlan rose and looked down at her. He straightened the light blanket over her chest. He smoothed her hair back on the pillow. He thought of that little man they'd found in her room and knew that if he ever saw him again, he'd kill him.

And Beadermeyer. He couldn't wait to get his hands on Dr. Beadermeyer.

"How does it feel to be the most important person in the whole universe, Quinlan?"

Quinlan kept smoothing down the blanket, his movements slow and calm. Finally he said, "It scares the shit out of me. You want to know something else? It doesn't feel bad at all. How much credit am I going to have to give you?"

That evening, the three of them were sitting on the front veranda of Quinlan's cottage, looking out over Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Louise Lynn Lake. For an evening in March, it was balmy. The cottage faced west. The sun was low on the horizon, making the water ripple with golds and startling pinks.

Quinlan said to Sally, "It's narrow, not all that much fun for boaters unless you're a teenager and like to play chicken. And you can see at least four different curves from here. Well, the sucker has so many curves that-"

"So many curves that what?" Dillon asked, looking up from the smooth block of maple he was carving.

"We are not a comedy routine," Quinlan said, grinning to Sally. "Come on now, the lake has so many curves that it very nearly winds back onto itself."

Dillon said, as he watched a curling sliver of maple drift to the wooden floor, "You sometimes don't know if you're coming or going."

"You're very good friends," Sally said. "You know each other quite well, don't you?"

"Yeah, but we're not going to get married. Quinlan snores like a pig."

She smiled. It was a good smile, Dillon thought, not a forced smile. Now, that showed she knew she was safe here.

"You want some more iced tea, Sally?"

"No, I like sucking on the ice. There's plenty."

Quinlan lifted his legs and put his feet on the wooden railing that circled the front veranda. He was wearing short, scuffed black boots, old faded blue jeans that looked quite lovely on him-it was surely a shock that she could even think of something like that-and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

He was also wearing a shoulder holster, and there was a gun in it. She hadn't realized that all private investigators wore guns all the time. He was comfortable with it, like it was just another item of clothing.

It looked part of him. He was long and solid and looked hard as nails. She remembered how she'd hauled his face down to hers when she'd come out of the drugged sleep. How he'd let her. How he'd kissed her when he thought she was asleep again. She'd never met a man like him before in her life- a man to trust, a man to believe, a man who cared what happened to her.

"Has your head cleared?" Dillon asked. She turned to see him gently rubbing his thumbs over the maple, over and over and over.

"Why are you doing that?"

"What? Oh, it warms the wood and it makes it shine."

"What are you carving?"

"You, if you don't mind."

She blinked at him, swallowed a piece of ice she was sucking, and promptly fell to coughing. James leaned over and lightly slapped her between her shoulder blades.

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When she got her breath, she said, "Why ever would you want to immortalize me in any way? I'm nothing at all, nothing-"

"Dammit, shut up, Sally."

“Why, James? Someone wants me out of the way, but that doesn't make me important. It just makes what I appear to know of interest to someone."

"I guess maybe it's time we got to that," Dillon said. He set down the piece of maple and turned to face Sally.

"If we're to help you, you must tell us everything."

She looked from Dillon to James. She frowned down at her hands. She carefully set the glass down on the rattan table beside her.

She looked at James again, nodding at his shoulder holster. “I was just thinking that I never realized that private investigators wore guns all the time. But you do, don't you? Another thing-it looks natural on you, like you were born wearing it. You're not a private investigator, are you, James?"

"No."

"Who are you?"

He was very still, then he looked at her straight in the face and said, “My name is James Quinlan, just as I told you. What I didn't tell you was that I'm Special Agent James Quinlan, FBI. Dillon and I have worked together for five years. We're not really partners, since the FBI doesn't operate that way, but we're on a lot of cases together.

"I came to The Cove to find you."

"You're wkh the FBI?" Just saying the words made gooseflesh ripple over her arms, made her feel numb and cold.

"Yes. I didn't tell you immediately because I knew it would spook you. I wanted to get your confidence and then bring you back to Washington and clear up all the mess."

"You certainly succeeded in gaining my confidence, Mr. Quinlan."

He winced at her use of his surname. He saw that Dil-lon would say something, and held up his hand.

"No, let me finish it. Look, Sally, I was doing my job. Things got complicated when I got to know you.

And then there were the two murders in The Cove, your dear father calling you on the phone and then appearing at your bedroom window.

"I decided not to tell you because I didn't know what you'd do. I knew you were in possible danger and I didn't want you running away. I knew I could protect you-"

"You failed at that, didn't you?"

"Yes." Damn, but she was angry, it was sharp and clear in her voice. He wished he could change things, Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

but he couldn't. He just had to try to make her understand. If he didn't get her to come around, then what would happen?

She rose slowly to her feet. She was wearing blue jeans that looked like a second skin. Dillon had misjudged and bought her a pair of girl's jeans at the Kmart in the closest town, Glenberg. Even the blouse was tight, the buttons pulling apart.

The look on her face was remote, distant, as if she really weren't standing on the old veranda any longer, between the two of them. She said nothing for a very long time, just stared at the lake. Finally she said,

"Thank you for getting me out of that place last night.

He wouldn't leave my head clear enough so I could figure out how to escape again. I don't think I would ever have gotten free. I owe you both a lot for that. But now I'm leaving. I have a good number of things to resolve. Good-bye, James."

15

"YOU'RE NOT LEAVING, Sally. I can't let you leave."

She gave him a look that was so immensely damning of what he was and what he'd done, he couldn't stand it.

"Listen, Sally, please. I'm sorry. I did what I believed was right. I couldn't tell you, please understand that. You were coming to trust me. I couldn't take a chance that you'd react the way you're reacting now."

She laughed. Just laughed. She said nothing at all.

Dillon rose, saying, "I'm going for a walk. I'll be back to make dinner in an hour."

Sally watched him stride down the narrow trail toward the water. She supposed he was a fine-looking man, not as fine-looking as James, of course. She didn't like all his bulging muscles, but she supposed some people did.

"Sally."

She didn't want to turn back to him. She didn't want to speak to him anymore, give him any of her attention, listen to his damning words that made so much sense to him and had utterly destroyed her.

No, she'd rather watch Dillon, or the two boats that were rocking lazily in the smooth evening waters. It would be sunset soon. The water was beginning to be the color of cherries.

"Sally, I can't let you leave. Besides, where would you go? I don't know where you'd be safe. You thought you'd have a refuge in The Cove. You didn't. Your dear auntie Amabel was in on it."

"No, that's impossible."

"Believe it. I have no reason to lie to you. David and I both visited her after I got on my feet again. She claimed you'd seen me unconscious and decided to run away. She said that you had probably run to Alaska, that you couldn't go to Mexico because you didn't have a passport. She said that you'd been ill-in an institution-as a matter of fact and that you were still unstable, still very weak in the head. My gut Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

tells me that your auntie is in this mess up to her eyeballs."

"She welcomed me. She was sincere. You're wrong, James, or you're just plain lying."

"Maybe she was sincere at first. But then someone got to her. What about the two murders in The Cove, Sally? The woman's screams you heard that Amabel claimed were a result of the wind, that or the result of you being so bloody nuts."

"So you used those old people-Marge and Harve, who drove to The Cove in their Winnebago and then disappeared-as your, what do you call it? Oh, yes, your cover. The sheriff believed you completely, didn't he?"

"Yes, he did. And what's more, the investigation will open again, since a whole bunch of other folk have disappeared in that area as well. Being a PI hired by their son from L.A. was my cover. It worked. After the murders happened, I didn't know what to think. I knew it couldn't have anything to do with you directly."

He stopped, plowing his fingers through his hair. "Damn, we're getting off the subject, Sally. Forget about The Cove. Just forget Amabel. She and her town are three thousand miles away. I want you to try to understand why I did what I did. I want you to understand why I had to keep silent about who I really am and why I was at The Cove."

"You want me to agree that it was fine for you to lie to me, to manipulate me?"

"Yes. You lied to me as well, if you'll recall. All you had to do was scream your head off when your so-called father called you, and I was manipulated up to my ears. A beautiful woman appealing to my macho side. Yeah, I was hooked from that moment."

She was staring at him as if he'd lost his mind.

"Jesus, Sally, I came flying into the room like a madman to see you on the floor, staring at that damned phone like it was a snake ready to bite you, and I was a goner."

She waved away his words. "Someone was after me, James. Nobody was after you."

"It didn't matter."

She began to laugh. "Actually there were two someones after me, and you were the second, only I was too stupid, too pathetically grateful to you, to realize it. I'm leaving, James. I don't want to see you again.

I can't believe I thought you were a hero. God, when will I stop being such a credulous fool?"

"Where will you go?"

"That's none of your business, Mr. Quinlan. None of what I do is any of your business anymore."

"The hell it isn't. Listen, Sally. Tell me the truth about something. When Dillon and I got into your room at the sanitarium, there was this pathetic little guy who looked crazy as a loon sitting on the bed beside you, looking down at you. Did he ever hurt you? Beat you? Rape you?''

"Holland was there in my room?"

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"Yeah, you were naked and he was leaning down over you. I think he'd combed and straightened your hair. Did he rape you?"

"No," she said in a remote voice. "No one raped me. As for Holland, he did other things, that Beadermeyer told him to do. He never hurt me, just-well, that's not important."

"Then who the hell did hurt you? That bloody Beadermeyer? Your husband? Who was that man you told me about in your nightmare?"

She gave him a long look, and again that look was filled with quiet rage. "You are nothing more to me.

None of this is any of your business. Go to hell, James."

She turned away from him and walked down the wooden steps. It was chilly now. She wasn't wearing anything but that too-small shirt and jeans.

"Come back, Sally. I can't let you go. I won't let you go. I won't see you hurt again."

She didn't even slow down, just kept walking, in sneakers that were probably too small for her as well.

He didn't want her to get blisters. He'd planned to go shopping for her tomorrow, to buy her some clothes that fit her, to- damn, he was losing it.

He saw Dillon standing near the water line, unaware that she was walking away.

"Sally, you don't know where you are. You don't have any money."

Then she did stop. She was smiling as she turned to face him. "You're right, but it shouldn't be a problem for long. I really don't think that I'm afraid of any man anymore. Don't worry. I'll get enough money to get back to Washington."

It sent him right over the edge. He slammed his hand down on the railing and vaulted over it to land lightly only three feet away from her. "No one will ever hurt you again. You will not take the chance of some asshole raping you. You will stay with me until this is over. Then I'll let you go if you don't want to stay."

She began to laugh. Her body shook with her laughter. She sank slowly to her knees, hugging herself, laughing and laughing.

"Sally!"

She stared up~~at him, her palms on her thighs. She laughed, then said, "Let me go? You'd keep me if I didn't

want to leave? Like some sort of pathetic stray? That's good, James. I haven't known a single person for a very long time who cared one whit about anyone, including me, not that it mattered. Please, no more lies.

"I'm a case for you, nothing more. If you solve it, just think of your reputation. The FBI will probably make you director. They'll kiss your feet. The president will give you a medal."

She gasped, out of breath now, hiccupping through the laughter that welled up from her throat. "You should have believed my file, James. Yes, I'm sure the FBI had a very thick file on me, particularly my stint in the loony bin. I'm crazy, James. No one should believe I'm a credible witness, despite the fact that Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

you want very badly to have someone to lock up, anyone.

"I won't tell you anything. I don't trust you, but I do owe you for rescuing me from that place. Now let me go before something horrible happens."

He came down on his knees in front of her. Very slowly, he pulled her arms to her sides. He brought her forward until her face was resting against his shoulder. He rubbed his hands up and down her back. "It's going to be all right, I swear it to you. I swear I won't fuck up again."

She didn't move, didn't settle against him, didn't release the terrible rage that had been deep inside her for so long she didn't know if she could ever confront it, or speak about it, because it could very well destroy her, and the sheer magnitude of it would destroy others as well.

It bubbled deep, that rage, and now with it was a shattering sense of betrayal. She'd trusted him and he'd betrayed her. She felt stupid for having believed him so quickly, so completely.

Sally marveled that she felt such passion, such a hideous need to hurt as she'd been hurt. She'd thought he'd drained such savage feelings out of her long ago. It felt incredible to feel rage again, to feel sweat rise on her flesh, to want to do something, to want vengeance. Yes, she wanted vengeance.

She just lay against him, thinking, wondering, calming herself, and in the end of it all, she still didn't know what to do.

"You've got to help me now, Sally."

"If I don't, then you'll take me to the FBI dungeon and they'll give me more drugs to make me tell the truth?"

“No, but the FBI will get all the truth sooner or later. We usually do. Your father's murder is a very big deal, not just his murder but lots of other things that are connected to it. Lots of folk want to be in on catching his murderer. It's important for a lot of reasons. No more crap about you not being credible. If you'll just help me now, you'll be free of all this evil."

"Funny that you call it evil."

"I don't know why I did. That sounds a bit melodramatic, but somehow it just came out. Is it evil, Sally?''

She said nothing, just stared ahead, her thoughts far away from him, and he hated it. He wanted to know what was going through her mind. He imagined it wasn't pleasant.

"If you help me, I'll get your passport and take you to Mexico."

That brought her back for a moment. She said with a quirky smile that she probably hadn't worn on her face in a very long time, "I don't want to go to Mexico. I've been there three times and got vilely sick all three times."

"There's this drug you can take before going. It's supposed to keep your innards safe from the foreign bugs. I used it once when I went down to La Paz on a fishing trip with my buddies and I never got sick and we were on the water most of the time."

"I can't imagine you ever getting sick from anything. No bug would want to take up residence inside you.

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Too little to show for it."

"You're talking to me."

"Oh, yes. Talking calms me. It makes all that bile settle down a bit. And just listen to you, talking to the little victim, trying to soothe and calm her, gain her trust. You're really very good, the way you use your voice, your tone, your choice of words.

"Forget it, James. I've got even more to say. In fact, I think I've got it all together now.

"If you'll notice, Mr. Quinlan, I've got your gun pointed at your belly. Try to squeeze me or hurt me or jerk it away from me with one of your fancy moves, and I'll pull the trigger."

He felt then the nose of his SIG-sauer pressing against his gut. He hadn't felt it even a second before.

How the hell had she gotten it out of his shoulder holster? The fact that she'd gotten it without his realizing it scared him more than knowing the pistol had a hair trigger and her finger was on it.

He said against her hair, "I guess this means you're still pissed at me, huh?"

"Yes."

"I guess this means you don't want to talk about Mexico anymore? You don't like deep-sea fishing?"

"I've never done it. But no, the time for talking is over."

He said very quietly and slowly, “That gun is perfectly balanced and will respond practically to your thoughts. Please be careful, Sally, don't think any violent thoughts, okay?"

"I'll try not to, but don't push me. Now, James, just fall over onto your back and don't even think about kicking out with your feet. No, don't stiffen up like that or I'll shoot you. I've got nothing to lose, don't ever forget that."

"It's not a good idea, Sally. Let's talk some more."

"FALL ON YOUR BACK!"

"Well, hell." He dropped his arms to his sides as he keeled over backward. He could have tried kicking up, but he Wouldn't be sure that he wouldn't hurt her badly. He lay on his back watching her rise to stand over him, the pistol in her hand. She looked very proficient with that damned gun. She never looked away from him, not even for an instant.

"Have you ever fired a gun before?"

"Oh, yes. You needn't worry that I'll shoot myself in the foot. Now, James, don't even twitch." She backed away from him, up the steps to the veranda. She got his jacket, felt inside the breast pocket and found his wallet. "I hope you've got enough money," she said.

“I went to the cash machine just before corning to rescue you, dammit."

"That was nice of you. Don't worry, James." She gave him a small salute with his gun, then threw his jacket over her arm. "Dillon will be back soon to make your dinner. I think I heard him talking about Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

some halibut. The lake doesn't look polluted, so maybe it won't poison you. Did I ever tell you that my father headed up this citizens' committee that was always haranguing against pollution?

"I even wrote a paper about it, and President Reagan even told me how excellent it was. But who cares, when it comes right down to it? No, don't say it. I'm talking. It feels rather good actually. So you see, no matter what else the bastard did, he did accomplish some good.

"Oh, yeah, Mr. Quinlan, you wanted to know all the juicy details about who did what to me in the sanitarium. You're dying to know who did it, who put me there. Well, it wasn't Dr. Beadermeyer or my husband. It was my father."

And how, she wondered, could she ever get vengeance on a dead man? She was off in a flash, running faster than he'd thought she could, dust kicking up behind her sneakers.

She was at the car when he jumped to his feet. He didn't think, just sprinted as fast as he could toward the Oldsmobile. He saw her stop by the driver's door and aim quickly, then he felt the dirt spray his jeans leg as a bullet kicked up not a foot from his right boot. Then she was inside. The car engine revved. God, she was fast.

He watched her throw the car in reverse, watched her back it out of the narrow driveway onto the small country road. She did it well, coming close to that elm tree but not touching the paint job on the car, which was nice of her because the government was never pleased when it had to repaint bureau cars.

He was running after her again, knowing he had to do something, but not knowing what, just accepting that he was a fool and an incompetent ass and running, running.

Her father had beat her and fondled her and humiliated her in the sanitarium? He'd been the one to put her there in the first place?

Why?

It was nuts, the whole thing. And that's why she hadn't told him. Her father was dead, couldn't be grilled, and the whole thing did sound crazy.

"Rein in, Quinlan," Dillon shouted from behind him. "Come on back. She's well and truly gone."

He turned to see Dillon run up behind him. "Last time I checked your speed on the track you couldn't beat an accelerating Olds."

"Yeah, yeah. Damn, it's all my fault. You don't have to say it."

"There's hardly any need to say it. How did she get your gun?''

Quinlan turned to his longtime friend, shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and said in the most bewildered voice Dillon had ever heard from him, "I was holding her against me, trying to make her understand that I'd done what I had to do and I wasn't betraying her, really I wasn't, and I thought perhaps she was coming around.

"Looks like I really screwed up on this one. I never felt a thing. Nothing. Then she told me she was pointing

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the gun in my gut. She was."

"I don't think I like having a partner who's so besotted that he can't even keep his own gun in his holster."

"Is that some sort of weird sexual innuendo?"

"Not at all. Let's get to the phone. I sure hope she didn't think to cut the wire."

"She never went inside the cottage."

"Thank God for small favors. It's about time we got one."

Quinlan said, "Are your connections good enough to get us another one?"

"If not, I'll call my aunt Paulie. Between her and Uncle Abe, they've got more connections than the pope."

16

SHE KNEW JAMES would come here, maybe not immediately, but soon enough. She also knew she had time. Too bad she hadn't thought to pull the telephone cord out of the wall. That would have really slowed him up. But she had enough of a head start.

She pulled the Oldsmobile into an empty parking spot just off Cooperton Street. She locked the door and walked slowly, wearing James's jacket, which should make her look very hip, toward number 337, the gracious Georgian red-brick home on Lark Street. Lights were on downstairs. She prayed Noelle was there and not the police or the FBI.

She huddled low and ran along the tap line of shrubbery toward the downstairs library. Her father's office. The room where she'd first seen her father strike her mother. That had been ten years ago. Ten years. What had happened to those years? College, with nightly phone calls and more visits than she cared to make, even unexpected visits during the week to make sure her father wasn't beating her mother.

She'd sensed the festering anger in her father at her interference, but his position, more highly visible by the year, his absolute horror of anyone finding out that he was a wife beater, kept him in line, at least most of the time. As it turned out, she found out that if he was pissed off, he would beat her mother as soon as Sally left to go back to college. Not that her mother would ever have told her.

On one visit she'd forgotten a sweater and had gone quickly back home to get it. She'd opened the front door with her key and walked into the library, in on a screaming match with her mother cowering on the floor and her father kicking her.

"I'm calling the police," she said calmly from the doorway. "I don't care what happens. This will stop and it will stop now."

Her father had frozen, his leg in mid-kick, and stared at her in the doorway. "You damned little bitch.

What the hell are you doing here?"

"I'm calling the police now. It's over." She'd walked back into the foyer to the phone that sat on the small Louis XVI table, beneath a beautiful gilt mirror.

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She had dialed 9-1- when her hand was grabbed. It was her mother. It was Noelle, and she was crying, begging her not to call the police, begging, on her knees, begging and begging, tears streaming down her face.

Sally had stared down at the woman who was clutching at her knees, tears of pain grooving down her cheeks. Then she'd looked at her father, who was standing in the doorway to the library, his arms crossed over his chest, his ankles crossed, tall and slender, beautifully dressed in cashmere and wool, his hair thick and dark, with brilliant gray threading through it, looking like a romantic lead in the movies. He was watching her.

"Go ahead, do it," he'd said. "Do it and just see what your mother will do when the cops get here. She'll say you're a liar, Sally, that you're a jealous little bitch, that you don't want her to have my affection, that you've always resented her, resented your own mother.

"Isn't that why you're coming home all the time from college? Go ahead, Sally. Do it. You'll see." He never moved, just spoke in that intoxicating, mesmerizing voice of his, one that had swayed his colleagues and clients for the past thirty years. He'd kept a hint of a Southern drawl, knowing it added just the right touch when he deftly slurred the word he wanted to emphasize.

"Please, Sally, don't. Don't. I'm begging you. You can't. It would ruin everything. I can't allow you to. It's dangerous. It's all right, Sally. Just don't call, please, dear God, don't call."

She'd given her mother and her father one last look and left. She had not returned until after her graduation seven months later.

Maybe her father was beating her mother less simply because Sally wasn't coming home anymore.

Funny that she hadn't been able to remember that episode until now. Not until... not until she'd gone to The Cove and met James and her life had begun to seem like a life again, despite the murders, despite her father's phone calls, despite everything.

She must really be nuts. The damned man had betrayed her. There was no way around that. He'd saved her too, but that didn't count, it was just more of the job. She still marveled at her own simplicity. He was FBI. He'd tracked her down and lied to her.

She huddled down even more as she neared the library windows. She looked inside. Her mother was reading a book. She was sitting in her husband's favorite wing chair, reading a book. She looked exquisite. Well, she should. The bastard had been dead for a good three weeks. No more bruises. No more chance of bruises.

Still, Sally waited. No one else was in the house.

"You're sure she's going home, Quinlan?"

"Not home. She's going to her mother's house. Not her husband's house. You know my intuition, my gut.

But to be honest about it, I know her. She feels something for her mother. That's the first place she'll go.

I'll bet you both her father and her husband put her in that sanitarium in the first place. Why? I haven't the foggiest idea. I do know, though, that her father was a very evil man." "I assume you'll tell me what you mean by that later?" "Drive faster, Dillon. The house is number 337 on Lark. Yeah, I'll tell you, but not now. Let's get going."

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"Hello, Noelle."

Noelle St. John slowly lowered her novel to her lap. Just as slowly, she looked up at the doorway to see her daughter standing there, wearing a man's jacket that came nearly to her knees.

Her mother didn't move, just stared at her. When she was younger, her mother was always holding her, hugging her, kissing her. She wasn't moving now. Well, if she believed Sally was crazy, then it made sense. Did Noelle think her daughter was here to shoot her? She said in a soft, frightened voice, "Is it really you, Sally?"

"Yes. I got away from the sanitarium again. I got away from Doctor Beadermeyer."

"But why, darling? He takes such good care of you. Doesn't he? Why are you looking at me like that, Sally? What's wrong?"

Then nothing mattered, because her mother was smiling at her. Her mother jumped to her feet and ran to her, enfolding her in her arms. Years were instantly stripped away. She was small again. She was safe.

Her mother was holding her. Sally felt immense gratitude. Her mother was here for her, as she'd prayed she would be.

"Mama, you've got to help me. Everyone is after me."

Noelle stood back, smoothing Sally's hair, running her hands over her pale face. She hugged her again, whispering against her cheek, "It's all right, sweetheart. I'll take care of everything. It's all right." Noelle was shorter than her daughter, but she was the mother and Sally was the child, and to Sally she felt like a goddess.

She let herself be held, breathed in her mother's fragrance, a scent she'd worn from Sally's earliest memories. "I'm sorry, Noelle. Are you all right?"

Her mother released her, stepping back. "It's been difficult, what with the police and not knowing where you were and worrying incessantly. You should have called me, Sally. I worried so much about you."

"I couldn't. I imagined that the police had your phone bugged. They could have traced me."

"I don't think there's anything wrong with the phones. Surely they wouldn't dare plant devices like that in your father's home?"

"He's dead, Noelle. They'd do anything. Now, listen. I need you to tell me the truth. I do know that I was here the night that he was murdered. But I don't remember anything about it. Just violent images, but no faces. Just loud voices, but no person to go with the voices."

"It's all right, love. I didn't murder your father. I know that's why you ran away. You ran away to protect me, just as you tried to protect me for all those years.

"Do you believe me? Why would you think I'd know anything about it? I wasn't here myself. I was with Scott, your husband. He's so worried about you. All he can talk about is you and how he prays you'll come home. Please tell me you believe me. I wouldn't kill your father."

“Yes, Noelle, I believe you-although if you had shot him I would have applauded you. But no, I never Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

really believed that you did. But I can't remember, I just can't remember, and the police and the FBI, they all believe I know everything that happened that night. Won't you tell me what happened, Noelle?"

"Are you well again, Sally?'

She stared at her mother. She sounded vaguely frightened. Of her? Of her own daughter? Did she think she would murder her because she was insane? Sally shook her head. Noelle might look a bit frightened, but she also looked exquisite in vivid emerald lounging pajamas. Her light hair was pinned up with a gold clip. She wore three thin gold chains. She looked young and beautiful and vital. Perhaps there was some justice after all.

"Listen to me, Noelle," Sally said, willing her mother to believe her. "I wasn't ever sick. Father put me in that place. It was all a plot. He wanted me out of the way. Why? I don't know. Maybe just plain revenge for the way I'd thwarted him for the past ten years. Surely you must have guessed something. Doubted him when he told you. You never came to see me, Mama, never."

"Your father told me, and you're right, I was suspicious, but then Scott broke down-he was in tears-and he told me about all the things you'd done, how you simply weren't yourself anymore and there hadn't been any choice but to put you in the sanitarium. I met Doctor Beadermeyer. He assured me you would be well cared for.

"Oh, Sally, Doctor Beadermeyer told me it would be better if I didn't see you just yet, that you were blaming me for so many things, that you hated me, that you didn't want to see me, that seeing me would just make you worse and he feared you'd try to commit suicide again."

But Sally wasn't listening to her. She felt something prickle on her skin, and she knew, she knew he was close. She also knew that her mother wasn't telling her the truth about the night her father was murdered.

Why? What had really happened that night? There just wasn't time now.

Yes, James was close. There was no unnatural sound, no real warning, yet she knew.

"Do you have any money, Noelle?"

"Just a few dollars, Sally, but why? Why? Let me call Doctor Beadermeyer. He's already called several times. I've got to protect you, Sally."

"Good-bye, Noelle. If you love me-if you've ever loved me-please keep the FBI agent talking as long as you can. His name is James Quinlan. Please, don't tell him I was here."

"How do you know the name of an FBI agent?" "It's not important. Please don't tell him anything, Noelle."

"Mrs. St. John, we saw the car parked on Cooperton. Sally was here. Is she still here? Are you hiding her?"

Noelle St. John stared at his ID, then at Dillon's. Finally, after an eternity, she looked up and said, "I haven't seen my daughter for nearly seven months, Agent Quinlan. What car are you talking about?"

"A car we know she was driving, Mrs. St. John," Dil-lon said.

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“Why are you calling my daughter by her first name? Indeed, Sally is her nickname. Her real name is Susan. Where did you get her nickname?''

"It doesn't matter," Quinlan said. "Please, Mrs. St. John, you must help us. Would you mind if we looked through your house? Her car is parked just down the street. She's probably hiding here in the house waiting for us to leave before she comes out."

"That's ridiculous, gentlemen, but look to your hearts' content. None of the help sleep here, so the house is empty. Don't worry about frightening anyone." She smiled at them and walked with her elegant stride back into the library.

"Upstairs first," Quinlan said.

They went methodically from room to room, Dillon waiting in the corridor as Quinlan searched, to ensure that Sally couldn't slip between adjoining rooms and elude them. When Quinlan opened the door to a bedroom at the far end of the hall, he knew immediately that it had been hers. He switched on the light. It wasn't a frilly room with a pink or white canopied bed and posters of rock stars plastering the walls. No, three of the walls were filled with bookshelves, all of them stuffed with books. On the fourth wall were framed awards, writing awards beginning with ones for papers she'd written in junior high school on the U.S. dependence on foreign oil and the gasoline crisis, on the hostages in Iran, on the countries that became communist during Carter's administration and why. There was a paper that had won the Idleberg Award and appeared in the New York Times, on the U.S. hockey win against the Russians at Lake Placid at the 1980 Olympics. The high school awards were for papers that ran more toward literary themes.

Then they stopped, somewhere around the end of high school-no more awards, no more recognition for excellent short stories or essays, at least no more here in this bedroom. She'd gone to Georgetown University, majored in English. Again, no more sign that she'd ever written another word or won another prize.

"Quinlan, for God's sake, what are you doing? Is she in there or not?"

He was shaking his head when he rejoined Dillon. He said, "Sally isn't here. Sure, she was here, but she's long gone. Somehow she knew we were close. How, I don't know, but she knew. Let's go, Dillon."

"You don't think her mother would have any idea, do you?''

"Get real." But they asked Mrs. St. John anyway. She gave them a blank smile and sent them on their way.

"What now, Quinlan?"

"Let me think." Quinlan hunched over the steering wheel, wishing he had a cup of coffee, not good coffee, but the rotgut stuff at the bureau. He drove to FBI headquarters at Tenth and Pennsylvania, the ugliest building ever constructed in the nation's capital.

Ten minutes later, he was sipping on the stuff that could be used to plug a hole in a dike. He took Dillon a cup and set it near the mouse pad at his right hand.

"Okay, she's got the Oldsmobile."

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"No APB, Dillon."

Dillon swiveled around in his chair, the computer screen glowing behind his head. "You can't just keep this a two-man hunt, Quinlan. We lost her. You and I, my friend, lost a rank amateur. Don't you think it's time to spread the net?"

"Not yet. She's also got my wallet. See what you can do with that."

“If she keeps purchases below fifty dollars, chances are no one will check. Still, if someone does check, we'll have her almost instantly. Hold on a minute and let me set that up."

Dillon Savich had big hands and large, blunt fingers. Quinlan watched those unlikely fingers race over the computer keys. Dillon hit a final key and nodded in satisfaction. "There's just something about computers," he said over his shoulder to Quinlan. “They never give you shit, they never contradict you.

You tell 'em what to do in simple language and they do it."

"They don't love you, either."

"In their way they do. They're so clean, Quinlan. Now, if she uses one of your credit cards and there's no check, then I've got her within eighteen hours. It's not the best, but it'll have to do."

"She might have to use a credit card, but she'll keep it below fifty dollars. She's not stupid. Did you know she won a statewide contest for a paper she wrote about how much credit card crooks cost the American public? You'd better believe she knows she's bought eighteen hours, and she might figure that's just enough, thank you."

“How do you know that? Surely you had other things to talk about with her? Jesus, you had two murders in that damned little picturesque town, and the two of you found both bodies. Surely that's enough fodder for conversation for at least three hours."

"When I was in her bedroom I saw that the walls are loaded with awards for papers, short stories, essays, all sorts of stuff that she wrote. That credit card essay was one of them. She must have been all of sixteen when she wrote it."

"So she's a good writer, even a talented writer. She's still a rank amateur. She's scared. She doesn't know what to do. Everyone is after her, and we're probably the best-meaning of the lot, but it didn't matter to her. She still poked your own gun in your belly."

"Don't whine. She has around three hundred dollars in cash. That's not going to take her far. On the other hand, she got all the way across the country on next to no money at all riding a Greyhound bus."

"You don't keep your PIN number in your wallet, do you?"

"No."

"Good. Then she can't get out any more cash in your name."

Quinlan sat down in a swivel chair beside Dillon's. He steepled his fingers and tapped the fingertips together rhythmically. "There's something she said, Dillon, something that nearly tore my guts apart, something about no one she'd been around cared about anybody but himself. I think she trusted me so quickly because something inside her desperately needs to be reaffirmed."

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"You're sounding like a shrink."

"No, listen. She's scared just like you said, but she needs someone to believe her and care about what happens to her, someone to accept that she isn't crazy, someone simply to believe her, without reservation, without hesitation.

"She thought I did, and she was right, only, you know the answer to that. She was locked up in that place for six months. Everyone told her she was nuts. She needs trust, complete unquestioning trust."

"So who the hell would give her unconditional trust? Her mother? I can't believe that, even though Sally went

to see her first. There's something weird going on with Mrs. St. John. Sure as hell not her husband, Scott Brai-nerd, although I'd like to meet the guy, maybe rearrange his face a bit."

Quinlan got out her file. "Let's see about friends."

He read quietly for a very long time while Dillon put all systems in place to kick in whenever Sally used one of the credit cards.

"Interesting," Quinlan said, leaning back and rubbing his eyes. "She had several very good women friends, most of them associated with Congress. Then after she married Scott Brainerd, the friends seemed to fade away over the period before Daddy committed her to Beader-meyer's charming resort."

"That cuts things down, but it doesn't help us. You don't think she'd go to her husband, do you? I can't imagine it, but-"

"No way in hell."

There was a flash and a beep on the computer screen. "Well, I'll be swiggered," Dillon said, rubbing his hands together. He punched in several numbers and added two more commands.

"She used a credit card for gas. The amount is just $22.50, but it's their policy to check all credit cards, regardless of the amount. She's in Delaware, Quinlan, just outside of Wilmington. Hot damn."

"Wilmington isn't that far from Philadelphia."

"It isn't that far from anywhere, except maybe Cleveland."

"No, that's not what I meant. Her grandparents live on the Main Line just outside of Philadelphia. Real ritzy section. Street name's Fisher's Road."

"Fisher's Road? Doesn't sound ritzy."

"Don't let the name fool you. I have a feeling Fisher's Road will wind up being one of those streets with big stone mansions set back a good hundred feet from the road. Gates too, I'll bet."

"We'll see soon enough. It's her mother's parents who live there. Their name is Harrison. Mr. and Mrs.

Franklin Oglivee Harrison."

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"I don't suppose Mrs. Harrison has a name?" "Nah, if the guy is rich and old, that's the way they do it.

I've wondered if sometimes they just make up that highbrow middle name for effect."

17

"I MEANT TO tell you why Sally used a credit card and not some of your three hundred bucks."

Dillon was driving, handling his Porsche with the same ease and skill he used with computers.

Quinlan was reading everything he had on the grandparents with a small penlight. He had to look up every few minutes so he wouldn't throw up. "I hate reading in a car. My sister used to read novels all the time-in the back seat-never bothered her for an instant. I'd look at a picture and want to throw up. What did you say, Dillon? Oh, yeah, why Sally used the credit card. While you were getting your coat, I checked the rest of the information they gave on the credit card check. The license plate number was different. She bought a clunker, probably used about every cent of that three hundred bucks."

Dillon grunted. “Hand me the coffee. Another hour and we'll be there."

"It took time for her to sell the Olds and buy the clunker. It cut down on her lead. Let's say she's got two hours on us. That's not too bad."

"Let's hope she doesn't realize you're anywhere in the vicinity, like you seem to believe she did last time at her mother's."

"She did know. Listen to this. Mr. Franklin Oglivee Harrison is the president and CEO of the First Philadelphia Union Bank. He owns three clothing stores called the Gentleman's Purveyor. His father owned the two largest steel mills in Pennsylvania, got out before the bottom fell out, and left his family millions. As for Mrs. Harrison, she comes from the Boston Thurmonds, who are all in public office, lots of old money from shipping. Two daughters, Amabel and Noelle, and a son, Geoffrey, who's got Down's syndrome and is kept at a very nice private place near Boston."

"You want to stop at that gas station in Wilmington? We'll be there in half an hour."

"Let's do it. Someone will remember the kind of car she was driving."

"If she got something for three hundred bucks, it would really stand out."

But the guy who'd sold her the gas had gone home. They drove straight on to Philadelphia.

Sally looked from her grandfather Franklin to her grandmother Olivia. She'd seen them two or three times a year every year of her life, except this past year.

Their downstairs maid, Cecilia, had let her in, not blinked an eye at her huge man's coat over the too tight blouse and jeans, and calmly led her to the informal study at the back of the house. Her grandparents were watching Seinfeld on TV.

Cecilia didn't announce her, just left her there and quietly closed the door. Sally didn't say anything for a long time. She just stood there, listening to her grandfather give an occasional chuckle. Her grandmother had a book on her lap, but she wasn't reading, she was watching TV as well. They were both seventy-six, in excellent health, and enjoyed the Jumby Bay private resort island off Antigua twice a year.

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Sally waited for a commercial, then said, "Hello, Grandfather, Grandmother."

Her grandmother's head jerked around, and she cried out, "Susan!"

Her grandfather said, "Is that really you, Susan? By all that's holy, my poor child, whatever are you doing here?"

Neither of them moved from the sofa. They seemed nailed to their seats. Her grandmother's book slid from her lap to the beautiful Tabriz carpet.

Sally took a step toward them. "I hoped you could give me some money. There are a lot of people looking for me, and I need to hide someplace. I only have about seventeen dollars."

Franklin Harrison rose slowly. He was wearing a smoking jacket and an ascot-she hadn't known those things were still even made. She suddenly had an image of him wearing the same thing when she'd been a very young girl. She remembered how he'd held her and let her stroke the soft silk of the ascot. His white hair was thick and wavy, his eyes a dark blue, his cheekbones high, but his mouth was small and tight. It seemed smaller and tighter now

Olivia Harrison rose as well, straightening the silk dress she was wearing. She held out her hand. "Susan, dear, why aren't you with that lovely Doctor Beadermeyer? You didn't escape again, did you? That's not a good thing for you, dear, not good for you at all, particularly with all the scandal that your father's death has produced."

"He didn't just die, Grandmother, he was murdered."

"Yes, we know. All of us have suffered. But now we're concerned about you, Susan. Your mother has told us how much Doctor Beadermeyer has done for you, how much better you've gotten. We met him once and were very impressed with him. Wasn't that nice of him to come to Philadelphia to meet us? You are better, aren't you, Susan? You aren't still seeing things that aren't there, are you? You're not still blaming people for things they didn't do?"

"No, Grandmother. I never did any of those things." Strange how neither of them wanted to come close to her.

"You know, dear," her grandmother continued in that gentle voice of hers that masked pure iron, “your grandfather and I have discussed this, and we hate to say it, but it's possible that you're like your uncle Geoffrey. Your illness is probably hereditary, and so it isn't really your fault. Let me call Doctor Beadermeyer, dear."

Sally could only stare at her grandmother. "Uncle Geoffrey was born with Down's syndrome. It has nothing to do with mental illness."

"Yes, but it perhaps shows that instability can be somewhat genetic, passed down from a mother or a father to the daughter. But that's not important. What's important is getting you back to that nice sanitarium so Doctor Beadermeyer can treat you. Before your father died, he called us every week to tell us how much better you were getting. Well, there were weeks with setbacks, but he said that in the main, you were improving with the new drug therapies."

What could she say to that? Tell them all the truth as she remembered it and watch their faces go from Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

disbelief to fury on her account? Not likely.

She saw the years upon years of inflexibility, the utter rigidity, in her grandmother. She remembered what Aunt Amabel had told her about when Noelle had come home, beaten by her husband, when Sally was just a baby. How they hadn't believed Noelle.

It had always been there, of course, this rigidity, but since Sally had seen her grandmother so infrequently, she'd never had it turned on her. More clearly than ever, Sally could see now how her grandmother had treated her daughter Noelle when she'd come here begging for help. She shuddered.

"Well," her grandfather said, all hale and hearty, so good-natured, so weak, "it's good to see you, dear. I know you don't have time to stay, do you? Why not let us send you back to Washington? Like your grandmother said, this Beadermeyer fellow seemed to be doing you a great deal of good."

She looked from one to the other. Her grandfather, as tall as James, or at least he used to be, a man who had lived his life by a set of rules of his wife's making-or perhaps his father's-a man who didn't mind if someone strayed from the proper course but who wouldn't defend that person if his wife was anywhere near.

She'd always believed him so dear, so kind, but he wasn't coming anywhere near her, either-God, she wondered what he really thought of her. She wondered why he had that tight, mean mouth. She said, "I was in The Cove. I stayed for a while with Aunt Amabel."

"We don't speak of her," her grandmother said, taller now because her back had gotten stiffer. "She made her bed and now she must-"

"She's very happy."

"She can't be. She disgraced herself and her family, marrying that absurd man who painted for a living, painted pictures!

"Aunt Amabel is an excellent artist."

"Your aunt dabbled at many things, nothing more. If she were a good painter, then why haven't we heard of her? You see, no one has. She lives in this backwater town and exists on a shoestring. Forget about Amabel. Your grandfather and I are sorry you saw her. We can't give you money, Susan. I'm sure your grandfather would agree. Surely you understand why."

She looked her grandmother right in the eye. "No, I don't understand. Tell me why you won't give me money."

"Susan, dear," her grandmother said, her voice all low and soothing, "you're not well. We're sorry for it and a bit stunned, since this sort of thing has never before been in the family except, of course, for your uncle Geoffrey.

"We can't give you money because you could use it to hurt yourself even more. If you would just sit down here, even stay the night, we will call Doctor Beader-meyer and he can come and get you. Trust us, dear."

"Yes, Susan, trust us. We've always loved you, always wanted the best for you."

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"You mean the way you sent your daughter, my mother, back to a man who beat her?"

"Susan!"

"It's true, and both of you know it. He beat the living shit out of her whenever he felt like it."

"Don't use that kind of word in front of your grandmother, Susan," her grandfather said, and she saw that mouth of his go stern and tight.

She just looked at him, wondering why she'd even come here, but still, she had to try. She had to have money.

"I tried to protect Noelle for years, but I couldn't save her because she let him do it-do you hear me?-Noelle let him beat her. She was just like all those pathetic women you hear about."

"Don't be stupid, Susan," her grandmother said in a voice that could have crushed gravel. "Your grandfather and I have discussed this, and we know that battered wives are weak and stupid women.

They're dependent. They have no motivation. They have no desire to better themselves. They aren't able to leave their situations because they've bred like rabbits and the men they're married to drink and don't have any money."

"Your grandmother is perfectly correct, Susan. They aren't our kind at all. They are to be pitied, certainly, but don't ever put your dear mother in that class."

"Amabel told me how Noelle came here once-it was early on in her marriage-and told you both what my father was doing. You didn't want to hear about it. You insisted she go back. You turned her away. You were horrified. Did you even think she was making it up?"

Sally thought for a wild moment that this was surely the wrong way to go about getting money from them.

She hadn't realized all this resentment toward them was bottled up inside her.

"We will not speak of your mother to you, Susan," her grandmother said. She nodded slightly to her husband, but Susan saw it. He took a step toward her. She wondered if he would try to hold her down and tie her up and call Doctor Beadermeyer. In that moment, she truly wanted him to try. She wouldn't mind hitting that tight, mean mouth of his that masked weakness and preached platitudes.

She took a step back, her hands in front of her. "Listen, I need some money. Please, if you have any feeling for me at all, give me some money."

"What are you wearing, Susan? That's a man's jacket. What have you done? You haven't harmed some innocent person, have you? Please, what have you done?"

She'd been a fool to come here. What had she expected? They were so set in their ways that a bulldozer couldn't budge them. They saw things one way, only one-her grandmother's way.

"You're not well, are you, Susan? If you were, you wouldn't be wearing those clothes that are so distasteful. Would you like to lie down for a while and we can call Doctor Beadermeyer?"

Her grandfather was moving toward her again now, and she knew then that he would try to hold her here.

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She had a trump card, and she played it. She even smiled at the two old people who perhaps had loved her once, in their way. "The FBI is after me. They'll be here soon. You don't want the FBI to get me, do you, Grandfather?"

He stopped cold and looked at his wife, whose face had paled.

She said, "How could they possibly know you were coming here?"

"I know one of the agents. He's smarter than anyone has a right to be. He also has this gut instinct about things. I've seen him in action. Count on it. He'll be here soon now with his partner. If they find me here, they'll take

me back. Then everything will come out. I'll tell the world how my father-that larger-than-life, very rich lawyer- beat my mother and how you didn't care, how you ignored it, how you pretended everything was fine, happy to bask in the additional glory that such a successful son-in-law brought you."

"You're not a very nice girl, Susan," her grandmother said, two spots of bright red appearing on her very white cheeks. Anger, probably. "It's because you're ill, you know. You didn't used to be this way."

"Give me money and I'll be out of here in a flash. Keep talking, and the FBI will be here and haul me off."

Her grandfather didn't look at his wife this time. He pulled out his wallet. He didn't count the money, just took out all the bills, folded them, and thrust them toward her. He didn't want to touch her. She wondered about that again. Was he afraid he'd go nuts if he did?

"You should immediately drive back to Doctor Beadermeyer," he said to her, speaking slowly, as if she were an idiot. "He'll protect you. He'll keep you safe from the police and the FBI."

She stuffed the bills into her jeans pocket. It was a tight fit. "Good-bye, and thank you for the money."

She paused a moment, her hand on the doorknob. “What does either of you know about Doctor Beadermeyer?''

"He came highly recommended, dear. Go back to him. Do as your grandfather says. Go back."

"He's a horrible man. He held me prisoner there. He did terrible things to me. But then again, so did my father. Of course, you wouldn't believe that, would you? He's so wonderful-rather, he was so wonderful.

Doesn't it bother you that your son-in-law was murdered? That's rather low on the social ladder, isn't it?"

They just stared at her.

"Good-bye." But before she could leave the room, her grandmother called out, “Why are you saying things like this, Susan? I can't believe that you're doing this. Not just to us but to your poor mother as well. And what about your dear husband? You're not telling lies about him, are you?"

"Not a one," Sally said and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her. She grinned briefly.

Cecilia was standing there in the hall. She said, "I didn't call the cops. No one else is here. You don't have to worry. But hurry, Miss Susan, hurry."

"Do I know you?"

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“No, but my mama always took care of you when your parents brought you here every year. She said you were the brightest little bean and so sweet. She told me how you could write the greatest poems for birthday cards. I still have several cards she made me that have your poems on them. Good luck, Miss Susan."

"Thank you, Cecilia."

"I'm Agent Quinlan and this is Agent Savich. Are Mr. and Mrs. Harrison here?"

"Yes, sir. Come with me, please." Cecilia led them to the study, just as she'd led Sally Brainerd here thirty minutes before. She closed the door after they'd gone in. She thought the Harrisons were now watching the Home Shopping Network. Mr. Harrison liked to see how the clothes hawked there compared with his.

She smiled. She wasn't about to tell them that Sally Brainerd now had money, although she didn't know how much she'd gotten from that niggardly old man. Only as much as Mrs. Harrison allowed him to give her. She wished Sally good luck.

Sally stopped at an all-night convenience store and bought herself a ham sandwich and a Coke. She ate outside, well under the lights in front of the store. She waited until the last car had pulled out, then counted her money.

She laughed and laughed.

She had exactly three hundred dollars.

She was so tired she was weaving around like a drunk. The laughter was still bubbling out. She was getting hysterical.

A motel, that was what she needed, a nice, cheap motel. She needed to sleep a good eight hours, then she could go on.

She found one outside of Philadelphia-the Last Stop Motel. She paid cash and endured the look of the old man who really didn't want to let her stay but couldn't bring himself to turn away the money she was holding in her hand.

Tomorrow, she thought, she would have to buy some clothes. She'd do it on a credit card and only spend $49.99. Fifty dollars was the cutoff, wasn't it?

She wondered, as she finally fell asleep on a bed that was wonderfully firm, where James was.

"Where to now, Quinlan?"

"Let me stop thinking violent thoughts. Damn them. Sally was there. Why wouldn't they help us?"

"They love her and want to protect her?"

"Bullshit. I got cold when I got within three feet of them."

"It was interesting what Mrs. Harrison said," Dillon said as he turned on the ignition in the Porsche.

"About Sally being ill and she hoped soon she would be back with that nice Doctor Beadermeyer."

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"I'll bet you a week's salary that they called the good doctor the minute Sally was out of there. Wasn't it strange the way Mrs. Harrison tried to make Mr. Harrison look like the strong, firm one? I'd hate to go toe-to-toe with that old battle-ax. She's the scary one in that family. I wonder if they gave her any money."

"I hope so," James said. "It makes my belly knot up to think of her driving a clunker around without a dime to her name."

"She's got your credit cards. If they didn't give her any money, she'll have to use them."

"I'll bet you Sally is dead on her rear. Let's find a motel, and then we can take turns calling all the motels in the area."

They stayed at a Quality Inn, an approved lodging for FBI agents. Thirty minutes later, Quinlan was staring at the phone, just staring, so surprised he couldn't move.

"You found her? This fast?"

"She's not five miles from here, at a motel called the Last Stop. She didn't use her real name, but the old man thought she looked strange, what with that man's coat she was wearing and those tight clothes he said made her look like a hooker except he knew she wasn't, and that's why he let her stay. He said she looked scared and lost."

"Glory be," Dillon said. "I'm not all that tired anymore, Quinlan."

"Let's go."

18

SALLY TOOK OFF her clothes-peeled the jeans off, truth be told, because they were so tight-and lay on the bed in her full-cut girl's cotton panties that Dillon had bought for her. She didn't have a bra, which was why she had to keep James's coat on. The bra Dillon had bought-a training bra-she could have used when she was eleven years old.

The bed was wonderful, firm-well, all right, hard as a rock, but that was better than falling into a trough.

She closed her eyes.

She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. Through the cheap drapes she could see an all-night flashing neon sign: HOT HARVEY'S TOPLESS GIRLS.

Great part of town she'd chosen.

She closed her eyes again, turned on her side, and wondered where James was. In Washington? She wondered what Noelle had said to him and Dillon. Why hadn't Noelle told her the truth about that night?

Maybe she would have if there'd been more time. Maybe. Had Noelle told her the truth, that both her father and her husband had conspired to put her in Beadermeyer's sanitarium? Both of them? And Noelle had bought it?

She wondered if her grandparents had called Doctor Beadermeyer, and if the Nazi was on his way to Philadelphia. No, he'd wait. He wouldn't want to chase shadows, and that's exactly what she was and Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

planned to be.

No one could catch her now. The three hundred dollars would get her to Maine. She'd go to Bar Harbor, get a job, and survive. The tourists would flow in in only three months, then she would have more cover than she'd ever need. No one would find her there. She knew she was seeing Bar Harbor through a seven-year-old's eyes, but it had been so magical; surely it couldn't be all that different now.

Where was James? He was close, she just knew it. She hadn't exactly felt him close, but as she'd told her grandparents, he was smarter than he had a right to be.

She devoutly hoped he was at home in Washington, in bed fast asleep, the way she should be right now but wasn't. How close was he?

"Damnation," she said aloud. She thought about it a few more minutes, then got out of bed. She would just get to Bar Harbor sooner than expected. Still, she'd spent $27.52 on this room. To waste that money was appalling, but she couldn't sleep.

She was out of the room within five minutes. She revved up her motorcycle and swung batk onto the road, the garish lights from Hot Harvey's Topless Girls haloing around her helmeted head. It was odd, she thought, as she passed a Chevrolet-she would have sworn that James was nearby. But that wasn't possible.

James was the navigator and on the lookout for the Last Stop Motel. When she pulled out not fifty feet ahead of them, at first he couldn't believe it. He shouted, "Good God. Wait, Dillon, wait. Stop."

"Why, what's wrong?"

"My God, it's Sally."

"What Sally? Where?"

"On the motorcycle. I'd recognize my coat anywhere. She didn't buy a clunker, she bought a motorcycle.

Let's go, Dillon. Jesus, what if we'd been thirty seconds later?"

"You're sure? That's Sally on that motorcycle? Yeah, you're right, that is your coat. It looks moth-eaten even from here. How do you want me to curb her in? It could be dangerous, what with her on that damned bike."

"Hang back for a while and let's think about this."

Dillon kept the Porsche a good fifty feet behind Sally.

"That was a smart thing she did," Dillon said. "Buying a motorcycle."

"They're dangerous as hell. She could break her neck riding that thing."

"Stop sounding like you're her husband, Quinlan."

"You want me to break your upper lip? Hey, what's going on here?"

Four motorcycles passed the Porsche and accelerated toward the single motorcycle ahead.

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"Damn," Dillon said. "This is all we need. A gang, you think?"

"Why not? Our luck has sucked so far. How many rounds of ammunition do you have?''

"Enough," Dillon said briefly, his hands still loose and relaxed on the steering wheel, his eyes never leaving the road ahead. Traffic was very light going out of Philadelphia at this time of night.

"You feeling like the Lone Ranger again?"

"Why not?"

The four motorcycles formed a phalanx around Sally.

Just don't panic, Sally, Quinlan said over and over to himself. Just don't panic.

She'd never been so scared in her life. She had to laugh at that. Well, to tell the truth, at least she hadn't been this scared in the last five hours. Four of them, all guys, all riding gigantic Harleys, all of them in dark leather jackets. None of them was wearing a helmet. She should tell them they were stupid not to wear helmets. Maybe they didn't realize she was female. She felt her hair slapping against her shoulders. So much for that prayer.

What to do? More to the point, what would James do?

He'd say she was outnumbered and to get the hell out of there. She twisted the accelerator grip hard, but the four of them did the same, seemingly content for the moment just to keep their positions, hemming her in and scaring the hell out of her.

She thought of her precious two hundred and seventy something dollars, all the money she had in the world. No, she wouldn't let them take that money. It was all she had.

She shouted to the guy next to her, "What do you want? Go away!"

The guy just laughed and called out, "Come with us. We've got a place up ahead you'll like."

She yelled, "No, go away!" Was the idiot serious? He wasn't a fat, revolting biker, like the stereotype was usually painted. He was lean, his hair was cut short, and he was wearing glasses.

He swerved his bike in closer, not a foot from her now. He called out, "Don't be afraid. Come with us.

We're turning off at the next right. Al-the guy on your right- he's got a nice cozy little place not five miles from here. You could spend some time with us, maybe sack out. We figure you must have rolled some guy for that coat, whatever, it doesn't matter. Hey, we're good solid citizens. We promise."

"Yeah, right," she shouted, "just like the pope. You want me to come with you so you can rob me and rape me and probably kill me. Go to hell, buster!"

She sped up. The bike shot forward. She could have sworn she heard laughter behind her. She felt the gun in James's coat pocket. She leaned down close to the handlebars and prayed.

"Let's go, Dillon."

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Dillon accelerated the Porsche and honked at the bikers, who swerved to the side of the highway. They heard curses and shouts behind them. Quinlan just grinned.

"Let's just keep us between her and the bikers," Quinlan said. "What do you think, Dillon? Are we going to have to follow her until she runs out of gas?''

"I can get ahead of her, brake hard, and swing the car across the road in front of her."

"Not with the bikers still back there, we can't. Just stay close."

"In exactly one more minute she's going to look back," Dillon said.

"She's never seen the Porsche."

"Great. So she'll think not only some insane bikers are after her but also a guy in a sexy red Porsche."

"If I were her, I'd opt for you."

Why didn't the car pass her?

She pulled even further over toward the shoulder. Still the car didn't pull around. There were two bloody lanes. There were no other cars around. Did the idiot want three lanes?

Then something slammed into her belly. The guy in that Porsche was after her. Who was he? He had to be connected with Quinlan-she'd bet her last dime on it.

Why hadn't she stayed in her motel room, quiet on that nice hard bed, and counted sheep? That's probably what James would have done, but no, she had to come out on a motorcycle after midnight.

Then she saw a small, gaping hole in the guardrail that separated the eastbound lanes from the westbound. She didn't think, just swerved over in a tight arc and flew through that opening. There was a honk behind her from a motorist who barely missed her. He cursed at her out his window as he flew by.

There was lots of traffic going back into Philadelphia. She was safer now.

"Jesus, I can't believe she did that," James said, his heart pounding so loud in his chest that it hurt. "Did you see that opening? It couldn't have been more than a foot.

I'm going to have to yell at her when we catch her."

“Well, she made it. Looked just like a pro. You told me she had grit. I'd say more likely she's got nerves of steel or the luck of the Irish. And yeah, you're sounding like you're her husband again. Stop it, Quinlan.

It scares me."

"Nothing short of a howitzer firing would scare you. Pay attention now and stop analyzing everything I say. We'll get her, Dillon; there's a cut-through just ahead."

It took them some time to get her back in view. She was weaving in and out of the thicker traffic going back into the city.

"Hellfire," Quinlan said over and over, knowing that at any instant someone could cut her off, someone Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

else wouldn't even see her and would change lanes and crush her between two cars.

"At least she thinks she's lost us," Dillon said. "I wonder who she thought we were?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if she guessed it was me."

“Nah, how could that be possible?''

"It's my gut talking to me again. Yeah, she probably knows, and that's why she's driving like a bat out of hell. Jesus, look out, Dillon, oh, my God! Hey, watch out, bubba!" Quinlan rolled down the window and yelled at the man again. He turned back to Dillon. "Damned Pennsylvania drivers. Now, how are we going to get her?"

"Let's just tail her until we get an opportunity."

"I don't like it. Oh, shit, Dillon, the bikers are back, all four of them."

The four bikers fanned through the traffic, coming back together when there was a break, then fanning out again.

Sally was feeling good. She was feeling smart. She'd gotten them, that jerk driving that Porsche and the four bikers. She'd gone through that opening without hesitation, and she'd done it without any problem. It was a good thing she hadn't had time to think about it, otherwise she would have wet her pants. She was grinning, the wind hitting hard against her teeth, making them tingle. However, she was going the wrong direction.

She looked at the upcoming road sign. There was a turn onto Maitland Road half a mile ahead. She didn't know where Maitland Road went, but from what she could see, it wove back underneath the highway. That meant a way back east.

She guided her bike over to the far right lane. A car honked, and she could have sworn she felt the heat of it as it roared past her. Never again, she thought, never again would she get on a motorcycle.

Although why not? She was a pro.

She'd driven a Honda 350, just like this one, for two years, beginning when she was sixteen. When she told her father she was moving back home, he refused to buy her the car he'd promised. The motorcycle was for the interim. She saved her money and got the red Honda, a wonderful bike. She remembered how infuriated her father had been. He'd even forbidden her to get near a motorcycle.

She'd ignored him.

He'd grounded her.

She hadn't cared. She didn't want to leave her mother in any case. Then he'd just shut up about it. She had the sneaking suspicion that he wouldn't have cared if she'd killed herself on the thing.

Not that it mattered. He'd gotten his revenge.

She didn't want to think about that.

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She took the turn onto Maitland Road. Soon now, she'd be going back in the other direction, and no one would be after her this time. The road was dark, no lights at all. It was windy. There were thick, tall bushes on both sides. There was no one on the road. What had she done? She smelled the fear on herself. Why the hell had she turned off? James wouldn't have turned off.

She was a fool, an idiot, and she'd pay for it.

It happened so fast she didn't even have time to yell or feel scared. She saw the lead biker on her left, waving to her, calling to her, but she couldn't understand his words. She jerked her bike to the right, hit a gravel patch, slid into a skid, and lost control. She went flying over the top of the bike and landed on the side of the two-lane road, not on the road but in the bushes that lined the road.

She felt like a meteor had hit her-a circle of blinding lights and a whoosh of pain-then darkness blacker than her father's soul.

Quinlan didn't want to believe what he'd just seen. "Dillon, Jesus, she's hurt. Hurry, dammit, hurry."

The Porsche screeched to a halt not six feet from where the four bikers were standing over Sally. One of them, tall, lanky, short hair, was bending over her.

"Okay, guys," Quinlan said, "back off now."

Three of them twisted around to see two guns pointed at them. "We're FBI and we want you out of here in three seconds."

"Not yet." It was the lead biker, who was now on his knees beside her.

"What are you doing to her?"

"I'm a doctor-well, not fully trained, but I am an intern. Simpson's the name. I'm just trying to see how badly hurt she is."

"Since you're the one that knocked her off the road, that sounds weird."

"We didn't force her off the road. She went into a skid. Actually, we followed because we saw you go back after her. Hey, man, we just want to help her."

"As I said, we're FBI," Quinlan repeated, looking at the man. "Listen, she's a criminal. A big-time counterfeiter. Is she going to be all right? Can you tell if she broke anything? Dillon, keep an eye on these bozos."

Quinlan dropped to his knees. "Can I take off her helmet?"

"No, let me. I guess maybe we should wear helmets. If she hadn't had one on, she might have scrambled her brains and not necessarily left them inside her head. You're really FBI? She's really a criminal?"

"Of course she is. What are you doing? Okay, you're seeing if her arms are broken. She'd better be all right or I'll have to flatten you. You scared the shit out of her. Yeah, she's your typical criminal type. Why isn't she conscious yet?"

At that moment Sally moaned and opened her eyes. It was dark. She heard men's voices, lots of them.

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Then she heard James.

"No," she said. "No, it's not possible you caught me. I didn't think it could be you. I was wrong again."

He leaned down over her and said one inch from her nose, "I caught you, all right. And this is the last time I'm going to do it. Now just be quiet and lie still."

"I wouldn't have guessed she was a criminal," Simp-son said. "She looks as innocent and sweet as my kid sister."

"Yeah, well, you never know. It's taken us a long time to catch up with her. We didn't know she'd gotten hold of a bike. She was in a car six hours ago.

"All right, Sally, are you all right? Anything hurt? Nothing's broken, right? Can't you take off her helmet now?"

"Okay, but let's do it real carefully."

Once the helmet was off, she breathed a sigh of relief. "My head hurts," she said. "Nothing else does except my shoulder. Is it broken?"

The biker felt it very gently. "No, not even dislocated. You probably landed on it. It'll be sore for a while.

I think you should go to the hospital and make sure there are no internal injuries."

"No," she said. "I want to get on my bike and get out of here. I've got to get away from this man. He betrayed me."

"What do you mean, he betrayed you?"

"He drew me in and made me trust him. I even slept with him one night, but that was in Oregon. Then he had the gall to tell me he'd lied to me, he was an FBI agent. He told me that here, not in Oregon."

"You're sure her brains aren't scrambled?" Dillon asked, pressing a bit closer.

"She made perfectly good sense," Quinlan said. "If you can't add anything sensible, Dillon, just keep quiet."

Quinlan touched the biker's arm. "Thanks for your help. The four of you can go now."

"Can I see identification?"

Quinlan smiled through his teeth. "Sure thing. Dillon, show the man our ID again. He didn't get a good enough look the first time."

The biker studied it closely, then nodded. He looked back down at Sally, who'd propped herself up on her elbows. "I still can't believe she's a crook."

"You should see her grandmother. A glacier, that old lady. She's the head of the counterfeiting ring.

Leads her husband around by the ear. She's a terror, and this one is going to be just like her."

Once the bikers had roared off, Quinlan said to Sally, "We're going to take you to the hospital now."

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"No."

"Don't be an idiot. You could have hurt your innards."

"If you force me to a hospital, I'll announce to the world who I am and who you are."

"No, you won't."

"Try me."

He realized he was being blackmailed, but not for anything he had done. She would be the only one to be hurt if she did as she promised. He believed her.

"How are you, Sally?"

"Dillon? You were the jerk driving the Porsche? And James was sitting right beside you telling you what to do. I should have known. Well, I did know, deep down."

"Yeah," Dillon said, wondering why it didn't occur to her to give him any of the credit. "Let me help you up.

You don't look half bad in Quinlan's coat. A little long, but other than that, it's a perfect fit. Anyone who can ride a motorcycle like you do has to have the broadest shoulders in the land."

"How did you find me? Oh, dear, my head." She shook her head, then blinked her eyes. "It's just a bit of a headache. My shoulder hurts a little, but that's all. No hospital."

Quinlan couldn't stand to see her weaving around, his coat torn at the left shoulder, two buttons popped on her blouse. "You're not wearing a bra."

Sally looked down at the gaping blouse. There was no way she could pull it together. She just buttoned James's coat. "Dillon got me a training bra when he went out and bought all these charming duds that are three sizes too small. I couldn't even get the thing fastened."

"Well, I didn't know what size. Sorry it didn't get the job done."

She kicked him in the shin.

"I didn't mean it like that, dammit," he said, rubbing his leg. "I'll think of something and tell you later."

"You'd better not."

Quinlan took her arm and gently pulled her toward him. "It's all right now, Sally. It's all right."

He pulled her against him. "Are you sure you don't want to have a doctor check you out?"

"No doctor. I hate doctors."

That made sense to him. He didn't point out that a doctor wasn't the same as a shrink. He wondered in that moment if Beadermeyer even was a doctor. He said to Dillon, "When you get a minute, do some Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

checking on Beadermeyer. I'm beginning to wonder if he's just a ruthless crook." To Sally he said, "All right. But you need to rest. Let's find a place to stay the night."

"How did you find me?"

"We just missed you at your grandparents', just as we did at your mother's. We figured you had to be as tired

as we were, so we called all the motels in this area. It was easy. You've got a lot to learn about running, Sally."

She realized then that she'd lost, she'd really lost. And it had been so easy for them. If they hadn't tracked her down on the highway, then James would have just come into her motel room. Easy, too easy. She was a turkey. She looked down at her dead Honda 350, at its twisted frame and blown back tire.

"My bike is ruined. I just bought it. I was just getting it broken in."

"It's all right. It doesn't matter." "That bike cost me nearly all my money." "Since it was my three hundred dollars, I'm willing to write it off."

Everything had turned upside down. Nothing was as it should be. She eased her hand into the coat and pulled out his gun. She pressed it against his lower ribs.

19

"Not AGAIN, SALLY," he said, but still he was careful not to move.

"She's got your gun on you again, Quinlan?"

"Yes, but it's okay. I think she's learned a bit more since the last time she did it.

"Sally, it's over now. Come on, sweetheart, pull that sucker back. Whatever you do, don't forget that hair trigger. Damn, I think I'll have it modified a bit next time I'm at Quantico. Actually, if you could slip it back into my shoulder holster once we're in the car, I'd appreciate it. My shoulder holster's been empty since you stole my gun. I feel half-dressed."

"I don't want to shoot you, James, but I do want to get away from you. You did betray me. You know I can't trust you. Let me go, please."

“Nope, not ever again. You know you can trust me. It pisses me off that you're even questioning that.

Listen up, Sally. You're with me now until all this is over. Would you rather trust your mother or your grandparents? Oh, yeah, your sweet little granny is a piece of work."

"No, I don't trust any of them. Well, I do trust Noelle, but she's all confused and doesn't know what to believe- whether I'm a lunatic or not. I'd bet that all of them have called Beadermeyer, even Noelle. If she called him it wasn't to turn me in, it was to get some answers. Oh, God, do you think Beadermeyer would hurt her?"

Quinlan didn't think he would hurt her unless his own skin was in really deep trouble, which it would be shortly, but not just yet. But he said, "I don't know. Beadermeyer could do anything if he felt threatened, which he probably does, since we busted you out of his sanitarium. Hey, did you know I even threw Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

meat to those dogs to save you?''

She looked up at him in the darkness. "What dogs?"

Dillon said, "There were guard dogs at the sanitarium, Sally. James tossed meat to them so they wouldn't tear our throats out. One of the dogs was leaping up trying to get James's ankle when he was carrying you up that fence."

She could see the shadows and blurred lines of his face. "Well," she said at last, aware that she couldn't hold that gun up for much longer because her shoulder hurt like the very devil, "shit."

"That's what we've been thinking for the past six hours," Dillon said. "Come on, Sally, give it up.

Quinlan's determined to help you. He's determined to protect you. Let him be possessive. I've never before seen him like this. It's a real treat.

"Now, come on, you guys. Let's get out of here before some motorists come by and stop or worse, someone calls the local cops."

Quinlan didn't even think about it, he just scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the Porsche.

"You're no he-man," she said in the bitterest voice he'd ever heard. "It was just a six-foot walk. A nerd could have carried me that far."

"It's my gun," he said, leaning down and lightly kissing her ear. "It's heavy." When he settled her on his lap in the passenger side of the Porsche, he held out his hand for the gun.

She looked at him for a very long time. “You're really feeling possessive about me?"

"You stole my money, my credit cards, my car, and the photos of my nieces and nephews. I had to catch you so I could get that stuff back."

"Bastard." She gave him the gun. - "Yeah, that's me," he said. "Thanks, Sally. No more trying to run away from me?" he asked as he tossed the gun into the back seat.

"I don't know."

"Tell you what, I won't strain your options. I'll handcuff you to me, how's that?"

She didn't answer, her head pressed against his shoulder. She hurt, he realized, and here he'd been teasing her. "Just rest," he said. He looked at Dillon. "How about finding us a nice motel?''

"Contradiction in terms. Are you paying or is the FBI?"

"Hell, I'm rich now that I've got my credit cards back. It's on me, all except your room, Dillon."

"Tomorrow we'll buy you some clothes that fit."

She was standing there, staring at the large motel room. There was a sitting area and a TV and a king-size bed. She turned to look at him. "It's payback time?" He cocked his head to one side. "What do you mean?" She nodded toward the bed. "I gather I'm to sleep with you in that bed."

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"I was going to ask that you take the sofa. It's too short for me."

She gave him a baffled look, then walked to the bathroom, saying over her shoulder, "I don't understand you. Why aren't you furious with me? Why aren't you yelling? I'm not used to reasonable people, particularly reasonable men. Just look at you, the very image of long-suffering Job."

A bruise was coming up along her jaw. He wondered just how badly her shoulder was hurt. "I would be pissed at you if I hadn't seen you go flying off that motorcycle. You gave me a gray hair with that stunt."

"It was a slick spot. There was nothing I could do."

"Take a nice long shower. It should help your aches and bruises."

Five minutes later there was a knock on the adjoining door.

Quinlan opened it up. "She's in the shower. Come on in."

Dillon was carrying a big bag from Burger King and a container holding three big soft drinks. He set them down on the table and threw himself on the sofa.

"What a mess. At least it seems like she's not going to try to run again. I didn't know you had such charm."

"Hang around and maybe you'll get a few pointers."

"What the hell are we going to do, Quinlan? We've got to call Brammer. We don't even know what's going on with the rest of the investigation."

"It just occurred to me that it's the weekend. This is Friday night-well, actually Saturday morning. We're sort of off duty. We've got until Monday before we have to be the good guys again, right?"

Dillon was leaning back against the sofa, his eyes closed. "Brammer will have our balls for breakfast."

"Nah. He would have had our balls if we'd lost Sally. But we didn't. Everything will be fine now."

"I can't believe your wild-eyed optimism," Dillon said, opening his eyes and sitting up when he heard the shower turn off. “They have all sorts of those little shampoos and conditioners and stuff in the bathrooms."

"Your point?"

The blow-dryer went on.

"No point, really. Let's eat." Dillon said. He took a big bite of his burger, saying with his mouth full, "I'm stressed. I need to work out. Thank God tomorrow's Saturday. But damn, the gym will be crowded."

It was nearly three o'clock in the morning. It was quiet and dark in the room. He knew she was still awake. It was driving him nuts.

"Sally?" he said finally. "What's wrong?"

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"What's wrong?" She started to laugh. "You have the feelings of a rhino. You ask me what's wrong?"

“Okay, you have a point, but you need to sleep and so do I. I can't go to sleep until you do."

"That's nonsense. I haven't made a sound."

"I know, that's what's so crazy about it. I know you're scared to death, but if you'll remember, I promised you that I'd protect you. I promised that we'd get this mess all cleared up. You know I can't do it without you."

"I told you, James, I don't remember that night. Not a single thing. There are just images and sounds, but nothing solid. I don't know who killed my father. He may not even have been killed when I was there. On the other hand, I could have shot him. I hated him more than you can begin to imagine. Noelle swore to me that she didn't kill him. There was more, but she didn't have time to tell me-if, that is, she would have told me in any case."

"You know you were there when he was shot. You know very well you didn't shoot him. But we'll get back to that later."

"I think my mother didn't tell me the truth because she knows I did shoot him. She's trying to protect me, not the other way around."

"No, you didn't shoot him. Maybe it was because she didn't have time since we showed up. Or maybe it was because she's protecting somebody else. We'll find out everything. Trust me. She told the cops and us that she'd been out all evening, alone, at a movie."

"Well, she told me she'd been with Scott. Which means she had a witness to prove she didn't kill my father."

"Scott? Your husband?"

"Don't be cute. You know he's my husband, but for only a very short time longer."

"All right. We'll take care of things. Now, it's late. We've got to get some sleep.

"I just wanted to tell you that you ran a good race, Sally, real good. When I just happened to spot you leaving the motel on that motorcycle, 1 nearly dropped my teeth. That was real smart of you to ditch the car and buy a bike. It took us totally by surprise."

"Yes, but it didn't matter when it came right down to it, did it?"

"No, thank God. Dillon and I are good. That and lucky as dogs on the loose in an Alpo factory. Where were you going?"

"To Bar Harbor. My grandfather gave me three hundred dollars. It was all he had in his wallet. When I counted it, I became aware of a certain irony."

"You're kidding. Three hundred exactly?"

"Right on the button."

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"I didn't particularly care for your grandparents. The maid showed us into this back study. They were watching some Home Shopping show. I've got to say that was a surprise. Mr. Franklin Oglivee Harrison and wife watching that plebeian show."

"That would have surprised me too."

"Sally, would you like to come here to the big bed? No, don't freeze up on me. I can see you freezing from here. I'll bet your shoulder aches too, doesn't it?"

"Just a little bit. More sore than aches. I was very lucky."

"You're right about that. Come on now, I promise not to attack you. Remember how well we both slept in The Cove in my tower bedroom? It can't have bothered you all that much, since you were willing to tell the bikers about it quick enough."

The silence lasted for a full minute. She said, "Yes, I remember. I don't know why I opened my mouth and blabbed it to total strangers. I had that horrible nightmare."

"No, you remembered what had happened to you. It was a nightmare, but it was real. It was your father.

At least you finally told me that.

"Come here, Sally. I'm exhausted and even you-super female-have got to be teetering on the edge just a bit."

To his relief and pleased surprise, she was standing beside the bed in the next moment, looking down at him. She was wearing one of his white undershirts. He pulled the covers back.

She slipped in and lay on her back.

He lay on his back four inches away from her.

"Give me your hand."

She did. He squeezed her fingers. "Let's get some sleep."

Surprisingly, they did.

When Quinlan awoke early the following morning, she was sprawled on top of him, her arms wrapped around his neck, her legs parted, lying directly on top of his. The undershirt had ridden up to her waist.

Oh, damn, he thought, trying not to move, trying to tell himself that this was just something else a professionally trained FBI agent had to learn how to deal with. So it hadn't been covered in the sixteen-week training course at Qutsitico. No big deal. He had experience. He wasn't sixteen. He breathed through his teeth.

Yes, he would handle this situation with poise and composure. He felt the heat of her through his boxer shorts. He was just a smidgeon of material away from her, that was all, and he knew that composure was a big thing at this point.

"Sally?"

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"Hmmmm?"

He was harder than his uncle Alex's divining rod. No way he was going to scare her. As gently as he could, he pushed her off him onto her back. The only thing was that she didn't let go of him. He had no choice but to come down over her. Now Uncle Alex's divining rod was between her legs, just where it belonged.

What the hell was poise anyway? It didn't seem too important right this moment.

"Sally, I'm in a bad way. Let me go, okay?"

Her arms eased around his neck but she kept her fingers laced.

He could have easily pulled away from her, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. She was slight and warm and he thought where he was and where she was a very nice thing. He loved the feel of her arms tight about his neck. He liked her warm breath against his neck.

He thought having her here beneath him until he croaked would be a very nice thing.

He was staring down at her. He opened his mouth and said, "Sally, would you marry me?"

Her eyes came open in a flash. "What did you say?"

"I asked you to marry me."

"I don't know, James. I'm already married."

"I'd forgotten that. Sally, please don't move. Do you want to take your arms off my neck?''

"No, not really. You're warm, James, and I like your weight on me. I feel safe and like everything just might be all right. Somebody would have to go through you to get to me. They'd never make it, you're too solid, too strong. Please don't roll off me."

Solid and strong was he? He turned even harder. "You're sure you're not afraid? After what happened to you at the sanitarium, I won't want to scare you."

She frowned even as she tightened her arms around his neck. "It's odd, but you never scared me except when you came roaring through Amabel's door like a bull that day, that day when my father called me for the first time. But after that, not at all, not even when you walked in on me and I'd just come out of the shower."

"You were so beautiful, I thought I'd lose it for sure."

"Me? Beautiful?" She snorted, and he was charmed. "I'm a stick, but you're nice to say it."

"But it's true. I looked at you and thought, She's perfect. I really like that little black mole on the side of your belly, just beside your left pelvic bone."

"Oh, dear, you saw that much of me?"

"Oh, yes. A man's eyes can move real fast when the motivation is there. Why don't you dump Scott Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Brainerd and then you can marry me?''

"I don't think he'll mind at all," she said after a moment. "Actually he's already dumped me, despite those pleas he made on TV." She was rubbing her hands over his shoulders and upper back. His skin was warm and smooth. "Shortly after we were married, I knew it had been a mistake. I was as busy as he was, always on the go, always going out to meetings and parties and functions in the evenings, always talking to people on the phone, always having people over. I loved it, and he seemed to at first.

"Then he told me he'd thought I would give all that up when we got married. Evidently he expected me to sit around until he got home and then feed him and probably rub his back and listen to him talk about his day, and then strip if he wanted sex. At least that's what he'd expected. Where he got that idea I'll never know.

"I tried to talk to him about it, but he would just shake his head and tell me over and over that I was a crummy wife, that I was unreasonable. He said I'd lied to him. That wasn't true. It came as a total shock to me after we were married when he started pitching fits over my schedule. While we were dating it had been just the same and he'd never said a word. Once he even told me how proud he was of me.

"When I finally told him that I knew he was having an affair and that I wanted out, he said I was imagining things. He said I was being silly, at least at first he said that. Then just days later he said I was losing it, that I was paranoid but that he wouldn't divorce me because I was going crazy. It wouldn't be right. No, he wouldn't do that to me. I didn't understand what he was talking about until about four days later.

"He was sleeping with another woman, James, I would bet my life on it. After I was locked away in Beadermeyer's sanitarium, I don't know what he did. I was kind of hoping that I'd never have to see him again. And I didn't. Just my father came. But Scott had to be in on it with my father. He was and is my husband, after all. And he had told me I was nuts."

Interesting, he thought. "Yes," he said. "He was in on it, up to his little shyster's ears. Who was he having an affair with?''

"I don't know. Probably someone at work, at TransCon. Scott's big into power."

"I'm sorry," he said, dipped down and kissed her ear, "but you're going to have to see him again, at least one more time. Good thing is, I'm your hero and I'm even official, so you don't have to worry.

"Sally, maybe Scott killed your father. Maybe your mother is protecting him."

"No, Scott's a worm. He's a stingy, cowardly little worm. He wouldn't have the guts to kill my father."

"All right." So much pain, he thought, too much. It would all work out, it just had to.

He leaned down and kissed her mouth this time. Her lips parted, and he wanted more than anything to go deep into her mouth, just as he wanted to go deeply inside her body, but he realized her world was spinning out of control right now. He didn't want to add any more confusion to her life. Good Lord, he'd asked her to marry him.

"Perhaps that would be good," she said and pulled him down so she could kiss him.

"What would be good?" he said in her mouth.

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"To get married. To you. You're so normal, so big and normal. You didn't have a screwed-up childhood, did you?"

"No. I've got two older sisters and an older brother. I was the baby of the family. Everyone spoiled me rotten.

My family wasn't particularly dysfunctional. No one hit anyone. We kids beat the crap out of each other, but that's normal enough. I was big into sports, any and every sport, but my passion was and still is football. Sundays were created for football. I always go into withdrawal after the Super Bowl. Do you like football?"

"Yes. I had a woman gym teacher at my school who was from San Francisco. She was nuts about football and taught us the game. We got very good. The only problem was that there wasn't another girl's team around for us to play. I don't like basketball or baseball."

"I can live with that. I'll even play touch football with you."

She kissed his neck. He shuddered as he felt her opening even more beneath him. He said quickly, "My big screw-up was marrying Teresa Raglan when I was twenty-six. She was from Ohio, seemed just perfect for me.

"She's a lawyer, just like your husband and dear old dad. It turned out she fell in love with a guy in the Navy who was selling secrets to whoever was interested. I was the one who caught him. She defended him. She got him off, then left me and married him."

"That's pretty amazing, James. What happened to her?"

"They live in Annandale, Virginia. She's got two kids, the guy's some sort of lobbyist, paid really well, and they seem to be doing just great. I see them every once in a while. No, don't romanticize it and pretend that I was a brokenhearted wreck. I wasn't. I was shocked and furious for a while, before Dillon pointed out the absurdity of it all.

"The good guy catches the bad guy. The good guy's wife defends the bad guy and gets him off and then marries him. Pretty deep stuff to walk in. He was right. The whole thing was like a bad melodrama or a TV soap."

"James, you're wonderful. Even in all this mess, you can laugh and make me laugh, and you weren't angry that I poked a gun in your stomach and stole your car. I had to just ditch the car, James. Then I bought the motorcycle. I had to get away. I think if you could forget who you are and come to Bar Harbor with me, everything would be better than what it's going to be soon. I used to love life, James, before-well, that's not important right now."

"It is important. You want to know something else? Something else that will prove how great I am?"

"What's that?"

"I didn't even get pissed when you pulled my gun on me the second time."

"Well, that settles it then, doesn't it?" She moved beneath him, and he thought he'd lose it for sure. He was hard against her, and his heart was pounding deep and fast against her chest.

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He hadn't intended to let things get this out of hand, at least he hadn't before she shifted beneath him, her legs wide now, his legs between hers.

He kissed her, then said into her mouth. "You're beautiful, and you can feel how much I want you. But we can't let this happen. I don't have any condoms. The last thing you need is to get pregnant."

He heard Dillon moving about in the adjoining room. "Besides, Dillon is awake and up. It's nearly seven o'clock. We need to get back home."

She turned her face away from him. Her eyes were closed. He thought she must be in pain, from either her head or her shoulder. Without thinking, he reared back and pulled his undershirt over her head. She blinked up at him and made a move to cover herself.

No, he thought, she wasn't ready for this. "It's all right. I want to see how badly your shoulder is hurt.

Hold still."

He was on his knees between her legs, bending over her, his hands gentle as they lightly touched her left shoulder. She winced. "There. Okay, hold still, let me feel around just a bit more." She looked like the Italian flag, the bruises raw and bright, slashing downward to her breasts and over her shoulder cap to her upper arm. Some of the colors were smearing into each other, green the predominant one.

He leaned down and kissed her shoulder.

She felt her hands clenching on his arms. "I'm sorry you got hurt." He kissed her again, on her left breast this time. He laid his cheek against her breast and listened to her heartbeat, so clear and strong, and now it was speeding up. Why not, he thought. He raised his head and smiled at her.

"A woman who's lived with as much stress as you have must have release. It's the best medicine." He kissed her again, and eased off her onto his side. He slid his palm down her body, lightly caressing her belly, then his fingers found her. He caressed her even as he kissed her, knowing that she was scared, nervous, but he didn't stop. His fingers went deeper, changing rhythm, even as his breath speeded up as he felt her relax, as he felt the excitement of what he was doing to her break through her embarrassment.

He lifted his head and smiled at her dazed face. "It's all right, sweetheart. You need this. God knows I do, too."

He began kissing her again, talking into her mouth, sex words that were crude and raw and exciting.

When she came, he took her cries in his mouth, held her tightly against him, and wished like mad that he could come inside her. He hurt, he was pressing hard as a board against her thigh.

But he couldn't.

Dillon knocked lightly on the adjoining door.

"Quinlan, Sally, you guys awake?"

He looked down at the bluest eyes he'd ever seen. She was just staring at him as if she couldn't believe what had happened.

"You okay?"

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She just stared at him, mute.

"Hey, Quinlan, you up? Come on, you guys, we've got miles to go."

"That's the guy who owns the Porsche," Quinlan said. "We've got to hang on to him." He kissed the tip of her nose and forced himself to leave her.

20

"I LIKE YOUR apartment."

He grinned at the back of her head. “Easy for you to say since it's got more character than that motel room-"

She turned to face him, no longer dressed in the too-tight jeans, his coat that had hung halfway down her legs, and the blouse that had gaped open over her breasts.

They'd stopped at the Macy's in Montgomery Plaza on the way back to Washington. Dillon had bowed out, heading for the computer software store in the mall. James and Sally had enjoyed themselves immensely, arguing over everything from the color of her nightgown to the style of her shoes. She left wearing dark-brown corduroy slacks that fit her very nicely, a cream pullover wool sweater over a brown turtleneck, and neat brown leather half boots.

He was carrying his own coat-the one she'd taken- over his arm. He doubted the dry cleaners would be able to get out the grease stains from her motorcycle accident.

"I've heard that men living alone usually live in a dump-you know, empty pizza cartons all over everywhere, including the bathroom, dead plants, and horrible furniture they got from their mother's attic."

"I like to live well," he said, and realized it was true. He didn't like mess or secondhand furniture, and he loved plants and impressionist paintings. He was lucky to have Mrs. Mulgravy live next to him. She saw to everything when he was gone, particularly his precious African violets.

"You do very well with plants." "I think the secret is that I play my sax to them. Most of them prefer blues."

"I don't think I like the blues," she said, still looking at him intently.

"Have you ever listened to Dexter Gordon? John Col-trane? Gordon's album Blue Notes wrings your withers." "I've heard of Gato Barbieri."

"He's great too. I learned a lot from him and Phil Woods. There's hope yet for you, Sally. You'll get an earful tonight. You've got to give the wailing and the rhythm a chance."

"That's your hobby, James?"

He looked just a bit embarrassed. "Yeah, I play the saxophone at the Bonhomie Club on Friday and Saturday nights. Except when I'm not in town, like last night." "Are you playing tonight?" "Yes, but no, not now. You're here." "I'd love to hear you. Why can't we go?" He gave her a slow smile. "You'd really like to go?" "I'd really like to go."

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"Okay. The chances are nobody would even begin to recognize you, but let's get you a wig anyway, and big dark glasses." He knew that tomorrow he, Sally, and Dillon would leap into this mess feetfirst. He couldn't wait to meet Scott Brainerd. He couldn't wait to meet Dr. Beadermeyer. He hadn't told Sally yet. He wanted to give her today with no hassles from him, from anybody. He wanted to see her smile.

"James, do you think I could call a couple of my friends?"

"Who are they?"

"Women who work on the Hill. I haven't spoken to them since more than six months ago. Well, I did call one of them just before I left Washington to go to The Cove. Her name is Jill Hughes. I asked her for a loan. She agreed, very quickly, and wanted to meet me. There was something about how she acted-I didn't go. I'd like to call Monica Freeman. She was my very best friend. She was out of town before. I want to see how she acts, what she has to say to me. Perhaps I'm paranoid, but I just want to know who's there for me."

She didn't sound the least bit sorry for herself. Still, he felt a knife twist in his gut.

"Yeah," he said easily, "let's give Monica a call and see if someone's gotten to her as well."

She called Monica Freeman, a powerhouse administrator in HUD. She was embarrassed because she had to call Information for the number. She'd known it as well as her own before Scott.

The phone rang twice, three times, then, "Hello."

"Monica? It's Sally."

James was bent over, writing something.

There was a long pause. "Sally? Sally Brainerd?"

"Yes. How are you, Monica?"

"Sally, where are you? What's going on?"

James slid a sheet of paper under her hand. Sally read it, nodded slowly, then said, "I'm in trouble, Monica. Can you help me? Can you loan me some money?"

There was another long pause. "Sally, listen. Tell me where you are."

"No, Monica, I can't do that."

"Let me call Scott. He can come and get you. Where are you, Sally?"

"You never called him Scott before, Monica. You didn't like him, remember? You used to call him a jerk when you knew I was listening. You wanted to protect me from him. You used to tell me he was into power and that he was trying to separate me from all my friends. Don't you remember how you'd call after Scott and I were married and ask me first thing if Scott was gone so we could really talk? You didn't like him, Monica. Once you told me I should kick him in the balls."

There was utter silence, then, “I was wrong about him. He's been very concerned about you, Sally. He Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

came to me hoping you would call and that I would help him.

"Scott's a good man, Sally. Let me call him for you. He and I can meet you someplace, we-"

Sally very gently punched the off button on the portable phone.

To her surprise James was grinning. "Hey, just maybe we've got your husband's lover. Am I jumping too fast here? Yeah, probably, but what do you think? Maybe he's a real stud, maybe he's got both Jill and Monica? Could he do it, do you think?"

She'd been thinking that hell couldn't feel worse than she felt now, but he'd put a ridiculous twist on it, like the best of the spin doctors. "I don't know. She's certainly changed her tune, just like Jill. Two? I doubt it, James. He was always so busy. I think his deals were more exhilarating to him than mere sex."

"What kind of deals?"

"He was in my dad's law firm, something I didn't know until after we were married. That sounds weird but it's true. He didn't want me to know, obviously, until after we were married. He was in international finance, working primarily with the oil cartel. He would come home rubbing his hands together, telling me how this deal or that deal would impress everybody, how he'd gotten the better of such and such a sheikh and had just brought in a cool half million. Deals like that."

"How long were you married to him?"

"Eight months." She blinked and fiddled with the leaves of a healthy philodendron. "Isn't it odd? I don't count the six months in the sanitarium."

"That's not a very long time for a marriage, Sally. Even mine-a semi-unmitigated disaster-lasted two years."

"I realized right after we were married that my father was as much a part of the marriage as we were. I'm willing to bet he offered me up to Scott as part of a deal between the two of them."

She drew a deep breath. "I think my father put me in the sanitarium as revenge for all those years I protected Noelle. I'm willing to bet that another part of the revenge was to get Scott to marry me. He got to Scott, and Scott did what he was told. All revenge.

"When I told Scott I wanted a divorce, he told me I was crazy. I told him that he could marry my father if he wanted a St. John so badly. Maybe two days after that, I was in that sanitarium-at least I think it was two days. The time still gets all scrambled up."

"But he had a lover. Perhaps Monica, perhaps Jill. Perhaps someone we don't know at all. How quickly were you sure about his affair?"

"About three months after we were married. I'd decided to try to make a go of it, but when I found a couple of love notes, unsigned, and two motel receipts, I didn't care enough to try. Between that and my father, always in the background, I just wanted to get out."

"But your father didn't let you get out."

"No."

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"Obviously your father knew everything about your marriage. Scott must have told him immediately when you asked for a divorce for your father to take action so quickly. Who knows? Maybe it was Scott's idea. Do you want to call anyone else?"

"No, that leaves just Rita. I don't think I could take it if Rita started on me about calling Scott. This was enough-much too much, as a matter of fact."

"Okay, no more work today, all right?"

"That was work?"

“Certainly. We just filled in another piece of the puzzle."

"James, who knocked both of us out in The Cove and brought me back to Doctor Beadermeyer's?"

"Beadermeyer or a henchman. Probably not Scott. It was probably the guy who played the role of your father that night in your bedroom window. But now that you've got me, you don't have to be depressed at the number of bad people in the world."

"They all seem to have congregated around me. Except Noelle."

He wanted to ask her to go over everything with him, from the day she met Scott Brainerd to now, but he didn't. Give her the day off, make her smile. Maybe they could make love in front of the fireplace. He wanted to make love to her very much. His fingers itched remembering the feel of her, the way she moved against his fingers, the softness of her flesh. He tried to focus on his African violets.

That evening she pulled her hair back tight, securing it with a clip at the nape of her neck. She put on a big pair of dark sunglasses. "No one would recognize you," Quinlan said, coming up behind her and putting his hands lightly on her shoulders.

"But let's get a wig anyway. You know something? Your father was killed, what, three weeks ago or so?

It was splashed all over TV, all over every tabloid, every newspaper. You, the missing daughter, got the same treatment. Why take the chance on someone recognizing you? I have to tell you, I like you in those sunglasses. You look mysterious. Are you really the same woman who's agreed to marry me? The same woman who woke me up this morning lying on top of me?''

"I'm the same woman. James, really, the other-I thought that was just a glitch on your part. You really meant it?"

"Nan, I just wanted to get you in bed and make you come."

She hit him in the stomach. "Yeah, Sally, I really meant it."

The Bonhomie Club on Houtton Street was in an old brick building set in the middle of what they called a

"border" neighborhood. It was accepted wisdom to take a cab to and from the club or else take a huge risk of losing your entire car, not just the hubcaps.

James had never really thought about the possible dangers in this area until he handed Sally out of the cab. He looked around at the streetlights, many of them shot out.

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There was litter on the sidewalks, none in front of the club because Ms. Lilly didn't like trash-real trash, white trash, any kind of trash.

"Like I told you, boy," she'd said when she hired him some four years before, “I like the look of you. No earrings, no tattoos, no bad teeth, and no paunch.

"You'll have to watch the gals, now, they're a horny bunch and one look at you and they're gonna have visions of sugar cocks dancing in their heads." And she howled at her own humor while James, an experienced agent, a man who'd heard just about every possible combination of crude words, just stood there, embarrassed to his toes. She tweaked his earlobe between two fingers with inch-long bright-pink fingernails and laughed some more. "You're gonna do just fine, boy, just fine."

And he had. At first the customers, a loyal bunch, the large majority of them black, had looked at him like he was something escaped from the zoo, but Lilly had introduced him, made three off-color jokes about his sax playing, his sex playing, and his red sox playing.

She was one of his best friends. She'd even given him a raise in January.

"You'll like Ms. Lilly," Quinlan said to Sally as he shoved open the heavy oak door of the club. "I'm her token white." Marvin the Bouncer was just inside, a heavy scowl on his ugly face until he saw it was Quinlan.

"Hullo Quinlan," he said. "Who's the chicky?"

"The chicky is Sally. You can call her Sally, Marvin."

"Hello, Marvin."

But Marvin wasn't up for names. He just nodded. "Ms. Lilly is back in her office playing poker with the mayor and some of his lame-assed cronies. No, James, there ain't no drugs. You know Ms. Lilly, she'd shoot anybody before she'd let 'em take a snort.

"She'll be out before it's time for you to play. As for you, Chicky, you just stay in my eyesight once James is up there wailing his heart out on the stage, all right?