by Rebecca York
Luke appeared in the kitchen doorway as she was drying the skillet and wiping the counters, and she felt a flood of relief—mixed with an awful tightness in her chest.
“What are you doing?” he asked, standing with his hands in his pockets.
“Finding another way to work off some tension,” she said, and was immediately sorry she’d put it in those terms. “I thought that if we had something in our stomachs, we’d both be in a better mood.”
“It couldn’t hurt,” he allowed.
“It probably has to bake at least another ten minutes.”
“Okay.”
He went back to the living room and turned on the TV, but there was nothing new about the gun battle in the Light Street garage.
She set the table, then took out the casserole and set it on the stove.
“It’s ready. I don’t have a trivet, so you’re going to have to serve yourself from here,” she said, handing him a plastic-handled spoon and a plate.
He dished up a moderate helping. “Tamale pie?”
“I guess. I’ve had it at potlucks. I figured I could fake one,” she said as she joined him at the table, watching him as he took a bite.
“You fake it pretty well.” He took several more bites, and she was glad he was enjoying the food.
“Thanks.” She forked up a small portion, chewing and swallowing carefully because the food felt like concrete as it hit her stomach. “You said we have to get out of town. I guess we can put off the decision about where we’re going until tomorrow. Maybe since your first memories are of Chicago, we should go there,” she offered, even though she didn’t think that was their best option.
“Yeah,” he answered, obviously relieved to be off the hook for the moment.
She took another bite of the tamale pie and managed to swallow it with less difficulty.
Some of the tension had been defused, but there was still too much unfinished business for her to feel comfortable. On both a personal and a professional level.
ADDISON JENNINGS looked up as his most trusted associate came into the room and took a seat opposite his wide desk. It was Constance McGuire, the woman who had worked closely for his predecessor, Amherst Gordon. Gordon had been the brains behind the Peregrine Connection, and Addison had inherited the mantle of director from his old friend. Now as he looked into Connie’s eyes, he knew that there had been an important development in one of their far-flung operations.
“Good news or bad?” he asked, setting down his pipe in the ashtray on his desk. He knew Connie hated pipe tobacco, although she would never voice her objections.
“I wish I knew,” she answered. “We’ve found a rowboat pulled into a stand of river cane along the Rio Grande about twenty miles south of Buenos Aires, Mexico. Vincent Reese’s fingerprints are all over it.”
“Which side of the border?”
“The Mexican side. One of our men went into Mexican territory without authorization from their government, as per your instructions.”
“Any sign of Reese? Or the money? Or…” He let his voice trail off because he couldn’t force himself to continue.
“I’m sorry.”
Addison swore under his breath, then struggled to regain his equanimity. “Okay, can you tell me how Dallas Sedgwick is doing in his search?”
“He’s discontinued his Chicago operation and sent five more men to Baltimore.”
Addison’s eyes narrowed. “We have them under surveillance?”
“Yes.”
“You think they know something we don’t?”
“It’s possible.”
He reached out to rub the stem of the pipe. “I keep thinking there’s some factor we don’t know. Some wild card Sedgwick is holding. Let me know the moment it looks like his men are on to something.”
“Of course.” Connie made as if to get up, then changed her mind. Raising her head, she gave him a look that wavered between sympathy and sternness.
“Addison,” she said gently, “we’ve lost agents before. That’s part of the price we pay for taking on the dirty jobs that nobody else wants.”
“I don’t send people out on assignments on the assumption they’re going to get themselves killed,” he snapped.
Her gaze remained steady, calming. “Our agent knew what he was getting into,” she said.
“How could he? I didn’t realize the danger and I was the one who set this up. It looks like I’m the wrong man for this damn job.”
“You’re the right man,” she said. “If you didn’t care about your people, I’d be worried. And this still may come out all right.”
He dropped his gaze, embarrassed by his outburst yet still wishing he could share her sense of confidence.
“I’LL DO THE DISHES,” Luke said when Hannah got up and started to clear the table. “You cooked.”
“Okay,” she agreed, going immediately back to the computer. As he watched her pick up the laptop and move to the easy chair across from the couch, he was pretty sure she was thinking the same thing he was—that staying out of each other’s way was a good idea. So when he finished cleaning the kitchen, he prepared to go back to his room for some heavy-duty thinking.
But she looked up when he stepped through the doorway to the living room, and he stopped.
“You don’t want me going home,” she said, “but I’ve got nothing to sleep in. No toothbrush, no toiletries. I need to make a trip to the store.”
“No.”
Her eyes flared.
“You’re not going out by yourself, ’cause that attack in the garage could have been directed at you.”
“Now you’re arguing the other way.”
“I’m playing it safe.”
She sighed. “You want to chaperon me?”
“That won’t work either, in case we’re spotted as the couple leaving the garage after the shoot-out.”
“I’m not going to use your toothbrush. And I’m not going to sleep in a pair of your jockey shorts—if that’s what you wear.” The minute she said it, he knew she was sorry she’d gotten that specific.
“Even if they’re new out of the package?” he couldn’t stop himself from asking.
She scowled at him.
“You can give me a shopping list.”
“That’s safer than my going out? What if somebody spots you?”
“I’ll change my look.”
“I can do that, too!”
“You don’t have any other outfits, remember?”
Defeated, she heaved a sigh. “Okay.” After giving him a list of toiletries, she asked, “I don’t suppose you know much about buying women’s clothing,” she finally said.
He thought about it and realized he knew more than he was going to let on.
She stared off into the distance, not looking directly at him. “Underpants. Lycra or something similar. Bikini-style if they have them. Small,” she finally said in a rush.
He kept his eyes fixed on his notepad as she continued.
“Some medium-size knit tops, something a little fancier than a T-shirt, if you know what I mean. And a pair of jeans, size six. I like the stretchy kind, if you can find them.”
At least she didn’t ask for an extra bra or tampons. He figured neither one of them could have handled those items.
He changed into a work shirt, shoved an Orioles cap on his head and beat a hasty retreat, glad to have escaped from the close quarters of the town house.
As he drove Hannah’s car toward White Marsh Mall, he glanced frequently in the rearview mirror, but nobody appeared to be taking any notice of him.
His uneasiness resurfaced, however, as soon as he got out of the car and strode toward the discount store he’d chosen.
Annoyed by the attack of nerves, he sped up and down the drugstore aisles, throwing things into his cart. When he spotted a man in a navy blazer, striped tie and gray slacks watching him, he slowed down.
Security. Dressed like a gentleman. But still security, and Luke realized he was callin
g attention to himself, which was the last thing he wanted to do. With a silent curse, he slowed down. Then he turned the corner into the candy aisle and pretended that his sweet tooth was the most absorbing thing on his mind.
He moved slowly up the aisle, then stopped short in front of the section with Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Something about the candy drew him, and he pursed his lips. Did he like peanut butter and chocolate? He couldn’t remember craving the combination, even though he did have other clear food memories. The tamale pie Hannah had fixed had been familiar and satisfying. So had the habanero sauce he’d doused over his omelette.
Chocolate and peanut butter didn’t resonate in the same way. So why was he standing there staring at the candy?
“Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Reese,” he repeated softly.
Maybe it wasn’t the candy itself, but the name. Unsure of his precise motivation, he reached for the orange package and stuck it in his cart anyway.
Then, since he and Hannah were getting out of town, he went to the luggage department and bought an extra suitcase.
The security guy stuck with him for a few more minutes. When he was confident he was no longer being observed, he headed to the ladies’ department, where a saleswoman took pity on him and helped him select the knit tops and jeans he told her his wife was too busy to purchase.
But he could see a woman waiting for assistance, her foot tapping on the floor and her expression becoming more and more exasperated. So he relinquished the salesclerk and went off to confront the lingerie racks alone.
As soon as he saw the array of feminine undergarments, he knew he’d made a big mistake. He could feel his temperature rise as he imagined how each of them would look on Hannah.
Scowling, he reminded himself that she was only using him as a substitute for Gary Flynn—then he ordered himself to concentrate on the mission. But there was no way to make the purchases quickly. There were too many choices. The fabric seemed to singe his fingers as he fumbled through the selection, looking for her size—and thinking about which ones would look best on her. Or more precisely, which ones he’d like to see on her. Because whether or not she wanted him, he still wanted her, he admitted with a silent curse.
By the time he was finished, he felt a thin sheen of perspiration coating his brow and an uncomfortable bulge in his jeans. Pretending vast interest in a rack of flower-decorated sweatshirts, he ordered himself to cool down. When he figured he wasn’t going to make a spectacle of himself, he looked around to locate the checkout counter, then made a beeline for the front of the store. So intent was he on paying for his cartful of feminine clothing that he didn’t realize he was in anybody else’s way until a voice rang out inches from his head. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, buddy?”
Luke found himself confronting a guy with narrowed eyes and furrowed eyebrows.
The man stood poised on the balls of his feet, his jaw jutting out, his arms bent at the elbows, and his breath coming quick and hard.
Beside him was a harried-looking woman pushing a loaded cart toward the register. Sitting in the jump seat behind the handlebar was a little boy, his face suffused with a kind of sick fear that was mixed with resignation. And Luke was swallowed up by the look in the boy’s large, dark eyes.
CHAPTER SEVEN
For a moment out of time Luke seemed to change places with the boy who watched his father with such fear. Dad was going loco again. He was going to hit the other guy, like he did when he’d been drinking. Then people would be screaming and yelling, and Mommy would cry.
“Barry, don’t!”
Barry. That was wrong. That wasn’t his dad’s name. It was…
His mind trembled on the brink of discovery. In that instant, he could almost reach out and grab the past. Almost.
But the moment slipped away like a small fish slithering out of a hole in a net.
“Barry, please.”
The frightened tone of the woman’s voice brought the date and the situation slamming back into him.
The man was answering her. No, he was mowing her down with his voice. “This lummox tried to cut you off. You were getting into that line, and he came speedin’ in ahead of you like the Indy 500,” the guy railed, his speech slurring slightly as his hands clenched and unclenched.
Luke bit back a curse. He’d been trying to keep his head down. And here he’d gone and antagonized some hothead jerk without even trying.
Holding up his hands, he struggled to look contrite. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“Yeah, right.” Barry took a step closer, crowding him again, his chest puffed out like a rooster whose feathers had been ruffled.
Luke wondered if they were going to end up trading punches right here in front of the small crowd that was gathering.
“You come on outside and I’ll show you what I do to jerks who think they can get away with crap like that,” the man named Barry said.
Well, not in here.
“He said he was sorry,” the woman breathed. “Please, Barry, don’t start anything.”
The man whirled, facing her, one of his large hands coming up toward his wife’s cheek.
It was then that Luke moved, his own hand shooting out to catch the wrist, knowing by the yelp of pain that he’d come close to breaking the bone.
The man’s eyes flared dangerously.
“Leave the woman alone,” Luke growled. Over Barry’s shoulder, he saw the security guy hurrying in their direction and cursed under his breath, wondering what he was going to do now.
He was carrying a concealed weapon. If the guard searched him and found it, he was in deep trouble. On the other hand, if he made a run for it, it was like admitting that he’d done something illegal—or was planning to.
Before his brain made a conscious decision, he turned and bolted for the door, abandoning the cartful of merchandise in the middle of the checkout line.
“Hey, stop.”
He didn’t know whether it was the guard or Barry calling him, and he didn’t wait to find out. In seconds, he was out of the store and into the parking lot. Since stealth was of little use now, he pelted across the roadway, fumbling for the car keys as he ran, thankful that he had found a space near the door.
His heart still drumming inside his chest, he pulled out of the space and headed toward the mall exit. He was almost positive nobody was following, but he was thinking now that he needed to ditch Hannah’s car. Because if anyone had seen him leave in it—or caught the license tag—an APB might go out to the police.
After getting back onto I-95, he took the first available exit. Within ten minutes he’d come to a strip mall with a slightly smaller version of the store he’d just fled. Once inside, he duplicated the purchases he’d made earlier, keeping his mind focused on the shopping instead of the other topics clamoring for examination. Like his reaction to the man—and the boy, he admitted with a grimace.
When he’d finally finished with the shopping expedition, he headed for a nearby neighborhood, cruising the streets to find a house that met several conditions—like a collection of newspapers on the front walk and an older car in the driveway. One he could hot-wire. He knew how to do that, he realized. Just one of his many chicken-rustler skills ready and waiting when he needed them.
He closed his eyes for a moment, clenching his mind against the thought. But it stayed lodged in his brain like a hot poker, although the pain wasn’t exactly physical. It was mental torture—little bits of criminal knowledge that came back to him, confirming his worst suspicions about how he’d ended up with that suitcase full of cash.
Ruthlessly he cut off the unpleasant thoughts. Working on autopilot, he found a suitable car, hot-wired it and drove back to Hannah’s vehicle, which he’d left a block away. Knowing she was going to be pissed at him for abandoning her nice new Ford in some random Baltimore neighborhood, he threw the packages into the backseat of his stolen wheels before heading home.
It was a thirty-minute driv
e, and he deliberately turned his mind to the subject he’d been avoiding. His reaction to Hannah’s suggestion that they go to Pritchard, Texas.
The name had seemed right when he’d picked it out of the phone book. But as soon as Hannah had added the word Texas after it, he’d felt his skin crawl.
She’d come up with that particular town by using the clues he’d given her, clues he hadn’t even known he was scattering around. He didn’t remember the damn town, but he knew with gut-wrenching certainty that he didn’t want to go there.
And he knew why, even if he hadn’t admitted it to her: he was afraid of what he was going to find out about his childhood. He’d come to her thinking that his main problem was determining what events in his recent past had left him with a hole in his memory as big as Montana and a suitcase full of money. He’d told himself he desperately wanted to recover his identity. But the idea of starting in Pritchard, Texas, made him feel like scorpions were crawling all over his body.
So just who the hell was he?
A man without a past. A man who didn’t seem to want to know his past. Yet there were things he could deduce about himself. Like the way he’d known that Barry was getting ready to attack.
He’d read all the signs instinctively. And now that he’d seen them bloom on the guy, he could describe them accurately.
Not just the visual changes. He’d smelled the man’s anger, although he couldn’t describe the odor. But he’d recognized the very subtle yet distinctive scent.
He’d smelled that scent before. In a war? In a street fight? In an ambush? He didn’t know, and the gaping hole in his knowledge made him pound his hands against the steering wheel in frustration.
CHAD CROSBY STOOD outside the paneled door of Dallas Sedgwick’s comfortable den and ordered his heart to stop pounding. The screwup at the parking garage in Baltimore wasn’t his fault. He’d given orders for anyone who spotted the man named Luke Pritchard to put a tracer on his vehicle—not gun him down.
But the guy in Baltimore had panicked when Pritchard had caught him beside the car, then chased him across the garage.
