Cara glanced sideways at her. “I find you very attractive, Rowe.”
“Let’s face it, neither of us has a whole lot of competition in this neck of the woods.”
Cara laughed at the backhanded compliment. “Phew. All that and charm, too. Hold me back.”
Rowe grinned. “You know where I live. Just mentioning that in case you can’t contain yourself.”
A clump of snow fell wetly from a branch, covering them in heavy slush.
“Think that was a sign?” Cara muttered as they brushed each other off with gloved hands.
“Uh-huh. The Maine version of ‘Raindrops Keep Falling on Our Heads.’”
“God, you’re as cynical as I am.”
“Kindred spirits,” Rowe said with dry sarcasm. “We must be meant for one another.”
Cara swatted her arm. “Stop.”
“Okay. Nothing happened.”
“Agreed. No games. No fantasies.”
“You got it,” Rowe promised. No tempting the Fates. No asking for trouble.
She allowed Cara to move ahead of her as they approached the back door. Phoebe was waiting on the step, her face flushed from kitchen activities. She wiped her hands on a starchy calico apron and dropped a light kiss of welcome onto Rowe’s cheek.
“I hope you brought an appetite,” she said.
Rowe kissed her firmly in return and staved off a shameless fantasy of sleeping with both twins. “You have no idea.”
CHAPTER SIX
“I think I could fall in love with her.” Phoebe adjusted her wobbly seat tray and removed the celery stick from her Bloody Mary. “She’s different. I really like her and I haven’t slept with her. That’s a good sign. When I’m around her I feel so…happy. Almost silly. Do you know what I mean?”
Cara stuck the emergency instructions in the pocket of the seat in front and got busy with the headphones. She could never stand to listen to the crap audio on airplanes. But neither did she want to have a conversation about Rowe Devlin. Somehow she’d gotten through the past twenty-four hours without Phoebe guessing what had happened between her and their neighbor, and she wanted to keep it that way. It could have been worse, she reminded herself. They could have had sex.
She glanced at her sister and faked a smile. “We’ll see what happens.”
Two months, she calculated. Phoebe would find the idea of having a fling with Rowe interesting for approximately two months. Then she would discover the truth. Rowe is not perfect. But what if she didn’t sit the two months out? Cara frowned. What would Rowe do if Phoebe came on to her the way Cara had? Would she bend the rules about being good neighbors? Would Phoebe prove to be more than she could resist? A small flare of jealousy ignited in her gut. She wanted to laugh it off, but she couldn’t. The idea of Phoebe and Rowe together made her stomach churn. Unnerved, she finished her vodka like it was water.
“Are you okay?” Phoebe asked. “You’re so quiet today.”
“Sorry, sweetie. I’ve got stuff on my mind. Bloodwork weren’t happy with their video. ManAngel thinks his hair looks green.”
“That’s his worst problem? Didn’t their drummer kill himself halfway through filming?”
“Their manager hired Deepak Chopra to counsel them. After that, they got a new drummer who turned out to be better, so they were like, ‘Hey, man, it was karma.’”
“Maybe you should work with country singers.”
“Exchange suicidal cokeheads for wife-beating alcoholics? I don’t think so.”
“Are all musicians messed up?”
“Probably not. But somehow, I manage to avoid the sane ones. Just lucky, I guess.”
“It’s difficult for you, coming with me this week, isn’t it?” Phoebe asked.
“I want to come, but yes. It means juggling priorities.”
Phoebe chewed on that for a beat, then said, “I’ve been thinking. It’s time I stopped leaning on you so much.”
“Okay.” Cara knew what was coming. Phoebe had these flights of fancy every so often. Her usual rebellious spells involved lifestyle changes that lasted a few months.
“I earn enough money to get my own apartment. Maybe I should look for something in Portland.”
Cara held back a sigh. The last time Phoebe had her own place she’d allowed some big-eyed anorexic to stay there temporarily. Months had passed and her houseguest ran up huge phone bills, stole jewelry, and eventually moved her junkie girlfriend in. One day Phoebe phoned Cara after finding a huge stash of ecstasy inside a sofa pillow cover she’d removed for cleaning. Picturing the lowlife roommates busted for dealing and Phoebe dragged into jail with them, Cara had moved her out that evening.
“You don’t think I can manage.” Phoebe looked hurt.
Cara chose her words carefully. “I think you manage very well when you set realistic goals for yourself.”
“This thing Vernell wants me to do.” Phoebe stared at her, full of determination. “I’m going to do it by myself. Then you can go back to L.A. and not worry about me.”
“Let’s take it one day at a time.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know. So how about if I stay till you feel ready to manage? I can always come back if you need me.”
Phoebe slid a hand into Cara’s. “Sometimes the truth is I don’t need you. I just want you with me for selfish reasons.”
“It’s not all one-sided,” Cara admitted. “I worry about you far too much and sometimes I hang around just so I know you’re okay. But you’re right. You’re not a child anymore. I need to let go a little.”
“I’m not afraid of what’s going to happen at the FBI. I mean, I’m nervous. But it’s kind of exciting, too.”
“No kidding. You’ll meet all kinds of interesting people and see amazing stuff. I’m totally jealous.”
Phoebe tilted her head back in a rare laugh. “You? Jealous? You ride in stretch limos and hang out with famous people.”
Cara pictured herself dragging yet another shitfaced rock star out of his bathroom to make it to a filming session six hours late. “Trust me, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”
Phoebe lapsed into fretful silence. “I hope I can do it.”
“You’ll do fine.” Cara recognized the mood. Phoebe was always overcome with self-doubt when she set out on a new FBI assignment.
“What if I let everyone down?” Phoebe chewed on her lip.
Cara took her hand. “Just do your best. No one can expect any more than that.”
*
The Behavioral Science Unit used to be buried sixty feet below ground under the shooting range, Vernell said. These days they had rooms with a view in one of the sprawling honey-colored buildings that made up the FBI Academy at Quantico.
Phoebe stole a sideways glance at the tall, immaculately groomed man strolling next to her. She could tell he was pleased she had come. He’d met them at the airport himself the day before and had waited at their hotel while they checked in and changed. Then he took them out to dinner and told Cara if there was anything she would like to do or any place she wanted to go while Phoebe was otherwise engaged, he had arranged a Bureau car and driver for her.
The VIP treatment had continued that morning. Two FBI agents picked them up from their hotel and drove them through miles of trees and military vehicles to what looked like a fancy hospital in the middle of a tranquil forest. Only it wasn’t as tranquil as it seemed. They had barely stepped out of the car when the sound of gunfire and explosions shattered the morning calm.
Vernell was waiting in the parking area and led them toward the main building. He didn’t seem to notice when a tank rolled past them and a swarm of trainees ran by, everyone in protective suits, oxygen tanks on their backs. A couple of them glanced at Phoebe and Cara in surreptitious appreciation. Apparently women in civilian clothing were a novelty around here.
“I feel like I’m in a movie,” Cara said.
Vernell came close to a smile. “We’ll get your visitors’ passes sorted out
first, then we have a meeting with the assistant director.”
After passing a bronze plaque of J. Edgar Hoover’s head, they entered a sunny atrium with glassed-in walkways visible a level above. Phoebe stared up at the pale walls with their FBI-themed slogans about fidelity and bravery and the like.
Awed to be standing in the beating heart of a major security and intelligence organization, she said, “I suppose if the terrorists were planning to drop a bomb anywhere, this would be a good choice.”
Vernell stared at her. “Are you sensing something, Phoebe?”
“No.” She felt herself color. Vernell and everyone else here thought she had astounding supernatural powers. How mortifying if she turned out to be no different from anyone else.
The assistant director sure behaved like he expected a prompt and accurate prediction of the second coming, and if not that, the name and address of every serial killer operating in the country.
“For an asset such as yourself, the Bureau is willing to overlook a certain amount of red tape,” he said a few minutes into their meeting. “We’re issuing you a top-secret security clearance. That’s a blue background pass.” He paused, with an air of expectancy. Clearly this announcement was momentous and required a reaction.
Phoebe glanced uncertainly at Cara, who had not said a word since the introductions were made, allowing Phoebe to occupy center stage in this important meeting. Her sister made a small prompting gesture, and hoping for the right tone, Phoebe said, “Thank you, Mr. Levin. That’s a real privilege.”
“Of course, you’ll still need to sign in for visitors’ passes when you enter the building, but you’ll be able to walk freely without an agent escorting you at all times.”
“Thank you, sir.” Vernell took the honor in stride. He had the look of a man who knew he was holding a winning hand.
“So…” The assistant director consulted a sheaf of notes on his desk. “You’re headed out to St. Johnsbury later this afternoon, Jefferson?”
“Yes, sir. We thought if Ms. Temple canvassed the scene, she may be able to contribute additional data.”
“Good luck.” The assistant director fixed his light blue eyes on Phoebe. “If this works out you could meet the director.”
Guessing this was a bigger deal than the blue security pass, Phoebe said, “I’ll do my best not to disappoint you, sir.”
“Excellent.” Mr. Levin pressed something on his desk and a secretary appeared. “Maude, Ms. Temple is working with us on a priority matter. Any sign the Company’s feeling around, I want to know.”
“Understood, sir.” The woman gestured for Phoebe, Cara, and Vernell to follow her and instructed them to take a seat in a drab waiting area while she had Phoebe’s new pass brought over.
“Coffee, anyone?” Vernell asked.
Cara declined. She looked like she had her mind on something.
Phoebe laughed nervously and said, “Only if it has a shot of brandy in it.”
“Relax. You did fine.” Vernell poured himself a glass of water.
“The Company?” Cara inquired, cutting to the chase.
“The CIA,” Vernell translated.
Phoebe tried not to sound squeaky. “Am I working for them, too?”
“No. And we don’t want them putting out the welcome mat.”
“Do they know about me?”
“Not so far, but with the new Homeland Security protocols, seepage can be a problem...information leaks.”
Phoebe repressed an urge to get up and run from the building. Cara had already warned her to say nothing to anyone about what she was doing, and only to speak with the Bureau personnel Vernell introduced her to. Obviously Cara and Vernell had discussed the situation ahead of time and come to some agreement about how much they would tell her. She could almost hear Cara: Why scare her with talk about the CIA?
“I can’t see why the CIA would be interested in me,” she said. “It’s not like I have dreams about terrorists.”
Vernell’s eyes were coolly assessing. “We don’t know what you’re capable of, Phoebe. And if our friends in Intelligence get wind of you…” He left the sentence hanging.
“What?” Phoebe felt a flutter of alarm. “What would they do?”
“Your life would never be the same,” he said flatly.
“Then we’ll have to make sure they don’t hear about me.” Phoebe was partly flattered and partly appalled to realize intelligence agencies might actually fight over her. She would never look at men in trench coats and dark glasses the same way again.
Cara touched her arm. “Relax. You have nothing to worry about. Only a few people know you’re here, and most of them don’t even know your real name.”
“Promise me something, both of you.” Phoebe’s fingers strayed to the pearl nestled below her collar. Stroking it soothed her when she felt anxious. “If the CIA comes after me, I want to disappear.”
“Trust me,” Vernell said, grim-faced, “we won’t be trading assets with the Company.”
“You didn’t hear me,” Phoebe insisted. “Disappear. Like in witness protection.”
Cara laughed softly. “Sweetie, there’s no need to get worked up.”
“I saw Alias. Those people are scary.”
Cara glanced sideways at Vernell.
“We’ll do whatever it takes,” he said. “Put the CIA out of your mind.”
*
Vernell had assembled several people in a nondescript meeting room. He introduced Phoebe as Ms. Golden, and that’s what everyone called her. A stocky older man with a dense mop of gray hair and a pink bow tie instantly stood up and seized her hand in a firm, dry grip.
“We’ve been anticipating this day.” His words were thickly accented. “I am honored to introduce myself. Dr. Yuri Karnovich. My colleagues and I welcome you.”
Phoebe murmured something appropriate, aware that all eyes were on her. She greeted a couple of thirtysomething men who appeared to have been cloned from a special FBI gene pool: neat brown hair and even features, straight white teeth, conservative gray suits, and shiny black shoes. Their names escaped her almost as soon as she’d heard them.
“And this is Dr. Harriet Sutton.” Vernell introduced a round-faced woman who looked like anyone’s grandma but was a forensic psychiatrist.
“Call me Harriet and make yourself at home,” she invited after shaking Phoebe’s hand. “If there’s anything you need while we work, just let me know.”
Relieved that their group was so small, Phoebe occupied the chair Vernell indicated, at one end of the table, and tried to look like she was at ease.
One of the clones pushed a cup of coffee over to her and said, “Cream and no sugar, right?”
“Right.” Phoebe wondered how he knew that. Had someone spied on her at breakfast?
“So, you’re a twin?” Harriet noted cheerfully.
“Yes. Identical. My sister was here earlier, but she’s gone sightseeing now.”
“She doesn’t have the same unusual dreams you experience?”
“No. She’s…normal.”
“Normal is relative,” Dr. Karnovich pronounced. He went on to ask Phoebe some general questions about her childhood and the accident. To her surprise, they had her medical records and seemed to know every detail of her coma and recovery.
“SAC Jefferson has briefed you about the case?” Harriet asked.
“In broad detail,” Vernell replied on Phoebe’s behalf. “I didn’t want to influence her perceptions.”
“Yes, yes.” The doctor tapped his finger lightly on the table, apparently lost in thought. After a few particularly loud taps, he said, “We’re going to try some techniques that may help you focus your perceptions. Are you comfortable with such experiments, Ms. Golden? Everything will be taped on video, if that’s all right.”
“It’s fine. I want to help,” Phoebe said.
Dr. Karnovich gave her an odd, almost regretful smile and signaled the men, who produced a stack of plastic bags from a trolley near the tab
le. They opened each one and placed its contents on the table. Every item was tagged.
Phoebe fingered a delicate gold necklace. “Did these things belong to victims?”
“Some of them did,” Harriet said. “We’d like you to examine each item and give us any impressions you form. It doesn’t matter what comes up—there are no wrong answers.”
Phoebe picked up a distinctive black and red hairbrush. “This belonged to Iris. I saw it in one of my dreams. She was sitting in her car, brushing her hair. Then something happened. She dropped it. That was the end of the dream.”
“It was found under the seat in her car. We were never sure if it had been there a while or not.” Vernell slid a torn sweater toward her. “Can you tell us anything about this?”
Phoebe ran her hands over the soft, knitted garment. It was pale pink and bore faint traces of its owner’s perfume. “I haven’t seen it before.” Detecting a flicker of disappointment in Vernell’s eyes, she continued to hold the garment, trying to clear her mind. How did real psychics do this? Did they think about a white empty room or a grassy meadow or something? She stared down at the fine pink weave, seeing nothing, feeling nothing. “I’m sorry,” she said, dismayed.
None of the other items brought any clear images to mind, and she could sense a palpable disappointment in the people around her by the time she was done. Glancing at Vernell, she felt bad for embarrassing him in front of colleagues he no doubt hoped to impress.
“I wish I could tell you things,” she said. “It just doesn’t seem to work that way for me.”
Dr. Karnovich instantly offered a reassuring smile. “Do not worry yourself, Ms. Golden. We are right now exploring. It is a process of elimination, you understand? So we learn that the handling of articles draws the blank—that’s not a problem. The gift is different for everyone.”
They spent the rest of the morning showing her photographs, handwriting, and home movies, then put her into a glassed-in room and had her choose flash cards of different shapes to see if she was telepathic. Phoebe flunked everything.
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