by Rebecca York
If he was inquiring about her head, the answer was, “Better.”
“Good.”
He poured the eggs he’d beaten into the skillet, then he sprinkled grated cheddar cheese on top and covered the pan.
“Where did you get the bacon? I don’t have bacon.”
“It was hidden in the back of the freezer.”
“Let’s hope it’s edible.”
“I fried a piece and tasted it. It’s fine.”
“You’re making an omelette in that big pan? I thought omelettes were made in little pans.”
“You can do it this way, too.”
“How do you know?”
He stopped for a moment and gave the question due consideration, looking as if he was hoping an answer would come to him and trigger a flood of memories. But all he did was shrug and turn back to the stove.
It was a small gesture, but it brought a clogged feeling to her throat. God, what was it like trying to puzzle your way through life when your whole personal history was a blank? Quickly pulling open drawers and cabinets, she set the table.
She felt his eyes on her before he grabbed the coffeepot and poured two mugs of the Jamaican blend that she liked.
Hannah added milk and sugar to hers. He took his black.
The domestic scene, his obvious vulnerability, her own response to him all made her suddenly uncomfortable. “Tell me again why you want me specifically to help you,” she muttered.
“I investigated a number of candidates. You felt right.”
He removed the top from the pan, and she saw that the eggs had fluffed and the cheese had melted. After loosening the omelette from the bottom of the pan, he cut it down the middle with the spatula, then carefully folded over each portion as he transferred it to their plates. After handing her one, he reached for the bottle of habanero sauce he’d set on the counter and liberally doused his portion.
“You like that stuff?”
“I found it in your cabinet. Don’t you?”
“I keep it around for my Latin American friends.”
He nodded, and she watched him dig into his breakfast. Apparently his tolerance for hot sauce was off the scale.
As she took a small bite of the omelette, her mouth was immediately flooded with flavor. “This is good.”
When he smiled at the compliment, two dimples appeared on either side of his mouth. She looked away before she became too enchanted with the effect.
“You remember how to cook, and other skills, but you don’t remember anything personal?”
“Sometimes I get a snatch of memory. I don’t know if it’s real or something I read in a book or saw on TV.”
“Such as what?”
He set down his fork and leaned back in his chair. “The desert. The wind blowing against my face. A horse under me. Or it could be a smell. The smell of creosote bushes.”
“What’s that?”
“A plant that grows in the desert.”
“Did you look that up in a book or did you just know it?”
“I just knew it.”
“The desert must be part of your background.”
“Probably. But I’ve stayed away from it. I figure if somebody’s looking for me, that’s where they’ll start.”
“I thought you wanted to be found?”
“Not till I know who’s beating the bushes for a missing million bucks.”
Last night he’d been evasive about his background. This morning she decided that he was trying to be as straight with her as he could, and that made a tremendous amount of difference.
“You don’t remember any people?” she asked.
“I reckon not.” She watched as he took his bottom lip between strong white teeth. “That’s the worst part—the feeling of being totally alone.”
If the statement and the gesture were a bid for her sympathy, it worked. But she couldn’t afford to let him slip past her defenses. As one more test of his sincerity, she asked, “Are you willing to try hypnosis?”
“I don’t know. What did you have in mind?”
“I’ve worked with a couple psychologists in the past. Maybe one of them can, uh, regress you to the moment when you lost your memory.”
“I’m willing to try it.”
“What if I find out that you’re a criminal?”
“You can turn me over to the cops.”
“Just like that?”
“You have my word I’ll cooperate with the authorities, when and if we determine that’s the right course of action.”
“What’s your word worth?” she asked.
His eyes turned fierce. “Everything. It’s one of the few things I have left.”
She stared into those dark eyes that seemed to dance with flames and believed him.
“Don’t you want to talk about money? I mean your fee.”
“Of course. I want a ten-thousand-dollar retainer,” she answered, asking for an outrageous amount.
“You’ve got it.”
“That’s easy for you to say. It’s not your money.”
“Maybe we’ll find out that it is.” He shifted in his chair. “Don’t keep me dangling. Have you made a decision?”
“I’ll work with you—unless I come to the conclusion you’re lying.”
“I’m not!”
“Then we have a deal.”
He pushed his empty plate away. “So now that’s settled, let me ask you a question. Last night’s attack on you—do you think it was random? Or does somebody have a grudge against you?”
Her head came up. “What makes you think so?”
“He shouted, ‘Got ya, bitch,’ like he meant you.”
She felt suddenly as if she were sitting in a cold draft. To cover the reaction, she said, “If you’re appointing yourself my bodyguard, I don’t need one.”
“Don’t you?”
She scowled because she didn’t want to go any farther down that path. Changing the subject abruptly, she said, “Let me see if I can set up an appointment with Kathryn Kelley or Abby Franklin. They’re both Ph.D. psychologists who work at 43 Light Street—the building where my office is located.”
“You’ve used them before?”
“Yes. They’re both excellent.” Pushing her chair away from the table, she picked up the receiver from the wall phone and dialed the business line of Doctors Kelley and Franklin. Both had cut back on their patient load after marrying and starting families, which meant that they were often available for emergency sessions where other psychologists would be booked up.
As Hannah expected, she got their answering machine. So she left a succinct message.
It was Kathryn Kelley who called back while Hannah was washing the breakfast dishes.
“This is Hunter’s day off at Randolph Security. So he’s staying home with Ethan. I’m free most of the day, so pick a time.”
Hannah tried to picture one of the tough-as-nails guys who worked for Randolph taking care of an eighteen-month-old. But she had the feeling that Hunter was up to the job.
She glanced from the phone to Luke. “One o’clock?”
When he nodded, she confirmed the time, then gave Kathryn the name he was using.
“You know where the office is?” she asked after she’d hung up. When he nodded, she continued, “Then I’ll meet you there at ten to one. And don’t worry about protecting me this morning. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay. I’ll see you there,” he agreed, apparently unwilling to push the bodyguard scenario.
As soon as the door had closed behind him, she went back to the little room she used as an office and booted up her computer. The Light Street Detective Agency paid an enormous monthly fee for a very sophisticated database service that gave her information on a person’s education, credit, arrest and medical records, among other things. But only if you had a confirmed identity—which she didn’t have for Luke Pritchard. Still, she’d feel remiss if she didn’t at least check.
As she expected, the search was a waste of time. Th
ere were thousands of individuals in the U.S. with that name. With a big concentration in Texas and Alabama.
Perhaps his fingerprints were on file with the FBI. Getting out her fingerprint kit, she slipped it into her purse, then changed into business clothes—comfortable slacks and a silk blouse—and started downtown. On the way, she stopped for a Reuben sandwich, which she ate as she checked her mail. But as one o’clock approached, she found her attention wandering. Stopping to consider the source of her disquiet, she realized that she was worried that Luke Pritchard might have changed his mind and wouldn’t show up. And she would never see him again.
Damn, what had she been thinking? She’d been so eager to get the man out of her apartment that she’d shoved him out the door without even getting his local address.
She kept glancing at the clock, wondering if she should go down to Kathryn’s early. But she kept herself from getting up until it was almost time for the appointment.
HANNAH WOULD HAVE BEEN even more disturbed if she’d known that Dallas Sedgwick was sending a squad of undercover operatives to Baltimore to look for the man she knew as Luke Pritchard.
But he wasn’t the only powerful figure beating the bushes for a man and a suitcase full of money.
Addison Jennings was another contender in the million-dollar sweepstakes.
Like Sedgwick, he ran a powerful organization with scores of operatives at his disposal. But Jennings had a number of advantages over the crime boss. For one thing, from his secret headquarters in Berryville, Virginia, he was tapped into far more sophisticated sources of information, including the resources of the federal government. For another, he had a fuller picture of the problem and thus a name that he hoped would aid him in the search—Vincent Reese. Along with the name came a thick dossier.
Vincent Reese. Not the name the fugitive had been born with, of course. But he’d been using it off and on for most of his adult life, and the folder that Addison had accumulated bore that label.
Reese had first gotten in trouble as a juvenile and had been sent to reform school. The experience had hardened him, and he’d come out with a chip on his shoulder—and a well-developed sense of caution that had stood him in good stead since those formative years.
He’d managed to avoid arrest since that initial juvenile incarceration. But there was plenty of evidence of criminal activity. Or at least guilt by association. Reese might have done some fancy footwork to keep himself out of jail. But plenty of his buddies were behind bars. Those were the lucky ones. The less fortunate had ended up riddled with bullets—either at the hands of the police or in a gang war shoot-out. Which was apparently what had happened to the group found in the wasteland on the Mexican side of the Rio Grande last month.
Addison reached for his pipe, focusing on the soothing ritual of filling the bowl with tobacco and tamping it down.
Setting a match to the tobacco, he sucked in smoke, then let it out in a wreath around his head. The secret facility he headed might be a no-smoking zone, according to government regulations, but the prohibition did not extend to his office. Pipe tobacco was one of his few vices, and one he would continue to indulge.
The smoke helped to ease some of the tension from his neck and shoulders. A year ago, he’d stepped into the shoes of a man who was a legend in the intelligence community. A man who wasn’t afraid to take on the tough assignments, because he saw them as his patriotic duty.
Amherst Gordon had died in the service of his country, pushing himself beyond the capacity of his frail body. He’d been a hero to the end. And he’d handpicked his successor to run the Peregrine Connection, the super-secret agency that took on jobs too sensitive for the U.S. government to openly acknowledge.
Addison had tried to decline the job, but his old friend had been unwilling to take no for an answer. And finally he’d shouldered the responsibility. Now he was doing his best to fill a pair of very large shoes, although sometimes he thought the job was more than one man should be forced to bear.
Like this present operation that had self-destructed in the desert. Lives had been lost—including one life he valued very highly—and he knew he bore some of the blame. Which was why he was looking for Vincent Reese. And why he was going to make the man explain exactly what had happened out there.
WHEN HANNAH WALKED into the psychologist’s waiting room, she felt a tremendous sense of relief as she spotted Luke standing with his hands hooked into his front pockets and staring out at the Baltimore landscape.
She could see he’d showered and changed into fresh jeans and a blue button-down shirt—something a little more formal than the T-shirts she’d seen him in before, but not much.
He didn’t turn, but from the way his back straightened she knew he sensed her presence. She was glad his back was to her so that he wouldn’t see the look of relief on her face.
“Cities make me feel boxed in,” he remarked, his drawl more pronounced than it had been the night before.
“If you’re a country boy, why are you here?”
“The reasons I gave you before. Protective coloration.”
The flat way he said it made a shiver travel down her spine. Before she could collect herself, the door opened and an attractive woman with wavy red hair and green eyes stepped out.
“I’m Kathryn Kelley,” she said, holding out her hand.
Luke shook it. “I’ve been Luke Pritchard for three weeks,” he allowed.
But the casual statement didn’t fool Hannah. She could tell he was worried about this meeting and trying not to show it.
Hannah watched the Outlaw and the Psychologist sizing each other up. It would have been amusing if she hadn’t been personally involved.
The silent observation brought her up short. Personally involved? In such a short time? And with a man she couldn’t entirely trust?
When Kathryn stepped aside and gestured for Luke to come into her office, Hannah asked, “Can I come with you?”
“That’s up to Mr. Pritchard.”
“Luke will be fine,” he corrected. “One of my goals is to prove to Hannah that I’ve got nothing to hide. So of course she’s welcome to join us.”
They all trooped into the office, and Kathryn indicated that he should sit in the comfortable easy chair with its back to the window. She sat opposite him, and Hannah to his right.
“Why are you here?” Kathryn asked him.
“Hannah thinks it’s a good idea.”
“You don’t?”
“Just a gut feeling.”
“You have amnesia?” the psychologist asked.
“Yes.”
“Can you give me some background about the problem?”
Luke shifted in his seat and made an effort to relax his hands. Dutifully, he repeated much of what he’d told Hannah.
Kathryn remarked only when he finished. “My usual procedure would be to spend several sessions exploring your problems before getting into hypnosis.”
“I don’t have a whole heap of time,” Luke pointed out.
“I understand your feeling of urgency,” Kathryn answered mildly. “We can try hypnosis this afternoon.”
“Good,” he said, as though eager to get it over with.
“Then let me tell you a little about the technique we’ll employ. I use it regularly with people who have lived through disturbing events they can’t recall. Really, it’s self-hypnosis. And I’m just there to guide you back to an earlier time and help you control the experience.” After giving him a fuller explanation, she asked, “Any questions?”
“No.”
“Then make yourself comfortable.”
He stretched out his long legs, crossing his booted feet at the ankles.
Kathryn pulled her chair closer. “Raise your eyes just a little and look up at the line where the wall meets the ceiling.”
Luke did as he was asked.
“Now I’m just going to help you relax,” Kathryn continued in a soothing voice. “If you could get away from your problems and go on v
acation, where would you go?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. The beach, I guess.”
“You like the beach?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, it’s a good choice. Imagine you’re in a sling chair staring out at a beautiful blue ocean. The waves are rolling in, breaking on a horseshoe stretch of white sand.”
Kathryn’s voice was so soothing that Hannah could feel herself relax. Then she pulled herself up sharply and turned her head toward Luke. He was sitting in the chair, leaning back, his eyes closed.
“Can you talk to me?” Kathryn asked him.
“Um-hum,” he answered in a slow, drowsy voice that accentuated his Southern drawl.
“How do you feel?”
“Good.”
“That’s fine. Do you want to try going back in time? Back to when you had a different name?”
He hesitated for a moment, and Hannah found herself waiting to see if he would agree.
“All right.”
“Okay, imagine you’re looking at a big TV screen across the room from you. It’s got a calendar on it with this year. Can you see it?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll start by flipping the calendar back to this time last year. Can you see that?”
“No.”
Kathryn frowned. “Okay, let’s try going back farther, and instead of the calendar you’ll see yourself on the TV. Let’s go back to when you were ten years old. Can you see yourself on the television screen?”
“No.”
“Let’s go back a little farther. You’re seven years old.
“Do you know your name?”
“Lucas.”
“Lucas? Not Luke?”
“Lucas.”
“What’s your last name?”
“Daddy said I don’t deserve his name.”
Hannah sucked in a little breath. When Kathryn shot her a look, she pressed her lips together.
The psychologist was speaking to Luke again, apparently selecting a standard incident that most children would have experienced. “You’ve hurt yourself and your mother is comforting you.”
Luke’s head shook from side to side. Obviously agitated, he made a strangled sound.
“It’s all right. Everything’s all right,” Kathryn soothed.
