--3--

i

Francine Desmond shifted uncomfortably on the hard front seat of the cramped police cruiser. She'd heard rumors that law enforcement in the boondocks had undergone tremendous budget cutbacks but never thought she'd get the chance to experience them first-hand. As if that bone shattering ride in the Air Force transport plane hadn't been bad enough . . . Lee Stetson was going to owe her big time before this trip was over.

"First time in the north woods?"

"Yes." She answered curtly, hoping to discourage further conversation, but this country yokel didn't appear to take the hint.

"Most people don't realize how big the Great Lakes are until they see them for the first time."

"You don't say." She delivered her reply in what she hoped was an air of studied boredom.

"Yup. That big lake's a force to be reckoned with. You're out in a small craft, the wind whips up suddenly, and you're cooked. I remember back in the summer of '67 . . ."

Stifling a yawn, Francine tuned out the sheriff's monologue and turned her eyes to the window. The thick woods were a curious contradiction of deep pine-green and bright autumn colors. In the spaces where the trees thinned, the sunlight caused the short stretches of blue water to sparkle like diamonds. Francine supposed the place was picturesque enough, in a primitive sort of way, but she much preferred the glitz and glamour of the beaches of St. Moritz.

As the car abruptly left the highway, Francine braced herself against the armrest. A small sign proclaimed they were entering an old logging road, but it didn't faze the long-winded sheriff. If anything, he increased his speed. The dirt road—a path with tire tracks, actually—curved endlessly through the thick woods until it suddenly dead-ended in a small clearing.

"Here we are. Doc Stevenson's place."

Francine's eyes widened. From the tone of reverence in the sheriff's voice, she'd expected the local version of the Taj Mahal, at the very least. The tall trees surrounding the simple log structure gave it a dwarfed appearance, almost like a child's playhouse, as did the mountainous pile of neatly chopped firewood stacked against the left side of the cabin. Certainly he didn't use the wood for heat? The pay scale for doctors in the backwoods must be as skewed as everything else around these parts.

Following the sheriff's lead, she picked her way through the thick pine needles to the rustic front porch. The door opened before they could knock, and a tall, sandy-haired man ushered them inside.

"Morning, Brad." Sheriff Winters removed his cap and indicated Francine with a nod. "This here is Agent Desmond, from Washington, D.C. Miz Desmond, this is Dr. Bradley Stevenson."

"Ms. Desmond, I'm pleased to meet you." Stevenson extended his hand. "We really appreciate you taking the time out of what I'm sure is a busy schedule to come here."

As she met Stevenson's earnest gaze, Francine found herself smoothing the wrinkles from her linen jacket. Here was as fine a specimen of a man as she'd ever set eyes on—and Francine had set her eyes on more than her share. If the good doctor was any indication of what the north woods had to offer, she just might have to revise her opinion of this place.

"It's no trouble at all," she found herself saying as she followed him into the living room. "I hope I can be of some help."

"I know this is probably routine for someone like you, but we're not used to being shot at on a regular basis."

"I can imagine." Francine caught a fleeting glimpse of the sheriff plopping down on the couch, but it was Brad Stevenson who held her attention as he moved restlessly back and forth between the window and the sofa.

"When I think of what could have happened . . ." Brad ran a hand through his hair as he eased his long frame into the chair. "Well, I just thank God that Mandy and Annie weren't hurt."

"That's for sure," the sheriff echoed.

Francine smiled faintly. "And they would be . . .?"

"Oh, sorry. My fiancée and daughter." Brad flashed a slightly embarrassed grin. "I'm afraid I've lived in a small town too long. We're all on a first name basis here."

As she listened to him speak, Francine suddenly comprehended just what was so compelling about the man. It wasn't his sensitive brown eyes, his firm features, nor the broad set of his shoulders beneath his plaid shirt. It wasn't even the deep dimples his killer smile revealed. It was that raw sex appeal of his, simmering just below the surface, potent enough to leave an indelible mark on every female in a ten-mile radius. Lee Stetson, she realized with a jolt. This small town doctor reminded her of Lee Stetson.

"Ms. Desmond . . . would you like something to drink?"

The odd tone in Brad's voice told her it wasn't the first time he'd asked the question. Snapping back into professional mode, she pulled a small notebook from her handbag. "Why don't you just tell me what happened?"

"I've got the report right here." The sheriff thrust a manila folder into her hands. "If you'd take a gander, you'd see—"

"Sheriff Winters." Francine adopted the supercilious tone she used with her know-it-all male counterparts at the Agency. "I'd like to hear about the events that transpired in Dr. Stevenson's words."

Brad exhaled loudly. "I hardly know. One minute, everything was perfectly normal and the next . . . the next, all hell broke loose. Mandy was terrific, though. She seemed to know just what to do. She pulled me to the floor, put out the light then sent me after Annie."

"You didn't see where the shots came from?"

"Ah, no." Brad's cheeks flushed. "We were otherwise occupied at the time."

Francine nodded. "And then . . .?"

"I made it to the back bedroom and grabbed Annie. She was sobbing for her mother, but I didn't dare go back for Mandy." Standing up, he began to pace. "I got the two of us out through the window then circled around behind the house. It was obvious that whoever had been outside the cabin was now inside, but I couldn't leave Annie. Then . . . suddenly . . . everything just blew. I thought . . ." He paused to stare out the window, fixing his eyes on the waves crashing into shore.

Francine cleared her throat. "You thought . . .?"

"I thought Mandy was still inside," he said, his voice tight. "I thought I'd lost her, just when I . . . well, I thought I'd lost her for good. But by some miracle, she'd managed to get herself out. She's a pretty terrific woman," he finished, the note of pride in his voice unmistakable.

"Yes, she must be. The report stated," she shot a look in the sheriff's direction, "the report stated that the bullet casings were from an AK-47. Military issue. Whoever did this meant business." Francine's left eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch. "Do you have any enemies I should know about, Doctor? An angry patient, perhaps?"

"Angry enough to come after my family, guns blazing? Hardly."

Francine shrugged. "You'd be surprised what someone will do when driven to the breaking point."

"But you said the guns were military issue. Where would a disgruntled patient get his hands on that kind of weapon?"

"The Air Force base is only twenty miles away. And I'm sure there are plenty of army surplus stores in a rural area like this. Trust me, Dr. Stevenson, I'm afraid it's all too easy for a determined person to find a weapon in this country."

Sighing, Brad walked over to the sofa and sat down. "I'm sorry, Ms. Desmond, I don't buy it. I can't think of anyone who would want to hurt me. Quite simply, I don't live the kind of life that invites violence."

"What about your fiancée?" Francine leaned closer. "Could she possibly have been the target?"

"Impossible!"

"Maybe she's made an enemy you don't know about?"

A flicker of recognition crossed Brad's face before he could school his features into a neutral expression. "Everyone who knows Mandy loves her."

Francine's expression grew serious. "Dr. Stevenson, if you choose to withhold information, I can't possibly help you. Please—what aren't you telling me?"

Sheriff Winters squeezed the doctor's shoulder. "Tell her, Brad. It won't do either of you any good to keep the information quiet."

"There's nothing . . . nothing," he repeated emphatically, "in Mandy's life here that could warrant an attack like this." He tilted his brow as he stared intently at Francine. "But before—"

"What Brad is trying to say," a gentle voice interposed, "is that I have no idea about my life before I came here. I'm an amnesiac, Ms. Desmond."

"An amnesiac? I'm afraid I . . ." Francine's words died off in a strangled gasp as she turned toward the speaker.

Brad Stevenson sprang from the sofa. "Ms. Desmond, are you okay?"

She tried to respond to the concern in the doctor's voice, but all she could do was to stare open-mouthed at the woman standing before her. "How did you know my name?" Francine asked, one hand clutching her throat.

Mandy shot Brad Stevenson an apologetic glance. "I was listening from the other room."

Clutching the arm of the chair, Francine blinked, as if that motion alone could erase the apparition. The same hair color, the same doe-eyes . . . No, it couldn't be. Her mind must be playing tricks on her. Hadn't she waited at the cemetery five years ago, long after the mourners had left, to see this woman's remains safely lowered into the ground?

"Ms. Desmond . . .?"

The doctor called her name again, but she barely heard. Locking eyes with the dark haired woman, she uttered the only response that popped into her mind. "Oh-my-gosh!"

ii

Wurtsmith Air Force Base, located on the outskirts of the tiny town of Oscoda, Michigan, was relatively quiet for a Thursday morning. At one time the closest point of deployment for fighter planes to the Soviet Union, the base had experienced a slowdown in traffic as the Cold War eased. Now it was mainly used for training maneuvers and as a hosting place to the occasional visiting dignitary flown in from Andrews.

Francine Desmond compressed her lips as she watched the passenger disembark from the sleek jet that had touched down only moments before. Escorted on either side by two uniformed men, he half-walked, half-ran off the runway. It only took one look at his face for Francine to know what was uppermost in his mind.

The man's scowl deepened as he came to a stop. "Would you care to tell me now or later just what the hell you and Scarecrow thought you were doing? Dr. Smyth made it plain that this case was Detroit's responsibility."

"I'm sorry, sir. Scarecrow didn't want a repeat of the mess the Detroit office made with the Franklin investigation. He intended to come himself but I thought, under the circumstances—"

"Quite." He choked back his remonstration. "Well, I guess it turned out to be a wise decision. Where is she?"

"The clinic—Building J, over here." Francine buttoned her jacket as she took off at a brisk walk toward a long, one-story structure. "Billy—"

"We'll have to do a DNA test when we get her back to D.C., but, yes, the fingerprints you faxed check out. It's her."

"But the tests we did on the remains—they were conclusive, too." Francine frowned. "That could only mean—"

"Exactly." A muscle flicked angrily in his jaw. "We have a rodent problem."

She nodded, her expression sobering as she glanced at the empty jet already preparing to take-off again. "Lee isn't with you?"

"Good God, Francine, all we need is Scarecrow charging in here before we know what we're dealing with. Thank goodness you had the foresight to contact me instead."

"I didn't want to say anything to him until we knew for sure."

"Well, we will soon." He let out a long breath. "She doesn't remember anything?"

"So she says." Francine groaned. "It gets worse, Billy. This doctor she's engaged to—"

"Bradley Arthur Stevenson," Billy rattled off. "Thirty-nine years old, University of Michigan medical school graduate." He frowned and shook his head. "Only child, both parents died when their private plane crashed in the Upper Peninsula just before his sixteenth birthday. Still owes eighteen hundred dollars on his MasterCard for an x-ray machine." Tugging open the heavy steel door, he stepped aside to allow Francine to enter. "It's only a preliminary background, but so far everything checks."

Francine's heels made a clicking sound on the tile floor as they proceeded down the hall. "The report didn't say anything about a child?"

Billy's brows became one as he looked at his agent. "Should it have?"

"Apparently so." Her mouth spread into a thin-lipped smile. "Evidently he and Amanda—God, I still can't say her name—they have a daughter."

Billy stopped in mid-stride and turned. "It's Stevenson's child? You're sure?"

"Well, I didn't run any lab tests, but yes, he referred to the child as his daughter." Francine consulted her case notes. "Annie. Why, is something wrong?"

"Francine, it's not common knowledge, but when Amanda was killed . . . presumed dead," he amended, "she was a little over three months pregnant."

Her blue eyed grew wide and large. "Lee never once said a word to me."

"No one knew—not even Amanda's family. I'm sure he didn't intend to tell me, either, but, that day at the cemetery, he was in such a bad way—it just slipped out." Billy's eyes grew wintry for a moment then he shook himself and faced Francine, all business again. "The odds are a million to one that Amanda survived that explosion, but the baby, too . . . no, the child must be Stevenson's."

"Poor Lee. I don't know how he's going to be able to deal with all this, not after everything else he's been through. To get her back just to lose her again—"

"We don't know how this is going to play out yet, Francine." Billy's eyes narrowed as he straightened his shoulders. "Where is the child now?"

"Stevenson is picking her up from the babysitter's. She . . . Amanda . . . wanted the little girl with her. I didn't think it would do any harm."

A strange emotion passed over Billy's face. "Amanda King, alive. I still can't believe it."

"I know what you mean. You should have been there, Billy. I swear, for a minute I thought I'd come face to face with a ghost."

Billy let out a loud sigh. "Where is our ghost now?"

Francine's mouth tightened. "Right through that door."

iii

Feeling more and more like a caged animal, Mandy paced the small room. What was taking Brad so long? He'd left almost two hours ago to pick up Annie. He should have been there and back in half the time. Unless . . .

Mandy pushed that thought from her mind. Since the other night she'd been seeing conspiracies in every fleeting shadow. Annie was with Brad; she was fine.

Pausing in her march, she ran her finger over the wire mesh that covered the windows. She should never have agreed to let them bring her to this place. Then again, agreeing had little to do with it—she'd gotten the distinct impression that any protest would have been firmly overruled. Her fingers curled around the wire. But did they have to treat her like an Omega class prisoner? After all, she was hardly public enemy number one.

She left the window to sit on the sofa, bracing her elbows on her knees as she buried her head in her hands. Omega class prisoner—she was beginning to talk like a character in one of those Tom Clancy novels Brad loved. The genre had never appealed to Mandy, and meeting that federal agent today had only confirmed it. The supercilious Ms. Desmond appeared to have some sort of grudge against her. Of course, the comment Mandy had let slip about the woman's nose job probably hadn't helped matters much.

The door creaked open, and, instantly alert, Mandy came to her feet. As Agent Desmond strode into the room, a dark-skinned man in tow, an inexplicable wave of apprehension swept through her.

"Uh, hello there." The woman's large blue eyes seemed to stare right through Mandy as she spoke. "I've brought someone to see you who can answer your questions."

She wiped her perspiring palms on the sides of her jeans. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten all about me."

The man smiled warmly as he extended his hand in greeting. "I'm sorry if it seemed that way. You understand that we needed to verify a few things before we spoke with you."

"I suppose so. It's just that Ms. Desmond refused to tell me anything about the fingerprint tests." She waved her hand at them in a short, jerky gesture. "I mean, imagine if you spent every day for years not knowing who you really were, and no matter how hard you tried, you never managed to discover even something as basic as where you came from, and then one fine morning someone tells you that they can find out but won't say why or how . . ." Mandy clamped her mouth shut as her visitors exchanged a glance. "I'm sorry. It's just that I'm upset, and when I'm upset, I tend to ramble."

The man cleared his throat. "Yes, I see. Why don't we sit down? I'll answer your questions as best I can, but I do need some information from you first."

"I'll try." Mandy pursed her lips as they all took a seat. "I'm just not sure where to start."

"The beginning is always a good place. Allow me to introduce myself," he said, taking a deep breath. "My name is William Melrose, and I'm the special liaison to the State Department from the Agency." The short, balding agent glanced at his co-worker before adding, "Does that ring any bells?"

Mandy shook her head. "Is that a branch of the CIA or something?"

Agent Desmond sniffed and fluffed her blonde hair. "Hardly."

"That's enough, Francine," Melrose barked; the man was obviously her superior. "No. The Agency is a self-contained, covert branch of the intelligence community that deals with matters of national security."

"So I guess that means you're not in the phone book." Mandy licked her lips nervously. "What does a covert branch of our government have to do with me?"

"A great deal, I'm afraid." As Mandy started to speak, Mr. Melrose held up his hand. "Tell me something—if you have amnesia, how is it you came to be known as 'Mandy Keane?'"

Mandy looked down at the floor. "The doctors at the clinic found an I.D. when they went through my things, so they naturally assumed . . ." She shrugged her shoulders. "But when they tried to trace the address, it turned out to be as phony as I was."

"How long ago was this?"

"Almost five years. I woke up in a medical facility in Traverse City—the Burns Clinic. It was December," Mandy's voice grew hushed as she spoke, "not too long before Christmas. There were carolers in the halls—a mixed troop of Girl Adventurers and Junior Trailblazers, I think—and I remember crying when I heard them sing." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ears. "It's funny, the things you remember. And the things you don't."

The stillness that settled over the room was shattered by the jarring creak of the door. Three heads turned as Brad Stevenson stuck his head into the room. "They told me I'd find you in—"

"Oh, Brad," Mandy rushed into his arms, "I'm so glad you're here."

"Shush," he murmured, placing a light kiss on her forehead, "everything's going to be fine." Immediately taking charge, he led her to the couch. "Take a deep breath and sit down."

She nodded, hiccupping slightly as she breathed in and out. "Annie! Is she—"

"She's fine. One of the guards offered to take her to the Base Exchange to get some cookies."

Mandy smiled. "Chocolate chip, I'll bet."

"What else?" Brad laughed and squeezed her arm.

The two federal agents exchanged a worried glance as they listened to the exchange, and Mandy gave them a shy smile. "I'm sorry for falling apart like this," she said, with a sigh. "It won't happen again. Please, Mr. Melrose, let's continue."

Hands grasped behind his back, Melrose caught Agent Desmond's eye as he began to pace. "The doctors who diagnosed your amnesia—did they tell you the cause?"

"Trauma from my car accident was the most likely cause—I'd been unconscious for several weeks. I'd been shot, too—there were healing bullet wounds, as well as an old scar . . ." She shrugged and focused her eyes on a picture of four fighter planes flying in perfect formation. "Brad's looked over my records. Maybe he can explain it better than I can."

Brad gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Mandy's injuries were extensive. She had bullet wounds on her chest, shoulder and the fleshy part of her thigh. The injuries to her shoulder and thigh were approximately two months old, but the wound on her chest dated back about six months or so. Also head trauma, recently healed fractures, bruises . . ." He paused and took a deep breath. "The doctors hoped that when she'd recovered sufficiently Mandy would regain her memory, but it hasn't happened. Personally, I opt for the other theory for her memory loss—"

"Brad, that's just conjecture."

Brad's eyes narrowed but his tone softened. "I know it's hard for you to accept, honey, but the signs are classic." He turned to the agents. "The doctors at the Burns Clinic, with whom I happen to agree, believed she was in an abusive relationship, and that the major component of the memory loss is psychological. She can't face what's happened to her."

William Melrose stiffened. "The problem may well be psychological, Dr. Stevenson, but not in the manner you're thinking," he stated in a prickly tone.

"It could be drug induced, Billy," Desmond put in. "A local M.D. might not recognize the side effects of some of the more sophisticated meds an experienced interrogator would use."

The man's expression became grave. "That's a distinct possibility. We'll have to do a full battery of tests, in addition to an interview with our psychologist."

"I'm thinking Pfaff might be a good choice. He's certainly familiar with the situation."

"I'm not sure Robert would be the correct person in this case," Melrose shot a significant glance in Desmond's direction, "given his other interest. I think Joyce might be more appropriate—"

"Now see here." Mandy slipped from Brad's embrace and pulled herself to a standing position. "I'd prefer it if you wouldn't talk about me as if I'm not in the room. I'm not talking to this Jill—"

"It's Joyce, not Jill," Desmond pointed out, with a scowl. "Dr. Claudia Joyce."

"Jill, Joyce, whatever." Mandy turned to William Melrose. "I think I've been pretty cooperative about answering your questions, sir. In the past few days I've been shot at, had my house blown up and the lives of everyone who means anything to me in this world put in danger. If it's because of something in my past, I think I have a need to know!"

"I suppose you do." Melrose exhaled loudly. "It's just hard to know where to start."

Mandy gave him a dry smile. "I hear the beginning is a very good place."

"Yes, I guess it is at that." Melrose fixed his dark eyes on Mandy and Brad. "What I'm about to tell you is highly classified. The information can't leave this room. I'm going to need you both to sign an oath to that effect."

"Certainly," Brad said, while Mandy nodded, her eyes growing larger.

He took a deep breath then continued. "Five years ago this month, to be exact, one of my best field teams was investigating a multinational corporation called Brimstone—"

"I've heard of them—I think they have an office in Bay City." Brad turned to Mandy. "There was a write-up about them in one of my medical journals. The new drug therapies they're developing are supposed to be cutting edge—"

"Medical research is only one of their divisions. They also have several projects in development for the government . . ." Billy frowned. "But that's beside the point."

Mandy's eyes widened even further. "Excuse me for asking, but what is the point, sir?"

Melrose clenched his hands together. "All during the summer of 1987, we'd been hearing vague intel that an inner circle within Brimstone was a front for a terrorist cell setting up operations Stateside. My team—Agents Stetson and King—were following up the lead." Billy paused to look at Mandy. "Agent King went undercover at the Brimstone facility in D.C. as a stenographer."

Mandy tilted her head. "A stenographer?"

"Yes," Desmond answered wryly. "Among Agent King's many talents was the ability to type ninety words a minute."

Melrose shot a warning look in Desmond's direction. "We think Agent King must have stumbled onto something while undercover—perhaps something that would compromise Brimstone. Whatever happened, unbeknownst to Stetson and King, their covers were blown."

Mandy brought her hand to her lips. Something in Mr. Melrose's low voice sent a chill down her spine. "What happened to them?"

"One night, they trailed one of Brimstone's operatives to Anacostia. It's not the best area of town, under ideal circumstances. But . . . well, something went off the wire and . . ." Melrose studied the black and white pattern on the floor as he searched for the right words. "They were ambushed. Agent Stetson was severely injured in the ensuing confrontation."

Almost afraid to hear the next words, Mandy swallowed hard. "And the other agent—Agent King?"

"Stetson tried to shield his partner, but the bullets they were using were a special prototype. The first one caught him in the leg, but the next two went right through him and struck Agent King. Before he lost consciousness, he saw them empty three more rounds into her chest."

Mandy's hand flew to her throat. "That must have been awful for him."

"Yes." Melrose eyed her closely. "Stetson and King were two of my best agents. They had a unique working relationship. He was never quite the same after his . . . partner . . . died."

Brad left his seat on the couch and closed his arm protectively around Mandy. "I'm not sure I see where you're headed with this."

In the thick silence that enveloped the room, Mandy could swear she heard the thumping of every heart. Shifting her feet, she cleared her throat. "The agent who died—"

"Her name was Amanda," Melrose informed her. "Amanda King. But that morning—the morning of the accident—she'd been undercover at Brimstone. The forged I.D. she'd used to document her cover must have still been in her purse."

Mandy tried to swallow past the large lump that had formed in her throat. "And the name she was using . . .?"

Melrose's voice was slow and even as he answered. "The alias she was issued for the Brimstone case was 'Mandy Keane.'"

iv

Mandy heard the murmur of voices long before she could make out distinct words. They floated around her, soothing and unsettling her at the same time. It was Brad, telling her that everything was going to be okay. And Annie, calling for "Mommy" over and over, in some sort of bizarre mantra. When had she come into the room . . .?

Groaning softly, she clutched Brad's hand and allowed him to pull her to a sitting position on the small sofa. "Easy now," he whispered. "Just take it slow."

"What happened?" she rasped as she struggled to make sense of the sea of faces that surrounded her. Brad's eyes shone with tender encouragement; Francine Desmond looked slightly annoyed, while Mr. Melrose wore a frown that somehow seemed paternal. But it was little Annie's face that drew her attention. Poor Annie—her large eyes were bright with tears and her lower lip quivered uncontrollably as she gazed solemnly at her mother, as if she might be taken from her at any moment.

Mandy opened her arms. "Come here, sweetheart, everything's going to be okay." As the small body snuggled against hers, she could almost believe her murmured words of comfort were true. "What happened?" she asked, searching out Brad's face over Annie's shoulder.

"You passed out for a moment, that's all. You're going to be fine." He lightened his tone, "Right, Annie?"

"Yes." She shook her dark blonde curls emphatically. "Mommy's going to be fine."

Mandy turned to William Melrose. The impact of his revelation struck her again, and she gasped, "What happens now?"

"We need to talk," he said, not unkindly. His brow furrowed as his eyes fell on the little girl who still clung desperately to her mother.

Mandy sighed and indicated Annie with a nod. "Brad, could you . . .?"

He started to argue, but another firm look from Mandy made him think better of it. "Annie, I'm really hungry. How about if we go find that nice Sergeant Finnegan and see if she has any more chocolate chip cookies left?"

The child jutted out her chin. "Can I have another?"

"Sure, why not?" Brad winked as he leaned forward to whisper in the little girl's ear. "But we have to keep it a secret from Mommy, okay?"

"Okay," Annie replied in a loud whisper as she allowed Brad to remove her from her mother's lap.

"I'll be right outside if you need me." He cast a longing glance in Mandy's direction as he led Annie into the hall.

Mandy massaged her weary eyelids with the tips of her fingers as she turned back to the two silent agents. "All right, we're alone. Where do we go from here?"

"Back to D.C.," Melrose advised. "To the Agency. We'll try to put the pieces of this puzzle together. Amanda—"

"Please . . ." Mandy crossed the room and leaned heavily on the small table. "Please, don't call me that."

She heard Melrose come up behind her. "It's your name. You're Amanda Dorothea King."

Mandy shook her head as she silently wiped away a tear. "They're just words. They don't have any connection . . . not to me. Not in here," she thumped her chest as she whirled to face the grave agent, "not where it counts."

Melrose smiled sadly. "Give it some time."

"Are you sure?" Her lower lip trembled just like Annie's. "Are you absolutely sure?"

Francine Desmond nodded. "Test results don't lie, Aman . . . uh, Mandy. Your fingerprints are a match, and I'm confident the DNA will be, too."

"Mandy." Melrose put a hand on her shoulder. For such a large man, his grip was surprisingly gentle. "We need to get you back to D. C. It's not safe for you to remain here. Even if you don't know who you are, Brimstone obviously does."

"What do you mean?"

"The other night—what happened at your house . . ." Melrose looked her straight in the eye, as if daring her to disagree. "That they made another run on you can only mean one thing—you still have something they need."

"What information could I possibly have?" she whispered, her voice hoarse. "I don't remember anything . . ."

Melrose and Desmond exchanged a look. "Maybe that dossier on Streator wasn't destroyed after all," Desmond whispered to her superior.

Melrose nodded. "If that's the case, then it's in everyone's best interest to move as quickly as possible. Mandy," he said, turning his attention back to her, "I'm afraid you have no choice. You'll have to come with us."

"But Annie, Brad—"

"They'll have to come as well and be placed into protective custody as soon as possible." He shook his head. "Having loved ones in jeopardy is every agent's nightmare."

"This is so unbelievable." Mandy hugged herself, feeling as hollow as her voice sounded. "How can I be a spy? I thought I was just a simple homemaker . . ."

In the hallway, Brad's deep laughter mixed with Annie's. "I'm afraid nothing about this is going to be simple," Melrose murmured as he caught Desmond's eye. "Your daughter seems quite devoted to Dr. Stevenson."

Mandy opened the door and peered out into the hall. Annie was holding court atop the sergeant's desk, carefully dividing a chocolate chip cookie for the guests at her impromptu tea party. "Brad loves her very much."

"I can see that," the agent murmured sadly as he came up beside her. "She's a beautiful child. Her features are very striking—especially her eyes." He laid a gentle hand on her arm. "They're hazel, aren't they?"

"Yes," Mandy whispered. "I've always loved her eyes."