by DiAnn Mills
“Are you okay?”
“Sure. Just tired. Ty’s working a lot of late hours.” Ginny placed her books on the return portion of the circulation desk.
“We have three new fiction titles.”
“I think I want a nonfiction this time.” Ginny’s gaze darted about, obviously to make sure none of the book club members were nearby. She then focused her attention on Paige. “Marriage and relationships. I trust you’ll keep that to yourself.”
“Do you need to talk?”
Ginny touched Paige’s arm. “If there is anyone in this town whom I can trust, it’s you. But for right now, helping me find a couple of books is all I need.”
No one would trust her if they knew the truth. And at times, Paige had to fight for a glimpse of it. Too many times it seemed the world was a mass of gray—no color and no light.
* * *
Thursday before lunch, Miles finished grading the last history test. Part of the students’ work was an essay about Coronado’s exploration of Oklahoma. Their dislike of writing couldn’t be any stronger than his loathing of reading and grading their work. But now he’d graded the last of them, and a couple of the essays were well researched. His office door squeaked open, and Chris stood in the doorway.
“Hey, Coach, got a minute?”
Chris’s tone held more respect than he’d heard in a long time. Maybe this was the beginning of real teamwork, especially after last Friday’s loss. The kid’s eyes held a sparkle that Miles hadn’t seen in weeks.
“Sure.” Miles gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “Your grades okay?”
“English had me a little nervous, but Miss Rogers at the library helped me write a paper. Thanks for asking her to give me a hand. My dad tried to pay her, but she wouldn’t take it.”
“I’m not surprised. What can I do for you?”
Chris rubbed his pant legs and slid into the chair. “I got a call last night from one of OU’s coaches.”
“That’s great. Which one?”
“Coach Netterfield.”
Miles tilted back in his chair. “He’s a good man. Dedicated to his players and the game. What did he say?”
“Said he was following my stats, and, like, I looked good. Said I needed more playing time to meet their qualifications for OU ball.”
“That’s odd. Two years ago, one of our boys was recruited as a junior, got hurt the first game of his senior year, and couldn’t play the rest of the season. OU still brought him on with a full scholarship.”
“Well, Coach Netterfield said they were looking for a star quarterback.”
That doesn’t sound like Netterfield—a defense coach checking out an offensive player—or any coach worth his grit. “Anything else?”
Chris shrugged. “Not really.”
“Strange, he hasn’t called me.”
“Maybe he will.” Chris glanced toward the window behind Miles and beyond to the football field. “That must be it.”
“Must be what?”
“Uh, nothing. So can I get more playing time, Coach?”
Miles worked at rephrasing his thoughts about egotistical football players. Of course Chris had a good teacher when it came to a lack of good sportsmanship. “As quarterback?”
“Well, yeah.”
Miles studied the boy in front of him. He did a good job playing receiver when he wasn’t nursing his wounds about Walt, and he did fine as a backup for Walt. “You’re a good player in your current position, and any college would be proud to have you. Why a defense coach called you for an offense position raises a few questions in my mind.”
Chris stiffened. “I was hoping this would make a difference.”
“I’m the coach here, son.”
Chris stood. “My dad talked to him too.”
Miles didn’t want to waste a moment’s breath discussing Ty Dalton. “I’ll contact Netterfield tomorrow.”
Chris’s eyes widened. “No. Don’t do that.”
“Why?” So you lied. Should have done your homework on who coaches offense at OU.
“Just wait until he calls you.”
“Why wouldn’t you want me to help you with a scholarship?”
Chris shifted from foot to foot. “He asked me and my dad to keep it to ourselves.”
“Then Netterfield wasn’t the man who called.”
“Forget it.”
Once Chris left the office, Miles stood to see if he headed to the lockers before practice. Chris and his buds had made life miserable for Walt, often cornering him. That needed to stop, along with stories about OU coaches. He snatched up the phone and called Brad Netterfield.
“Hey, Brad, I hear you phoned one of my players last night.”
Moments later, Miles replaced his phone. Netterfield hadn’t contacted Chris last night or any other night. Would Ty have put Chris up to this, or was this something Chris had put together?
Okay, Lord, I need a little help here. How do I get this team to work together?
* * *
During lunch, Paige powered up her laptop and checked e-mail before logging on to secure sites. A message from Bobbie Landerson snatched her attention, and she quickly clicked on it.
Paige, we need to talk. Call me as soon as you can.
Chapter 19
I realized recently that I know little about the months Mikaela spent in Kenya before returning to the States. She was in the Nairobi hospital for two months, but the other four months might lead to people, relationships, things I need to know.
That’s Zuriel’s department.
And he’s late.
Again.
I pick up my phone and wait for him to get on the line.
“Where are you?” I curse. I’d rather have my fingers around his throat.
“I’m heading to the elevator. Got in a few hours ago from Vegas.”
Ten minutes later, he sits across from my desk. Hungover. Alcohol seems to gush from the pores of his skin. I am tired of dealing with him.
“Where did Mikaela go after she left the hospital in Nairobi?”
Zuriel rubs the back of his neck. “You called me for that? We’re talking seven years ago.”
I ease back in my chair and allow the fury to slowly dissipate. “She has the power to potentially bring down the CIA on us. My file has been reopened, and your name is slapped with mine on every page. Is that enough?”
Zuriel says nothing while he stares at me. I see a glimpse of the old Zuriel, the calculating man who measured his words like a miser weighs gold. “She lived in an apartment.”
“Who did she see? Where did she go?”
“I have the address.”
“What name did she use?”
“I don’t remember, but I think Paige Rogers.”
“I need to know it all. Get on it now.”
Zuriel’s face reddens. “Who do you think you are? Without me, you wouldn’t be where you are today.”
The clichéd threat strengthens my resolve to eliminate him. I change my tactics. “This is not about any of your abilities. This is about staying two steps ahead of the investigation. Joel, I need for you to do what you do best—keeping this team together.”
Chapter 20
By the time Paige had a free moment to make a private phone call, it was six o’clock and Bobbie would have been in bed hours ago. Savannah, the library intern, had this Friday off from school, so Paige asked her to work. The sooner she faced Keary the better, and she could phone Bobbie along the way.
At home, Paige pulled her mail from her mailbox, a task she always performed with caution. However, if anyone wanted to plant a bomb, they’d handle that at her front door. She leafed through the few pieces of junk mail until she saw a newsletter from Hope Abound International, the missionary organization that sponsored Bobbie, Nathan’s adoptive mother. Paige had supported another missionary with the organization since moving to Split Creek, partly so that she could receive the monthly updates. She also supported missionaries from three other agencie
s . . . just in case someone got too curious about her philanthropy and started poking around.
She slipped her forefinger under the seal, breaking the skin. Drops of blood rushed down her finger. Clenching the bleeding finger against her palm, she used her left hand to open the newsletter. She scanned the contents until her attention fell on Bobbie’s name under prayer requests.
Bobbie Landerson in the Rift Valley area of Kenya has been diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer. As she spends her final days in a Nairobi hospital, please pray for this courageous woman who has devoted her life to bringing the gospel to others.
Paige gasped, and the newsletter fluttered from her fingertips to the ground. Stage four pancreatic cancer? Bobbie Landerson was full of energy and excitement—a picture of health that mirrored her missionary zeal. The prayer request must be for someone else. That was it. A mistake. Paige bent to pick up the newsletter, but it had disappeared. Slipping her shoulder bag to the ground with the rest of the mail, Paige groped around the flower beds. The more she searched, the more the lump in her throat thickened. Finally, with dirt-smeared fingertips, she touched the newsletter beneath blossom-filled marigolds.
The prayer request read the same. Bobbie, the woman who had led Paige to Christ and adopted Nathan, was dying. Hot, stinging tears blinded her vision, and her stomach churned. This was why Bobbie had sent the e-mail. If only Paige could talk to her now, but the hospital would not allow a call to go through at such a late hour.
Oh, dear God, not Bobbie. Must she go when she has so much to give others? A pang of conviction twisted in Paige’s heart. Selfish as her thoughts may be, Nathan did not have a mother without Bobbie. Her baby boy. Her dear friend.
Paige gathered up her belongings and limped to unlock her home—her sanctuary that could not ease the thought of losing Bobbie. Paige longed to be in Nairobi with her. Paige could read to Bobbie, as the missionary had once done for her. Once inside, she sat on her sofa until darkness surrounded her, holding the newsletter and reliving those months in Africa when she hadn’t known what to do and desperately needed a friend. It was Bobbie who listened to her frustration and anger. It was Bobbie who held her when she cried. It was Bobbie who knelt on the floor beside her and taught her how to pray. It was Bobbie who coached her through Nathan’s birth. And it was Bobbie who had opened her arms and her heart to Nathan. The tears dried on Paige’s face. She prayed and cried some more. Hours later, when exhaustion finally overtook her, Paige crawled into bed.
After a sleepless night woven with memories and nightmares, Paige dressed before dawn for the trip to Oklahoma City. Snatching up her cell phone, she phoned the Nairobi hospital and waited for Bobbie’s sweet voice.
“Hi, Paige. You received my e-mail.” Her weak voice tugged at Paige.
“I did. How are you feeling?”
Bobbie laughed softly. “You must have received the newsletter. I tried to get to you first.”
“What can I do to help? How can I pray?” Paige wanted to ask about Nathan, but her emotions teetered near the edge for both of them.
“Oh, Paige. I don’t know what to do about our son.”
Our son. She swiped at a tear. “How good of you to refer to him that way.”
“I remember the day you left Africa—the tears and the grief in leaving him behind. But we have a problem.” Bobbie took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Just weak. I . . . I have no living relatives, nowhere for Nathan to go. How soon can you be here?”
Paige trembled and sank onto her bed. Her mind whirled with what Bobbie had implied. Bring Nathan to the U.S.? Subject him to the dangers and secrets of her life? What kind of life was that for a child? Worse yet, what if Keary learned the truth about his son?
“Say something,” Bobbie managed. “I know I’ve dropped a bomb, but what choice is there?”
God, help me. I don’t know what to say or do. Paige refused to allow tears to disrupt the conversation. “You’ve loved Nathan and provided a home for him when I could do nothing. For that I will always be grateful.”
“And you allowed me to be a mother, a real mother. It was a sacrifice for you and a treasure for me.”
Paige snatched up a tissue and dabbed her face. “Everything is so complicated.”
“I’ve prayed about this, and I think God wants you to take him.”
Paige longed to trust God, but the ache in her heart was true fear. Was this a leap of faith? She wanted to believe that having Nathan back was part of God’s plan. Still her heart hammered against her chest.
“Paige?”
“I’ll be there on the next flight out.” She spoke before she could think about it another minute.
“Are you sure? I don’t mean to be a burden.”
“I will never be able to take your place with him, but I will do my best.”
“My dear friend, please hurry. I have little time left.”
Paige disconnected the call and continued to sit on her bed. With the shadows of night lifting to dawn, she shed one tear after another for Bobbie, for Nathan, and for the evil of Daniel Keary. Her reason for bringing Keary to justice now escalated. He would never be a part of Nathan’s life, or she’d die trying to prevent it.
An hour later, after making travel arrangements to Nairobi and talking with Palmer about arrangements for Nathan, she showered and dressed for the trip to Oklahoma City. She slid her left foot into a Croc shoe, one of a pink pair that she’d bought to wear while her foot healed. Voleta had been with her at the time of the purchase, encouraging her to escape from her traditional box to a bright world of color and fashion. But as Paige studied the popular but not necessarily classy shoe, she wished she’d chosen something else. With a shake of her head, she dispelled her misgivings about her footwear and backed her car out of the driveway. She needed to focus on all the reasons why she was speeding toward the interstate en route to Daniel Keary’s office.
Nearly eight years after coming to Oklahoma, and just when she thought she’d left her old world behind, a call to duty, responsibility, and a nudging in her prayer life had her populating the database of those striving to keep America free from those who threatened its freedom.
I’m certainly sounding noble. But it felt good—satisfying an intrinsic call to her life purpose. She no longer had a desire to spend the rest of her life checking books in and out of the library and baking pies on Thursday mornings. Neither could she stand by and do nothing while the citizens of Oklahoma voted in politically corrupt leadership. Had her views changed because of her devotion to God and to her son, or had her priorities changed because she knew instinctively that no one but God could protect her loved ones? Paige paused a moment to theorize her convictions. Actually she believed in what she was doing because God had opened her eyes to truth and the meaning of real love.
Even though Bobbie’s news had only begun to sink in, she found part of her was excited about the unexpected possibility of being a real mother to Nathan. Another part of her realized she didn’t know the first thing about mothering. Odd how she felt confident in her role as a CIA operative and scared to death of parenthood. Maybe her son would be better off being adopted by someone else. That thought had shadowed her enthusiasm for bringing Nathan home. Was she being selfish? Definitely something to pray about.
Another problem was that she really cared for Miles. No point in debating that fact any longer. Her emotions had played a wild trick on her, and she’d sunk so deep that it would take a forklift to pull her out. Listening to his passion about each player on his team, the students in his class, his firmly rooted faith, and even football, she could no longer deny the depth and solidity of him.
However, once Keary was exposed, Miles would most likely deny his heart, realizing he could never trust her again, especially when he learned about Nathan. And how could she blame Miles? She’d abandoned personal relationships before, as though the men in her life had expiration dates stamped on their foreheads. But her feelings for Miles were undeniably bittersweet, reminding
her of Tennyson’s famous words: “Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”
A truck passed her on the right shoulder, nearly shoving her into the car on her left. Paige glanced in the rearview mirror for the umpteenth time to make sure she wasn’t being followed. Not since she’d run the Camry off the road weeks before had she detected anyone on her tail. But her adversary was adept at keeping his presence unnoticed. The truck driver carrying diesel fuel or the cowboy in the F-350 hauling a horse trailer or even the student driver gripping the wheel nervously could be working for Keary. After all, she’d worn disguises like a fourth-grader on Halloween.
Were there many CIA operatives who were Christian? She didn’t know of any, but faith wasn’t exactly the topic of discussion when being briefed about a mission or seeking cover in the heat of a firefight. Would she ever have the answers to how God viewed the world of spies and counterspies? The assassinations and the lies were completed in the name of national interest.
Could she slip back into the life of Mikaela Olsson? Did she really want to, or did she simply miss the excitement that a librarian’s job failed to supply? What if . . . ? What if Miles and she could have a life together? What if he thought of her and Nathan as a package deal? Would that make a difference? Was it possible to be an operative, a wife, and a mother? The whole question of how God considered the CIA hit her again—as it did on a regular basis. The Israelites had used spies when they were about to enter the Promised Land. God had led them to a woman who had helped them within that ancient city doomed for destruction. What was that woman’s name? . . . Rahab. Yes, she’d been a woman of questionable character, until God scooped her out of the way of eternal death and placed her onto the way of life. Sort of like Paige.
She reflected a moment more on her philosophical mode when she needed to be putting together the responses to all of the questions Keary would pitch at her like fastballs at the World Series. Either that or praying. Both were on the table.
