--6 --
i
Lee Stetson lay sprawled across the blue and beige patterned sofa. He was wearing the same striped shirt, the same jeans, the same gym shoes as the day before, and he sported a two-day growth of beard. As soon as Francine walked into the room, he stiffened and followed her movements with hooded eyes.
"On the national scale of dissolution and dissipation, you're a solid twelve tonight, Stetson," she said as she seated herself across from him in the wing chair. "You really should try to get some sleep."
"Oh, yeah? Tell me how to do that, Francine, and I'll be sure to oblige." Lee raked both hands through his hair. "What did Claudia tell Billy this afternoon? She wouldn't let me see a copy of her report."
Francine crossed her legs and tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair, debating how much to tell him. He had a deadly look about him, like a cobra ready to strike. Taking a chance, she opted for the truth. "Dr. Joyce doesn't feel she's making any headway. She's recommending that you be banned from Amanda's next session. She feels you're impeding her progress."
"'Impeding her progress?'" Lee sprang off the couch. "Damn it, Francine! You saw how upset she's been for the past two days, every time they start in on her with those damnable questions. What am I supposed to do, just sit back and let the Agency witchdoctors torture my wife?"
"Keep your voice down, Lee, unless you want to let the cat out of the bag once and for all."
He glowered at her but lowered himself back down onto the sofa. "Yeah, well, maybe I do. I'm not sure how much longer I can keep up this stupid charade."
"Dr. Joyce says—"
"Screw Dr. Joyce. I'm not sure she knows which end is up anymore. How can we be certain this is really 'Thornton's Repression,' anyway? Three solid days, with possible triggers thrown at her night and day, and nothing. She's still a blank slate."
"It's not an exact science, you know that. And remember what Dr. Joyce said—triggers only work fifty percent of the time."
"And what about the ones who never retrieve their lost memories . . . what are the percentages on them, Francine?"
She ignored the question. "It takes time and patience. Remember what happened when Billy repressed the events surrounding the Kalahari List. His memories came back to him one piece at a time."
"Yeah, I guess." Lee let out a long breath. "But Amanda's lost a hell of a lot more than one weekend."
"I know." She paused, wondering if she should voice the concerns that had been gnawing at her for the past few days. "Lee," she began, moving to sit beside him, "it might take Amanda a little longer to find the missing pieces. Thornton's Repression is a tricky technique to use properly, even for a pro. And Amanda had barely lost her freshman status . . ."
Her troubled look drew a sad smile from her friend. "It's okay, the same thought had occurred to me, too. You're right—she didn't have enough experience to utilize Harry's technique properly. That's probably why she repressed so much more than the information Brimstone was after."
"I just hope she hasn't moved beyond Claudia's range of expertise. If she can't break through the barriers Amanda has erected—"
"What are you trying to tell me, Francine?"
She looked away. "Dr. Smyth is determined to get to the bottom of this Brimstone affair, once and for all. The orders came down this afternoon—"
"He wouldn't—"
"Yes, he would. Claudia has forty-eight hours to make significant progress. If not, Dr. Quidd gets his turn."
Lee's jaw tightened. "He'll have to come through me. I won't let Quidd stick his vile needles into her, no matter what that pompous ass threatens."
"Even if it brings back her memories?"
"Not even then. The price is too high." Slumping on the couch, he studied the shadows on the ceiling. "I'm beginning to think it always has been."
Francine regarded him closely. Lee sounded as depressed as she'd ever heard him. Was there was something else going on with him, something more than worry over Amanda and lack of sleep?
"Lee . . ." She leaned closer and lowered her voice so the agent team in the kitchen wouldn't overhear. "You haven't been drinking, have you?"
His eyes narrowed until they all but disappeared. "And if I have been, is that going into your little report to Billy? In case you've forgotten, Francine, I'm your section chief. You work for me, not the other way around."
"Not on this case. And if you can't keep yourself together—"
"Relax, I haven't touched a drop." He let out a long sigh. "If I did, I might do something I'd regret. Like bury my fist in the midsection of that asshole upstairs."
"I think, under the circumstances, you've demonstrated remarkable restraint." Francine smiled. "And that's what will go into my report to Billy." But how much longer that restraint would hold, Francine didn't want to hazard a guess. That part, she wouldn't report.
Burying his face in his hands, Lee let out a long groan. "Oh, God—I don't know how much more of this I can take. I swear, if he touches her one more time . . ."
"You'll take what you have to, Lee. There isn't any other choice. Unless you're willing to walk away—"
"You know I'm not." He rubbed his fingers across his forehead. "Has Billy made any progress on our house cleaning project?"
"Not yet. There's been a team checking and rechecking lab clearances to pinpoint where and when the records of the body we found in the wreckage that night could have been substituted for Amanda's, but so far, nothing's turned up."
"Well, he should keep at it. Brimstone had to have someone on the inside. They couldn't have altered those records any other way. What I want to know is this—have they known all along where Amanda was? And if so, why did they wait all this time before making a move? There must be some link here that we're missing."
She frowned. "You still think Brimstone might be mobilizing some sort of attack?"
"Yes, I do. The question is—where? We suspect they have cells all over the country." Lee rubbed his eyes. "All I know right now is that I'm dammed tired. I think I'll take your advice and try to get some sleep."
"Not here on the couch—"
"No. I'll sack out on the spare bed in Jamie's room—for a little while, at least."
Francine nodded. "I'm heading back to the Agency. I'll keep you posted if anything turns up."
Lee straightened his shoulders and walked her to the door. "Thanks, Francine."
"For what?"
He smiled grimly. "For not suggesting I talk to Pfaff."
She pursed her lips. "If he can help—"
"He can't, not this time." Lee paused. "But I think I know someone who can."
Francine hoped that was true. In his current emotional state, her friend needed all the help he could get. "Goodnight, Lee. Get some sleep."
ii
The late autumn storm started suddenly. Lee supposed he would have known it was coming if he'd bothered to watch the news. Instead it caught him unawares.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. Ten minutes to four. Though he'd slept almost five hours, to his worn-out body it felt more like five minutes. Still, if he wanted to make that call, there wouldn't be a better opportunity. With the time difference, it was already mid-morning in Switzerland. Dotty would just be sitting down to a fresh pot of hot chocolate.
He needed to talk to her, needed to unburden his heart to someone who understood what Amanda meant to him. Needed it badly enough to violate the Agency's zero contact order. But beyond that, he couldn't keep his mother-in-law in the dark any longer. More than anyone else, he owed her the truth. If it hadn't been for Dotty West, it was entirely probable that he wouldn't be here today.
He certainly wouldn't have regained the respect of his colleagues. After his year-long battle with the bottle, the Agency had written him off as a burn-out. Blacking out and wrapping his car around a pole had been the final nail in his professional coffin, as far as they were concerned.
But Dotty hadn't given up on him. He'd regained consciousness in the hospital to find her keeping vigil at his bedside. Tearfully, she'd begged his forgiveness for turning her back on him after Amanda's death. As far as Lee was concerned, there was nothing to forgive. He'd actually agreed with her reasoning—what had happened to Amanda was his fault, plain and simple.
But Dotty hadn't allowed him to accept the blame any longer. It was easy to see where Amanda's stubborn streak had come from. Refusing to let him opt out of the family, Dotty had nursed him back to health, bullied him into therapy and ordered him back to work. Then she'd instigated her campaign to bring Amanda's boys back into his life. She'd been there for him when he needed her. In a word—she'd been his mother.
Tossing aside the covers, he crept quietly toward the door, careful not to wake his sleeping son. Uncomfortable in the role he was forced to play, the past few days had been particularly hard on Jamie. Pretense was simply not a part of his world.
"Lee . . ." The groggy voice stopped him at the door.
"Go back to sleep, Sport," he whispered, as if he were a much younger child. "It's still the middle of the night."
Yawning, Jamie sat up in bed. "I'm worried about you."
"Hey, that's supposed to be my line."
"Where are you going?" Jamie reached for his glasses and shoved them onto his face. "Is anything the matter?"
"No. There's just something I need to take care of, that's all."
"Good. It's about time you called Grandma. Maybe she can talk some sense into you."
"Jamie—"
"I'm sorry, Lee, but . . ." He threw the covers aside and switched on the light by the bed. "I just think this game we're playing with Mom is wrong. This is her life, and she deserves to know the truth, especially about Annie. If she could, she would be the first one to tell you that."
Massaging the back of his neck, Lee began to quietly pace. "And what would it accomplish if I told her? Would she walk away from Stevenson and turn to me? I don't think so."
"You're her husband, not that jerk. I don't like the guy," he added quickly at Lee's raised eyebrows. "I'm never gonna like the guy, okay?"
Lee smiled. "Fine by me—I don't like the guy, either. Unfortunately, it's your mother's opinion that matters, not ours."
"I don't think she's all that crazy about him, despite what he wants us to think. You should have heard her grilling me about Dad the other day. No matter what you and those guys at the Agency say, she wants to know the truth."
"But knowing and remembering are two different things. I've thought about telling her, believe me. It's been on the tip of my tongue so many times, but—what if it doesn't change anything? Where does that leave us?" Leave me, he added to himself.
"It leaves us with the truth—and that's a million times better than a lie." He gave Lee a sharp look. "My mother taught me that. And she's gonna be really pissed that we've kept stuff from her, trust me on this."
Lee sighed and sank down onto the bed beside Jamie. "Maybe you're right. I just don't know anymore. What if . . ."
Letting his words trail off, he shut his eyes. That's what was keeping him silent, he realized sharply. The "what-ifs."
"I'm sorry, Jamie," he said at last. "I know that adults are supposed to have all the answers, but I'm afraid I'm just as lost as you are here. I do know one thing, though—whatever happens between your mother and me, this is our marriage. We need to resolve things ourselves, okay?"
"But Lee—"
"No 'buts' about it. If and when your mother learns the truth, it needs to come from me." His voice was firm, final. "I need your word on that."
"Yes, sir," Jamie murmured, his head falling back onto the pillow with a gentle thud. "I won't say anything to her, I promise."
"Thank you. Now," he pushed off the bed, "try to get some more sleep. It's in short supply around here these days."
Turning off the light, Lee made his way quietly down the stairs. Dismissing the agent on duty in the den, he sat down heavily on the couch.
Was Jamie right? Would Amanda be angry at him for keeping the truth from her? If only she would give him some sign, some small inkling of what he should do. If he really thought it would make a difference to her, he'd tell her in an instant—the Agency and its legion of doctors be damned.
But what if Amanda learned the truth and still didn't want him? She would try to let him down with kindness, he knew, but he didn't think he could bear to see pity in her eyes instead of love. At least this way, he could still hope . . . there was still a chance.
One thing he knew—Amanda didn't walk away easily from the people she loved. Jamie's feelings on the subject aside, she cared deeply for Brad Stevenson, of that he was certain. He knew her so well; she would never sleep with a man she didn't love.
He fell back against the couch. As the silence in the room threatened to smother him, his gaze traveled to the antique clock on the bookshelf. Mesmerized, he watched the second hand jerk around the face. Another minute gone, then another and another . . . and still he was no closer to a decision.
Jamie was right about one thing, though; Dotty could help him sort this through. She was still his lifeline; no amount of distance could alter that.
Letting out a long breath, he reached for the phone.
iii
The falling dream always ended the same way, jolting Lee awake just before he hit bottom. Blinking in the low light cast by the table lamp, it took him a few minutes to remember where he was . . . Amanda's house . . . he'd been talking to Dotty.
It had been so good to hear her voice—he could almost feel the knots in his gut loosen as he unburdened himself to his mother-in-law. Her emotion on hearing that Amanda was alive, that she had a new grandchild, had rekindled the rush of joy he'd felt on first hearing the news himself. After promising to call again tomorrow with an update, he'd stretched out on the couch and fallen into a deep sleep. Now, as he glanced at the clock, he was surprised to see that only twenty minutes had passed.
But as a piercing stare tugged him into full alertness, he realized with a start that it wasn't the dream that had awakened him at all. "Annie," he whispered urgently, "what's the matter, honey?"
No answer—only that same blankly earnest expression as she kept gazing straight ahead. She was walking in her sleep.
He'd done the same thing as a child, or so his uncle was fond of telling him, after his parents' death. The Colonel had always sounded mildly disapproving when he repeated the tale, as if hinting any charge of his should have known better. Thankfully, he'd outgrown the habit as he grew older. Perhaps the small part of his subconscious that clung to the hope of his parents' return had finally given up.
What was little Annie searching for? He'd like to believe that a part of her was reaching out to him, that some portion of her DNA recognized his own genetic thumbprint. But he knew it was only a pipe-dream. Her late-night wandering was a result of the trauma she'd experienced, nothing more dramatic.
Rubbing the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes, he debated what to do. He shouldn't startle her—that much he knew. Rising slowly, he laid a hand gently in the small of her back. "Come on, sweetheart, let's go back to Mommy."
Guiding her carefully up the stairs, he stopped in the hall. The door to Amanda's room stood open. Steeling a deep breath, he walked little Annie inside.
Light spilled from the bathroom to create a narrow path on the floor, leading directly to the bed like an arrow to a bull's-eye. His daughter must be afraid of the dark; Amanda never slept with the light on.
He smiled, remembering their lively discussions on that very subject in the months following their wedding. Eventually, they'd arrived at a compromise—he would let her crack open the window at night if she would allow him to leave on the bathroom light. She'd gotten her way in the end, though. She'd simply waited for him to fall asleep before switching off the light.
Squatting, he stole a brief moment to look at his wife. At least she and Stevenson were keeping up the pretense of separate bedrooms; for that Lee was profoundly grateful. Knowing they were together was hard enough—being forced to witness it would be impossible.
She stirred briefly in her sleep, and Lee felt something pull at his heart. He wanted so badly to climb into her bed, gather Amanda and Annie close, to whisper that he'd keep them safe. He fought to resist the urge, overwhelming though it might be. Instead, he seized the opportunity to relearn the features of her face, one by one.
Not that he really needed his memory jogged. In the days, weeks and months following her death, he'd imagined them often enough in his mind. He saw her in the face of the nurse in his hospital room, replenishing his intravenous fluids; the woman walking her dog on the street in front of his apartment building; the patron reading the newspaper in the coffee shop on the corner. Even now, years later, he caught traces of her still—in the eager rookie giving her first status report; the mother strolling through the park hand-in-hand with her child; the woman in line ahead of him at the grocery store, rushing home to feed her family.
But this was no dream. This was a real, flesh and blood woman, his Amanda, his wife. Maybe Jamie was right; maybe he should just wake her and come clean, once and for all.
"Brad," she muttered blearily, "is that you?"
He sucked in a sharp breath. "No, Amanda," he replied, struggling to keep his voice even. "It's me, Lee."
Her eyes shot open, and she bolted up, clutching the sheet to her. "What on earth—"
"Annie," he said quickly, "I think she's sleepwalking. I brought her back upstairs."
She drew the small child to her, frowning as she tucked her safely beneath the covers. "She does this sometimes. When she was really little, she used to mistake the kitchen for the bathroom. I couldn't figure out what she was doing until I realized she was sound asleep." She stifled a yawn. "She won't remember a thing when she wakes up."
"I know. I used to sleepwalk, too, when I was a kid."
"Really? How did your parents handle it?"
"My uncle," he corrected, stiffening. "My parents were killed when I was just a little older than Annie."
"Oh, I'm so sorry . . ." Her hand flew to her mouth, and she bit her knuckle. "I should have known that, shouldn't I?"
"It was a long time ago."
Avoiding his gaze, she nodded. Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance, heralding the onset of another storm. "I hate the rain," she told him, with sudden vehemence. "It never seems to stop, you know? It woke me, earlier . . ." She shivered again.
"Yeah, I'm not exactly a fan myself. It was raining that night . . . the night we—"
"Had our 'accident?'" she supplied.
"I suppose that's as good a word as any."
"Lee . . ." She pushed the covers back, holding her nightgown closed at the neck as she reached for her robe. "Could we talk for a minute? There's something I've wanted to ask you, but there hasn't seemed to be an opportunity, what with all the people around . . ."
"Sure." He glanced down at the sleeping child. "Will she—"
"Oh, she'll be fine. Let's go into the hall where we won't disturb her."
Lee followed her from the room, watched as she sat down on the top step of the landing and patted the space beside her. "We'll be able to hear her if she wakes up," she said, sending him an inviting smile.
"What is it you want to know?" he asked, squeezing in beside her. He had to lower himself awkwardly, and his thigh brushed against hers. She squirmed a little, but didn't move away.
"That night," she began slowly. "I want to know what happened the night we were . . . I was . . . shot."
Lee straightened his bad leg and leaned against the wall. "There's not that much to tell. It was a routine surveillance that went bad, that's all."
"Please, Lee, I want . . . I need to know."
"Okay, I'll try." His frown deepened as he struggled to order his thoughts. Even after all this time, he hated to think of that night. "You'd been working undercover at Brimstone's corporate headquarters for a man called Arnold Streator," he said, his tone slipping into a slow, steady cadence as he started to relate the tale. It was the only way he could remember it—dispassionately, like a briefing, removed from the gut-wrenching emotions that had paralyzed him for the better part of that first year.
"Streator was the head of Brimstone's Research and Development department. I'd gotten a tip that he was a key player in the development of some new prototype—a biological weapon, maybe, but that was only supposition. We'd been trying to gather evidence for close to a month. Well, you had, anyway, since you were the one on the inside."
"But I thought we were partners. You weren't with me?"
"On this particular case, I was running back up. I wasn't happy about it, believe me. As you were always reminding me, we worked better as a team. We even argued about it, but I gave in—reluctantly." He sighed. "You see, this was the first major case where you were the primary agent of record, and you were determined to . . . well, it meant a lot to you. I wish to hell now I'd listened to my instincts and pulled you out of there."
"It wasn't your fault," she said, almost sharply. "I'm a grown woman, perfectly capable of making my own decisions."
"Yeah, so you told me more than once," he said, with a wry smile.
"Go on," she urged, "what happened then?"
"When we didn't turn up anything concrete, Dr. Smyth wanted to call a halt to the investigation." Lee snorted. "A waste of resources, he said. Billy managed to get him to agree to two more weeks undercover. You used the time to compile a dossier on Streator's activities, which you stashed somewhere inside Brimstone's corporate office."
She frowned. "Wouldn't it have made more sense to bring the information out a piece at a time?"
"In light of what happened, yes. But Brimstone had a fairly elaborate security system . . ." He exhaled loudly. "After a, uh, lively debate on the subject, we finally agreed that the situation was getting too hot. You went back in one last time to retrieve the documents, but there was something going down—a covert meeting between our subject and some executives from Munich later that night. Streator hustled you out of the office, gave you the afternoon off."
"So I didn't have an opportunity to get the file?"
"No. I suppose the whole scenario should have set off some alarm bells, but we'd been working night and day those past few weeks and were grateful to have some time to ourselves."
Lee forced down the vivid images of how they'd spent that last afternoon and continued. "After dinner, we decided to follow him to the meeting. He led us on a wild goose chase all over town, finally stopping at an old factory by the Anacostia River."
A light sweat broke out on his forehead, and he absently wiped it away. "Streator disappeared inside the building . . . I told you to stay in the car, that I wanted to try to get a closer look. We argued about that, too, but this time you gave in. The place reeked of sulfur, and the smell was making you nauseous. I moved closer, and the next thing I knew, all hell broke loose. A van pulled up, men in ski masks materialized out of nowhere, you jumped out of the car . . . I heard you scream, 'Lee, look out' . . . God, I can still hear it sometimes . . . the next thing I knew, I was eating dirt."
She looked down at her lap, where she had twisted the edge of her robe into a tight ball. "Is that when you hurt your leg?"
"It must have been."
Her eyes became soft with sympathy. "I've noticed your limp is more pronounced when you're tired. Is that a result of the bullet wound?"
"Not exactly." He ran a hand through his hair. "I mean, it's true I took a bullet in the leg, but it healed without complications. I must have blown out my knee that night, torn my lateral-scalateral something or other, when I backtracked and lunged in front of you. It's funny . . ." His eyes took on a faraway look as the events played out again in his mind. "I'm sure it must have hurt like hell, but I don't really remember the pain. All I can remember is trying to stop those bullets, to stop Brimstone from hurting you . . ."
"Thank you," she murmured softly. "For trying to save my life, I mean."
"You don't have to thank me. You're my . . ." For the briefest of moments, he let his eyes rest on hers. "My . . . partner, Amanda," he finished in a rough voice. "I would have gladly traded places with you. I shouted for you to get back to the car, but you . . . didn't make it in time. When I saw Brimstone's men pump those rounds into you . . ." He groaned softly. "You don't know how that memory has haunted me."
She ran her hand lightly over her chest. "But I didn't die."
"No. Brimstone must have faked that, too, just like they did everything else."
"But how . . .?"
"Stun loads instead of bullets, most likely." His jaw set tightly. "Brimstone had developed a new product for the government, a particularly nasty form of crowd control. Knocks the wind right out of you. Causes deep tissue damage, too, in some cases. It's not permanent, but they tell me the pain can linger for months."
She nodded. "When I woke up in the clinic in Michigan, my chest was so sore. There were so many bruises, everywhere. The doctors thought . . ."
"Thought what?"
"It doesn't matter," she mumbled hastily, "it obviously wasn't true. Lee . . ." She turned to him, her eyes searching his face. "Who are these people?"
"Brimstone? They're terrorists, Amanda, pure and simple—terrorists hiding behind the face of corporate America. Ruthless bastards who will stop at nothing to get what they want."
She laughed, a soft sound tinged with quiet hysteria. "And at the moment that happens to be me."
"I won't let them get to you again. You can count on that." He reached for her hand, lowering his voice to a hushed whisper. "Somewhere inside, you must know that."
"It's funny, but somehow I do." Her eyes drifted down to their joined hands. Running her tongue lightly over her upper lip, she slid her fingers out from under his and tucked them beneath her robe. "Thornton's Repression," she harrumphed. "With all the crazy techniques you spies must use, I had to pick that one."
Lee smiled. "You know, I've never cared for the word 'spy.'"
"Okay, intelligence operative, then." She rolled her eyes. "I just wish I could remember something—anything, no matter how insignificant."
Leaning forward, he rested his chin on his right hand. "Maybe you remember more than you think you do. How did you know to say 'intelligence operative' just now?"
"I didn't think about it. It just popped into my head."
He nodded. "You know, the problem could be that you've been trying too hard to remember."
She inclined her body toward his. "You have another idea?"
"Maybe." He took a deep breath as the scent he remembered so well wafted over him. They were sitting so close together . . . he would hardly have to move to let his lips . . .
He shifted away ever so slightly; no use letting his mind wander where it had no business going. "You've been locked up in this house for three days," he said, retreating back into agent-mode, "with the doctors hammering you with questions around the clock. Not much different from an interrogation, in some ways."
"That's for sure."
"I think we should try a different approach. What do you say we get out of here for a little while? No doctors, no watchdogs, just the two of us. Visit some old familiar places, recreate our routine. No questions, no pressure."
"You think that might shake something loose."
It was more a question than a statement, and he shrugged. "I think it's worth a try. I'm no doctor, but—"
"When do we start?" she asked, her body tense, poised for action.
He grinned. This was the old Amanda, the woman he remembered. "I'll clear it with Billy. We can start first thing in the morning."
"Lee," her face creased into a sudden smile, "it is morning."
"Yeah," he laughed, "I guess it is." He pushed himself to his feet and extended her a hand. "Okay then, I'll get the ball rolling."
She allowed him to pull her up, and it seemed to Lee that her hand lingered in his for a moment longer than necessary. "Thank you," she whispered. "I don't know why, but for the first time, I feel like maybe there is a chance . . . a chance that . . . well, you know . . ."
"Yeah, I know." He felt it, too, a renewed sense of hope welling up from some place deep inside. It might be nothing but wishful thinking, but he still clung to it. They'd been one hell of a team once upon a time, professionally and personally. Could it all come down to something as simple as reliving old patterns, relearning old responses, extending the right invitation to remember?
He prayed with all his heart that theory would prove true.