“Mm-hmm,” came Stephanie's voice. She did not sound at all happy. In fact, she sounds like she might cry, Sydney thought, moving up a few uneven steps.
“Blaa-ha-ha!” A thin skeleton screeched at the top of the stairwell, his bony face lighting up with a pale green glow.
Stephanie stumbled back. “Ow!” she muttered, banging her head on a low part of the ceiling. “Did I say that I hate places like this?”
“No . . . but it's kind of obvious.”
“What was that?” Stephanie blurted out as a moaning wail echoed down the corridor. “Can you see Paul or Greg?”
“I think they went the other way,” Sydney said as they came out into a large windowless room lit by several flickering wall sconces.
“I want to stay far away from them,” Stephanie said adamantly. “They'd love to scare the crap out of me.”
“You know what's really scary?” Sydney pointed to the ceiling. “Those massive spiderwebs are probably real.”
Stephanie wrapped her arms around herself. “Let's find the exit.”
It was funny. Sydney would bet that Stephanie had held her own against assailants ranging from drug lords to arms dealers—that was just a part of life as a special agent. So why was she so spooked over the tawdry special effects in a Niagara Falls funhouse?
They entered another dank corridor. Large plastic bats were suspended from the ceiling. “I'm sure this is someone's idea of fun,” Sydney said, brushing one of them aside. “But to be honest, it's not exactly mine.” Instead of traipsing through the haunted house, she needed to start her search for Sanderling's notes. It seemed like an easy enough mission, but if it wasn't, she wanted to make sure she'd have enough time to complete it.
“Oh!” Stephanie shrieked as a pair of rubbery hands reached through a hole in the wall and tried to grab her. Instead, she grabbed them back and twisted.
“Ow!” The rubbery hands jerked back inside their hole.
“I, uh, I think you may have hurt him,” Sydney said worriedly as the person behind the wall let out some choice words.
Stephanie pushed past Sydney. “I need to get out of here. Right now.”
There was no mistaking the unease in her voice. Sydney followed her, and to her relief, they were soon pushing through a door into the bright sunshine outside.
“What took you guys so long?” Maureen asked, hopping up from the bench she was sitting on with Greg.
Sydney squinted as her eyes adjusted to the daylight. “Oh, you know. Shooting the breeze with a few ghouls is always so time-consuming.” She turned to Stephanie, expecting her to make a joke. But her friend looked visibly shaken.
“Is Paul with you?” Stephanie asked, her eyes darting around the street.
Greg laughed. “Nah, I think he was hoping to terrorize you two a little in there.”
“We could always grant him his wish,” Sydney joked.
But Stephanie's face was pale. “If you think I'm setting foot inside that place again, you're not as smart as I thought you were.”
In order to immerse the agents in French Canadian culture, Agent Henry had announced that Friday night would be spent at a local vineyard for a premium wine tasting. That was why Sydney was dressed in the nicest outfit she'd brought, a sleeveless light blue dress that Francie always said made her eyes shine, and matching leather sandals, sitting in a cast-iron chair on the patio of the Lake de Luc Vineyard.
Paul and Stephanie were sitting next to each other under an umbrella-shaded table. Sydney had noticed that Stephanie had been avoiding him all day, so she was surprised to see them together now. Whatever the spat of the night before had been about had obviously been forgotten. They were nibbling cubes of cheese and clinking their glasses together.
Or maybe they've had a little too much wine, Sydney thought, smiling. Her roommate was glowing in a brightly patterned floral halter dress, a lightweight cardigan draped over her shoulders. And Paul was the picture of attentiveness, pulling out her chair and dabbing at her mouth with his napkin.
“Fine wine is grown and not made,” Pierre Comte, the vineyard's owner, proclaimed from behind an outdoor bar lined with full, round wineglasses for red wine, and tall, slender ones for white. He had just finished taking them on a tour of the property and was busily assembling a variety of wines for the agents to sample.
Sydney had been charmed by the lovely scenery as prearranged limousines had driven them to the picturesque town of Niagara-on-the-Lake. She had grown up in California, but she'd never actually visited a vineyard. “If all the vineyards back home are as beautiful as this one, I'm going to book a trip immediately,” Sydney said now as Pierre handed out glasses one quarter filled with a deep red wine.
“On all those free weekends we have, right?” Maureen cracked from the seat next to her.
“Merlot,” Pierre announced as everyone took a drink of wine, murmuring appreciatively. A pinot grigio followed, then a zinfandel. Sydney was careful to take only small sips and made sure she sampled the crackers and cheese that were offered as well. She definitely did not need to have a headache.
She was tasting some Riesling when she noticed Paul slowly stand up, rubbing his temples. His face had turned a pasty white.
“Are you all right?” Pierre asked, his brow creasing with concern. “Perhaps you should have a bite to eat. Some bread or cheese.”
Paul smiled weakly. “Thanks, but I'm going to catch a cab back to the hotel,” he said, setting his barely touched wineglass on the table. “My head is killing me.”
Sydney glanced over at Stephanie. If they were indeed a couple and things were good, wouldn't she offer to go with him? But when she didn't, Sydney felt obligated to speak up. “Do you want one of us to come with you?”
“Nah, I don't want to spoil it for you guys. I'll be fine.” After Paul had said his good-byes, Pierre called a cab for him and minutes later he was gone.
“Eat, eat,” Pierre urged, passing around a platter of fresh fruit kebobs. “I want you to enjoy, not equate my vineyard with a migraine.”
“Paul gets headaches a lot,” Stephanie said, looking off in the direction he had walked.
“I guess you know a lot about him,” Sydney said as Greg and Maureen went over and sat at the bar and began inspecting the various bottles. The wine was making her bolder than she normally would be.
“Well, we work in the same office. . . . You know how it is,” Stephanie said, tracing the rim of her glass with her finger.
Noah's twinkling eyes and wry grin flashed into Sydney's brain. “I know exactly how it is,” she acknowledged, finishing the Riesling. Suddenly, she couldn't stand it anymore. She had to tell someone about Noah. And Stephanie wasn't just anyone.
Sydney was pretty sure she was in the exact same situation.
Even though she had only known Stephanie for a few days, Sydney felt a powerful connection. Their childhoods, their careers—even their choices of boyfriends.
It's like we were destined to become friends, Sydney decided. “I—I'm dating someone at SD-6,” she blurted out.
Stephanie stared at her. “You are?”
Sydney nodded, the details of her relationship with Noah over the past year now slipping effortlessly from her tongue. “It's the most exhilarating and exasperating experience I've ever had,” she finished with a sheepish expression on her face.
“Wait, isn't that supposed to be what this trip is?” Stephanie said, smiling as Pierre passed out fresh wineglasses filled with a newly uncorked white wine.
“No, wait, I'm confusing myself with Greg's ex-girlfriend,” Sydney said with a laugh. After a few minutes of uninhibited giggling, Sydney held up her hand. “Wait. Enough of this. Now that I've fessed up, you've got to come clean.”
“About what?” Stephanie asked, her tipsy laughter subsiding.
“Come on!” Sydney laughed. “That hug on the rocks yesterday—you can't tell me that you and Paul aren't a couple.”
Stephanie bit her lip and looked down at the pati
o. Her blue eyes grew serious. “Please don't say anything, Sydney,” she said, lowering her voice. “At SD-6 maybe they don't care if agents hook up with each other, but at SD-2—”
“Are you kidding?” Sydney interrupted. “Sloane would, well . . .” She shook her head. “He would not like it, that's for sure.” And neither would have Wilson, she thought sadly, thinking back to the handler she'd regarded as almost a father before he had betrayed SD-6.
“I'm just glad to talk to someone who's in the same boat,” Sydney confessed. “And believe me, Noah and I have had some doozies of arguments too.”
The blank look on Stephanie's face made Sydney blink. “You know,” she said, her voice dropping even lower than it had been. “I heard you guys last night,” she clarified, her tone coaxing. “You don't have to pretend about it with me.”
But Stephanie's face gave away nothing. “I'm not sure what you're getting at.”
Maybe Stephanie isn't as ready to talk about her romance as I am. “Oh, well, I mean, like any couple, I'm sure you guys have your moments, right?” Sydney spluttered. Obviously Stephanie didn't want to let on that she and Paul had had a fight the other night.
A major fight.
And she ended up with a big red welt.
All Sydney wanted to do was flop on the motel-room bed, dress, sandals, and mascara in place, and crash. Even though she knew she had drunk, at most, three full glasses of wine, there was a persistent buzzing in her head that wouldn't go away.
“I'll take a few aspirin and I'll be good as new,” she mumbled, reaching for her cosmetic bag on the vanity. But the bag wasn't there.
“Have you seen my cosmetic bag?” she called to Stephanie, who was getting into her pajamas.
“It's on the nightstand,” Stephanie said as Sydney walked into the room.
And it was. That's weird, Sydney thought, reaching for the case.
And what was weirder was that she could have sworn she had left her hairbrush on the nightstand—but it was on her bed. And didn't I hang up my cardigan? Her favorite J. Crew sweater was draped over an armchair.
“Is something wrong?” Stephanie asked, picking up on Sydney's bewilderment as she turned down the covers on her bed.
“Nothing that a few aspirin can't cure,” Sydney said, taking the plastic bottle out of the bag and giving it a little shake.
Better not to say anything about her belongings being moved.
Because other than Agents Henry and Sinclair, there was only one person who would have had access to their room that night. A person who had left the Lake de Luc Vineyard early.
And I'm definitely not going to open that Pandora's box.
8
“I THOUGHT YOU ORDERED an omelet,” Maureen said, eyeing Greg's large white platter.
Greg used his fork to flip the large folded-over yellow pancake, shards of overdone bacon spilling from the inside. “I did.”
Stephanie ripped open a miniature box of Corn Flakes and poured it into her cereal bowl. “At least they can't really mess this up.”
Sydney took a sip of orange juice. Everyone had received their orders except for her, and judging by the reaction the food was getting, she wasn't too sure how big her appetite was going to be. They were eating breakfast together in the hotel's spacious restaurant before their first French lesson began later that morning. Large windows lined the rear, letting in streams of early sunlight, and patrons were beginning to fill the room.
Everyone in their group was present except Paul. Greg had said the Chicago agent still wasn't feeling well when he came down for breakfast. “Guess he's more of a beer man,” Greg said with a shrug.
Sydney had tried to gauge Stephanie's reaction to Paul's absence, but her friend's expression remained void of any emotion. I could learn a few things from her, Sydney thought. Whenever Noah was near her at SD-6, Sydney was certain that her face became an emotional barometer.
Beep-beep! Beep-beep! Four pairs of hands immediately reached for pagers.
“It's me,” Sydney said as Graham's number back at headquarters appeared on the small gray screen. She pulled her cell phone from her khaki shorts pocket and punched in his number.
“Hey, Sydney. How's it going?” Graham's familiar voice came over the line.
“Okay. What's up?”
“Look, there might be a problem,” Graham blurted out, suddenly rushing his words. Sydney could tell he was nervous. “Those digital camera gloves I gave you? Well, they have a glitch.”
Sydney frowned. “What kind of glitch?”
“I'm not exactly sure yet. What I need you to do is run them through your personal scanner.” Sydney had taken one in her luggage, but it wasn't always reliable. Sometimes it took three tries to get it to work properly.
“Okay,” she said. “I'll do it right now. Call me back if you need anything else.” Just as she pushed her chair back, the waitress deposited a steaming plate of scrambled eggs, sausages, and toast.
“Now that looks good,” Greg said enviously.
Sydney sighed and pushed her chair back from the table. “Go ahead and help yourself. I might be a while.”
It's not fair, Sydney thought as she trudged down the worn Berber carpet to her room. I deserved those eggs and sausages.
She slipped her card key in and pushed open the door—and froze. A man wearing black pants, a dark sweatshirt, and a ski mask was inside, in the middle of rifling through the room!
Instinctively she tossed her bag to the side as the intruder rushed toward her. Throwing her arm up to block a blow, she reared back and gave him a quick kick in the ribs.
He doubled over, but only for a second. He then let loose with his own flying side kick, narrowly missing Sydney's face. She tumbled over the bed to avoid being pinned against the wall, and before she could blink he had picked up an empty suitcase.
He charged hard at her with it, knocking her to the floor. Taking advantage of Sydney's momentary out-of-commission status, he snatched a small tool bag from the floor, and then he was out of the motel room and flying down the hall.
The good news was that apparently he wasn't a psychopath bent on assaulting a female coed in her motel room.
The bad news was that he was a thief. But of what? Sydney thought, scrambling to her feet and taking off after him.
He raced down the carpeted interior hallway and Sydney was on his heels, her heart pounding and adrenaline coursing through her veins. If she had known she was going to encounter a fleet-footed burglar, she would have worn her track shoes instead of the fashionable but impossible-to-run-in chunky black sandals that were slowing her to a hobble.
This guy is fast, she realized as he barreled out the door at the end of the corridor into the daylight-filled parking lot. And in these shoes, I am definitely not.
“Why in the world did I let Francie talk me into buying these?” she yelled in frustration, stopping to yank them from her feet.
But in the time she'd taken to stop and remove her sandals, the man had increased the distance between them to the point that Sydney realized he was going to get away. “Unhhh!” Desperate to do something, she lobbed one of the now-hated sandals at his head and seconds later heard a satisfying whunk as it made contact.
But it didn't slow him down.
Angry, frustrated, and barefoot, Sydney retrieved her sandals, put them back on, and marched back to the lodge.
Should she report this to Agent Henry or Agent Sinclair? Or should she call SD-6? What if the intruder was looking for something specific to Sydney's mission? Or to Stephanie's, if she had one? What if someone had been in their room the night before, and what if that someone was the same person?
What if it was Paul?
There were way too many questions for her to answer at nine a.m.
I'll call Sloane, she decided. Her handler would know what to do.
But he wasn't in. She left him a short voice mail message and then stared at the ransacked room in front of her. Clothes lay scattered across the bed, her
cosmetic bag was dumped out, and bath towels were thrown on the floor. It was impossible to know if anything of Stephanie's was missing, and without a fingerprint kit, there wasn't much she could do on her own.
He definitely was looking for something, she thought, glancing over at the wad of untouched cash Stephanie had left on the nightstand. A petty thief would have snatched that up in a heartbeat.
As quickly as she could, she put away her belongings, and then carefully removed from her suitcase the devices Graham had created for her. She gave them a cursory glance. Everything seemed okay. But she wanted to make sure. She ran the scan as per Graham's instructions and then punched in his number on her cell.
“Hi, Sydney,” Graham said, clicking on the other end of the phone. “Took you long enough.”
Sydney counted to five, then spoke. “How does everything look? Did you find a glitch?”
“It'll take a few hours to complete the scan. We'll just let the computer do its thing.”
“Okay.” Sydney looked over her gadgets again. There was no point telling Graham about the break-in. If something was wrong, his scan would tell them. “You know, we never talked about my disguise,” she said thoughtfully. “Did Sloane stipulate anything to you?” Sometimes handlers gave agents specific requirements, but often they were on their own. Sydney wasn't sure which she liked better: having someone do the thinking for her or having the freedom to create her own alias, no matter how outlandish.
“No, Syd. I think you're on your own for this one,” Graham told her. “Why don't you pick something up at the hotel?”
“Like what?” Sydney asked uncertainly.
“Don't they have dress shops there? What's that popular one at Caesars in Vegas . . . Versace?”
Sydney snorted. Really, if some of the people back at HQ actually went on a mission instead of being sequestered back in their comfy little quarters, maybe they'd have a better idea of how hard this job really was. “Any noncouture ideas?”
“Well . . . what about a maid's uniform?” Graham suggested.
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