The boy had made it as far as the top of the outside steps before he plopped down in despair. Mickey sat down next to him, saying nothing for a moment. Then, "You known Anne long?"

"She used to babysit me. Before she went away."

Mickey nodded. "There are things that women don't understand."

"Yeah."

"Like not telling on your friends, even when they beat you up."

"They aren't my friends any more," the boy answered sullenly. He sniffed. "How'd you know?"

"I was your age once. I remember."

"I hate them," Tommy said. "I hate their dumb camp, and I hate Annie's stupid book. She's gonna get killed because of it."

Mickey sat up straighter. "What makes you think that?"

"I heard my folks talking. They said I wasn't allowed to get her mail any more because there might be a bomb or something."

"But you do anyhow."

"Yeah. I don't care. I like Annie. She's neat. I don't want her to die."

"Nobody's trying to kill her," Mickey assured him. "They're just trying to scare her a little."

"You sure?"

"Pretty sure. And as for your friends - sorry, your ex friends - you won't believe this right now, but in a few weeks it'll all blow over."

"I hate them," the boy repeated stubbornly.

"You all start back to school, there'll be other things to do besides fight," Mickey promised. "Like chase girls."

"Yuck." Tommy thought about it. "Me and Sean been friends a long time."

"And you will be again."

"Yeah. Maybe." Abruptly the conversation was over; the boy stood and ran off down the steps.

McCall came out of the apartment and walked down a few steps, so that he was roughly at eye-level with Kostmayer. "Well, I think we can tell your brother that she's in no danger."

"Thought so."

"She is a lovely woman," McCall commented. "I wasn't aware that you'd ever been married."

Mickey seemed to flinch. "Kind of a long story, McCall."

"We have a long drive back," Robert countered.

Mickey shrugged. "I was, uh, I was thinking I'd stick around for a while."

Robert feigned surprise. "Were you, now? I had noticed she didn't throw anything."

"Not yet, anyhow."

"She won't," McCall assured him. "And you're off on a mission tomorrow, aren't you? Well then, I'll see you when you get back." He took two steps, then turned. "And you will tell me the whole story then, won't you, Mickey?"

Mickey hesitated. "I'll tell you what you need to know."

"What I . . . of all the . . . " McCall sputtered.

"See ya, " Mickey answered. And then as Robert started away, "Hey, McCall? Thanks."

Robert shrugged. "I haven't done anything, Mickey. Have a safe trip."

The door was shut, so Mickey knocked again. "Come on in," she called.

He went in. She was clearing away the coffee cups. "I thought we told you to keep the door locked."

She shrugged. "I knew it was you. Want to get some dinner?"

The boys, hungry, sweaty and tired, were milling around beside the church, waiting for the van that would take them home. "Well then, lads, how was your day?" Dennis Daly asked heartily. "Having a good time?"

"It was okay," one of the Irish boys answered. "Good soccer match."

"I think it's boring," Sean sulked.

"Shut up," his brother said quickly. "Don't listen to him, Mr. Daly. He's just a kid."

Daly studied the boy. "I hear you got in a little scuffle last night."

"Yeah. Sorta."

"It's important to stand up for what you believe in, lad."

"Yeah," Sean sulked. "But Tommy was my friend."

Daly nodded. "It may seem that way. But the truth is, we have only each other as friends. The rest of the world is against us, sooner or later."

"What do you mean?" Patrick asked. He'd heard about Daly, whispers from the Irish boys he looked up to.

The man shrugged. "I don't want to trouble you, lad. You're just a wee boy. You're supposed to be having fun here."

"No, tell us."

"Tell 'em about the Troubles, Denny."

"Well . . . maybe it's better that you understand," Daly agreed slowly. "There are Catholics here, lads, in this very city, who claim to be our supporters, but they really aren't. Even those who should be with us, they befriend us and they betray us. It's happened time and again in the homeland, and it's happening here now."

Patrick was wide-eyed. "You mean someone we know?"

"The enemies are everywhere. You only need to look."

"Tell us who!" the boys clamored. "Who is it?"

"Tell us," Patrick begged.

The van pulled up. Daly shook his head. "You're only a boy, Patrick. Enjoy your camp. Let the others take care of the traitors. Your time will come soon enough, I fear."

"But I'm not a kid," Patrick protested. "I want to help!"

The man considered for a very long moment. "There are dead soldiers at home younger than you. All right, Patrick. Let's talk. I'll drive you home."

"I want to come, too," Sean said quickly.

"No, baby," Patrick said. "You ride the bus with the rest of the children."

On his way back to his apartment, stuck in rush hour traffic, McCall mulled over the woman, her pictures, the letters and Mickey. His mind kept coming back to the wife thing, until he finally laughed out loud at himself. It wasn't like him to obsess over details. The truth was, it wasn't the secret that bothered him, so much as the fact that Mickey had kept it a secret. What else did the young man have hidden in his past?

Bored, he made a quick phone call to Jonah. "No hurry," he said, "but I'd like to run a background on someone." He gave him Dennis Daly's name and what little information he had. Robert was not one to disregard feminine intuition; he'd seen in action too often.

"Got it," Jonah said. "Anything else?"

McCall thought a moment. "There is, Jonah. See what you can find out about Anne Keller."

"Sure."

Robert heard Jonah hang up, and he was left alone once again.

Mickey and Anne walked around the corner to a tiny Hungarian restaurant, where the food was so authentic that Grandma, cooking in the kitchen, spoke almost no English. "Beef today," her daughter told them, bringing them giant glasses of ice water.

"There is no menu," Anne supplied. "You get whatever Grandma's cooking."

"Oh. Okay." Mickey was, as always, omnivorous and in any case it smelled wonderful. There was no wine, of course; they ordered Cokes, which also came in giant glasses.

The daughter went back to the kitchen, and after a moment Grandma herself came out. She marched over to their table, grabbed Anne's hand by the wrist, and held it up. "Too skinny," she announced. She dropped the hand and grabbed Mickey the same way. "Too skinny," she proclaimed again. Shaking her head, she trundled back to the kitchen.

Mickey blinked. "Do I want to know what that was all about?"

"You'll see," his companion assured him. "Welcome to my eccentric neighborhood."

"I like it," Mickey said. "How'd you ever end up here?"

"Well, I got a scholarship, and I was supposed to live in the dorms, but they were gross. So I got the school to give me the money instead. They're always overbooked for dorm space. And I found four roommates and we rented the apartment."

"Where you're living now? You had five people in that apartment?"

Anne nodded. "Sure. It was just like home."

Mickey had to laugh. He'd almost forgotten that Anne was one of eleven children. No, not forgotten, but blocked it out. As kids, he and Nick had played day and night with the various members of the Keller gang. They stayed for dinner sometimes; Mickey always suspected that Mrs. Keller wasn't entirely sure which kids were hers anyhow.

"So," Anne continued, "once we got out of school and had some money, we all got our own places. But the people who rented after us, the wife went crazy and killed the husband with a shotgun in the middle of the living room. And after that they couldn't rent the place, so they called me. And since I was already having trouble with the cost of living in a more, hmm, fashionable neighborhood, I let them give me a break on the rent and moved back."

"You're not worried about ghosts?"

"Oh, please. I'm more worried about rats and roaches, same as everybody else in this city."

The daughter came back from the kitchen with their dinner; the plates were so large and so heavily laden that she had to bring them one at a time. The beef was in bite-size pieces in a heavy sauce red with paprikash, over a bed of the tiniest spaetzles Mickey had ever seen. Along the edge of the plates were a variety of side dishes: applesauce, green beans, and such. It smelled spicy and wonderful, but even Mickey looked at the plate dubiously. "It would take me a week to eat this much."

"Grandma says you're too skinny," Anne answered.

"Oh. If I was too fat, I'd get a smaller plate?"

"Uh-huh. If you're just right you get a regular plate, and if you're too fat you get a bread plate, and if you're really too fat she won't feed you at all."

"Can't argue with that." He dove in. The sauce was spicy, but also creamy; it didn't send him diving for his water glass. The beef fell apart in his mouth. The spaetzles were just exactly chewy enough. Mickey had had better food, he was sure, but he couldn't remember when.

They ate steadily for a time, without speaking. "Is she going to make us clean our plates?" Mickey wondered, starting to feel full before he was half done.

"No. She'll send it home for your lunch tomorrow."

He took another bite. It was too good to stop. "You'll have to keep mine. I'll be halfway around the world by lunchtime tomorrow." He paused, wiped his mouth. He hadn't meant to open that particular can of worms. Not yet, anyhow.

But Anne said, "Yeah, Nick said you work for the government these days."

Thanks a lot, Mickey thought, making a mental note to punch his brother in the mouth. If he'd wanted her to know - still, maybe it was best to have the cards on the table. "He tell you what part of the government?"

"Well, yeah."

"And?"

"And what?"

"And what do you think about what I do?"

Ann shrugged. "I don't know. I don't know much about it. Except for watching James Bond, of course." She shrugged again. "I have a little trouble picturing you sipping martinis."

Mickey scowled. At least she was joking about it - and not asking a lot of questions. He was still going to punch Nick in the mouth. "No martinis," he answered, "but I look damn good in a tuxedo."

She froze with her fork halfway to her mouth. "Oh, that's a visual I need to savor," she breathed. She took the bite. "Can I take your picture in a tux?"

"Sure, next time I rent one." Mickey was relieved that they had slid off the whole Company question so easily. Of course, Anne had been places where she'd probably met a few covert types. It made sense that she was less wound-up than the average civilian about it. "Or you can wait 'til we get married again."

Her fork hit the table, all expression draining from her face. Mickey cursed himself inwardly, using every bad word in every language he knew. He hadn't meant to bring up the Company; he sure as hell hadn't meant to get started on this. Why couldn't he ever just make small talk? "I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I was just . . . I'm sorry. I . . . I should have come back, like I promised . . . "

Her eyes cleared a little. "Mickey . . . "

"I can't believe you don't hate my guts, Annie. I wouldn't blame you if you - if you tried to shoot me in your living room. I'm so sorry."

She grabbed his hand across the table. "Mickey, stop it. We were kids. We made a stupid mistake, and we dealt with it the best we could. I knew when you left you weren't coming back, and so did you. And to be honest, I was tapped out, Mickey. I don't think I could have faced any more."

Mickey nodded. He had known that. He'd seen it, in her eyes, that last day at the hospital. He remembered it all like it was yesterday, down to the clean sick smell and the annoying beeps of machines. The doctor had said, "She almost bled out," and Mickey had nodded like he knew what he was talking about, and the doctor, seeing the uniform, assumed that he did. So he let the young man go to the bedside completely unprepared. Unprepared to see his bouncy, vital girl sucking oxygen in desperate gulps, her feet elevated over her head to try to prevent a heart attack while they pumped blood into both arms and IV fluids into both legs. Unprepared to see her shivering under a pile of blankets in a sweltering hot room, her face the exact color as her pillowcase. And totally unprepared to see her eyes, glassy and dim, but for one moment aware of him, recognizing him, so apologetic, so lost - so broken. To see her let her eyes drift shut in despair.

He'd known all right, that she couldn't take any more. He'd also known that he couldn't take any more. So he'd signed the papers her father put in front of him and he'd run like a coward.

And here he was, all these years later, eating dinner with his girl in a funny little restaurant halfway across the country. And she had not died, and she was not broken, and she did not hate him.

He realized suddenly that he needed to rethink everything that had happened, to see it again from where he was now and stop remembering it as he'd seen it when he was eighteen years old. Maybe, just maybe, he hadn't been quite as unforgivably wrong as he'd thought. Looking at the woman, feeling her soft warm hand in his, he felt some small glimmer of hope. Maybe.

And then he remembered how it had started, in a very deliberate, very selfish act that Anne would never ever know about, and he knew he'd never forgive himself completely.

"Here, let me get you a box for that."

Mickey about jumped out of his skin as the daughter came and took their plates away. Reluctantly, he released Anne's hand. "Can we, um, can we go for a walk or something?"

She smiled. "Sure."

They sent one of the endless supply of neighborhood boys to carry their leftovers back to Anne's door, and they walked, down streets that were completely unnoticeable by car, that only became neighborhoods on foot. Under windows where couples argued and children watched cartoons and families ate dinner. Past a hundred abandoned toys that would be discovered all over again in the morning. Past tiny businesses, closed and dark or glowing warmly in the twilight. Past people dragging themselves home from work; past people gleefully heading out into the night. They walked, and they held hands, and they talked. About where they'd been, what they'd done, who they'd met. They talked easily, swapping stories back and forth, listening, laughing. Getting used to each other's voices again. Getting comfortable.

They talked about everything except him.

Mickey wasn't sure if he should just leave it that way, so as not to dredge up old bad memories, or if he should say something so she didn't think he'd forgotten. Because he never had, not for very long.

As if in answer, a boy whizzed by them on his skateboard. A boy as tall as a man, all arms and legs, a boy just the right age. "Do you ever think about him?" Mickey asked quietly.

"About Gregg, who would learning to drive next year?" Anne answered quickly. "Never."

Mickey squeezed her hand. "Yeah. Me, too."

"It used to be worse. I used to watch for kids that were his age - the age he would have been."

"I thought I was the only one that did that."

"Everybody does," she answered. "Everybody who ever lost a child, for the rest of their lives." She walked a little ways in silence. Then sadly, "I wish they'd let you see him."

"They did." She looked up, surprised. "At the grave site, Nick made them put the casket back in the hearse so I could see him before . . . " He stopped then, because tears were rolling down Anne's face, and because his throat felt as if someone were trying to strangle him. He'd forgotten about that, about his teenage brother in his dark suit calmly ordering the funeral director and everybody else around. "Don't cry, Annie," he managed to say. "He was perfect, he was beautiful."

Which, of course, turned the tears into great heaving sobs. He put his arms around her and held her very tightly, against the wall of the building, out of the way. "Annie, Annie," he murmured in her ear. "It's all right, love. It's all right."

But it wasn't. Because their perfect, beautiful son had never drawn a single breath. Had never cried, not even once. Had been born dead at seven months, with no good explanation, teen mother and all, these things happen. Mickey had been in Basic Training; Anne had been in the hospital, still waiting to throw the hemorrhage that would nearly cost her life; Nick was fifteen, and he'd handled everything. From buying the little white coffin with his college money, which eventually he'd let Mickey replace, to finding the tiny doll suit the boy was buried in.

Grudgingly, and quite aside the fact, Mickey realized he wasn't going to be able to punch Nick in the mouth this time. Maybe ever again.

Eventually, Anne quieted. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"It's okay," Mickey answered, smoothing her hair back from her face. "It feels like I needed to be here for that."

"Yeah. I guess we missed that part."

Mickey nodded. "Come on," he said, and they walked on, now with their arms around each other. Anne was quiet, still shaken from the crying jag, and he let it be for a time. They had missed it, mourning their son together. They'd missed a lot of things. "You ever wonder," he finally ventured, "if Gregg had survived, where we'd be now?"

Anne nodded. "I'm guessing we'd be raising about eight kids in a two-bedroom double-wide down by the railroad tracks."

Mickey gave an exaggerated shudder. But honestly, he'd been in a lot of places where that kind of life sounded just fine. For him. Not for Anne.

"I don't think I could stand it," Anne was saying. "Watching you trudge off to work at Standard Products every day, doubles, swing shifts." She gave his ribs a little tickle, recovering her humor. "You are so much more the martini and tuxedo crowd."

Kostmayer shook his head. "I was just thinking, it would have been a damn shame if you'd got stuck there."

"Well, I'd be running register at the Speedway when I wasn't on maternity leave," she answered. "And of course I'd have my mother's hips . . . "

"I'd almost managed to forget your mother's hips," Mickey said, shuddering again. "How are your folks, anyhow?"

"Mama died of cancer three, four years back. Daddy drinks."

There was nothing to say to that. He drew her closer and they walked.

McCall had just settled with his tea and his book, when the quiet knock sounded at his door. He frowned as he rose; perhaps it was Mickey, here to tell his story, but the knock had been too reserved. He wasn't expecting Jonah in person; Scott had a much more exuberant knock. It almost sounded like . . .

He snapped the door open. "Control. It's damn near the middle of the night."

"It's about Dennis Daly."

McCall let him in. "That didn't take long."

"Jonah's search sent up a flag," Control explained. He didn't bother to sit down. "What've you got on him?"

"What have you got on him?" Robert demanded.

"I have official files. And you want them. So you go first, old son."

Robert nearly growled. "I have . . . a very perceptive young woman who thinks there's something not right about him. And that's all I have."

"Anne Keller."

McCall rubbed his eyes. He might have known that Control would intercept the whole information request. "Yes. I suppose you have files on her, too."

"A few," Control confirmed graciously. "She is a little more familiar with certain terrorists than the intelligence community is entirely comfortable with, particularly the British intelligence community. But she's not considered dangerous, or even subversive. Merely watchable."

"I'm sure she'll be relieved to hear that."

"Kostmayer will be, anyhow."

"You knew they were married," Robert accused.

Control dropped his chin and stared at McCall a moment. Finally he shrugged. "They were married for fourteen weeks, when they were both teenagers, and the marriage was legally waived immediately after the stillbirth of their son. Anything else you want to know?"

Robert opened his mouth, and closed it. There was a bloody lot else he wanted to know. But not from Control. They had had a son? Mickey had had a son? A stillborn child . . . he sat down heavily. Trying desperately to remember if, or how often, he had made some ignorant remark to his young colleague. Some 'if you had a son' or 'you can't understand until you've had a child of your own' or even 'until you've had a child die'. Oh, bloody hell. Why did no one ever tell him these things?

"Dennis Daly," Control reminded him. "There's nothing else about him?"

Dazed, McCall shook his head. "No. He's running a Peace Camp through St. Christina's, local boys with Irish ones. He's attempted to befriend Anne Keller, but she doesn't trust him. He may have written some threatening letters to her, claiming that he represents the IRA."

"He doesn't," Control snorted. "They disowned him five years ago. His methods were too barbaric."

These words cleared McCall's head, and he tuned in to the conversation. "Too barbaric for the IRA?"

Control nodded. "Remember the Schoolboy Incident?"

Sadly, McCall remembered too well. An American operative had uncovered a plot to have a band of Irish schoolboys make a suicide attack on the Prime Minister. The information had been turned over to the British government, who had attempted to arrest the boys. The boys staged an unexpected defense, and were ultimately killed. For good or evil, the whole incident had taken place at a retreat, far out of the public eye. As far as the public knew, the boys had been killed in a tragic, fiery bus accident on their way home. Only a few people knew the truth; Robert wished he wasn't one of them. He nodded. "I remember."

"We have no evidence that Daly was behind it. But he worked at the school the boys attended, and he was active in one of the more radical splinter groups. Right after the incident, his ties with the IRA were severed. He claims that he had an epiphany and began to work in earnest for peace."

"You don't believe him."

"No."

McCall stood, shaking his head. "All right, then. What is it you want from me?"

"Whatever I can get, old son. Sooner or later, if he's our man, his colors will show. If he moves on the girl and you need to neutralize him, no one - and I do mean no one - will ask any questions."

"So I have the proverbial license to kill, is that it?"

"If he's done what we think he's done," Control answered, "do you have any objection?"

"There are courts, you know. Trials, procedures . . . "

"There are peace talks in Ireland, Robert, that would be greatly disrupted if any of this comes out. If Daly were arrested, he could not be tried without the whole bloody story coming out. And the cover-up."

"And the Company's role in it."

Control sighed. "It's is not about covering for the Company, Robert. It's about stopping this man before he gets any more children killed. And no, I am not very particular about how it's done."

Control expected no reply from Robert, and didn't get one. He let himself out without the usual niceties.

When he was gone, McCall reached for the phone. Kostmayer wasn't home, which did not surprise him. Keller didn't answer her phone, which surprised him even less. He left a message, not very specific, trying not to be terse or alarming. Then he went to bed.

Mickey paused at the bottom the steps, still holding her hand. "So how do I get myself invited back upstairs without you thinking I'm trying to get you into bed?" he asked smoothly.

She smiled, a little shyly. "Just like that, I think. But just out of curiosity, are you going to try to get me into bed?"

Mickey hesitated. He knew she was teasing him - mostly. "Well . . . maybe. But not tonight." And then, with great sincerity, he added, "Not like this, not like strangers. Not with you."

Anne gazed at him for a long moment. And then very slowly, she said, "You must get laid like crazy with that line."

Against his will, Mickey laughed. "Actually, I haven't tried it yet. But it's good, isn't it?"

"It's very good."

"Seriously, Annie, we need to think about this."

"That would be something new."

Mickey had to agree. The entire history of their relationship had been to act first and think later. But he was too old for that now. Too cautious. "I don't want you to get hurt again."

The same mischievous smile played over her mouth. "One more line like that, and I'll be all over you."

He'd forgotten how much she loved to give him a hard time. And how good she was at it. Anne Keller was one of the few people in the world who could consistently make Mickey Kostmayer blush. "I'm being serious here."

"I know you are," she finally relented. "All right. Come on up, I'll make some more coffee, and I'll keep my hands to myself."

She started up the stairs. Mickey hung back. "Promise?" he asked suspiciously.

"I promise."

They went upstairs.

The boy waited until he heard his father snoring before he snuck into the kitchen. He got the bleach from the shelf by the back door, where all the laundry stuff was kept. Then he got his new giant pump-powered squirt gun and carried it to the sink.

He paused for a moment, frowning. He was pretty sure he wasn't going to be able to use the squirt gun any more after this. It wasn't the real one anyhow, just a cheap one from the dollar store, but he really liked it and he'd had to beg for two weeks to get it. Still, summer was almost over anyhow. And for the Cause . . .

Holding it over the sink, he poured the bleach into the tank. When the bleach bottle was empty, the squirt gun was half-full. But his mom was going to notice if all her bleach was gone come wash day. Awkwardly, he poured half the bleach back into the bottle. It splashed all over the sink. That was okay. It splashed on his pajamas a little, too. He closed up the bleach and put it back on the shelf, then took off his top and rinsed it under the kitchen faucet. The bleach left a big white spot.

He filled the tank of the squirt gun the rest of the way with water, put the lid on, and shook it up. It sure smelled like bleach. He opened the back door as quietly as he could, and set the gun outside the door. Then he locked up, washed his hands, and rinsed out the sink.

Carrying his ruined pajama top, he went back to bed. But he couldn't sleep.