My Soul To Take

by Mary

A case with a very personal twist forces Scarecrow and Mrs. King back into the field. Will danger reunite them or drive them apart forever? Set in March, 2000. **COMPLETE**

1. PART ONE

Title:     My Soul To Take

Author:  Mary

Date written: June, 2001 – June, 2003

*DISCLAIMER** Scarecrow & Mrs. King is copyrighted to Warner Brothers and Shoot The Moon Production Company. The original parts of this story, however, are
copyrighted to the author. This story is for entertainment purposes only and cannot be redistributed without the permission of the author. ©


Note: This stand alone story is NOT part of the 'With Or Without You' universe. Any resemblance to that universe is a result my overworked mind and purely
coincidental.

Summary: A case with a very personal twist forces Scarecrow and Mrs. King back into the field. Will danger reunite them or drive them apart forever? Timeframe: March, 2000. Major angst warning: this story deals with character death.

Author's notes: If you happen to be in the city of Chicago and you also happen to wander over to the corner of Michigan and Randolph, sadly, you won't find the Agency's Midwest Division. You will, however, find 'Stetson Avenue,' so I felt a little creative license was definitely in order.

Last, but definitely not least: A big thank you to my wonderful beta team. You are the absolute best! You find my typos, point out the 'flat' scenes, and let me know what works and what doesn't -- even when forced to read 200 pages! I have to say a special thank you to Pam, for her wonderful 'in progress' comments (and for her insistence on an explanation for Francine's behavior). And very special thanks go to Ann, who beta'd this monstrosity from its inception – almost three long years ago when it was nothing but a stray idea taking shape in my evil, angst-ridden brain. This story has been a long time coming.

My Soul To Take

PART ONE

"Now I lay me down to sleep . . ."

~ I ~

Scarecrow wearily pulled open the door to the Georgetown foyer. Acknowledging the receptionist with a nod, he silently accepted his I.D. In a routine born from years of habit, he clipped it to his jacket pocket before giving the cleverly disguised elevator button a forceful jab.

Shifting his weight, he kept his eyes focused straight ahead on the brightly painted closet door. Candy apple red. The hotshot decorator's idea of nouvelle décor never failed to set his nerves on edge. Just like the sharp rat-tat-tat of the receptionist's well-manicured fingernails on the desktop.

He groaned inwardly, wishing yet again that Mrs. Marston hadn't retired. Well, nothing stayed the same in this business -- that was the first thing his mentor Harry Thornton had drilled into him some twenty-five years earlier. A theorem Harry had proved himself yet again just last month, succumbing to a heart attack at the tender age of seventy-nine.

The elevator door opened with a creaking moan and, giving the wrinkled apparel a careless shove, he stepped inside. His stomach lurched as the conveyance began its rapid descent. He stole a glance at his watch -- only a little past nine. His day was just beginning and already he felt as if he'd put in a full shift. He must be getting old. There was a time when he could go twenty-four hours straight without so much as a second thought.

His head whipped back as the elevator arrived at his level with a skidding thud. Emerging from the cramped enclosure, he avoided eye contact as he traversed the narrow hall to the bullpen. Though early, his section was already in full operational mode.

"Carter!" he barked, threading his way through the extraneous bodies as he crossed the crowded room. "My office. Now."

The fresh-faced brunette jumped from her chair, gratefully accepting a sympathetic smile from fellow agent Francine Desmond as she gathered her files.  Clutching the papers to her chest, she made her way to her section chief's door.

"Just give me cursory summaries," Scarecrow said as his young assistant entered his sanctum. "That's all I have time for. I've been tied up with Dr. Smyth for the last hour."

Agent Carter scanned her notes. "Johnson and Fielder's report on the Thompson business, status unchanged. Franklin is still under cover on the Los Lobos operation. There, uh, seems to be some activity there -- he's requested surveillance teams at both airports. Nothing alpha priority on the flash data reports. The Q-Bureau Chief is waiting to see you . . ."

"Tell Desmond she can have five minutes now or thirty minutes after lunch -- it's up to her."  Frowning, he massaged the painful muscles in his neck. "Oh, and call maintenance about that dammed elevator. It's malfunctioning again."

"Yes, sir."

Yanking out his chair, he dropped down, simultaneously reaching for the telephone.  "That'll be all, Carter," he muttered as the young woman lingered uncertainly by his desk. "I said we'd pick this up later."

She licked her lips as she fingered a sealed file. "Uh, Mr. Stetson, there *is* one more thing."

His fingers beat a staccato rhythm on the cradle of the phone. "What?"

"This report came in from Chicago early this morning -- flagged Delta Orange."

"Agent Carter, do I have to hold your hand? Certainly you have clearance to handle something as basic as a Delta Orange. Even a civilian could . . ." He stopped abruptly, forcing his attention back to the open folder on his desk.

"But sir," she ventured, her thumb and forefinger pressing tightly against the envelope's creased edge. "You have a standing order for personal notification on any matter having to do with the name, uh, King."

He looked up sharply. "Thank you."

"Yes, sir."

Carter laid the file on his desk and slipped noiselessly from the room. Scarecrow noted with a sigh that she'd forgotten to close his door once again. How could he be expected to get any work done with that racket from the bullpen drifting in? He made a half-hearted attempt to rise, but the file held him firmly in place. A small muscle in his cheek twitched as he clenched his teeth, and, scowling, he reached for the plain yellow envelope.

"You really should try being a little nicer to her, you know. Carter is still green, but then, once upon a time, so were we."

Drawing a deep breath, he looked up to see Francine Desmond framed in the doorway, her toe tapping out an unspoken accusation. "I don't think they've invented a color yet for Carter," he grumbled, rolling his eyes.

"She's young."

"She's impossible."

"She's the only assistant who hasn't gone over your head to demand a transfer, Scarecrow." The blonde agent straightened, moving across the room to perch unceremoniously on the edge of his cluttered desk. "What is it you really have against her?"

He suddenly became inordinately interested in the stack of papers scattered in front of him. "I don't have anything against her."

As usual, Francine was completely oblivious to the rancor in his tone. "Is it her age?" she pressed, "Or her appearance?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Francine raised an eyebrow. "I'm talking about her brown eyes and dark brown hair," she said quietly.

In the sudden silence, Scarecrow thought he heard a pin drop. "Did you actually want something, Francine?" he demanded. "Or did you just swoop down from the Q-Bureau for the usual morning calisthenics?"

"I thought I'd hand deliver the special whereabouts and activities briefing you requested on one Roberto Salzedo," she replied, handing him an embossed folder with an exaggerated flourish. "But now that you mention it, a little verbal sparring would get the day off to a good start. It might even improve your mood."

"Yeah, well, I don't have time for a workout at the moment, verbal or otherwise," he grumbled, ignoring her teasing smile as he turned his attention back to his neglected files. "As you can see, I'm busy. Feel free to hang a 'do not disturb' sign on my door on your way out."

"The bear growls," she muttered, her eyes widening as she fixed him in a lethal stare. "I'm sure that works with the rest of your agents, but we go back too far together." She hopped off his desk, smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt. "Besides, I promised Billy I'd look after you."

"Billy's retired; he'll never know." His hand shook slightly as he clasped his pen. "You can slink on out of here with a clear conscience."

Pressing closer, she inclined her body toward him ever so slightly. "Sorry, Stetson. A promise is a promise. So, drinks at Ned's tonight. Just you and me." Her face softened as she gave his arm a gentle squeeze. "It's Friday, and we have a standing date, remember?"

He looked up and caught her eye, a regretful smile crossing his face before he could banish it.  "Yeah, I remember. I'm just not sure I'll be very good company."

"That was never part of our deal. I'll see you promptly at seven." She turned toward the door, her hand clutching the wood frame as she paused. "I know what's in that report from Chicago. If you want to talk, I'll listen."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Rusty hinges screeched in protest as Lee tugged on the heavy wooden door. Though the popular watering hole was definitely showing its age, Nedlindger's Washington Pub was still the unofficial hangout of the intelligence community. And judging by the crowd that greeted his tired eyes, the gang was out in force tonight. He let out a loud sigh; this scene really wasn't his style anymore.

"Lee . . . over here!"

At least Francine had managed to snag one of the few private booths in the place. Acknowledging her with a nod, he quickly navigated the room, ignoring the mumbled greetings of the old timers as he slid in across from her.

She pushed a well-filled glass in his direction. "Here you go," she said, brushing an errant strand of hair from her forehead. "One scotch and water, as promised."

"Thanks," he muttered, taking a long gulp. The amber-colored liquid burned as it went down, the feeling radiating out from his chest as it flooded the rest of his body with soothing warmth. One more sip, and he leaned back against the cool leather upholstery, his tension finally began to ebb. "You know, this place never really changes, does it?" he asked, gifting her with a tolerant smile.

Francine's grin grew wider. "Somehow, I find that reassuring. People may come and go, but Ned's goes on."

He felt his scowl settle into place again.

"Oh, Lee," Francine gasped as she realized what she'd said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean . . ."

"It's okay, Francine. Avoiding the subject won't change anything." He drained his glass, setting it down on the table with a resounding thud. "For either of us." He gave her a sympathetic look. "It's been, what, eighteen months for you now?"

Francine fingered the large diamond solitaire now set in a platinum necklace. "Two years next month."

"There, you see? Time *does* fly." Catching the waitress' eye, he raised his glass. "At least it's over and done with. You aren't in limbo any more."

"That's some small comfort, I suppose. Still, it's not easy to admit your marriage was a huge mistake." She ran her finger lightly around the rim of her glass. "Jonathan may have been a complete ass, but I miss him sometimes, you know?"

"Yeah, I know."

Francine laid her hand on his arm. "Things aren't any better, huh?"

"Things are . . . what they are," he said, shaking off her caress. He raised his glass to his lips, then, realizing it was empty, set it back down again.

Francine pretended not to notice. "I saw you at L'Etoile the other night," she began in a low voice. "I was kind of hoping . . . well, that maybe *this* time you'd finally let yourself . . ."

The waitress placed a new drink in front of him, and Lee flashed her a grateful smile. "No," he said, turning to Francine once more. "Leslie and I were only catching up on old times. She's a friend. And I think I know better than to take that path again."

Francine reached out to him once more, but he warned her away with a scowl. He winced slightly as he watched her pull back, her fingers clenching into a fist as she thrust her hand into her lap instead. Francine was one of his oldest friends; he longed to let her in. But he'd made that mistake once before, and they'd both paid the price. No, it was better this way, better to shore up the invisible barriers once again. Safer, too . . . for everyone concerned. He didn't have friends to spare these days.

Exhaling loudly, he downed the remainder of his second drink. Though Francine's eyes rounded, she managed to bite back her response. "Don't worry," he assured her with an apologetic smile. "I know my limit these days." He shook his glass lightly, watching the small cubes as they clinked together. "So . . . you read the report?"

"Yes." She pulled her lips into a slight pout. "Are you going to look into it?"

He shrugged. "According to the report from the Chicago P.D., it's a false alarm.  Everything checks out."

"And you're going to just leave it at that?"

"I'll run our old case files, but I don't expect anything to show up. You know how overprotective . . ." Frowning, he rattled the ice again. "Anyway, it's out of my jurisdiction. Chicago's not exactly in my backyard."

"I'm sure they'd understand your interest. Those Midwestern bureaucrats . . ."

"Do things strictly by the book," Lee stated coldly. "And I'm not going to run off half-cocked. Not again."

Francine leaned back against the worn leather cushions. "Stop it right there, Stetson. What happened wasn't your fault -- you know that. No matter what *she* said."

His stony glare managed to cut her off, but he saw the impenetrable steel behind those big blue eyes. No matter how tough he made it, Francine always managed to hold her ground.

"The board of inquiry exonerated you completely," his friend continued, proving this time was no exception. "It's time you extended yourself the same courtesy."

His eyes narrowed. "What the hell does it matter? It doesn't change anything. Blame or no blame, the outcome's still the same."

"Don't do this to yourself, Lee. You know what Pfaff said."

Lee gave her a wintry smile. "I know, I know. It's not *healthy* to dwell on might-have-beens." He looked away, choking slightly as he cleared his throat. "I've gotta go," he said as he scrambled to his feet. Reaching into his pocket, he dropped a few bills onto the table. "Here, this time's on me."

"Lee, wait," Francine protested. "Let's talk this through . . ."

"Gotta go," he mumbled again, glancing over his shoulder as he executed his escape. Francine was hot on his trail; he could hear her calling his name as he pushed open the heavy door. He struggled to close it, but he wasn't quick enough to drown out her bitter parting words. He even found himself repeating them in his mind as he jogged to his car . . .

'Damn you, Amanda King.'

~ II ~

"Amanda, is that you?" Dotty West called. "Do you have any news? Was your boss in? What did the police say about . . ."

Amanda slammed the door shut. "Mother, please . . . one question at a time." Frowning, she ran quick fingers through her tousled hair. The calendar heralded spring's official arrival today, but the blustery weather in the Windy City had other ideas. March was certainly much more welcoming in Virginia.

"You didn't get anywhere with the local authorities, did you?" Dotty asked, her voice rising as she finished her question.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Pausing to toss her black pea coat across the back of the sofa, she faced her mother. "Detective Devine did ask me to dinner."

"Amanda, I'm serious."

She grimaced. "Unfortunately, so was he."

"Make jokes if you want. It won't distract me. I know I'm just his grandmother, but . . ."   Sinking down into a chair, Dotty massaged her neck with energetic fingers, managing simultaneously to fix her daughter in her gaze. "I think, this time, I have a need to know."

Amanda put a comforting arm on the older woman's shoulder as she perched on the arm of the chair. "Of course you do, Mother. I'm not trying to keep things from you again. It's just the only way I know to break the tension, I guess."

"Honestly, Amanda, you sound just like . . ."

She jumped up before her mother could finish. No use letting her start down that road again; it didn't change anything.

"I'm sorry, love," she heard her mother say in a tone meant to soothe. "I didn't mean to open old wounds. I'm just so worried."

Nodding, Amanda walked over to the window. She could see Lake Michigan in the distance, the tiny crests of white breaking mercilessly against the iron barrier that guarded the shore. "I know you didn't," she said at last, rubbing her arms to ward off the chill that seemed to eat its way right through the heavy paned glass. "I'm worried, too. Medical degree or not, he's still my little boy. The only . . ." She broke off, her words lost in a strangled sob. Be strong, Amanda, she reminded herself. Tears are for weaklings and fools. 

Turning, she caught sight of her muted reflection in the window. She started for a moment, wondering about the too-thin, almost haggard woman who returned her puzzled gaze. Where on earth had she come from? Certainly this couldn't be the Amanda who'd rushed headlong to meet whatever life had to offer. She'd always thought of herself as an optimistic, upbeat person. Why, even in the darkest months following her divorce from Joe, she'd always managed to find the silver . . .

She banished the fleeting thought before it had a chance to take stronger form. Looking back never helped anything, she thought as Dotty called her name again. "I'm sorry, Mother," she mumbled, clutching the sharp pleat on her gray woolen skirt. "What did you say?"

"I asked what the police told you, dear."

"That after talking to the powers that be at North Shore Labs, they're satisfied that Dr. King is merely away on confidential business," she parroted with a bitter laugh. "They see no grounds to get involved."

"But surely after you told them your suspicions? Lisa hasn't heard a word from Jamie in well over three weeks. I'm sorry, Amanda, no matter what he was working on, he'd find time to call his wife."

"You don't have to convince me, Mother. I'm in total agreement." She bit her lip as she began to pace a path back and forth in front of the large picture window. "He's in trouble; I can smell it."

"What about your editor at the magazine?" Dotty asked as she abandoned the comforts of the large wing chair to do some pacing of her own.

"I'm afraid he's taking the same stand as the police. He doesn't think the story's newsworthy. If I just had an inkling of what Jamie had been working on . . ." Trudging over to the couch, she sank down, her burst of energy spent. "Oh, I don't know, maybe if I hadn't been so preoccupied with finalizing the divorce, Jamie would have come to me with what was bothering him. I could have prevented this."

Hands on her hips, Dotty drew her daughter's gaze. "You know how I feel about this cockamamie divorce of yours, Amanda, but I won't have you thinking that way -- not again. You aren't to blame for this, any more than . . . well, it's not your fault," she reiterated firmly.

Amanda ducked her head, unable to meet the sympathy in her mother's eyes. She sensed Dotty moving to the sofa, felt her warming presence as her mother sat down beside her. "They need to get a team in the field to look for him," Amanda stated with a soft sigh. "Before it's too late. I know how quickly the trail can turn cold."

"Darling . . ."

She could hear the uncharacteristic hesitation in her mother's voice, and she unconsciously patted the wrinkled hand that rested on her arm. Had even the outspoken Dorothea West been reduced to treading on eggshells around her? Her formidable mother was beginning to sound just like all her friends back home. Back home . . .

*This* was her home now, she reminded herself. She'd carved out a new life for herself here in Chicago. It was a good life; her days were full. She had an interesting job, worthwhile causes that laid claim to countless volunteer hours, acquaintances who passed for friends. Yet, when someone mentioned home, she still thought of shady, tree-lined streets in Arlington, Virginia. Or small, well-tended city blocks in the heart of Georgetown.

She pulled herself out of the past with an effort, casting about for something to ground her here in the present, not there, in that other life. Think about Jamie, she reminded herself. Jamie and . . .

"Oh, Mother," she cried. "What am I going to tell Lisa?" 

"You'll tell her that her husband will be coming home soon," her mother stated firmly, tucking a stray wisp of hair neatly behind her daughter's ear. "And that you're going to do everything you can to make that happen."

She sighed. "I don't know what else I *can* do. I've pretty much exhausted all my resources."

Her mother gave her a pointed look. "Have you?"

Rising abruptly, Amanda walked back to the window. "I can't do that, Mother," she choked out, her words strangling her.

"Not even for Jamie?" Dotty countered, coming up behind her. "Not even for baby Joey? Darling, that dear little boy is only nine months old. He's going to need his daddy -- just like Lisa needs her husband."

Amanda rubbed her arms as she shivered. "Even if I did . . . ask . . . it wouldn't matter anyway. Not after everything that happened, everything we said . . . *I* said."

"Amanda . . . Stetson." Her mother's voice sounded sharply in her ear, clearly emphasizing the name she never used any more, the name she hadn't heard in over a year. "You don't really believe that, do you?"

Amanda smiled sadly. "I don't let myself believe anything else." Squaring her shoulders, she turned to her mother. "You're right -- there just isn't anywhere else to turn. I'll do it."

Dotty quickly closed her in a warm embrace. "It'll be all right, baby," she crooned, rubbing her back the way she did when Amanda was a little girl. "You'll see -- sometimes things happen for a reason. Maybe . . ."

She stiffened. "Mother, I'm only doing this for Jamie -- that's all."

"I know," Dotty whispered as her hands kept up their calming rhythm. "I know, love."

Amanda savored one small moment of comfort as her mother's practiced fingers worked away the tension. For Jamie, she repeated softly to herself. Yes, for her son's sake she would dare to do the unthinkable. She would face down her past.

~ III ~

The cool breeze ruffled his hair as he worked his way to the back of the abandoned building. It was quiet. Too quiet, he wondered vaguely, only the intermittent 'caw' of that annoying crow to break the silence. Glancing quickly from side to side, he did a rapid analysis. Front exit -- open to the street, no escape there. Rear exit -- hidden, more vulnerable. Yes, the rear was a definite possibility. Biting his lip, he checked his watch. Agency backup should arrive momentarily. Just sit tight, Scarecrow; a few more minutes and this whole protracted mess will be tied up with neat precision.

Then why did the hair on the back of his neck prickle so persistently? Something wasn't right, something he hadn't factored into this tidy little equation. He looked over his shoulder once again. Yes, the car was hidden, safely out of harm's way.

He took a deep breath, made a quick decision. Pulling his revolver from its side holster, he cautiously entered the warehouse.

The world turned upside down.

Noise . . . heat . . . an acrid smell. A persistent throbbing in his temple. He wiped his hand across his brow, blurred eyes focusing on the crimson smear on his palm.

Voices calling . . . a loud crash . . .no, not a crash . . . gunshots! Oh, my God, what are they doing? Why don't they stop? Get up, Scarecrow, move! Pain, blood, falling . . . swirling into the vortex, a cacophony of colors, blue, orange, red . . . my God, so much red . . .

"No!"

Lee was hurled into consciousness with a violent shudder. Heart pounding, his eyes darted fleetingly around the room. A desk, a cluttered bureau, scattered piles of clothes. He was home, then. In his house . . . his room . . . his bed.

Pushing aside the sweat-soaked sheets, he sat up, swinging his legs to the floor with a loud thud. He held his head in his hands as he forced much needed air into his lungs. Damn, he thought as his breathing struggled to return to some semblance of normalcy. He'd had the dream again.

It hadn't hit him with such force in a long time. Must have been the scene with Francine the day before, bringing everything back again. Or more likely that bottle of Chivas Regal he'd polished off last night before bed. He rubbed his throbbing temples. He should have known better.

Sighing again, he turned a bleary eye toward the clock on the nightstand. Almost nine. He pushed himself to his feet, exhaling loudly as he made his way to the bathroom. Turning on the faucet, he cupped his hands, splashing cold water on his face. He shook himself lightly, running wet fingers through his hair as he reluctantly faced himself in the water-spotted mirror.

Bloodshot eyes glared back at him from a taut, beard-shadowed face. Closing his eyes, he banished the image. His fingers gripped the edge of the sink, holding on for dear life. What was that trick Pfaff had taught him? Oh, yeah . . . he forced himself to take a few calming breaths, willing his chest to rise and fall with rhythmic regularity. That's it, almost there . . . almost. He concentrated again, forcing out the siren's faint wail, the bitter odor of burning wood, the sight of the red stain spreading out in an ever-widening circle beneath his fingers.

It kept coming, no matter how hard he tried to stop it . . . stop it . . .

"Stop it!" he told himself sternly, drawing in a few more labored breaths as he ordered his hands to unclench. "Just stop it." With grim resolve, he set about his usual morning routine, drawing comfort from the ritual. In those first few months after Amanda had gone, when the dream still came nightly with merciless regularity, he'd clung to these simple patterns like a lifeline.

Throwing on his robe, he headed downstairs to the kitchen. He shook his head at the sight of the coffee, ready and waiting. How on earth did he have the presence of mind to set the timer last night? Some habits surely died harder than others.

Like living in this house. He wondered why he didn't just take Francine's advice and sell the damn place. Living with ghosts, she'd said. Well, maybe there was some truth in that.

As he sipped his steaming coffee, his eyes were drawn to the pile of mail he'd deposited on the counter last night before reaching for the Scotch. It was still there. The words fairly screamed at him from beneath the scattered envelopes. 'Whereas, wife shall cause to be filed against husband a Petition for Dissolution of Marriage . . .' 

Dissolution . . . that's what things had come to.

He considered the word. To evaporate, terminate, conclude. Thirteen years, over and done with, just like that. As soon as he signed on the appropriate dotted line.

What was he waiting for? There wasn't going to be any reprieve, no last minute save from his partner this time. No forgiveness, no blessed benediction. Hell, what did he expect? There were no more words, anyway; they'd said them all last year when she'd left for good. Harsh, hurtful words, words spoken in pain, anger and, yes, blame; words that couldn't be undone.

Letting out a rough breath, he dumped the remains of his coffee in the sink. He'd sworn not to look back anymore, and it was way past time to start his day. Placing his cup in the dishwasher, he headed for the shower.

His foot was on the first step when he heard the phone. It was probably Francine, calling to check on him. He grinned ruefully. Desmond was like a dog with a bone. Might as well take his medicine and get it over with.

"Okay, Francine," he sputtered as he hit the 'talk' button, "I'm sorry about running out on you . . ."

"Hello, Lee."

His fingers closed tightly around the hard plastic. He could hear her light breathing and struggled for control.

A slight hesitation, and that unmistakable voice continued. "It's me, it's . . ."

"Amanda," he said, his tone strangely neutral. Leaning back, he let the counter support his weight.

Another pause, then a throaty, "Yes. I was calling to see . . . well, I just wanted to ask . . ."

"Yes, I got the papers." Holding the cordless phone in a death-grip, he circled the small cooking island. "I'll sign them today and overnight them to your attorney."

"Oh, my . . ." The phrase drifted off into muffled oblivion. "Yes, I remember now, the lawyer's office said they would be mailing them this week."

He stopped his pacing by the kitchen sink. "So," he stated at last when it became apparent that she wasn't going to continue. "I guess that should be it, then." He could see the small buds forming on the shrubs outside the window and forced himself to concentrate on them with dogged determination.

"Yes, I . . . guess so."

She sounded odd, a subtle difference he couldn't quite put his finger on. Her voice, he realized suddenly. It had lost a little of that endearing Southern twang, replaced instead with the smallest hint of Midwestern slur. He took a deep breath. "Well, I, uh . . ."

"No, Lee, that's not why I called," she said in a rush, unexpectedly sounding like herself again. "It doesn't have anything to do with . . . what I mean is . . . it's . . . it's Jamie. He's . . . missing, I guess. He's been out of town, supposedly on business, but . . ."

"Amanda . . ."

"Lisa hasn't heard a word from him since he left, over three weeks ago now," she continued breathlessly. "We've both talked to the police, but . . ."

"Amanda," he said, a little more forcefully this time. "I know."

He heard her slow gasp. "You know?"

"I read the briefing report."

"Oh, I see."

Just those three short words -- clipped and curt. He winced, but pushed on. "The police say the statement from North Shore Labs checks out. He's on a classified business trip. You know that drill as well as I do. The police . . ."

"The police buy the standard company line; I don't." He heard her pause, as if carefully weighing her next words. "Lee, you know it's not like Jamie not to call home. 'Contact zero' or not, he'd find a way. Especially now that he's a father. Something's happened. I know it."

Lee bit his lip. "I've put out some feelers. You know . . . just in case. There doesn't appear to be an Agency connection."

She gave a sarcastic snort. "You sound pretty certain of that."

"I am, Amanda. I crosschecked both our files. There's nothing." Lee exhaled loudly. "But if you want to run a check yourself . . . well, Fleetwood at the Chicago Bureau should be able to help with . . ."

"I've already spoken to Fleetwood." She spat the name contemptuously. "Fleetwood wouldn't give me the time of day. I need more than that, Lee."

He clutched the phone, reminding himself of those slow, even breathing patterns. "I don't do field work anymore, Amanda. You know that."

"Please, Lee. I wouldn't ask if . . ."

He sucked in another breath. He could picture her so clearly, her dark hair held up by a clip, a few wisps escaping the sides to tickle the smooth curve of her cheeks. Something in her voice clutched at his heart; maybe she wasn't whistling in the dark after all.

"Please," she repeated, her voice entreating in its softness. "I can't . . . I can't lose another child."

The small muscle on the side of his neck jumped. "I'll catch the next flight."

~ IV ~

Jamming her hands into the pockets of her coat, Amanda began another circuit of the crowded airport concourse. Outside the rain-spattered windows, rows of dark gray jets with brightly painted tails stood poised and waiting, while inside the crowded terminal, passengers were sprawled across every available seat. She shook her head at the logistical nightmare; the weather had played havoc with everyone's schedule today.

Stopping just long enough to purchase a bottle of spring water from a nearby cart vendor, she continued her enforced march. Twisting off the cap, she drank greedily, unable to assuage the dry tickle in her throat. A small sigh broke from her lips as she checked the arrival board again, then her watch. United Flight 147 from Dulles International was forty-five minutes overdue. It only took a little fog rolling off the lake to slow the world's busiest airport to a crawl.

Should she be aggravated at the delay or thankful for the reprieve? At least she had a little more time to figure out what to say to him. For the umpteenth time since early morning, she wondered if bringing Lee in on this had been such a good idea. Her mother certainly seemed to think so, but Amanda was less sure. It took all her effort at the moment just to concentrate on Jamie. She couldn't spare the energy for anything else, especially not the emotional maelstrom that had marked those last few months with her husband.

Ex-husband, she hastily amended. Or he would be in a few short weeks. The divorce they'd postponed for over a year would soon be concluded, and then they would be . . . what? Certainly not friends. At least, not the way it had been with Joe. She and Joe had kept their warm relationship to the very end, until the unexpected heart attack had claimed him five years ago. She still missed him sometimes, missed his solid presence on the periphery of her life. Good old Joe . . . he'd never even seen his first grandchild. Then again, he'd never had to know about . . .

She took another long drink, her fingers denting the plastic bottle as she gripped it. No, Lee would never be like Joe; the emotions between them were just too volatile. They'd loved too much, hurt too much, endured too much, and now . . . well, now there was just no going back.

Distracted, she stepped onto the 'people mover,' leaning against the rail to allow the more impatient travelers to pass her by. It had felt so strange to hear that familiar, gravelly voice again -- twice in one day, no less. He'd called her back in less than an hour with his flight information. The exchange had been pleasant, but curt.

She'd only had a handful of conversations with Lee since her move. Those brief exchanges seemed more suited to strangers than husband and wife, but were still infinitely preferable to the harsh recriminations they'd lobbed back and forth in those last bitter weeks together. She could sense he felt it, too. Now that it was finally finished, they'd both run for cover, seeking refuge behind the mask of incidentals -- a new job, a new phone number, a lawyer's address. All the random details of beginning again.

A crisp announcement from United Airlines penetrated the dull background twitter. Amanda quickly stepped off the conveyance and headed for the waiting area, arriving just in time to see the large jetliner slowly approaching the gate. Too late to turn back now. If only her mother hadn't been so insistent . . .

Tossing the empty plastic bottle into the nearest trash receptacle, she edged toward the door, standing a little to one side. Her stomach churned wildly, and she suddenly wished she'd taken the time to eat breakfast. If there was another reason for that quasi-nauseous sensation, she refused to acknowledge it, concentrating instead on the passengers who were just beginning to deplane. Surely, for Jamie's sake, she and Lee could put their personal feelings aside for a few short days? After all, they were both professionals. Focus on the case, she told herself. Just focus, and everything will be okay.

"I, uh, didn't realize you were going to meet me at the gate."

Lost in thought, the sound of his voice took her by surprise. "It seemed like the least I could do," she responded automatically. "I mean . . ."

He had come to a stop directly in front of her and, looking up, she fell into a strangled silence. It was one thing to talk to a disembodied voice over distant phone lines, quite another to look into those clear hazel eyes again. "It was the least I could do," she repeated faintly, forcing the air back into her lungs.

His mouth curved up into a smile that didn't quite reach the rest of his face. "Well, thanks, it was nice of you." Shifting his weight, his eyes drifted over her right shoulder. Amanda followed his gaze, her cheeks reddening as she understood. As the happy couple behind them hugged again in heartfelt reunion, she faced him with an uneasy smile. Pursing her lips, she took the obligatory step forward. He met her with equal discomfort, opening his arms to embrace her clumsily.

"Thanks for coming," she whispered as he released her. Eyes glued to the floor, she added, "I really do appreciate it."

"Amanda," she heard him say, his voice warm and deep as he spoke her name. "You know I'll do whatever I can to find Jamie."

She nodded, for once incapable of words. "Well," she said as she saw him glance at his watch, "I guess we should get going."

He agreed. "I'd like to check in at the Chicago Bureau as soon as possible. See if Fleetwood . . ."

"You don't have to explain, Lee," she snapped. "I'm not a rookie, you know."

"I wasn't implying that you were."

His irritation was clearly evident. Two minutes and here they were, already on the defensive. She stood mutely as he drew in a deep breath, letting it out perfunctorily as he shifted his carry-on to the other shoulder. "Come on," she murmured in a more conciliatory tone, falling quickly in step with the other travelers. "The car's this way."

She heard him sigh again as he silently followed.

~ V ~

The blustery lakeshore breeze stung the back of his neck as Lee followed Amanda down the short walkway that led to the Film Fed Tower. Pushing through the revolving doors, he was struck again with the same sense of amazement he'd experienced years ago on his first visit to the ostentatious Chicago offices. Where the Washington division maintained a low profile to protect its cover, the Midwest branch had chosen to go the opposite route with a vengeance. The Agency occupied the first ten floors of the imposing eighty-six story structure on Randolph at Michigan.  Its stylish reception area boasted delicate crystal chandeliers and overstuffed leather upholstery, but the coup de grace was the center of the vestibule, where a bold, circular design spelled out the initials 'I.F.F.' in rich inlaid tiles. Lee felt as if he'd stepped into some bizarre parallel universe, like the ones he used to read about in comic books when he was a kid.

Glancing at Amanda, he wondered if she had the same thoughts. The grim set of her chin as they boarded the elevator betrayed little. Once upon a time, they would have rolled their eyes and shared a laugh over the nouveau riche décor, so obviously built for form not function. But as the uneasy silence they'd fallen prey to in the car persisted, those days seemed farther away than ever.

Maybe he should have handled the problem from D.C. after all. Francine had certainly seemed to think so. The rational side of his brain, the part he listened to these days, knew his friend was right; seeing Amanda would only open the door to more heartache for both of them. Their awkward greeting at the airport was proof enough that the old wounds were still there, bleeding and raw, just below the surface. What good could possibly come from reopening them? But something in the tone of her voice this morning had called out to him, and, in that instant, he'd allowed his heart to respond instead of his head. 

As the elevator came to a stop on the tenth floor, Lee placed his hand on the side of the door, allowing Amanda to precede him down the hall. Stopping at the reception desk, he signed the register, accepting their visitor's passes from the taciturn receptionist.  They were quickly handed over to a plump but well-coiffed agent who showed them into the large corner office belonging to Herbert Fleetwood.

"The Chief may be a while," their escort informed them, her eyes glued to the floor. "He's on a priority conference call with Washington."

Lee caught Amanda's skeptical glance. "We don't need to disturb him if he's tied up," he told the agent. "If I can log on to the Agency databanks, we'll be out of your hair."

The woman was obviously following orders. "Sorry, Scarecrow," she replied, her cheeks reddening. "Chief Fleetwood must approve all outside system users. I'm sure you understand."

His lips curled up in a thin smile. "Perfectly."

As Amanda rolled her eyes, Lee shot her a silent warning, at the same time wondering what kind of game Fleetwood was playing. As field section chief in D.C., Lee technically outranked him. But here in Chicago, Fleetwood enjoyed home court advantage, and he obviously intended to press it to the hilt. To Lee, it was just another sign of the ever-changing times. Small wonder Billy Melrose had opted for early retirement. Their covert organization had become increasingly self-protective over the past few years. As an administrator, he understood the reasons for the multi-layered bureaucracy, but as a former field agent, he daily cursed its new territorial structure. 

Obviously Amanda had no use for either side of the desk. He could see it in the rigid lines of her back as she stood in front of the large picture window, her eyes restlessly scanning the view. The fog had lifted slightly, revealing a few cresting whitecaps far out on the lake. Still, the heavy clouds painted everything in muted, washed-out shades, and it was impossible to tell where the steel-gray water ended and the sky began.

He heard her soft sigh as she turned her back on the scene, her knees shaking almost imperceptibly as she leaned heavily on the desk. Out of instinct, he started toward her, but the door creaked open behind him. Amanda stiffened, and, turning, he saw Fleetwood enter the office, a tight smile plastered on his face.

"Stetson," he said, extending his hand in the requisite gesture of politeness. With a cursory nod to Amanda, he added brusquely, "I guess I don't have to ask what brings you to town. Someone obviously decided to call in the big guns." Before Lee could answer, he added sharply, "I'll tell you exactly what I told *her* about the supposed disappearance of Dr. James King. The Agency has no grounds to investigate what, at best, would be a matter for the local police, and, at worst, a domestic dispute."

Lee could see the beginnings of a tirade on Amanda's lips. Placing a warning hand on her arm, he struggled to reign in his own growing temper. "Look, Fleetwood, I'm not asking for your help on this case, just the use of your facilities," he said, his patience for the man's posturing growing thin. "Which, I might remind you, are well within my rights to demand. This is a personal matter."

A smile flitted briefly across Fleetwood's face as he looked from Lee to Amanda. "Yes," he said dryly, "I can see that. I suppose I could remind *you* that since personal issues have no place in Agency matters, I'm well within *my* rights to refuse. But," he added as Lee loomed ominously closer, "I've got bigger problems than an alleged missing person at the moment, so feel free. Just don't expect any resources from this bureau. We have our hands full with Los Lobos."

Lee frowned. "Los Lobos? Here in Chicago?"

"Yes, even way out here in the middle of nowhere," he jeered. "Don't you read your flash data reports, Stetson? Or is the Midwest Sector considered small potatoes for you D.C. hotshots?"

Lee bent his head. After seeing the report on Jamie, he'd been too distracted to think of anything else, so he'd merely accepted Carter's summary. The girl had obviously slept through the course on emergent terrorist organizations. Lee turned to Fleetwood with a guilty sigh. "We've been monitoring them closely for some time in D.C., but if they're expanding their interests, we're in for more trouble than we bargained for."

Fleetwood nodded. "Then you'll excuse me if I cut this short." Sitting down behind his desk, he reached for a file, handing it to Lee with a look that spoke his desire to be rid of them. "When I heard you were in the building, I had my assistant pull this information. It's the latest report on North Shore Labs and Dan Roman. I believe that's what you requested on your previous visit, Mrs. King?"

Amanda gave him a smile, the ambiguously polite one that always made Lee nervous. "You know it is, Mr. Fleetwood. But if you're waiting for thanks . . ."

"Then let me be the first to offer it," Lee put in quickly. Taking Amanda by the arm, he ushered her to the door. "If you come up with anything concrete on Los Lobos," he added over his shoulder, "my assistant, Angela Carter, knows where to reach me." With a parting nod for the balding section chief, Lee quickly escorted Amanda out into the hall.

"Lee," she hissed, shaking off his arm. "What are you doing?"

Ignoring her protests, he nudged her in the direction of the elevator. "Let Fleetwood feel like a big man for the moment," he told her, inclining his head toward the gaggle of agents who'd gathered to watch the show in their chief's office. "He doesn't have any useful information anyway."

"How do you know? You didn't even question him!"

"Fleetwood's from the old school, Amanda, and he wears his gun outside his coat just like his mentor, Sid Rollins. Now I remember why I've never liked him," he added under his breath. 

"But if there's even a small chance he can help us . . ."

She turned to him at last, looking directly into his eyes for the first time since he'd stepped off the plane. Lee adopted a gentler tone. "Trust me. If Fleetwood thought there was a case here, he'd be crying jurisdictional infringement so loudly Dr. Smyth wouldn't need the telephone to hear him." Holding the door open, he followed her into the spacious elevator.  "Besides, I didn't really expect him to help us."

Amanda frowned. "Then why bother?"

"Professional courtesy. He won't worry about us now. And that," Lee said, catching her eye meaningfully as he slowly drew out the word, "will buy us some time to do some investigating of our own."

She grinned suddenly, and for a moment, Lee swore he could detect a hint of the old Amanda. "Where to, Scarecrow?" she asked, her voice filled with anticipation.

His tone matched hers as he replied simply, "North Shore Labs."

~ VI ~

Amanda saw Lee signal her with a brief nod, and she quickly returned the look that spoke her readiness. It was their own personal shorthand, honed to perfection over the years.

"Federal agents," Scarecrow said brusquely, flashing his badge at the records clerk. "We're here for the King file."

His head buried in a newspaper, the young man appeared bored. "You'll need the appropriate authorization. Filled out and signed. In triplicate," he added between yawns. 

Amanda braced herself as Lee leaned over the desk, crumpling the young man's copy of the Sun-Times with one hand. "Maybe you didn't hear me the first time," he ground out through tightly clenched teeth. "Federal agents." Opening his badge again, he shoved it under the clerk's nose. "*This* is all the authorization I require. And if you don't get me that file ASAP, *you'll* be seeing stars . . . in triplicate."

The pimply-faced clerk quickly pulled his feet off the desk. "Okay, okay, I get the point. No need to make a federal case out of it." He chortled loudly, evidently amused at his own joke.

Amanda felt Lee bristle again beside her. "I'm afraid we'll need to see everything," she stated in a voice that sounded crisply professional, even to her own ears. "The case notes for every project Dr. King was working on in the last . . ."

Lee smiled at her hesitation. "Six months," he added, briskly picking up where she'd left off. "His entire employment history."

The boy's eyebrows rose. "What's Dr. King done?"

"I'm afraid we're not at liberty to say," Amanda responded with a serious frown. "It's a matter of national security. We could tell you, but then we'd have to . . ."

The young man tensed, staring back at her with wide eyes. She turned to Lee with a quizzical look. "Are you sure the King file is the only one you need? We could extend our investigation to include . . ." She eyed the alarmed clerk speculatively. "Peripheral employees?"

Lee looked thoughtful. "Failure to cooperate with a federal investigation *could* be considered grounds."

A light sheen of perspiration broke out on the young man's forehead. "Hey, hey, hold on a minute. Who says I won't cooperate? I'll pull the files. But I can't give you the originals. I'll have to make copies."

"Copies will quite satisfactory, don't you think?" Lee asked, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he turned to Amanda.

"Perfectly satisfactory," she replied, fighting the urge to smile.

"I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Amanda muttered. Shaking her head, she leaned back against the wooden desk, venturing a quick glance at Lee. Their eyes met as they exchanged a look of mutual understanding. Scarecrow and Mrs. King hadn't lost their touch.

Lee turned to her with a lopsided grin. "Is it my imagination or are they actually hiring children these days?"

"It's not your imagination. He can't be more than . . . twelve."

"With a comparable I.Q."

"Thank goodness for small favors," she sighed, relieved that their little game actually appeared to be working. She watched as Lee stifled a yawn. "Tired?"

He laughed under his breath. "Intimidating gullible idiots takes a lot out of you." He sat down beside her on the desk, his leg brushing lightly against hers as he shifted on the hard surface. 

Her body stiffened at the unexpected contact. Vigorously massaging her neck, she gave a brittle laugh as she inched away from him. "We're only an hour behind D.C.," she told him with raised eyebrows. "It can't be jet lag."

He stretched, then rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "Didn't sleep very well last night, that's all."

"Are you working too hard again?"

He shrugged. "You know me . . ."

"Yeah," she answered in a soft voice, "I know you."

Their eyes caught and held and, reddening, she looked away. "Where is that clerk, anyway?" she mumbled as she hastily stood up. Wrapping her arms around herself, she began to pace restlessly back and forth.

"Cold?" Lee inquired, his tone soothingly solicitous.

She raised her shoulders and shifted her purse. "I'm always cold in this town. I miss . . ." Biting her lip, she stopped abruptly, her eyes drawn irresistibly to his again. Beneath the florescent lights, they looked enormous, and his dark wool overcoat had turned them an even deeper shade. Hazel eyes, she thought absently -- the color as changeable as the seasons.

The silence grew thicker as the moment lengthened. "Amanda," she heard Lee begin, his voice strained as he took a step nearer. "I . . ."

"Here you go." 

She started, but the clerk's nasal voice wasn't an altogether unwelcome intrusion. She suddenly remembered where she was and, more importantly, why. Turning to the young man with an impatient sigh, she eyed the thin stack of files. "That's all of them?"

The clerk wiped his hands on his wrinkled jacket. "Yeah. Dr. King hadn't been here that long."

His words had an unwitting air of finality, and Amanda drew a sharp breath. Would people be forever referring to Jamie in the past tense, too? No, please . . . God wouldn't be that cruel. Not a second time.

"Uh, thanks for your help," she heard Lee say, his voice sounding unusually gritty. Rubbing her throbbing temples, she watched him scrawl an illegible signature on the log. Tucking the papers under his arm, he turned to her. "Come on," he murmured as his hand found its way to the small of her back. "Let's get out of here before someone with half a brain shows up and realizes I have no real jurisdiction in this town."

"Do you want to head back to the Agency?" she inquired, suddenly grateful for the familiar pressure of his strong hand as they walked.

He gave her a sideways glance. "It might not be a bad idea to keep a low profile there. Unless we can find a national security peg to hang this on . . ."

She nodded, meeting his eye with a resolute smile. "Then let's go back to my place and look for one."

~ VII ~

Lee stole a moment to recline against the plush cushions of Amanda's sofa. Pushing his glasses up, he pressed his fingers against his eyes, a habit he'd acquired during his transition into management. His first week on the job had revealed the inevitable truth discovered by every section chief before him -- multiplying paperwork was an indisputable fact of his new life. Fourteen long months had taught him to tolerate the chore. In the process, he'd gained a heightened appreciation of Billy Melrose's intestinal fortitude -- and the pair of brown-rimmed reading glasses that currently adorned the top of his head. Now, glancing down at the thin stack of papers spread out across the coffee table, he found himself almost wishing for the endless reams of briefing files that usually accompanied a new case. 

"I just hope our little sting at the lab doesn't turn into dead end," he muttered absently.

Amanda shifted beside him on the couch. "It won't."

Her tone dared him to contradict her, but Lee let the challenge pass. He hadn't really meant to voice his doubts aloud. His stint behind Billy's desk had evidently left his partnering skills more than a little rusty.

"At least we managed to convince the idiot clerk to give us copies of Jamie's notes," Amanda pointed out with typical optimism. "Now all we have to do is find the clue."

"Easier said than done. At this point, I'm not even sure what I'm looking for."

"You'll know it when you see it." Amusement flickered in her eyes as she raised a sculptured brow. "Sorry, I just couldn't stop myself."

He smiled in return. "I probably more than deserved that."

She sighed, her mood altering like quicksilver as she looked down at the rapidly thinning files. "I know there's something here, Lee. I can smell it."

He watched her bend over the papers once again. Same old Amanda, he thought as the image of two kitty-corner desks filled his mind. His partner had always possessed an uncanny knack for breaking a case with the most insignificant facts. More than one inmate was currently enjoying federal hospitality due to something as innocuous as floor wax.

And if she couldn't work the same magic this time? Sometimes, no matter how hard you tried, the breaks just weren't there. Watching her hopelessly determined face, his smile began to fade. "Amanda," he said, his tone soft, trying to prepare her. "You know as well as I do that . . ."

"That what?" she demanded. Her paper poised in midair, she turned to him with a slightly defiant eye.

"Nothing," he mumbled, beating a strategic retreat under her scrutiny. Carefully sliding his glasses back into place, he returned to the task at hand. No sense reminding her of what she already knew. If Amanda needed to hold onto the slender thread of hope right now, he certainly didn't have the heart to snap it in two.

He'd been there, done that, one time too many.

Fatigue overtook him as he picked up the next file, and he stifled a yawn. The jumbled medical terms were all beginning to run together. It seemed the scrawny little kid who'd always struggled to keep up on the basketball court now wrote reports the great Scarecrow could only interpret as educated gibberish.

And yet, at this particular moment, here on this sofa with Amanda at his side, his world seemed almost normal. He could hear her slow, even breathing, punctuated every so often with the soft sighs that said she was deep in thought. The sound was comfortingly familiar. How many times over the years had they sat together late at night, just like this, immersed in the intricate vagaries of some case? 

Except this wasn't just 'some' case, and Amanda was barely holding on. Oh, she tried to disguise it, but it was readily apparent to anyone who knew her as he did. Knew intimately the harsh worry lines that deepened around her eyes or the way the fingers of her right hand kept finding their way unbidden into her mouth. It took all of his strength to fight the overwhelming longing to take her into his arms.

The trouble was, he hated to feel powerless. That's all it could be, right? Watching her like this . . . well, it just brought the memories crashing back. Of her cradled in his arms the first time her bullet found its mark. Or their tears mingling as they'd both cried over her miscarriage. His softly murmured words of comfort when she'd gotten the call about Joe King . . .

. . . the way her relief had slowly turned to horror that day in the emergency room when she'd finally realized whose blood had soaked his shirt.

Lee steadfastly pushed those thoughts from his mind, instead directing his bewildered gaze to her apartment. He'd gathered from his conversations with Jamie that his mother was living in an upscale part of town, but he hadn't expected the kind of showplace that Francine would proudly call home. Try as he might, he couldn't find his Amanda in the elegant pinstriped wallpaper, the delicate crystal wall sconces or the richly stained crown moldings.

Of course, that was the problem, wasn't it? She wasn't really *his* Amanda anymore.

He forced his eyes back to the page. Here, at least, was something he could attempt to understand. His mouth opened in amazement as he followed the short but illustrious career of Dr. James King. "Wow -- it looks like Jamie had quite a bit of responsibility for someone who'd only been on the job six months."

"Yeah, he'd been doing really well. Of course, he *did* have that internship with them last summer, but still . . ."

Lee smiled at the satisfaction in her voice. "You have every reason to be proud of him."

"When I think of all those nights we spent worrying if we were right to let him graduate early from high school . . ."

"Or whether or not he'd be able to handle the pressure of that seven year college *and* med school program at Northwestern."

A flash of humor crossed her face. "Or if he'd ever find time to date."

He glanced over at the framed picture of Jamie, Lisa and the baby. "I guess that's one fear that proved groundless, huh?"

"Yeah," she laughed, "I guess so."

Lee laid his hand on her arm. "You know, he really has turned into quite a remarkable young man."

Amanda smiled softly. "You had something to do with that, too, you know."

"Well," Lee returned with an embarrassed grin, "maybe a little."

"Maybe a lot," she answered firmly.

He shrugged, sloughing off the compliment with uncharacteristic embarrassment. He felt something soft brush his skin and, glancing down, he saw Amanda's hand resting lightly on top of his. Raising his head again, he caught her eye.

A deep blush suffused her cheeks, and she quickly removed her hand, her fingers clenching and unclenching as she focused her eyes determinedly on the window. "If only . . ." Her words trailed off with an air of infinite longing.

"'If only' what, Amanda?" he prompted gently.

"If only I'd . . . listened to Jamie more these past few weeks," she stammered, her voice lowering as she avoided his gaze. "Been more available. If I'd asked what was bothering him instead of . . . Well, I was just too busy with the . . . with other things. So now all we have to go on are these files. I'm his mother, Lee, and even *I* can't get a sense of my son in all this medical techno-babble. What if . . ."

"Hey, remember, we do have some powerful resources at our disposal."

"Yeah, powerful resources," she stated with a contemptuous sneer. Pushing forcefully off the couch, she gave her arms a vigorous rub. "Like your pal, Fleetwood."

He looked over at her with a resigned sigh. "You know the Agency as well as I do."

She snorted. "Oh, yeah. I *know* the Agency."

"I tried to tell you this morning on the phone," he rejoined, his tone growing pricklier under her criticism. "Chicago is out of my jurisdiction."

"Jurisdiction be damned! My son is missing!" She pressed her arms tightly against her sides, her knuckles whitening as she tightened her hands into fists. "That's all I care about."

Eyes narrowing, he leapt up from the couch. "And you think *I* don't? Jamie may not be my biological son, Amanda, but I love him, too. Every bit as much as I did . . ." He froze, a sharp pain ripping his gut at her horrified expression. Licking his lips, he let out a long, slow breath.

"I'm sorry," she whispered at last, her eyes still locked on his. "I . . . I guess my nerves are a little on edge."

"Yeah, well . . . so are mine." The moment lengthened as he struggled for something to say. Though her luminous eyes glistened with moisture, she wouldn't allow a single tear to fall. He'd always considered himself a strong man, but her iron control put his to shame. Her face looked rigid, frozen in the emotions of another place and time. Somewhere behind him, the phone began to ring, but he pushed the intrusion away. Making a small, tentative move toward her, he slowly began to open his arms.

The noise continued with annoying persistence. The spell broken, Amanda neatly sidestepped him. "I should get that. It's probably Mother calling from Jamie and Lisa's."

"Oh, uh, sure." Hoping she hadn't seen, he tucked his useless hands under his arms. "Yes, this is Amanda West," he heard her say, and he moved away, walking over to the window.

Amanda . . . West. He repeated her words in his mind, willing himself to understand. Amanda . . . West. His jaw tightly clenched, he looked down onto Lake Shore Drive. Amanda . . . West. He forced his eyes to follow the bright specks of light twenty-two floors below, watching as they made their way through the darkness only to disappear around a curve in the road. Amanda . . . West. He'd been a hairsbreadth away from making a first class fool of himself.

"Lee!"

Something in the way she gasped his name caused the short hairs on the back of his neck to prickle, and he whirled at the sound. "What the . . ."

She stood stiffly, her enormous brown eyes staring blankly at the wall. The upturned phone lay on its side by her right foot, forgotten. "That was Detective Devine," she stated mechanically, "from the Chicago P.D. He said . . ."

Lee felt his blood freeze as he fought an overpowering feeling of déjà vu. "Said what, Amanda?"

"They found a body. They want me to come down to identify it."

~ VIII ~

Amanda choked and sputtered as the acrid smell assaulted her senses. As she propelled herself forward, she felt Lee's hand close reassuringly around hers. "Breathe through your mouth," he reminded her, his own voice little more than a strangled whisper.

"Yeah," she gasped, the odor receding to a tolerable level as she matched her even inhaling and exhaling to his. It was such a rookie mistake. In her terror over Jamie, she'd forgotten one of the cardinal rules of the business . . . never breathe through your nose in the morgue.

Gritting her teeth, she willed her professional self to take over as they followed Detective Devine through the narrow corridor in Cook County Hospital's lower level. With only a second's hesitation, the balding policeman led them to a small room filled with multi-layered drawers. Amanda unconsciously shivered.

"You should have let me do this alone," Lee muttered as Devine consulted his notes.

"No. If Jamie is . . ." She coughed again, struggling to clear her throat. "If Jamie is in here, then I need to know. Now," she stated forcefully, "not an hour from now."

"Okay, then," Devine said, counting down the rows to drawer number 8 - 4.  "Let's see what we have here . . . male Caucasian, in his mid-twenties.  No identification. Cause of death . . ." He consulted his form once again. "Gunshot wounds to the head and chest. This might not be pretty. Are you positive . . ."

"Yes," she almost shouted.

The detective let out a deep sigh. He was clearly ill at ease and obviously still irritated that Lee had used his federal I.D. to coerce him into acceding to her wishes. Well, that was just too bad. The 'Colombo' wannabe might be more comfortable hiding behind the sterile impersonality of a viewing room, but she was not about to waste precious time waiting for the body to be brought upstairs. 

As Devine slowly reached for the handle, Amanda took another series of short breaths through her mouth, resisting the all-consuming urge to throttle the maddening little man. Why didn't he just get it over with? It was as if the detective was deliberately moving in slow motion. Or was that just her imagination? She could feel Lee beside her, knew from his quiet stance that he didn't seem find Devine's actions out of the ordinary. Oh, God, she screamed to herself as panic gripped her. Maybe this time she really was going to lose her mind.

Devine gave the drawer a short tug. It slid open, and he gingerly unzipped the body bag.

Her hands flew to her mouth. "Oh, my gosh," she gasped through splayed fingers as she felt Lee's arms close around her from behind.

Devine turned to her with an expectant gaze. "Ms. West?"

"No," she heard Lee answer for her, his relief almost palpable. "It's not him. It's not Jamie."

"Do you . . ."

"I don't know, maybe . . . I can't seem to place him." Amanda felt him unconsciously draw her closer as he studied the body from a different angle. "He does look vaguely familiar."

"It's Tim Forsythe," she heard her voice croak from somewhere far away. "Jamie's lab partner."

Lee caught her eye. "Lab partner? I didn't realize . . ." He turned gruffly to Devine. "There wasn't anything in your reports about another missing person linked to this case."

"He wasn't missing. He was on vacation in Mexico. At least, that's what we thought," Amanda said as Lee and Devine looked at her strangely. "Lisa was upset when she couldn't reach him to ask if he knew anything about Jamie. They were all very good friends." She shook her head sadly. "Now we know why she couldn't locate him."

As she began to tremble slightly, she felt Lee give her another reassuring squeeze. "Uh, Detective," he said, addressing Devine again with a slight tilt of his head. "Do you mind?"

"Oh, sure," the man mumbled, hastily re-covering the body. As the metal door clanged shut, he turned his attention to his paperwork and quickly made a few notes. "We'll notify the next of kin."

Lee extracted a card from his pocket and handed it to Devine. "I'd appreciate it if you'd e-mail a copy of the final autopsy report. And any other incidentals."

Devine hesitated for a fraction of a second. "I didn't realize this had become a matter for the Agency."

"Not officially. At least, not yet. Let's just call this one a professional courtesy. And," Lee added with a significant look, "if you should ever happen to need a favor, Detective, consider me just a phone call away."

Grinning, Devine fingered the card. "I'll remember that."

"I thought you might." Lee smiled knowingly as he took Amanda's arm. "Come on, let's get out of here."

"I appreciate you coming down to make the identification," Devine told them as they made their way to the door. "I'll keep you informed." He paused, gifting Amanda with a soft smile. "And if there's anything I can do for you, Ms. West, please don't hesitate to ask."

She felt Lee tighten his grip on her arm. "Just send us a copy of that report, Devine. That'll be more than enough."

The room seemed to blur suddenly. Amanda leaned into Lee, letting him steer her swiftly down the hall and up the stairs. There was an odd buzzing in her ears, and her cheeks felt strangely hot. She was suddenly very thankful for his supportive arm around her waist as he guided her through the door and out onto the sidewalk.

The wind shifting off the lake had caused the night to turn cold. Amanda tried to take a few deep breaths as they walked toward the car, but the gusting air carried an unexpected bite, causing her chest to constrict. Despite her best efforts, her head still seemed oddly detached from her body.

"Are you okay?"

Lee's voice sounded distant as her knees began to wobble. "I don't know what's the matter with me," she said, her words almost swallowed up by another burst of the chilly March wind. "Everything's swimming . . ."

"Come here," she heard him whisper hoarsely through the swirling fog in her head. As his arms closed around her, she let out a sigh, shutting her eyes as she rested her head against his shoulder. She was vaguely aware of his scratchy wool overcoat tickling her cheek as she let him support her weight. His scent filled her nostrils, a unique blend of aftershave and something else she could never quite put her finger on. She only knew that it had always made her feel safe.

They stood together on the curb, the steady rumble of the nearby elevated train soothing her. As the minutes passed and her eyes slowly regained their focus, she found herself staring at the short hairs on the back of Lee's neck. Before she could stop them, images of another kind flooded her mind, of countless other times when her consciousness had reawakened to that same, pleasurable sight. She closed her eyes, willing the overpowering physical sensations to stop. They were only a signature away from finalizing their divorce; how could Lee Stetson still affect her like this?

With something akin to regret, she backed out of his embrace. "I'm okay," she assured him, unable to meet the concern in his eyes. "I'm sorry for falling apart like that. I don't know what's gotten into me."

"Perfectly understandable," Lee said, his tone even and controlled. She felt his eyes look her over from head to toe, as if taking inventory. "When's the last time you ate?"

"I don't know. I've kinda lost track the last few days."

"Well, like it or not, you're going to have something to eat."

"Lee, I'm just not hungry."

"Amanda," he told her in a tone that brooked no refusal, "no more arguments. You won't do Jamie any good from a hospital bed. Now, there must be some place around here where we can get you a decent meal."

Sighing, she looked over at the street sign. "We're not too far from Little Italy. I know a place there that's pretty good, but . . ."

"Okay, then," he stated firmly, enclosing her hand in his so there would be no possibility of escape. "Let's go."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Amanda let out a satisfied sigh as her gaze swept across the quaint dining room. Despite the late hour, Francesca's on Taylor was still doing a brisk business, and the buzz of conversation in the background acted as a soothing balm to her ragged nerves. Watching the flickering candle cast shadowy patterns on the white tablecloth, she could actually feel her aching exhaustion begin to subside. Whether it was from the companionable ambiance of the renowned West Loop restaurant or the wine Lee had insisted she drink with dinner, she wasn't sure. She only knew that, after the grim scene at the morgue, she welcomed the feeling.

"I guess you were a little hungrier than you thought, huh?" Lee said, his eyes falling on her empty plate with a slightly smug smile.

"I guess I was at that," she replied, hiding her embarrassment behind her napkin as she touched it to her lips. "But don't let it go to your head." She'd caught that flicker of amusement in his eyes; Lee Stetson could be absolutely insufferable when proven right.

This moment was no exception. "Amanda," he said with a grin as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table. "Just so I'm perfectly clear on this. Are you actually admitting I was right?"

"Oh, come on," she volleyed back almost playfully. "We've known each other for a lot of years. There must have been at least *one* other time you were right."

"Yeah, how could I forget?" His eyes crinkled warmly as his smile deepened to reveal two incredible dimples. "Well, since you actually *were* hungry," he continued to tease, "I suppose it's a good thing we didn't . . ." Suddenly remembering himself, his expression sobered. "It's a good thing we, uh, didn't, uh, have to wait too long for the food," he swiftly amended.

Dipping her head slightly, she gave him a terse, "Yeah," keeping her eyes fixed on the table to avoid his gaze. It didn't do any good. Their separate plates seemed to stare back at her in unspoken accusation. She let out a short sigh. For as far back as she could remember they had always shared the entrée.

"This place does remind me a little of Emelio's," she admitted in a vain attempt to dispel the awkwardness. "Must be the Italian cuisine."

"Yeah," he whispered roughly as his eyes darted away, "that must be it." Reaching for his wine, Lee swirled the rich, red liquid carefully around the glass a few times before bringing it to his lips.

Amanda observed in stilted silence. Even by candlelight, the pale band of skin on the third finger of his left hand was clearly obvious. She glanced reflexively at her hand. Her finger bore no such mark; summer runs along the lakefront had seen to that. "The house wine's excellent," she heard him remark through the dull roaring in her ears. 

"Jamie likes it, too," she managed to say as she watched him drink deeply once again. "In fact, this is one of his favorite restaurants. He treated me to dinner here just before he . . . well, before . . ." Her words drifted off as she looked wistfully across the room.

A glimmer of . . . something . . . flashed across Lee's face as he set the glass back down with deliberate care. "Amanda," he whispered, stretching his hand across the table to cover hers. "It's going to be okay."

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She felt him give her hand a gentle squeeze, and, embarrassed, she let her eyes drift out over the restaurant again. It really was a beautiful place . . . why had she never noticed it before? The candles shining in fluted globes on every table . . . the dark wood paneling . . . the lovely murals in the entryway, each scene vividly lifelike beneath the bright track lighting. . . it all seemed to touch some distant chord of memory. It suddenly felt good to be sitting here, in this cozy little room, across from someone who loved Jamie as she did. She could share her fears with him; he would understand.

"Oh, Lee," she exclaimed, her sigh hiding the unexpected quaver in her tone. "I want so badly to believe that Jamie's okay, but I just don't know any more. After seeing poor Tim like that. . ." She shuddered softly.

His concern was mixed with tenderness as he prompted gently, "You said Tim was Jamie's lab partner?"

"And friend. Surely you must remember him from the wedding. He was one of the groomsmen."

"Of course," Lee replied, his fingers sliding up to stroke her bare forearm. "The guy who spilled the champagne all over his tux."

"Yeah." Amanda smiled at the recollection. "He was so embarrassed when he had to stand up and give the toast, remember? And then when Lisa . . . Oh, my gosh . . . Lisa! Lee, someone's going to have to tell her."

"Maybe it should wait until tomorrow," he suggested. "What with Jamie . . . well, this is probably going to hit her pretty hard."

Amanda nodded. "And his poor family, too. They're from Atlanta, I think. His father passed away a few years ago, and now there's only his mother. I can just imagine what the poor woman . . ." Gasping, she fell into a strangled silence.

"Amanda . . ."

His fingers tightened on her arm as she brought her hand to her mouth. Shaking off his caress, she turned her head away.

But it was too late. She'd already read the unspeakable regret in Lee's eyes. For one agonizing instant, she was back there, too, back in the moist heat of that muggy September afternoon. She could even hear the faint wail of an ambulance in the distance. Or was that coming from the street outside the restaurant? Trying to draw a few ragged breaths, Amanda found she couldn't seem to get the air into her lungs. Wrapping her arms firmly across her chest, she closed her eyes.

"Amanda." Lee's voice sounded stern this time. "Help me out here," he went on, seemingly oblivious to her distress. "I've been going over and over things in my mind, trying to get a handle on this. Fill me in again on the facts about Jamie's disappearance, in case I've missed something."

She nodded in relief, the needle-sharp pain in her stomach beginning to dull as he steered the conversation back to business. Focusing her thoughts, she felt her momentary panic recede as she slipped seamlessly back into agent mode. There was an odd sense of comfort in the old patterns; Mrs. King knew how to relate to Scarecrow.

"Jamie seemed bothered by something off and on for the past month," she began in her most professional tone, laying out the pieces of the puzzles again for herself, too. "Something about work, Lisa thought, but she didn't want to press it -- she knew he'd talk about it when he was ready. Besides, little Joey had been teething and she'd had her hands full . . ." Catching his look of dismay, she quickly refocused. "Anyway, three weeks ago, he told her he had to take a short business trip. That he'd be back as soon as he could."

Lee frowned. "He didn't say where he was going?"

She shook her head. "Some kind of conference, that's all he knew. Jamie didn't seem very happy about it even though it was quite an honor to be chosen.  He promised to call . . ." She took a deep breath, her voice catching slightly. "After a week passed and Lisa still hadn't heard from him, she contacted NSL. All they'd tell her was that Jamie was involved in highly sensitive meetings and not to worry; he'd be home soon."

Lee's eyes narrowed. "But you didn't believe it."

"Something sounded *off*, you know?  When Lisa couldn't get anywhere with Jamie's boss, she asked me to talk to him, but he refused to see me. So, to force their hand, we went to the police and filed a missing person's report."

"But when the police contacted the lab, everything checked out."

"Yes. I couldn't convince them to investigate. No one seemed to buy into our concern."

Lee rapped his knuckles lightly on the table. "I have a feeling they do now."

"I should have followed my instincts," she said, unable to stem the bitter remorse. "Something's going on, Lee, I feel it. North Shore Labs is *not* what it seems."

Lee eyed her speculatively. "From what Jamie told me, he was thrilled with the set-up there."

"Yeah, it seemed that way at first," she said, rising to his unspoken challenge. She could tell he thought she was on to something; his agent's mind just needed to follow it through. "On the surface, the place is a researcher's paradise, a dream come true. First rate equipment, unlimited budget . . . a little too good to be real, you know? I wanted to do a piece on Dan Roman three months ago, but my editor pulled me off the story."

"Fleetwood mentioned that name, but it didn't ring a bell."

"That's because you're not from around here. Dan Roman is North Shore's new Chief Professional Officer. Very politically connected in this town. He's the reason they've landed some lucrative research contracts -- real hush-hush projects, or so I hear." She let out a pent-up breath. "But as far as my editor's concerned, the man walks on water. I guess he wanted to spare him my acerbic wit."

Lee gave her a begrudging smile. "You know, Amanda, I've read some of your pieces. They're really very good."

She shrugged off the compliment. "Guess I finally put that American Lit major to some sort of use." Glancing at him curiously, she said in a low voice, "I didn't realize you read Chicago News magazine."

Toying with his silverware, he studied his dinner with an interest it didn't usually command. "It's a taste I seem to have acquired lately. It beats reading those briefing reports, I guess." 

She watched Lee's fork chase a piece of potato around his plate. "Speaking of briefing reports," she stated as he finally speared it, "I'm a little surprised that Jamie's supposed disappearance rated an Agency inquiry. Especially since the authorities here in Chicago took it all so lightly."

Lee bit his lip. "A missing person's report for a relative of any agent with a security clearance above Delta 13 is flagged as a matter of routine. Since our divorce hasn't been filed yet . . ."

"Oh." As she watched him mash the helpless potato mercilessly beneath the fork's sharp tines, she felt her throat tighten. "Lee, she gasped, fighting the all-consuming feeling of suffocation. "You don't think . . . well, that Jamie might be . . . that what happened to Tim means . . ."

"No," he answered, but a shade too quickly for her to believe he didn't have some doubts himself. "There's no reason to think that at this point."

She noted that he, too, couldn't quite bring himself to say the word 'dead.' "That's what I keep telling myself, but it's so hard. Especially when my imagination kicks into overdrive."

"Imagination doesn't have any place in an investigation. Remember, state what you know . . ."

"Not what you think you know," she finished as she, too, skittered back behind the protective cover of agent once again. If she could just treat this as she would any other case . . .

She straightened in her chair. "Okay, then. We know that Jamie was worried about something at work."

"Something he didn't think he could share."

"Yes. Then suddenly he's assigned to some sort of top secret conference."

"There has to be a reason, Amanda." Lee's expression grew serious as he added thoughtfully, "Maybe some project he was working on. If NSL had classified research contracts . . ."

"Exactly," she concurred, her eyes lighting up. "He could have stumbled onto something NSL didn't want him to know about, and they sent him out of town to get him out of the way. There's a clue, Lee. It's somewhere in those files. It has to be."

He nodded. "And when we find it, we'll follow the trail -- wherever it leads."

~ IX ~

Rolling over on his side, Lee gave the pillow a few sturdy punches with his fist. Small wonder he couldn't sleep; the damn thing was hard as a rock. Amanda always did love those extra-firm pillows. Too bad he hadn't remembered that when she'd offered him her couch for the night.

Sitting up, he pushed the blanket to one side. Who was he kidding? Pillow or no pillow, he should have been able to grab at least a few hours of shut-eye. He'd slept like a baby in far worse places. Why the hell wouldn't his tired mind cooperate tonight?

Leaning over, Lee held his head in his hands, rubbing his gritty eyes. He knew why. If he slept, he might dream. And, tired or not, the conscious mind had an infinite capacity for self-protection.

Letting out a sigh as he rose, he began to wear a path between the couch and the window. As if putting one foot in front of the other could actually force the endless parade of thoughts from his head. They crowded in thick and fast, leaving little room for anything else. Jamie . . . Amanda . . . Phillip . . . Amanda, who had looked too pale and worn in the unforgiving glare of the morgue lights. 

Grabbing his pillow as he passed the couch, he folded it in two, slamming his fist one more time into its too-firm center. This whole situation was making him crazy. He needed to *do* something to find Jamie, not just sit around and wait. Groaning, Lee chucked the beaten pillow to the far end of the couch. He hadn't felt this helpless in a long time. Not since . . .

Damn it, Jamie, he thought with sudden vehemence. You were always the quiet one. Did you really have to turn out to be a carbon copy of your brother?

A door creaked open, and a thin sliver of light filled the hall, followed by soft footsteps.  His lips curved up in a tired smile. Insomnia must be catching tonight. Turning toward the sound, he softly called out, "Amanda?"

"No, Lee. It's only me."

He let out a repentant sigh. "Sorry, Dotty. I didn't mean to wake you."

Padding into the living room, she sank down beside  him on the sofa. "I couldn't sleep, either." Reaching for the lamp, she asked, "Do you mind?"

"No, go ahead. I could use the company." He quickly stifled the yawn that crept over him.

"You look tired, Lee." As he shrugged, she asked, "Well, are you hungry? I could fix you something."

"No, I'm fine. Amanda and I ate a little while ago."

"Amanda actually ate?" Dotty let out a weary sigh as he nodded. "Well, thank goodness for that. God knows I haven't been able to get her to take more than a few bites." Shifting in her chair, she crossed her legs as she regarded him appraisingly. "Come to think of it, you don't look like you eat much more than my daughter does." Tilting her brow, she fixed him in her steady gaze. "Exactly how much weight *have* you lost, Mr. Stetson?"

Lee grinned sheepishly. "I haven't kept track."

She whistled softly. "You two make quite a pair. She's awake, too, by the way," she informed him, her foot tapping back and forth to some unheard beat. "I've been listening to her pacing around in her bedroom for the past two hours." Clearing her throat, she added pointedly, "I take it you've been doing the same thing out here."

"We've both got a lot on our minds," he offered by means of apology, although why he felt the need to explain, he wasn't quite sure. Dotty's motherly concern could put him on the defensive faster than a phone call from Dr. Smyth. "This, uh, business with Jamie, you know."

"Oh, I know." She punctuated her words with a sharp nod of the head. "Jamie."

"We're both worried about him, that's all," he supplied, beginning to sweat.

"Perfectly natural," she returned, her smile unfathomable. "You're pacing out here, Amanda's pacing in there. And I suppose it never occurred to either one of you that it might be beneficial to do your pacing together?"

He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly before he answered. "No, Dotty, I don't think so," he stated with more patience than he felt. "When Amanda gets like this, she needs her space."

Dotty peered at her son-in-law over the top of her glasses. "You seem pretty certain of that."

"Field experience," he told her in a gravelly voice. "Trust me."

"You know I do. It's just that where my daughter's concerned, I don't think you're seeing things as clearly as you should." Reaching out, she gave his arm a little squeeze. "Talk to her."

He snorted. "Talking doesn't seem to do us much good."

Dotty cast her eyes back toward the bedrooms, one manicured fingernail tapping absently on the arm of the sofa. "I love my daughter very much. But that doesn't mean I don't see her faults. You know as well as I do that she doesn't ask for help, even when she's screaming for it on the inside. And she needs your help, Lee. Trust *me* on this."

He shook his head. "I've tried, Dotty. You have no idea . . . I don't know, maybe if we hadn't been going through a rocky patch at the time, things would have been different."

"Every marriage has rough spots. You hang on and plow through it, and things get better. Surely . . ."

"No. Nothing's changed. She won't accept my help. I learned that first-hand eighteen months ago when . . . well, eighteen months ago," he hastily amended.

"Phillip!" Dotty cried hotly, springing from her chair as she drew herself up to her full height. "He had a name, Lee. It isn't a crime to say it. Honestly, you and my daughter both act as if . . ." Giving her head a vigorous shake, she quickly put some distance between them.

"Dotty . . ."

She shook her head again, cutting him off. Letting out a sigh, Lee leaned back into the couch, seizing the opportunity to look at his mother-in-law more closely. When she'd greeted him that afternoon, all he'd seen was the same old Dotty West, a woman brimming with life, remarkably fit for her age. Now, in the all-revealing wee hours of the morning, he noted the subtle changes the past year had wrought. There was more gray than blonde in her hair, and the fine lines on her face had deepened perceptibly. And there was something about her eyes . . .

She was angry, he realized with a guilty pang. Angrier than he'd seen her in a long, long time. He hadn't heard her refer to Amanda as 'my daughter' this often since the day their mystery marriage had been revealed.

Making his way over to her, Lee put an arm around her shoulder. "Hey, it's late," he told her in a gentle voice, "and you're exhausted. Let's sit down."

To his relief, she agreed, letting him lead her back to the couch with atypical submission. Reaching into the pocket of her robe, she pulled out a Kleenex, drying the corners of her eyes as she sat down beside him. "I just don't understand anymore," she murmured, clutching the rumpled tissue in her palm. "Maybe you can explain it to me, Lee, because Amanda certainly doesn't seem able to."

"That's because we just don't know much at this point. Jamie . . ."

"I'm not talking about Jamie. I'm talking about you . . . you and Amanda."

"What's to explain?" He fell back against the couch with a tired groan, rubbing his thumb and forefinger back and forth across his forehead. "I think it's pretty obvious. I'm in D.C.; she's here in Chicago."

"Yes, I know where my daughter is. I'm the one who's here in Chicago with her, after all. What I'd like to know is . . . why aren't you?"

Lee swept his tousled hair off his forehead. "That's her choice. She walked out, not me."

"'Her choice' . . ." Dotty let out a long breath. "Yes, that's the trouble with the pair of you . . . both too stubborn for your own good. Neither one of you wants to be the first to admit you made a mistake."

"Maybe it wasn't a mistake."

"Lee Stetson!" Dotty exclaimed, spinning around to face him. "If I believed you really thought that, I'd be hard pressed not to take you across my knee!"

As his mouth curved into a reluctant smile, she continued, "You know, when Amanda announced she was moving to Chicago to be near Jamie, Lisa and the baby, I understood. I didn't agree, but I understood. And I came with her because . . . well, right or wrong, she's my daughter. She needed me. And I thought, don't worry, Dorothea, it'll be okay. Sooner or later, one of them will come to their senses and end this lunacy. For over a year now I've watched and waited . . ."

Lee chuckled softly. "'Watched and waited?' Dotty West?"

"Well, okay, I may have said just a few things here or there." Reaching across the cushions, she laid a motherly hand on his knee. "You two need each other, Lee. You don't have to be alone. You've both suffered the same loss. It was bad, I know -- the worst thing that can happen to a parent. But time has a way of putting things in perspective, however painful."

"I'm afraid it doesn't work that way, Dotty," he said, his voice infinitely sad as he rose from the couch. Thrusting his hands into the front pockets of his sweatshirt, he walked to the window in thoughtful silence. The scene below was dark now, but he could hear the distant wind driving the waves against the unforgiving stone barrier. "You think that loss brings people together," he said at last, "but it doesn't. It just pushes them further apart and then . . . sits there, like some insurmountable wall between them. There's no going over it or around it. When he . . . when Phillip died, a part of *us* died, too. A part we can't get back."

He heard Dotty sweep up behind him, felt her arm find its way around his waist. "No, Lee. I won't believe that. I *can't* believe that. You see, I've already lost a grandson; I can't accept losing my son as well."

Wordlessly, he placed his arm around the older woman's shoulder, pulling her closer.

"It will be all right," she promised with an assurance he didn't believe. "I know it will. You and Amanda will work this out and . . ."

"Lee!"

Startled, they fairly jumped apart as Amanda called out excitedly once again, "Lee, are you awake?"

"Uh, yeah." He sidled over to meet her as she burst into the room. "Your mother and I were just, uh, talking about Jamie."

"That's what I wanted to tell you," she continued breathlessly, oblivious to the look that Dotty bestowed on an increasingly sheepish Lee. "I found it!"

"Found what, Darling?" Dotty asked.

"The lead we've been looking for." Excitement fairly radiated off her as she thrust a dog-eared file under Lee's nose. Words bubbling over, she told him quickly, "I don't know why I didn't see it before. It was there in front of me this whole time. I guess I was looking for something else, something in the medical notes. I naturally assumed . . ."

"Amanda." He held up a hand in exasperation. "What am I looking for here?"

She smiled, catching her tongue between her teeth. "Sorry. Right here, scrawled in the margin, with the small asterisk that looks like a speck."

Lee squinted, trying to make sense of the blurry words. "Just a minute," he groused in frustration, absently patting his sweats in search of his glasses. Spying them at last on the coffee table, he slipped them on and sat down on the couch, squinting slightly as he tried to make out Jamie's handwriting. The boy had certainly chosen the right career -- it was practically illegible. Did it really say . . .

Tilting up his glasses, he gave Amanda a curious look. "Iguana Associates, LLC?"

"Yes. It's a Limited Liability Corporation." Perching beside him, she pointed to the report. "And beside it, right there -- the tiny initials, see?"

He looked again more closely. "B.T.?"

"Yes." She gave him a triumphant grin. "Bryce Topping."

"As in Senator Bryce Topping?" Lee raised an eyebrow incredulously.

"None other," she assured him, her smile broadening.

Lee thoughtfully scratched the dark shadow of his beard. "I'm not sure I follow you. 'B.T.' could refer to any number of things."

"I know," she said, her hand absently patting his knee. "But when I remembered the iguanas, well, it all made perfect sense."

His eyebrows shot up. "Iguanas? Oh, Amanda . . ."

"I knew Bryce years ago," she explained with a tolerant grin. "Through the school's PTA group. He had a son, Bennet, who was absolutely crazy about iguanas." 

"That's right," Dotty concurred. "Wasn't he in Phillip's class?"

"No, Jamie's," Amanda said, her voice suddenly quiet as she folded her hands in her lap.

"Oh, I think I remember him now. The one with all the freckles."

Amanda nodded. "He and Jamie were good friends all through grade school, but they kind of lost touch after junior high." She turned again to Lee once again. "The point is -- Jamie would definitely remember him. I think he made the same connection."

Lee looked at her doubtfully. He could see how much she wanted, needed, to believe it. Of course, that same quirky logic *had* been passed down from mother to son. Still . . . "I don't know, Amanda. I think this time you might really be grasping at straws."

She jumped up as if she'd been stung. "Well, I don't see you holding out anything else for me to grasp! If you have a theory of your own, I'd be more than happy to listen."

"You know I don't," he shot back, he, too, springing up from the couch. "But you can't just jump to conclusions on such flimsy. . ."

"Flimsy? I've seen you make a case from much less."

"Okay, okay," Dotty interjected, quickly moving to stand between them. "Neutral corners, both of you." She gave them both a sharp look. "This isn't helping. You're supposed to be on the same side, remember?"

Amanda opened her mouth, but her words dissolved under her mother's icy glare. Instead, she pursed her lips, her foot tapping impatiently on the hardwood floor as she regarded Lee solemnly. "Will you at least run the corporation's name through the Agency databanks?"

"I . . ." He let out a long breath as Dotty turned and caught his eye. "Yeah, sure," he agreed, suddenly chagrined. "I guess it can't hurt."

Nodding her thanks, Amanda walked briskly over to her computer, holding out a chair for him as it booted. He could read the impatient enthusiasm in her stance; she was like a racehorse champing at the bit.

He settled uneasily in front of the screen. Slipping a coded disk into the drive, he quickly typed in the series of number sequences to access the Agency mainframe. As the familiar eagle profile filled the screen, he entered his password, then the information, his knuckles rapping absently on the desktop as he waited for the hourglass to stop spinning. The screen suddenly sprang to life. "I don't believe this," he mumbled, unable to disguise his amazement as he perused the information, punching in another series of numbers as he set the search to dig a little deeper.

"What?" he heard in stereo from over his right and left shoulders.

He swiveled his chair, his expression alternating between discomfiture and pride. "It, uh, looks like you might be right," he said, admiration finally winning out. "Again. It's skillfully buried, but it's there. Take a look at the partnership of Iguana Associates."

He felt a familiar pressure on his back as Amanda leaned closer, her upper body pressing against him. "Topping, B. and . . . Roman, D.," she exclaimed, her voice rippling with barely suppressed excitement. "Dan Roman! There is a connection!"

Her warm breath tickled his ear even as a few stray strands of hair brushed across his neck. Lee shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Yeah," he said, struggling to keep his voice even. "I guess there is at that."

Amanda acknowledged his unspoken apology with a gentle squeeze of his shoulder. "So you can launch an investigation at NSL now, right?"

He drew in a deep breath. "I wish it was that easy."

"But, Lee, you said it yourself. It's right there in black and white."

"All this tells us," he reminded her, "is that the head of North Shore has a professional relationship with a powerful Washington politician. Hardly grounds for an investigation."

"Then get it. Question Roman."

He rose, restlessly pacing the room. "I'm not sure that would do any good," he muttered. "Not with Fleetwood at the Chicago branch looking over my shoulder every step of the way. I don't have any leverage here."

"Lee . . ."

"I'm going back to D.C."

Hands on her hips, she blocked his path. "You can't just let this drop. It's the first real clue we have."

"I have no intention of letting anything drop," he returned, his icy tone matching hers. "But we're hitting our heads against a brick wall here in Chicago."

"With the police looking into what happened to Tim now . . ."

"Roman's guard will be up." He paused, deliberately engaging her eye. "I'm gonna go knock on the back door."

He heard her suck in a breath. "Topping?"

"Yes. I think the answer's there, Amanda. With the connection you found -- Iguana Associates." His voice lowered as he added, "I'll keep you informed, I promise." He included Dotty in his gaze. "Both of you."

"You bet you will, Stetson," Amanda stated, her voice filled with quiet determination. "I'm going with you."

"Amanda . . ."

"Sorry, it's not up for debate."

"Well, darlings," Dotty speedily interposed, putting an arm around them both. "*I* think that's a wonderful idea. You know the old adage -- and *your* two heads are definitely better than one. Now that we've got that settled," she put in as Lee showed unmistakable signs of interrupting, "I'd advise a little rest. It's late."

Amanda agreed. "I'll make airline reservations first thing in the morning," she said, giving him no room to protest as she headed for the bedroom. 

He heard a small sigh escape Dotty's lips as she prepared to follow her daughter. "Goodnight, Lee, darling," she whispered, her arm tightening around his waist for just a minute. "It's good to see you." Her eyes followed her daughter's retreating back, then returned to her son-in-law. "Very good indeed."