Chapter 17

No. Not an appropriate time, Samantha. No.

She took a sip of her coffee.

Five minutes tops. Come on; say you're going to check on Harley. They won't even notice you're gone. Everything's going so well, anyway. They probably want some alone time with him, right? You'd be doing him a favor.

No.

Samantha took another sip of her coffee and passed her eyes over the grandfather clock behind the couch. Nine thirty-seven. See? Now he'll probably be asleep by the time you—

"Sweetheart, didn't you want to make sure Harley was in bed?" She spilled some of her coffee into its saucer. Martin was looking in her direction with a relaxed smile; finally he seemed to be unclenching.

Hey, if he was asking for it, then…

"You're absolutely right. I was just thinking about how I could politely excuse myself, anyway!" Their company laughed indulgently and she gracefully floated from the room. God, she could put on a sweet performance; it was seamless, perfect.

Harley, of course, wasn't in bed. She sat at her computer one leg propped up to support her head, typing furiously. Samantha knocked pointedly on the doorframe and her daughter spun around, guilt apparent on her face. She didn't even try to make excuses, which made Samantha smile.

"I'm going into my bedroom," Samantha said solemnly. "I plan on being in my bedroom for about five minutes. I'm then going to come back into this room to kiss my sleeping daughter goodnight. What do you think?"

Harley's eyes were wide. "That's a very good plan, Mommy."

Samantha nodded and casually made her way out of the room. As soon as she was out of sight, she locked the door to hers and Martin's room and snatched the phone from its holster. Her heart was beating wildly so she sat down on her bed; she inadvertently pressed the 'talk' button and the dial tone vibrated against her chest.

Dial. Just dial. Dial. It's probably a different number anyway. Dial.

She obeyed. You probably don't even remember—

Her fingers punched ten digits into the keypad defiantly. She could hear the phone ringing from where it lay in her hands. Ohshitohshitohshit. Samantha stared at it. It was ringing. Where was the high-pitched automated voice telling her the number was no longer in service? This had to be like the fifth ring already. It usually came after the first one, or had that changed? Probably had changed.

"This is Harrison."

She nearly dropped the phone. "Uh, yes, hi. Um, is this the Missing Persons Unit? I may have dialed the wrong—"

"If you're reporting a missing person, call police headquarters," the man's voice cut in gruffly. She remembered that tone of voice—worn thin with exhaustion, impatient with civilian interruption.

"I'm looking for an agent…last name Malone? I don't know if he still works there. This used to be his extension…"

"I'll put you through." The line clicked.

"No, wait! No, I was just wondering if he—" The line clicked a second time and someone cleared his throat. Samantha felt faint.

"Malone."

Malone.

Mah-loan. What an odd name. Or maybe she thought it was odd because she'd been thinking it over and over in her head for the past hour. You know how you can say a word a bunch of times and then eventually it sounds like a completely different word? Malone. Mah-lone. Malonemalonemalonemalonema—

"Jesus, you son of a bitch. Are you that pathetic that the best use of your time you can come up with is drunk-dialing FBI agents? Please, just give me the first two digits of your license plate. Let's play a game called 'Agent Malone gets your car seized by the IRS…'"

"Jack?" The voice cut off abruptly. There was absolute silence, except for the humming of the phone line.

"Yes?"

Samantha squeezed her eyes shut, covering her face with her free hand. "It's Samantha."

"Yes." There was another pause. Jesus Christ, Jack, could you make this any harder for me? "Yes! Sorry, how are you Samantha?"

"Listen, I've got to talk to you. Will you be in the city this weekend?"

"Yeah, I will."

"Should I meet you at the office Friday night?"

"If you want, but I, uh," he hesitated. "Well, I live midtown now, right near the building, if you wanted to just go there—to my apartment, I mean—instead."

Samantha rubbed her forehead slowly. He'd moved out of the apartment. Which meant his family had left the city, as they had been threatening to do before. She wondered when that had happened.

"I could pick you up at the airport." Jack's voice interrupted her thoughts. She blinked. She honestly hadn't thought of that as an option.

"That would be…that would be good," she murmured. "I'll call you when I know where I'll be flying into."

"Okay." It was like they were arranging a go-see on a case together, as if they had been doing this regularly for the past eight years without interruption. He didn't ask questions. She didn't offer explanations. "So I'll see you Friday."

"Friday," she repeated. After a moment, she added, "Thanks, Jack."

She heard him sigh. "You're welcome."

--

After washing her face, Samantha stood outside her daughter's room. Harley was asleep—or pretending to be asleep—and so she walked inside as quietly as she could over the hardwood floor before sitting down next to her on her bed.

"Harley," she whispered, putting a hand on her shoulder. Samantha raised her eyebrows, impressed. Either she was getting very good at this act, or she had actually obeyed her orders. "Harley, honey, wake up."

Harley rolled over, groaning. "I don't get it. Wasn't I supposed to be asleep?"

Sam smiled and nodded. "Yes, you were, and I'm very happy to see that. But, listen, I have to ask you something." Harley rubbed her eyes, instantly alert. Samantha nostalgically remembered when she could be fully awoken with as little prodding at that. "I have to go to New York City this weekend."

"Can I come?"

She hesitated. "Well, that's what I wanted to ask you, baby. I've got to take care of some business with an old friend and it would be mostly grown-up talk."

"I want to go!" Harley's eyes gleamed at the prospect of flying. She loved flying. "I'll be good. I won't curse, I promise."

Samantha drew her fingers along her smooth, rounded cheek and gazed into the ever-familiar eyes. She didn't know if it was because she was looking for similarities or if it was because she had been blind to them for so long before, but there they were. Her stomach suddenly grabbed at her. It was too much, too much for her to put on those little shoulders.

"Harley, what if you and I and Daddy all went to NYC in a couple more weeks, when your vacation starts and then we can see the Statue of Liberty and ride a carriage all together without that boring adult stuff, huh?" Harley's eyes clouded with disappointment.

"Well, why'd you wake me up then?" She rolled back on her side, and Samantha closed her eyes. "Are you still going this weekend?"

"I have to, Harley." She kissed her daughter's cheek. "I'll bring you back something special, okay? Don't worry, Daddy will have something fun for you two to do."

"Night, Mommy." One last look, and Samantha was gone. It had been a good fifteen minutes. Martin was probably about to explode.

To her surprise, when she returned downstairs, the party was on its feet and shuffling good-naturedly towards the door. His boss looked up as she descended the staircase. "Mrs. Fitzgerald! We were hoping we'd be able to pay our compliments to you for the roast before we left!"

"Sorry, Harley was putting up a bit of a fight," Samantha lied, and feeling terrible about it.

"I only wish we had had more children," the boss's wife sighed, eyes sparkling with moisture. The woman was a carbon copy of the 1950s baby-maker wife, and had alluded to additions to the Fitzgerald family all evening. "They're such a joy."

Samantha suddenly wished her daughter's mouth had made an appearance tonight. With relish, she fantasized about what would have been the middle-aged housewife's reaction.

Less than five minutes later, they had successfully herded the couple from their home and waved, smiling, from the driveway as they drove away. When they had disappeared, Martin laughed and swiveled Sam around. He kissed her full and swift on the lips. "Oh, you were fantastic! Couldn't have played it better. And they weren't kidding either—they actually liked your roast!"

Sam frowned. "Martin, I'm a good cook. They should like my roast. They should love my roast." She shuddered. "Jesus, didn't they creep you out? I feel like I just spent the evening in a cookie-cutter in Mayberry."

Martin's eyebrows furrowed. "I think it's endearing how old-fashioned they are."

Samantha stared at him in awe before turning back into the house. "I've got to go to New York this weekend," she called over her shoulder, stripping from her evening attire as she spoke. "My flight's in the morning tomorrow."

Martin locked the door before leaning against it. "You didn't mention this before now?"

"Just came up," she said honestly. "I won't be gone long. I should be back by Monday to take Harley to school." Martin scratched the back of his neck and shrugged his shoulders.

"Uh, fine, sure. I'll take Harley into the city on Saturday. She's been wanting to go to the museum for a while anyway." Samantha nodded; she was now down to her black pencil skirt and bra. Martin loosened his tie and looked at her with limpid eyes. She knew what he wanted, but Jack had infected her mind.

"I'm really tired, Martin," she said, walking over to him to kiss his cheek. "You weren't so bad yourself tonight."

Martin watched her mount the stairs, his eyes following the sumptuous curves of her waist and legs. "Thanks," he murmured before pouring himself a generous glass of merlot.