by Rebecca York
“What?” He waited, afraid that she was going to ask for information he didn’t want to give.
“This is important for you.”
Her eyes were bright. Her skin flushed. Like when he’d kissed her.
“Don’t hope too much,” he said in a voice that was harsher than he intended.
“Don’t be afraid,” she answered.
She didn’t know his fears. He wouldn’t voice them, but he would remind her to be careful. “Winslow was angry when he left us last night. He will ask me what we talked about. You must order me to keep this conversation confidential.”
Her face took on a kind of resignation. “Yes. I order you not to discuss this conversation with anyone.”
“I will keep this between us, too. But now I must go.” Abruptly he started back to the house.
“Wait!”
He pivoted, worried by the sudden panic in her voice. “What is wrong?”
She looked embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I only want to know what you’d like for dinner.”
“Oh.” He thought about the things he liked. “Could we have cherry pie with vanilla ice cream?”
“I’ll see if they have it at the grocery store.”
“And more steak. With a baked potato and lots of butter.”
“Yes.”
He paused, wondering how much he could request. “Something else I had once. Something good. A doughnut. With a honey glaze.”
“Would you like some?”
“Yes.”
He wanted to pull her close against him. Devour her mouth with his. He only said, “Thank you. For everything.” Then he turned and left to go with the waiting security men.
###
He was reassembling a sniper rifle when Granger planted himself a couple of feet away and looked around to see that nobody else was in the vicinity.
“Heard about your new living arrangement,” he said in a conversational voice. “You’re a lucky SOB.”
He went on with the job at hand.
“So, did you get any last night?” Granger asked with a smirk on his face.
From the talk he’d heard among the men, he was pretty sure he knew what that meant. He chose to give him an innocent look. “Any what?”
“I guess if you don’t know, the answer is negative.” The comment was followed by a nasty laugh.
He bent over the rifle, as much to hide his expression as to finish with the weapon.
“She’s one good-looking babe,” Granger insisted. “I like those sexy headlights of hers. A real nice pair. And she’s got a great ass, too. If I was living with her, I’d get in her pants, all right.”
It took all his willpower not to surge up off the bench and sock Granger in the jaw. But he knew that would be a bad move. He’d already taken out his feelings on Beckton. He couldn’t afford any more mistakes. So he kept blandly working, pretending that he wasn’t seething inside.
Was Granger the man who had attacked him last night, he wondered, as he surreptitiously examined the man’s muscular build? The attacker had been strong enough to wrench himself away. And he’d been a skilled fighter. Granger was a possibility.
The man made a few more choice remarks about Kathryn Kelley’s body. When that failed to get a reaction, he switched to Beckton.
“I see the chief of training is keeping away from you.”
He didn’t answer.
“He’s afraid of you now.”
He shrugged, determined not to get into any more trouble, because now he knew his behavior could affect Kathryn Kelley. When Granger didn’t get any reaction from his victim, he lost interest and drifted away.
###
As she cleaned up the kitchen, Kathryn wondered what Hunter was doing. She had just finished washing the breakfast dishes when she heard a noise in the dining room and whirled. McCourt was standing by the table watching her.
“It’s customary to knock before entering someone’s home,” she said.
“I did. I guess with the water running, you didn’t hear me.”
She was pretty sure he was lying, or he’d rapped so faintly that it would have been impossible for her to hear. She didn’t waste the energy challenging him.
And he didn’t waste any time getting to the point. “A sidearm is missing from the armory,” he announced, watching her face for any reaction.
“And?” she asked, keeping her gaze steady, even as she felt her pulse speed up.
“I’d like to see if it turned up here.”
“Are you asking permission to search the house?” she inquired.
“No. I’m just trying to show you I can be polite.”
“Why should a missing weapon be in this cottage, of all places?” she asked as mildly as she could with her heart knocking against the inside of her ribs.
“I’m checking various buildings. This one’s on the list.”
Last night, Hunter had put the pistol and the silencer in one of the cabinets behind her. She forced herself to casually step aside and sweep her arm toward the kitchen. “Maybe it’s under the sink,” she said sweetly.
“Maybe.”
Her mouth went as dry as sand when McCourt strode forward and opened several of the lower doors, moving aside cleaning supplies and loudly rattling pots and pans, probably to judge the effect on her nerves, she decided as she tried to concentrate on a breathing exercise designed to instill calm.
The relaxation technique was only marginally successful. When McCourt straightened and started on the upper cabinets, she wanted to grab hold of the door frame to steady herself. Instead, she only pressed her shoulder against the white-painted wood.
The gun was to the right of the sink. As if in a nightmare, she watched him open the cupboard and rummage inside. His fingers closed around the bag of flour, and she stopped breathing as she pictured him pulling it aside, revealing the weapon. Eons passed before he removed his hand and slammed the cabinet.
“Are you doing this to harass me?” she asked in a voice that was almost steady.
“No. I’m doing it because I’m in charge of security, and if a weapon is missing, my neck is on the chopping block.”
She managed a little nod as he strode past her and into the dining room, where he paused to open a few drawers. Then he marched down the hall and into Hunter’s room.
Kathryn pulled a paperback from the bookcase in the living room and took a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs. She’d been pretending to read for more than a minute when she realized she was holding the book upside down. Quickly she switched the position and ordered her eyes to focus on a few lines. All she could do, however, was listen to the sounds of the search in the back of the house. He was taking three times as long in Hunter’s room as he had in the kitchen. Would he go back to the cabinets when he didn’t find the weapon, she wondered.
Redwood forests sprouted and grew to maturity as she waited for him to come striding down the hall. When he finally reentered the room, she looked up questioningly. “Find anything interesting—besides my preferred brand of toothpaste?”
“No,” he snapped. Without another word, he crossed to the door and stamped onto the porch. She didn’t relax until she heard a car drive away. Then she slumped in the chair. Her first instinct was to run to the kitchen and retrieve the gun. She stifled the impulse. McCourt hadn’t found it, so it was safe for the moment.
###
Hunter caught a flash of movement in the doorway. Keeping his head bent over the rifle, he slid his eyes to the right. It was Dr. Swinton. Why was he here today when he hadn’t come to the armory in weeks?
Although the research director stood watching him for several moments, Hunter didn’t break his rhythm, even when he felt the man’s gaze burning into the back of his neck. Then, thankfully, Beckton came over, and Swinton started asking low, brisk questions. Hunter strained his ears, but he couldn’t hear either the questions or the answers. It was obvious, however, from the expression on Beckton’s face that he didn’t like
being quizzed. Still, he remained respectful as he showed Swinton some of the latest progress reports. Yet every so often, he threw a quick look over his shoulder, as if he were afraid someone would ask what he and Swinton were talking about.
Did they have a secret, Hunter wondered? If so, Swinton hid it better than Beckton.
They finished talking and Swinton left. Beckton looked around nervously, then hurried out of the building.
Hunter finished with the rifle, completed a drill on Gravanian geography, and went outside to the paved area behind the building where a small truck was waiting. After studying a set of written instructions, he climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and began to maneuver around an obstacle course that had been set up.
It was a normal day. Yet everything had changed. He wasn’t simply following orders anymore. He was noticing things around him, making assessments. He’d never tried to figure out if one of the men he worked with had killed Fenton, the chief of security. Today, he wondered if Fenton’s death was connected to the attack last night.
When he came to no conclusions, he switched his thoughts back to the time with Kathryn Kelley—and found himself singing the song that she had sung. It was so different from the music she had played on the machine. The 1812 Overture. He liked them both. But he liked this better—because she had sung it.
To every thing there is a season
And a time for every purpose under heaven
Her voice was high and beautiful. His was a croak by comparison. But he sang the words anyway.
His throat clenched, cutting off the song. What was his time? His season.
This morning he felt caught between two different worlds. The old world where he did what he was told without question and without feeling anything. And the new world where his mind seethed with questions and emotions.
It was strange to admit that he took a kind of grim pleasure in Beckton’s new fear of him. But he kept it well hidden, he hoped. He must not let them know how much he had changed since meeting Kathryn.
Kathryn. That was her first name. He didn’t have to call her Kathryn Kelley, he suddenly decided. He could think of just the first part. The part her other friends would use.
If things were different, the two of them might—
Hands clenched on the steering wheel of the truck, he stopped the daydream before it could form. He would finish his instruction at Stratford Creek, then go on to his primary assignment, and that would be the end of it. But now he had another mission, as well. He must keep Kathryn safe while she was here. The problem was, he didn’t know what would happen if he came to a juncture where the two aims clashed.
The worry made him lose his concentration, and he tapped the right front fender of the truck against a barrel. He had made a mistake, he thought as he forced his mind back to the obstacle course. He had taken this test before. He’d better not do worse than the last time. Or Colonel Emerson would ask questions.
###
Long after McCourt had left, Kathryn sat rigidly in the living room chair, afraid to trust her legs. She’d always been good about putting up a calm front. She hoped she’d fooled McCourt.
She’d felt like a prisoner ever since she’d arrived at Stratford Creek, but the security chief had just given her a vivid demonstration of his power over her. In a way, he was worse than James Harrison. Fear of the man had driven her here, because she knew what to expect from Harrison. From the beginning, she hadn’t known what to expect here.
Finally, she looked at her watch and pushed herself out of the chair. She’d better pick up the groceries she’d promised Hunter.
She had been thinking about what extra treats to buy him. Now she was sorry she hadn’t made a list, because her brain was a complete blank. Well, maybe when she looked at the grocery shelves, she’d remember what she was supposed to be doing.
She started for the door, then stopped abruptly. Was it safe to leave the house, she wondered, glancing uneasily toward the kitchen cabinet that held more than food? For a split second, she thought about putting the gun in her purse. Then she sighed and headed for the door. If she got caught with a gun tucked in her purse, she’d have some tough explaining to do. If somebody found it in the kitchen cabinet, she could truthfully say she hadn’t put it there.
###
Hunter had bragged to Kathryn that he could get personnel information. Now he realized his desire to please her had made him speak too quickly.
As he sat in front of the computer screen in a windowless basement room of the administration building, the chances of getting the files she wanted seemed slim.
Pushing the printer button, he half turned to look at the man sitting directly behind him.
“You need some help?” the man asked. His name was Hertz. He was small and stoop shouldered and wore a baggy sweater in the cool climes of the basement office.
“No,” Hunter answered, wishing that Hertz would leave the room. Apparently, he’d been told to stay. In fact, he realized, someone was almost always watching him, except when he was being tested on a solo exercise. He’d never thought much about the lack of privacy. Today, however, he was vividly aware of the constant scrutiny—and a lot of other details of his life he’d never questioned.
He didn’t know what Hertz had been told about him, besides that he was preparing for a special assignment. Maybe Hertz had been told the same thing as Kathryn—that he was instructing a prisoner volunteer. They’d only worked together on a sporadic basis and always stuck strictly to business. Searching his memory, he decided that the man wasn’t usually as conscientious a watcher as the regular instructors. Yet today he hovered nervously in the background like—
Like what”
A fifth wheel?
No, that was the wrong phrase. The wrong idiom.
Like a watchdog. That was better, he thought with a little grin. The grin vanished as he considered why the man was being so conscientious. Probably the incident with Beckton was being talked about around the compound.
Again, he reproved himself for hitting the training chief. It was a mistake. But it was in the past, and he couldn’t change it. He could only go forward, he thought as he booted up a government-restricted Internet search engine.
He had used the Net before, and he had no problem locating a directory of the faculty in the physics department at the University of Stockholm and printing the biographies of selected department members. Then he went on to download and print out product specifications from an aircraft manufacturer in California.
But while he was doing the assigned work, part of his mind was on Kathryn’s requests. She wanted Stratford Creek personnel records and a list of decathlon winners.
Perhaps he would have to make a choice between the two options. If he had time to get only one of the things, he would pick the personnel records. That was more important, he told himself. It would help her.
Finding out about dead athletes was another matter, he thought with a sudden prickle of fear at the back of his neck. He wasn’t sure why he was afraid of putting a name to the face he saw every morning in the mirror when he shaved. He told himself that he didn’t want to open a door that had always been closed.
After about forty-five minutes, he stood up. “I’m going to the men’s room.”
Hertz started to stand. “Okay.”
“I know the way. I’ll be right back.” Without waiting for a reply, he walked into the hall. To his relief, the other man didn’t follow him.
He hadn’t been sure he could get out of the room alone. Making the most of the opportunity, he hurried down the corridor. After determining that no one was watching, he ducked into an empty office along the route and picked up a pack of matches and some cigarettes he’d seen lying on an otherwise empty desk.
The matches alone would probably work for what he had in mind, but if anyone checked to see what had happened, it was better to have a cigarette, as well, he decided.
He knew about smoking. He’d passed men cluste
red around exterior doors enthusiastically puffing on cigarettes when they were on their breaks. Rain or shine, cold or hot, they did it. You lit the end with the brown stuff and sucked on the filter tip. The smokers seemed to enjoy it. In fact, sometimes they sneaked into the men’s room to smoke. Today, he would find out how it tasted.
Locking himself into a stall, he struck a match, pressed the burning end to the cigarette, and dragged in a deep breath through the filter tip the way he’d seen guys do it.
The moment the stinging smoke hit the back of his throat, he started to gag. When it reached his lungs, he began to cough violently. It was as if he’d breathed in poison gas, he thought as he wiped the tears from his eyes, thankful that no one else was in the washroom. After gasping in several lungfuls of air, he tried again—this time a lot more cautiously. Instead of inhaling the smoke, he only pulled it into his mouth. When he was sure the lit end was burning nicely, he exited the stall and poked the cigarette into the paper-towel-filled trash bin.
By the time he finished washing his hands and rinsing the foul taste out of his mouth, the trash was already beginning to smolder. For good measure, he dragged over a wooden chair from the corner with a sweatshirt draped across the back and dangled the sleeve in the trash. Then he hurried back to the office where Hertz was still sitting and reading a magazine.
Only part of the next Internet search was completed when the fire alarm began to ring.
Hertz jumped up and went to the door. “Maybe it’s a false alarm,” he muttered.
Lifting his head from the screen, Hunter loudly sniffed the air. “I think I smell smoke.”
Fearfully, Hertz took another breath. “Yeah. Let’s get the hell out of here.” He started for the door, then looked back in consternation. “Come on,” he urged.
“I must exit the Windows program,” Hunter said, making his voice loud and mechanical.
“It’s okay to leave it. Come on!”
In the hall, several sets of feet rushed past as the workers assigned to the basement offices made for the exits.
“I am required to shut down the equipment properly,” he answered, adding a stubborn note to the statement as he deliberately turned his back on the man and faced the console. His fingers were already moving over the keys. If Hertz approached, he’d discover that he wasn’t shutting down the machine.
