Friday, July 24, 1987
11:57 p.m.
It was late when I finally left the Baltimore Conference Center and nearly midnight by the time I pulled into my driveway. I'd taken the long way home again in an attempt to clear my thoughts, a habit I'd picked up from Lee. Whenever he was stumped by a case, he always swore taking to the open road helped him sort things out.
It didn't seem to help me, though. I was still as confused and angry over Lee's departure as I had been on that morning I'd awakened to find myself alone in his apartment. Yet I was more convinced than ever that he was working some case, perhaps undercover. Why hadn't he confided in me? I wasn't only his wife—I was his partner.
Despite my best efforts, I still hadn't been able to contact him. My frequent calls to the London office brought only the standard "Scarecrow is unavailable" line. Mr. Melrose supposedly received a weekly phone call from him but, as far as I could tell, our section chief was the only one who heard from Lee Stetson. And when I'd asked to be present the next time Scarecrow checked in, Billy had given me some song and dance about time zones and changing schedules.
As if that wasn't suspicious enough, in the four weeks I'd been working with Francine, I'd been unable to locate the tiniest scrap of information on Scarecrow in our system files. It was almost as if he didn't exist any more, and I couldn't help but remember that day we'd visited Kai's grieving family. How had Lee put it? That I could end up just like Kai's wife one day, searching for answers about what had happened to my dead husband, struggling to sort out the truth from the lies. His words seemed almost prophetic now.
Except I was certain my husband wasn't dead. And that meant it wasn't too late to help him.
But I couldn't do anything without information. If Billy knew something, he wasn't talking. I never lost an opportunity to question him, but, no matter what method I employed, the answer was always the same. Scarecrow had settled in quite nicely in London.
Too bad the same couldn't be said for me. Working with Francine was challenging, to say the least. She never lost an opportunity to remind me that she was the senior agent. Everything was "need to know" with her. The woman had even refused to tell me her code name. It was only the faint hope that working as her partner might yet shed some light on Lee's situation that kept me going.
I was thankful our current project had come to a successful close. Francine and I had been in charge of security at the week long Anti-Terrorism Symposium in Baltimore. Though the daily commute had been a grind, I'd been as enthusiastic about receiving the plum assignment as Francine had been.
My first major detail without Scarecrow both challenged and saddened me. While I was excited by the opportunity to prove myself as an agent in my own right, not having him by my side made everything that much more difficult. Scarecrow and Mrs. King had honed their partnership to perfection over the years. I wondered if Lee felt the loss as well. He tended to be reckless at times; I could only pray that his new partner would be equally adept at watching his back.
At least the conference had kept me too busy to worry about him, or so I kept telling myself. I found the workshops fascinating. Some of the world's leading experts were on site, including Merchisson from Paris and the even more illustrious British authority, Frederick Crumwald. His Special Forces team had infiltrated and eliminated more terrorist cells than any other unit. Rumor had it that he was in town not only to attend the conference, but also to meet with a special Presidential Commission.
My brief involvement with our own anti-terrorist unit, the ATAC team, had made me curious about Crumwald's methods. Unfortunately, I'd missed his presentation, thanks in large part to Francine, who had insisted I personally supervise the installation of some additional security cameras that she deemed absolutely essential. She really was the most trying partner. No wonder my stomach had been so tied up in knots lately that everything I ate made me queasy.
I was still feeling a little nauseated when I walked into the kitchen, and the lingering smell of spaghetti sauce didn't improve matters. Mother had obviously been experimenting with the garlic again. I gave myself a little shake. I must be more tired than I thought; no doubt I would feel like myself again after a good night's sleep. Thinking about how wonderful it would feel to crawl into bed, I trudged toward the stairs.
"Amanda, is that you?" I jumped at the unexpected sound, and Mother rushed to my side. "I'm sorry, darling. I didn't mean to startle you."
"That's okay," I managed to croak, my heart still in my throat. "But I think I really am going to get you that bell. You're getting much too good at sneaking up on me."
"That's only because you have your head in the clouds these days," Mother said as she rubbed my back.
I shrugged. "I just have a lot on my mind, that's all."
"Well, I think you're working too hard. These late nights are becoming a bad habit with you, Amanda. The boys and I barely see you any more."
"My work load is really heavy right now. I've got a new boss and that's always hard," I said, hoping to limit our usual game of twenty questions to one or two.
"I'm sure it is, dear." Mother cocked her head. "I was about to fix one of my special milk and Galliano drinks. Care to join me?"
I opened my mouth to plead a headache, but the wistful look on Mother's face stopped me. These weeks without Lee had taught me the true meaning of loneliness; I could hardly fail to recognize a kindred spirit when I saw one. "Maybe I'll have a drink at that." I put an arm around her shoulder. "But make mine straight milk. That Galliano concoction of yours is a little too strange for my tastes."
Mother smiled. "Okay. But you don't know what you're missing."
"I'll take your word for it," I said, chuckling as I took a seat at the table. The sight of Mother bustling about the kitchen as she fixed our late night treat suddenly made me feel like a little girl again. We had always had such a close relationship while I was growing up, maybe because I was an only child. She was my friend as well as my mother. I suddenly longed to confide in that old friend now, the same way I'd done all those years ago when something troubled me.
She seemed to sense I had something on my mind. "So how is this new boss of yours working out?" she asked as she sat down beside me.
I sipped my milk. "It's . . . difficult. She isn't an easy person to work with. I guess she has her good points, but I haven't figured out what they are yet."
"Well, if anyone can do that, it's you, Amanda. You have a gift for bringing out the best in people."
"It just seems so hard sometimes. Her style is so different from . . ." I stopped myself, unable to say his name.
Her cool blue eyes met mine. "You still haven't heard from Lee?"
Biting my lip, I shook my head. "He's in London on some special assignment for IFF. I don't expect to hear from him until it's finished."
Mother raised an eyebrow. "They don't have phones in London?"
I sighed. "It doesn't work like that, Mother. IFF—"
"Yes, I'm familiar with the drill by now. 'IFF works for the government and the government has secrets.'" Mother's eyes narrowed as she stared at me. "And so do you, I think."
"Mother—"
She cut me off with a wave of her hand. "I'm not asking you to tell me anything you shouldn't. I'm a native of this crazy town, darling, and, believe me, I'm well aware of what goes on. I just want you to know that I'm here for you, if you should ever need to . . . talk."
My eyes widened. My mother never ceased to amaze me. I wondered how much she really knew about IFF and how much was conjecture. Well, she'd given me tacit permission to keep my secrets; I suppose she had a right to keep hers, too.
"I only have one more thing to say to you," she continued, "and then we'll drop this subject. I got to know Lee pretty well out in California. Life and death situations breed a strange kind of intimacy, I guess."
"I guess they do at that," I agreed, recalling the many times during my convalescence that I'd awoken to that same look of gentle concern in my mother's eyes.
"He's very different from the other men you've dated."
"Lee would never hurt me," I began, but stopped myself. Wasn't that exactly what he'd done? Even if he was on assignment, he hadn't trusted me enough to confide in me. And, no matter what spin I tried to put on that, it still hurt.
"Sometimes things happen that are beyond a person's control," Mother said, as if reading my mind. "But that's not my point."
I crossed my arms and looked away. "Then what are you trying to say?"
I felt the gentle pat of her hand on my shoulder. "I saw how Lee was with you . . . how the two of you were together. And I also saw how he was acting the night we had his little birthday celebration. Something was obviously bothering him. But . . ." She took a deep breath and gave my arm a harder squeeze. "That man is in love with you, darling. I'm as sure of that as I am of my own name. He'll be back."
Tears suddenly filled my eyes. "Thank you, Mother," I whispered. "I think I needed to hear someone say that."
"I thought maybe you did. And now," she gave me a significant glance, "I'm heading off to bed."
I let out a short laugh. "I'm right behind you, Mother, don't worry. I just need to figure out where I left my purse." I looked around, searching for the elusive bag I'd been misplacing all day.
"It's right here on the counter," Mother informed me with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. "Honestly, Amanda, I haven't seen you this absent-minded since you were expecting Jamie." Cupping my face, she planted a light kiss on my forehead. "Goodnight, darling."
My voice faltered a little as I wished her sweet dreams, but she apparently had the good grace not to notice. I sat and watched her leave the room, listening for the sound of her feet on the stairs long after the noise had died away. I rose at last and started to follow her, but my churning stomach forced me to sit back down again.
Swallowing hard, I tried not to look at the refrigerator, but the large calendar drew my eyes like a magnet. There was no need to panic, I told myself as I mentally counted off the days. There could be any number of perfectly plausible explanations. Breathing deeply, I did the math again. I'd certainly been under enough stress. Stress . . . yeah, that had to be it, I repeated, stubbornly clinging to that thought as I marked off the days one final time.
But when I came up with the same answer each time, all I could do was to gasp out a breathless, "Oh . . . my . . . gosh!"