2

i

It was one of those spectacular mornings that occur all too rarely. The autumn foliage, burnished to just the right shade of red-gold, shimmered in the soft morning sun. Every now and then a few stray leaves floated to the ground, ballet-like, driven by a breeze that carried only the slightest hint that summer was about to relinquish its hold. It was a day that promised perfection, in every way.

Gunning the engine of his jet-black Porsche 944, Lee Stetson raced into the Agency parking garage, thankful once again that he worked in an office with no windows to let in the outside world. Peeling himself from the car, he slammed the door and pounded his finger against the lock button on the remote. His limp was more pronounced than usual as he made his way toward the concealed entry to the ultra-secret Agency headquarters. Muttering a few well-chosen obscenities, he paused to massage his stiff leg.

"That's what you get for insisting on driving that sardine can, Scarecrow." Billy Melrose clapped him on the back then relieved him of the weight of his bulging briefcase. "When are you finally going to break down and buy a car with some leg room?"

"Suits me just fine," he grumbled, gritting his teeth as the throbbing continued.

Billy cleared his throat. "Yes, I'm sure it does."

Lee lumbered into the elevator, thankful that Billy had chosen to forego the standard lecture this morning. He suspected his friend knew all too well why he drove the small car, as well as the reason he adamantly refused the knee replacement surgery the doctors assured him would make life easier. They were links, tangible and real, to the man he used to be. The man he'd laid to rest five years ago this month, in a picturesque cemetery in Arlington, Virginia, alongside his dead wife.

"What brings you here so early this morning?" Lee asked as the reluctant elevator hummed to life. It was a rare occurrence to see Billy Melrose at the Agency these days. Since his former boss had accepted the prestigious position of liaison to the State Department, he spent more time outside the building than in it.

"Smyth called a powwow over the latest Brimstone business." Ignoring Lee's glare, he pushed the button for level nine. "We need to decide what and how much to say at the senior staff briefing."

Lee folded his arms across his chest as he eyed Billy. "I guess my invitation to the meeting must have been lost in the mail."

"I wouldn't press my luck if I were you, Scarecrow. You're lucky Smyth decided to let this latest stunt pass. You know you've been ordered to stay miles away from anyone connected with Brimstone—especially Arnold Streator."

Lee watched the red numbers flash as they descended. "That shouldn't be too hard, Billy," he snapped, "now that the man's been silenced once and for all."

"The coroner's office is going to rule his death accidental."

"I know. I read that half-baked report."

"How did you—"

"My old friend Manny, over at Metro Police," he said, with just the right amount of casualness. "And don't look like that, Billy. I didn't threaten him—he owed me a favor. It doesn't matter anyway. With Streator out of the picture, we've reached another dead end. He was our last link to . . ." His words trailed off as the elevator doors swooshed open.

Billy pushed the hanging clothes aside, allowing them to step freely into the hall. "Maybe the accident was a blessing in disguise, Lee," he said in a low voice. "Now that Streator's dead, maybe you can finally find a way to let this vendetta go."

"Come on, Billy, this was no accident, and you know it. Streator was on his way to meet me that night to give up Brimstone. Instead he ends up in a ditch, run off the road by a drunk driver. The whole set-up reeks."

"The evidence speaks for itself, Scarecrow. The tire tracks corroborate the theory of an accident. And that truck driver's blood alcohol level was off the charts—"

"I don't give a damn what the evidence says! Every instinct I have says Brimstone is behind this, too. To be so close, yet again, only to have everything blow up . . ."

"Go easy, Scarecrow. Remember what Dr. Smyth said—"

"Billy, if you think I give a rat's ass what our fearless leader thinks, then you've been spending too much time hob-nobbing with the mucky-mucks over at State."

Turning on his heel, Lee hobbled down the hall at such a furious pace that Billy had to double-time it to catch up. They came to a halt at the glass doors leading to the Field Section bullpen. "You're already on thin ice for violating Smyth's edict by agreeing to meet Streator," Billy gasped, slightly winded by the unexpected exercise. "The old man's just looking for an excuse to downgrade your security clearance again. Don't give it to him."

Touched by the genuine concern as he met his friend's gaze, Lee bit back his sarcastic reply and sighed. "Don't worry, I won't do anything foolish." Adopting a conciliatory tone, he lowered his voice. "I appreciate everything you've done for me, Billy. I know how far out on that metaphorical limb you had to go to recommend me for Section Chief—"

"I've never minded swaying in the breeze, Scarecrow, you know that. Not where a friend is concerned." Billy's smile faded as he squeezed Lee's arm. "I'm well aware that this Brimstone business is personal—"

"Damned right it is! Those bastards killed my wife! It doesn't get more personal than that."

"Scarecrow . . ."

Heads turned in the bullpen, but Lee ignored them, instead fixing his eyes on the large, circular emblem emblazoned on the wall. "Servicium in Umbris." He'd lived his life by that motto; they all had. And look where it had gotten them . . .

"Don't worry," he managed to spit out before Billy could launch into yet another lecture on procedure, "I've got it under control. I won't let the pressure get to me this time." He leveled his gaze at his friend. "But all my eyes and ears on the street are saying something's about to go down, and it has to be Brimstone." He dropped his voice, adding, "Don't ask me to stop, Billy. I can't."

"I know that." Billy shook his head. "And I'll drop the subject on the condition that you—"

"No way!" Lee's scowl deepened. "The man's a quack with an ice cream fetish."

"See him. By end of business today."

"Billy—"

"That's an order, Scarecrow. Otherwise, you'll leave me no choice. I'll have to take this up with Smyth."

Lee forced out a pent-up breath. Pfaff must have ratted him out; ongoing therapy was a condition of his job, and he'd blown off his last two appointments with the Agency's favorite shrink. "Okay," he said at last, "you win, I'll go. But I don't have to like it."

"I like it—that's all that counts at the moment." Billy handed Lee his briefcase. "I'd better get a move-on. You know how Mavis gets when I'm late to a meeting."

"Yeah." Lee rolled his eyes. "Mrs. Marsten's even more vigilant about your schedule than Jeannie."

"Mavis watches me like a hawk, all right. She's a damned efficient assistant—I'd be lost without her."

"How's her son doing?"

Billy smiled. "It was touch and go with Dan for awhile, but the wonder-drug he's on seems to have done the trick. Mavis doesn't like to talk about it, though; I think it was pretty tough on her, almost losing . . ." He coughed and looked away.

"You'd better get going," Lee said, giving his friend an easy exit from the hole he'd dug for himself.

"You're absolutely right. Hey, Scarecrow," Billy called over his shoulder as he continued down the hall to the main briefing room, "how about if I reward your visit to Dr. Pfaff with a steak at Randy's tonight?"

"Sorry, I'll have to take a rain check." Lee gave him one of his rare smiles. "I have to get home early—it's my week to cook dinner."

ii

The sun fought its way from behind the huge cloud, but the reprieve was only temporary. Thunderheads gathering in the distance were even now moving to eclipse its path once again. It would storm before this day was over, and more than anything else, Lee Stetson hated storms. Hated the raw energy he was powerless to control, just as he hated events that, once set in motion, proved impossible to alter.

Slamming the door on thoughts of the past, Lee looked around the plush waiting room that Robert Pfaff, M.D., shared with his new partners. Washington's walking wounded occupied every available seat this afternoon. Leaning awkwardly against the wall, he shifted his weight to his good leg as his eyes restlessly swept the perimeter again. The fresh-faced receptionist shot him a silent apology coupled with a self-conscious smile. Lee supposed he should be amused, but he found the toadying reaction he invariably caused in members of the opposite sex to be boring at best, annoying at worst. How times had changed.

Frowning, he tugged on the lapels of his suit jacket then glanced at his watch. Ten past three—he'd already wasted forty minutes, time he'd never get back, time he could have spent tracking Brimstone's next move. According to his most reliable snitch, something was in the air. Arnold Streator's death had made him more determined than ever to find out exactly what that 'something' was . . .

"Mr. Stetson." The door to Pfaff's inner sanctum swung open and a pert blonde searched the crowded room, finally acknowledging Lee with a brilliant smile. "Right this way, sir."

Lee kept his eyes straight ahead as he followed the attendant. God, how he hated these Agency-ordered psych analyses. If it had been anyone but Billy . . .

Knocking briefly on the polished wooden door at the end of the hall, the woman smiled again and indicated that Lee should enter.

"What the hell, Pfaff," he grumbled as the door closed behind him. "It's like Grand Central Station in your waiting room. You running some sort of special today? Two heads shrunk for the price of one?"

Pfaff laughed. "The sweet rewards of life beyond the Agency. You should try it, Scarecrow."

"So they tell me." Lee smiled grimly as he lowered himself into the empty seat. Like the rest of the furnishings in the shrink's office, the big leather chair was larger than average. What that said about Pfaff's psyche, Lee didn't even want to hazard a guess.

The psychiatrist swiveled toward him, tapping the desk lightly with the eraser end of his pencil. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure this afternoon?"

Pfaff began every interview the same way, and Lee clenched his teeth. "You know full well why I'm here. You and your buddies at the Agency mandated it."

"And like the good Eagle Scout you are, you obeyed. You see? You are making progress. Bravo, Scarecrow."

"Go to hell, Pfaff."

Steepling his fingers, the psychiatrist leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk as he regarded Lee in contemplative silence. The rhythmic beat of an antique grandfather clock could be heard in the background, ticking the seconds away, one by one. After almost three years in therapy, Lee knew the drill by heart.

Lowering his eyes, he busied himself counting the threads in Pfaff's tightly woven carpet. Lee could feel the eyes of the Agency's former finest boring into his skull, but he refused to look up. At length, Pfaff blew out a short breath of exasperation, pushed out of his chair and stomped over to the corner of his office. He withdrew an ice cream bar from the camouflaged refrigerator built into the wall, tore the wrapper and bit off a large chunk.

"Okay," Pfaff sighed as he stretched out on his own couch, "now that we have the mental calisthenics out of the way, shall we agree to stop wasting my time and yours?"

"Sure, Doc." From his vantage point in the comfortable green chair, Lee offered a sarcastic grin. "Anything you say."

Pfaff caught a drip of vanilla ice cream with the tip of his tongue. "Go ahead, Scarecrow, it's your dime."

"The Agency's dime, you mean."

"That's true, and I'll collect it whether you come across or not." Pfaff paused for another bite. "Come on, Scarecrow, give. From the tone of Billy's voice this morning, you must have done something to get his hackles up."

Lee shrugged. "The latest lead to Brimstone turned out to be a dead end, that's all. Billy's worried that I'll get drunk and slam my car into a wall."

Pfaff peered at him over the top of his glasses. "And should he be?"

Lee grinned. "Sure, Doc. I'm a loose cannon, haven't you heard?"

"Suicide is not a joking matter, Scarecrow."

"I'm not suicidal now, and I wasn't suicidal then, Pfaff." His mouth was tight and grim as he glared at the doctor. "As I've told you and those numbskulls from Internal Affairs time and time again."

Pfaff took another bite of the frozen treat, slowly and deliberately licking the last pieces of chocolate from his lips. "Then how do you explain ending up wrapped around that light pole with enough alcohol in your system to land a man on the moon?"

"I don't know. I remember stopping at Ned's for a drink and after that . . ." Lee ran a hand through his hair. "After that, it's all a blank until I woke up in the hospital." He pushed out of the chair and began to pace. "I don't know why I keep on bothering to explain when it's obvious you don't believe me."

Pfaff handed Lee a compassionate smile. "On the contrary, Scarecrow. If I didn't believe you, I wouldn't have found you fit for duty. It's this vow of yours to bring down Brimstone that concerns me—as well as your superiors at the Agency."

"Brimstone is a threat to national security." Gripping the back of the chair, he spat out the words. "It's my job to bring them down."

"There's a fine line between duty and vengeance, Scarecrow."

"If you say so."

"Amanda would have said so . . . wouldn't she?" Before Lee could reply, he quickly asked, "How goes it on the home front these days?"

Letting out a deep breath, Lee circled the chair and sank down once more into the welcoming leather. "With Jamie? Pretty good, actually. He's a great kid."

"And Phillip?"

Lee shrugged. "He's away at school."

"University of Iowa, isn't it?"

"Indiana. A friend of Joe's pulled some strings and got him in. Phillip was never a great student, even before Amanda died. But afterwards . . . well, I don't think he minded much leaving the east coast or his family, either, for that matter." Lee's eyebrows slanted into a frown. "Especially if it included me."

Pfaff chewed absently on the end of the ice cream stick. "I take it nothing's changed between the two of you?"

Lee studied his fingernails. "Not really."

"And how do you feel about that?"

"How should I feel? After what happened, I can hardly expect him to welcome me back into his life with open arms."

"Jamie has."

"Yeah, well, Jamie's a lot like his mother." Lee's half-smile faded. "Maybe too much for his own good."

"You aren't responsible for Amanda's death, Lee."

"Tell that to Phillip."

"I'd be happy to."

"It's not that I blame the kid. Hell, why shouldn't he hold me responsible? I was the senior agent. I should have protected her. She shouldn't even have been on that mission in the first place. She was just a rookie."

"I'd hardly call Amanda a rookie. Aside from being your official partner for the better part of a year, she'd passed her agent candidate exams in the top two percent of her class." Pfaff tilted his head. "Certainly the choice was hers?"

"She shouldn't have been in the position to make a choice." Lee's expression took an unpleasant twist. "I'm the one who dragged her into this business, Doc. If I'd never given her that damned package in the first place, she'd still be alive—Phillip and Jamie would still have their mother. I took her from them!" He thumped his fist against his chest. "Me!"

Jumping up, he began to pace again. He could feel Pfaff watching him, tracking his every movement, making mental notes. Abruptly, he stopped and whirled, pinning Pfaff to that ridiculous couch of his with blazing eyes. "Say it, Doc. Why don't you say what you're thinking, just this once? I'm a lost cause—beyond salvage."

"All right, since you insist, I'll tell you what I think."

Pfaff removed his glasses, set them down on the small table beside the couch then slowly rose. Pursing his lips, he moved back to his desk and calmly took a seat.

"I think it takes a special breed to make it in your business," he began, speaking softly. "Men—and women—with a rare brand of courage and commitment. You spooks face unique challenges every minute you're on the job—and sometimes when you're not on the job. The pressure builds, becomes a lot to deal with, even on a good day. Throw in a smattering of envy—for a younger guy, say, who reminds you of everything you once were—a dash or two of guilt for surviving when so many others have fallen—and you have a sure-fire recipe for disaster. Add a heavy dose of personal vengeance, and it almost always over-seasons the emotional stew."

Lee pressed his lips together. "Vengeance can be a powerful motivator."

"Vengeance is corrosive, Scarecrow. It eats away at the spirit, little by little, until there's nothing left inside, nothing left to feel anymore. I've seen it time and time again. Some manage to survive it. Most don't."

Lee rubbed his gritty eyes then turned to Pfaff. "And you think I fit into the latter category?"

"That's not for me to determine." Pfaff grinned and leaned forward. "Same time next week?"

iii

Lee stifled a yawn as he extracted himself from his Porsche. Maybe Billy had a point—if he was going to spend half his life commuting to and from Annapolis, he should buy a car that sat a little higher off the ground. Amanda had teased him that soon he'd have to trade in the Corvette for a vehicle that would accommodate a baby seat. But that was before . . .

Exhaling loudly, he climbed the front steps. His watch showed half past six but, to his weary body, it felt more like midnight. It must be the aftermath of his session with Pfaff. That's why he hated shrinks—they couldn't be trusted to leave well enough alone. He functioned just fine, didn't he? Ate, slept, performed his job adequately . . . what the hell else did the man want?

Sagging against the doorframe, Lee drew in a deep breath and struggled to pull himself into some semblance of emotional order. Jamie should be home from soccer practice any minute and it wouldn't do to let the boy find him like this. Damn Pfaff anyway—making him think about things he had no business remembering. About the life he could have had . . . with Amanda, with the boys. His new family . . .

He clenched his hands into tight fists. Why did everyone always say talking was therapeutic? It couldn't change anything, couldn't bring his wife back, or their baby, either, for that matter. He'd been sure it would be the little girl Amanda had wanted so much . . .

"Hey, Lee . . . you okay?"

He quickly squared his shoulders. He hadn't heard the soft footsteps come up behind him, nor the telltale click of the car door as it closed—Jamie was getting way too good at sneaking up on him. "Yeah, Sport, I'm fine." Keeping his head down, he absently searched his pockets. "Just looking for my keys."

If Jamie noticed the slight huskiness in Lee's voice, he was sensible enough to ignore it. "You want me to pick it for you?" he asked, a teasing lilt to his tone.

Lee fished the keys out of his back pocket. "I don't think that will be necessary, but thanks."

The boy pushed his glasses back up on his nose. "Anytime you need my services, you only have to ask. I'm getting pretty good with a lock pick."

"I'll be sure to pass that along to Leatherneck," Lee grumbled, "since he's the one who thought it would be such a hot idea to teach you."

Lee followed Jamie inside, his stepson's laugh echoing through the hallway. Though he'd lived there since June, the spacious tri-level townhouse on the aptly named Gingerview Lane still retained its "new" smell. Traffic on the 301 notwithstanding, Lee had to admit the place was an improvement over the string of apartments he'd migrated to each fall, each one a carbon copy of the last.

Dropping his keys on the small table in the entryway, he quickly sorted through the mail, tossing the envelope with the colorful foreign stamp in Jamie's direction. "Looks like this one's from your Dad."

His stepson eagerly tore open the letter. "He says they're finally settling in," Jamie informed him as they headed into the combination living and family room. Throwing his backpack on the floor, the boy flung himself into a chair, slinging his legs over the arm. "Carrie likes living in the official residence. They've been assigned a butler and a personal maid."

"Sounds pretty posh." Lee raised an eyebrow. "Maybe you should have gone with them after all."

Jamie shuddered. "No, thanks. You couldn't pay me to live there, palace or not. I like running water. And I'm pretty sure Estoccian television doesn't carry Redskins games."

"I'm with you there, Sport," Lee said, with a laugh. "By the way, I managed to wangle tickets for the second Sunday in November. Just shy of the forty yard line."

"Thanks, you're the best." Kicking his foot against the chair, he gave Lee a shy smile. "I really appreciate you letting me stay with you. Leaving the country right before my senior year would have sucked."

"I remember how much I hated it every time my uncle changed bases. Growing up all over the world sounds glamorous, but it has its down-side, believe me. At least here you don't have to worry too much about keeping your shoes off the furniture."

Jamie's feet thudded to the floor as he straightened up in the chair. "Sorry, Mom always hated it when we did that . . ." The words seemed to hang in the air between them, and Jamie suddenly looked away. "I don't know how you handled it," he murmured, "always having to leave your friends to move to another country."

Lee stiffened. "Sometimes you have to deal with what life throws you."

"Yeah."

Jamie's long sigh mingled with Lee's. Of course the boy knew that, only too well. He'd already experienced enough of life's curve balls to last two lifetimes. First, his mother's untimely death; then exchanging the comfortable home he'd grown up in for the cool formality of his father's new house in Annapolis; his brother going to college halfway across the country; and, finally, his grandmother's decision to relocate outside the United States. Small wonder he'd rebelled at the thought of going to Estoccia. Thankfully, Joe King had agreed to Lee's suggestion that Jamie stay with him to finish out his senior year. Though reluctant to leave his son, in the end Joe hadn't been able to pass up the opportunity to help the less fortunate masses, especially with Jamie endorsing the plan so enthusiastically.

Unlike Phillip, who had informed his brother only last week that he'd made arrangements to spend the Thanksgiving holiday with a friend's family. His older stepson kept an icy distance from Lee that not even the flashy Porsche had been able to thaw.

Lee understood the boy's reaction all too well, just as he knew why Dotty had finally chosen to close the Arlington house and move to Switzerland to be near her friend, Harry Berrigan. As she'd told him the day he'd driven her to the airport, "what-should-have-been" was just too painful a place to dwell in any longer.

Clearing his throat, Jamie pushed up out of the chair and switched on the television. "I guess I'd better get a start on my homework."

"And you need the T.V. to do that?"

"Social studies. I've got a paper due next week on the presidential election."

"Well, with only a few weeks to go, you're bound to find enough information for ten papers."

Jamie grinned up at him. "You wanna watch with me?"

"Good try, but it's your paper, not mine. I get enough politics at work. I'd rather cook dinner."

Without waiting for a reply, Lee headed into the kitchen. He tossed his jacket haphazardly across the back of the nearest chair and took a quick inventory of the refrigerator. Good thing teenage appetites were easy to please—it looked like it was going to be another pasta night. They seemed to fare much better when it was Jamie's week to cook. At one time, Lee had been able to whip up a gourmet feast at a moment's notice but, as with so many other things, he'd simply lost interest. Cooking brought back too many memories of dinners prepared in tandem with his wife, on those all too rare weekends alone. Meals they always ended up wolfing down in the wee hours of the morning, in a state of pleasant exhaustion . . .

Yanking a pot from the cupboard, Lee filled it with water then set it on the stove with a bang. Turning the burner on high, he risked a quick glance into the living room. Jamie sat at the round table in the corner, his books spread methodically in front of him, a frown of concentration on his face as the television reporter droned on. Lee felt something twist in his gut. How many times had he looked across their office to see Amanda wearing that same expression as she puzzled the intricacies of some case? A thousand lifetimes ago . . .

Rummaging through the pantry shelves, he located the vermicelli. The Q-Bureau was Francine Desmond's territory now. He never set foot in it anymore, never climbed those stairs to the second floor. He preferred to stay underground, always insisting meetings be held in his office. If the other Q-Bureau personnel thought him eccentric, they kept it to themselves.

Breaking the strands in two, he tossed them into the boiling water, careful to turn down the heat. No use risking what happened last time—boiled over pasta was a bitch to clean, and his service wasn't due until next week. Lee sighed. Cooking again was only one of the adjustments he'd had to make lately. Having his stepson with him on such a steady basis had brought the past crashing back once again. Still, despite the renewed heartache, he really did enjoy having Jamie here. He just needed to find a way to bury those painful feelings again—without the alcohol this time.

It wasn't too hard during the day. He had the minutia of his job as section chief to occupy his mind. There was a time when he would have fled in disgust from the paper mill, but he'd been a different man then. Buried beneath his mountain of files, he barely went into the field anymore. That suited him—and Dr. Smyth—just fine.

But the nights—the nights were another matter entirely. He stayed downstairs long after Jamie went to bed, pacing the floor, exercising—anything to exhaust himself into a dreamless sleep.

It didn't help.

The nightmares that had left him alone for the better part of two years were back again—with a vengeance. They plagued him with merciless regularity, playing out in his mind like a horror movie in fast-forward. Each time, she called out to him, begging for him to help her. And each time, he let her down . . . again.

They varied in content, but the inevitable conclusion was always the same. Sometimes he saw her sitting in the front seat of the Corvette, a cherubic infant in a pink blanket snuggled in her arms, while he stood, immobile, unable to stop the car from turning into a fiery inferno; other times, she walked solemnly along the seashore, a dark-haired little girl clutching her hand, only to have a giant wave swallow them both. Then, there was the worst dream of all—the one where he held the gun that turned their bodies into Swiss cheese . . .

"Lee!"

The note of alarm in Jamie's voice snapped him to attention. "Damn it," he muttered as he grabbed a pair of potholders and quickly transferred the smoking pan to the sink. He gingerly sprayed the mess with water, standing back as the steam rose from the blackened pot to mingle with the unmistakable odor of scorched pasta.

Jamie came up beside him, wrinkling his nose as he stared at the charred remains of their dinner. "Looks like pizza again, huh?"

"I'm afraid so." Lee rolled his eyes. "Why don't you call in the order while I take care of this?"

Dumping the water into the sink, Lee carefully picked up the ruined pan. As he made his way to the garbage can in the garage, he made a mental note to stop at Martindale's Department Store on his way home tomorrow. That was the last pot left in the cupboard.

iv

Propping up his bad leg on the coffee table, Lee settled into the sofa and idly surfed the channels. Other than the ever-present speculation about the upcoming elections, there was nothing much on tonight—even the enterprising CSN reporters seemed to have run out of new things to say. Bored, he switched off the television and tossed aside the remote. Without the background noise, the rain sounded louder than ever as it pounded the roof. In an effort to distract himself he reached for the evening paper, scanning only a few pages before crumpling it in disgust. The print journalists were just as hackneyed as their onscreen counterparts. Leaning back, he studied the ceiling. He could hear footsteps on the floor above, moving back and forth, back and forth . . . the rain must be keeping Jamie up, too.

From his perch on the couch, he spied the half-empty bottle of Chivas Regal sitting on the wet bar, just where he'd left it after Billy's visit the other night. Struggling to resist the urge, he closed his eyes. He allowed himself a drink now and then, in social situations, but never when he was feeling down, the way he was tonight. He'd learned the hard way that alcohol was not an antidote for depression. As Pfaff would be quick to point out, that must be some sort of progress.

But in the beginning . . . hell, in the beginning he hadn't given a damn what the consequences were. He'd only wanted to stop the pain. It occurred to him more than once that first year how blessed it would be to simply forget, to turn his past into a great void so he couldn't remember the life he'd made with Amanda. But nothing he tried could erase her from his mind. Not the job that once consumed his life. Not the drugs the doctors prescribed to dull the constant ache in his leg. And certainly not the alcohol he liberally prescribed for himself when all else failed.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Lee found he could no longer sit still. Some people thought the sound of rain soothing, he knew; but for him, it only dredged up the memory of events he'd tried so desperately to wash away . . . the gentle patter of the drops as they lay together in bed, sated and drowsy . . . the staccato rat-tat-tat later that evening as they observed their suspect from the cozy intimacy of the Corvette . . . and later still, the dull thud on the concrete parking lot as he awoke to a world turned upside down.

He must have relived that last afternoon a thousand times in his head—if they hadn't slipped away to make love, if they'd kept their concentration focused completely on the case, would the outcome still have been the same? He'd never know. All he knew for sure was that his wife was gone, and he still didn't have the first clue how to live without her.

The restless footsteps overhead suddenly ceased. Jamie must have given up and gone to bed; it was time he did the same. He was in the process of debating whether to straighten the kitchen now or in the morning when the doorbell rang. Frowning, he hurried to answer it. There must be a crisis at work; good news never knocked at this time of night.

"Francine." He smoothed his disheveled hair as he stared at his midnight visitor. "You're the last person I expected to see tonight."

"Hello to you, too, Scarecrow." She flicked the water from her Burberry raincoat. "Do you suppose I could come in before I'm washed away? It's raining cats and dogs out here."

He stepped aside, taking the coat she handed him. "What are you doing out at this hour?" he asked as he ushered her into the living room. "I thought you'd be home packing for your trip. You are off the duty roster next week, right?"

"Yes, I am. And as that old song says, 'my bags are packed and I'm ready to go.'"

Lee lowered himself into his favorite chair. "If you've stopped by to get some recommendations for the local hotspots, I'm afraid you're out of luck. I haven't been to the French Riviera in ages."

Avoiding his gaze, she fluffed her hair then sat down on the couch. "It's freezing in here." She rubbed her arms in an exaggerated motion to ward off the chill. "Haven't you heard of heat? Or did you forget to pay the bill again?"

"Very funny. It's too early in the season for heat. It's only October, Francine."

She shot him a sarcastic smile. "That's right, I forgot. You like to play the mountain man and keep the heat turned off until Thanksgiving."

Lee eyed her suspiciously. "Okay, Desmond, what gives? You didn't come all the way over here in a downpour to discuss my efforts to stem the energy crisis."

Francine made a great show of smoothing the imaginary wrinkles in her skirt. "Okay," she said at last, "you're right. I debated whether or not I should tell you this, but . . ." She let out a deep sigh. "I did promise . . ."

"Francine, cut the crap. You're beginning to sound just like . . ." Catapulting out of the chair, he hurried to the wet bar and grabbed the bottle of Scotch. "Would you care for a drink?"

"Coffee," she replied, a little too emphatically, "if you have it."

"Sure." He managed a smile as he returned the bottle to the shelf beneath the bar. "I think I could scare some up. But you'll have to settle for reheated."

"Fine by me." Following him into the kitchen, she leaned against the counter as he filled two mugs from the cold pot and placed them in the microwave. "That hasn't been sitting around for weeks or anything, has it?" she asked suspiciously.

Lee laughed. "Don't worry, I've mended my ways. This is leftover from dinner. I was just about to dump it when you showed up on my doorstep."

Removing the steaming mugs, he jerked his head toward the table. "Come on, let's sit. Then you can tell me all about Smyth's high-level meeting this morning."

Settling at the kitchen table, Lee watched in silence as Francine removed a packet of Sweet and Low from her purse and added it to her mug. She stirred the brew a few times, took a perfunctory sip, then pressed her back against the wooden chair. Resting for a beat, she finally engaged his eye. "I really shouldn't be acting as your mole, you know. Billy would have my head if he knew. Not to mention Dr. Smyth—"

"Smyth can go straight to hell. He's the one who blew this investigation years ago, and he's doing the same thing again, by shutting me out of it."

"Smyth had no choice but to terminate the case then, Scarecrow—you know that as well as I do. When Amanda's alleged file failed to turn up at Brimstone—"

"There was a file. She told me so."

"I'm not implying that there wasn't . . ." Francine blew out a long breath. "Streator must have discovered it and destroyed the information. It's the only explanation."

"Or maybe he kept it as his ace in the hole. Maybe that's what he was going to turn over to me the night he was killed."

"Why would he suddenly decide to do that, Lee? We grilled him for weeks after Amanda was . . . after your shooting. His alibi was air-tight."

"I don't know why, Francine. Why does anyone suddenly decide to come clean? Maybe he got remorse or religion or something . . . the only thing I know for sure is that he was the key to what happened that night and now he's dead."

"Then maybe it's time to finally let this go."

"Not until I get the bastards who killed my wife." He pulled his lips into a taut smile. "You know, I'm beginning to wonder whose side you're on here."

"I'm on your side, Lee, as always." She pushed back her chair and started to rise. "But if you don't trust that anymore then you can just go find somebody else to play the part of your snitch—"

"Of course I trust you. I'm sorry—this business with Streator has thrown me for a loop, that's all. Sit down, please . . ." He caught her gaze, pleading with his eyes. "Tell me what happened in that meeting today that Smyth was so hot to keep me out of."

Letting out a long breath, she sat down and glanced in the direction of the stairs. "Where's Jamie?"

"In bed. It's okay, we can talk."

Leaning over the table, Francine dropped her voice. "There was an incident a few days ago, in a little town in northern Michigan. A cottage on Lake Huron caught fire, taking a piece of the surrounding woods with it."

"What's that got to do with—"

"I'm getting to that." Francine took another sip of coffee. "You're right, normally a forest fire would only raise Smokey the Bear's eyebrows. But this particular fire started under extraordinary circumstances. Some pretty distinctive bullet casings were found in the remains of the cabin, as well as a small incendiary device—"

"They're sure?" Lee tensed. "It checks out?"

"Well, not exactly but . . ." Francine twisted in her seat. "It's similar enough to the device that was used on your car that night to spark some lively discussion."

He frowned. "Cut to the chase—what's the verdict?"

"They're going to authorize the Detroit office to ask a few questions, see if there's a connection to Brimstone."

Lee pushed away from the table. "Damn it, Francine! My network has been saying for months that Brimstone is up to something, and now Smyth turns the investigation over to some yahoos from Detroit who wouldn't know a clue if it jumped up and bit them on the ass. I'm going up there—"

"Lee!" Francine jumped up. "If Smyth gets wind that you're digging around where you don't belong, you can kiss your security clearance goodbye."

"Not you, too," he groaned. "Billy gave me the same song and dance this morning."

"Then maybe it's time you listened to both of us for a change." She followed him into the other room, saying, "This could turn out to be nothing at all. The only reason it came to the attention of the Detroit branch was because the local sheriff is a friend of the town doctor who's engaged to the woman who was renting the cottage . . . I know," she laughed, as Lee shot her a look. "'Peyton Place' in the north woods—sounds like a barrel of fun. Let the Motor City boys handle things on their end. I promise, I'll keep you posted on whatever they find."

"And if they blow the lead, what then?" Lee's nostrils flared. "I made a promise to bring Brimstone down and, by God, that's exactly what I intend to do! I owe Amanda that much."

Francine's voice became steely. "What you owe Amanda is to take care of her son. That's what she'd want you to do, Lee, not take off on some wild goose chase to the middle of nowhere. Jamie needs you here, with him. You have other responsibilities now."

Lee glanced hesitantly at the stairs. Just last week he'd assured Dotty that she could depend on him to take care of her grandson. Maybe they were right—Francine, Billy, Pfaff, all of them—maybe it was time to let go of his vendetta and concentrate on the present. "If I just had a contact I could trust in the Detroit office," he muttered to himself.

Francine let out a put-upon sigh. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but what if I postponed my trip for a few days, went up there and nosed around a bit? Of course," she grinned, "I'll expect to be handsomely compensated for my trouble."

Lee's eyes narrowed. "How handsomely?"

"I was thinking along the lines of a detour through Paris on my way back to the States. And a visit to Monsieur Maxim's."

"Ouch. You drive a hard bargain, Francine."

"My highly-honed investigative skills don't come cheaply, Scarecrow."

"Tell you what," Lee grinned, "you turn up anything significant in Michigan, and you can shop haute couture to your heart's content."

"Then I'd say you've got yourself a deal."

He pulled her into a hug. "And I'd say you're a good friend, Francine. I appreciate it."

"You'd better." Her gaze traveled to the hall. "Well, it's late. If I'm taking a side trip tomorrow, I'd better go home and repack my suitcase. Tell me," she said, as he walked with her to the door, "what are they wearing in the woods these days?"

"I'm sure you'll find something appropriate." He helped her on with her coat. "Whatever resources you need from the Agency on this end, just ask and they're yours."

"I will."

He nodded. "You know how much I—"

"Yes, I do." She leaned in to kiss his cheek. "I'll keep you posted." Stepping outside, she looked up at the sky, where a few stray stars twinkled amid the clouds. "Looks like the rain's finally letting up—it may turn out to be a pretty night after all."

"Thanks again, Francine."

She nodded and walked to the car, pausing to wave before climbing in. Lee waited until the red Alfa Romeo sped out of sight then quietly closed the door. He wasn't surprised to see Jamie waiting for him on the couch in the living room. "How much did you hear?" he asked wearily.

"Enough." The boy pushed his glasses closer to his wide eyes as he got to his feet. "Do you think—"

"I think it's late, and we should both be in bed." Putting an arm around Jamie's shoulders, he herded him in the direction of the stairs.

"You don't have to worry about me, Lee. I can stay with friends if you need to go—"

"Jamie." He paused on the landing and looked into his stepson's questioning eyes. "I don't need to be anywhere but here. Francine is a highly trained, highly qualified agent. And I promise you, if it turns out that this has anything to do with the people who killed your mother, they'll be brought to justice."

"Do you think—"

"Honestly speaking, I think the odds of finding a clue to your mother's killers in some Podunk town in Michigan are slim to none."

"I wish . . ." Jamie shrugged, letting his words trail off.

Lee sighed. "So do I, Sport. So do I."