by Nora Roberts
"If he's your friend," Gillian insisted as she tailed behind him, "why doesn't he know who you are?"
Trace glanced up and caught his own reflection in the mirror. His own face, his own eyes. Why was it that too often he didn't recognize himself? He dumped toothpaste and a bottle of aspirin into a travel kit. "I don't use my name when I'm working."
"You checked in as Trace O'Hurley."
"I'm on vacation."
"If he's your friend, why do you lie to him?"
He picked up his razor and examined the blade very carefully before he dropped it in the case. "He was a kid mixed up in a bad situation a few years ago. Gunrunning."
"That's what you meant by the IRA?"
"You know, Doc, you ask too many questions."
"I'm trusting the most precious things in my life to you. I'll ask questions."
He zipped the travel kit in one impatient movement. "I was on assignment when I ran into him, and I was using the name Colin Sweeney."
"He must be a very good friend to agree to do you this kind of a favor without any questions."
Trace had saved his life, but he didn't want to think about that. He'd saved lives, and he'd taken them. He didn't want to think about either at the moment. "That's right. Now can we finish packing and get out of here before someone pays us a visit?"
"I have another question."
He let out a little laugh. "Am I surprised?"
"What was the name you gave that man this afternoon?"
"Just a nickname I picked up a few years back in Italy." He stepped forward, but she didn't move away from the door.
"Why did you give it to him?"
"Because I wanted whoever gives the orders to know who was coming for him." Brushing past her, he dumped the rest of his things into the suitcase and snapped it shut. "Let's go."
"What does it mean?"
He walked to the door and opened it before turning back to her. There was a look in his eyes that both frightened and fascinated. "Cat. Just cat."
He'd known some day he would go back to the States. There had been times in a jungle, or a desert or a grimy hotel room in a town even God had forgotten when he'd imagined it: the prodigal son returns, brass band included. But that was the theatrical blood in him.
Other times he'd imagined slipping quietly into the country, the way he'd slipped out a million years before.
There were his sisters. At the oddest times he would think of them, want to be with them so badly he'd book a flight. Then he'd cancel it at the last minute. They were grown women now, with lives of their own, and yet he remembered them as they'd been the first time he'd seen them. Three scrawny infants, born in one surprising rush nestled in incubators behind a glass nursery wall.
There had been a bond between them, as he supposed was natural between triplets, and yet he'd never felt excluded. They'd traveled together from the time they'd been born until he'd stuck out his thumb on a highway outside Terre Haute.
He'd seen them only once since then, but he'd kept track. Just as he'd kept track of his parents.
The O'Hurleys had never been the huge commercial success his father had dreamed of, but they'd gotten by. They were booked an average of thirty weeks of the year. Financially they were solvent. That was his mother's doing. She'd always had a knack for making five dollars stretch into ten.
It was Molly, he was certain, who had tucked a hundred dollars in fives and tens into the pocket of his suitcase a dozen years before. She'd known he was going. She hadn't wept or lectured or pleaded, but she had done what she could to make it easier for him. That was her way.
But Pop… Trace closed his eyes as the plane shuddered a bit with turbulence. Pop had never, would never, forgive him—not for leaving without a word, but for leaving.
He'd never understood Trace's need to find something of his own, to look for something other than the next audience, the next arrangement. Perhaps in truth he'd never been able to understand his son at all, or in understanding, hadn't been able to accept.
The only time Trace had gone back, hoping perhaps to mend a small portion of his fences, Frank had greeted him with tight-lipped disapproval.
"So you've come back." Frank had stood icily rigid in the tiny dressing room he'd shared with Molly. Trace hadn't known that his presence had made Frank see it for what it was. A dim little room in a second-rate club. "Three years since you walked out, and only a letter now and again. I told you when you left, there'd be no fatted calf for you."
"I didn't expect one." But he'd hoped for some understanding. Trace had worn a beard then, part of an affectation he'd grown for an assignment. The assignment had taken him to Paris, where he'd successfully broken up an international art fraud. "Since it was Mom's birthday, I thought…I wanted to see her." And you—but he couldn't say it.
"Then run off again so she can shed more tears?"
"She understood why I left," Trace had said carefully.
"You broke her heart." And mine. "You're not going to hurt her again. You're either a son to her, or you're not."
"Either the son you want me to be, or nothing," Trace had corrected, pacing the cramped little room. "It still doesn't matter to you what I need or feel, or what I am."
"You don't know what matters to me. I think you never did." Frank had to swallow the obstruction in his throat that was part bitterness and part shame. "The last time I saw you, you told me what I'd done for you hadn't been good enough. That what I could give you never would be. A man doesn't forget hearing that from his son."
He was twenty-three. He'd slept with a whore in Bangkok and gotten roaring drunk on ouzo in Athens, and he had eight stitches in his right shoulder from a knife wielded by a man he'd killed while serving his country. Yet at that moment he felt like a child being scolded without justice or cause.
"I guess that's the only thing I ever said to you that you really heard. Nothing's changed here. It never will."
"You've chosen your way, Trace." His son had no way of knowing that Frank wanted nothing more than to open his arms and take back what he'd thought he'd lost forever. And was afraid Trace would only turn away. "Now you'll have to make the best of it. At least have the decency to say goodbye to your mother and sisters this time."
It had been Frank, his eyes blurred with tears, who had turned away. Trace had walked out of the dressing room and had never gone back.
He opened his eyes now to find Gillian watching him steadily. She looked different with the short, dark wig he'd made her wear. But she'd stopped complaining about it—and the horn-rimmed glasses and drab, dun-colored dress. It was padded to make her look frumpy, but he couldn't quite get his mind off what was hidden underneath. In any case, she'd blend into the scenery, which was just what he wanted.
No one would mistake the woman sitting beside him for the spectacular-looking Doctor Gillian Fitzpatrick,
He'd switched planes and airlines in San Diego, charging the tickets to a credit card under one of his cover names. After rerouting in Dallas, he'd picked up the fielder's cap and sideline jacket he was wearing. Now, as they headed into Chicago, they looked like a couple of dazed, weary tourists who wouldn't rate a second glance.
Except he could see her eyes, those deep, dark, intense green eyes through the clear lenses.
"Problem?" he asked.
"I was going to ask you the same thing. You know, you've been brooding ever since we boarded."
He pulled out a cigarette and played with it. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"I'm talking about the fact that you're ready to bite my head of if I so much as say pass the salt. I'm wearing this hideous wig, aren't I? And this a very fashionable dress."
"Looks great."
"Then if you're not upset about my disguise, what is it?"
"Nothing's wrong with me," he said between his teeth. "Now back off."
Holding on to her temper, Gillian sipped the white wine she'd been served—with a pitying look from the flight attendant, she thought with
some disgust. "There certainly is something wrong with you. I'm the one who should be having an anxiety attack, but I'm not, because we're actually doing something. But if there's a problem…I should be concerned about, I'd appreciate you telling me."
His finger tapped on the armrest between them. "Do you always nag?"
"When it's important. Lives are at stake, lives that mean the world to me. If you're worried about something, then I need to know."
"It's personal." Hoping to dismiss it, he pushed back his seat and closed his eyes.
"Nothing's personal now. How you feel will affect your performance."
He opened one eye. "You'd be the first woman to complain, sister."
She flushed, but didn't let up. "I consider myself your employer, and as such, I refuse to have you keep secrets from me."
He swore at her, quietly but with considerable imagination. "I haven't been back in a while. Even I have memories, and they're my business."
"I'm sorry." She took a deep breath. "I haven't been able to think about anything but Flynn and Caitlin. It never occurred to me that this might be difficult for you." He didn't seem like a man of deep feelings or genuine emotions. But she remembered the pain in his eyes when she'd spoken of Forrester. "Chicago…is it a special place for you?"
"Played Chicago when I was twelve, and again when I was sixteen."
"Played?"
"Nothing." He shook his head and tried to relax. "I spent a few days there with Charlie a few years back. Last thing I saw of the States was O'Hare Airport."
"Now it'll be the first thing you see again." She had a magazine in her lap, but instead of opening it she just ran a thumb along its edge. "I've never seen much of America except New York. I've always meant to. Flynn brought Caitlin to visit a couple of years ago, just after her mother died." She let out a long breath. "They were both like lost souls. We went up the Empire State Building and to Rockefeller Center and had tea at the Plaza. Flynn bought her a little windup dog from a street merchant. She slept with it every night." The emotion came so quickly, she could do nothing to block it. "Oh, God." She pressed both hands to her face. "Oh, God, she's only six."
There hadn't been a woman in his life to comfort in too many years to count, but he hadn't forgotten how. "Take it easy." His voice was soft as he put an arm around her. "They're not going to hurt her. They need your brother's cooperation too much to risk it."
"But what are they doing to her inside? She must be so frightened. The dark—She still can't sleep in the dark. Would they give her a light? Do you think they'd give her alight?"
"Sure they would." His hand stroked her hair just as his voice stroked her fears. "She's going to be fine, Gillian."
Tears ran down her cheeks even as she struggled to calm herself. "I'm sorry. The last thing I want to do is make a fool of myself."
"Go ahead." His hand ran rhythmically over her shoulder. "I don't mind."
With a watery laugh, she fumbled for a tissue. "I try not to think of her too much. I try to concentrate on Flynn. He's very strong and capable."
"And he's with her. He's taking care of her."
"Aye, they're taking care of each other." God, she needed to believe that. She needed to believe that before long she'd see them, whole and healthy and safe. "We're going to get them out, aren't we?"
There were no promises in this kind of game. He knew that better than most. But she was looking at him now with brimming eyes and such desperate trust that he had no choice. "Sure we are. Didn't Charlie tell you I was the best?"
"He did." She let out a little breath. Control was back, but she didn't have as tight a grip on it as she would have liked. If she didn't think about something else, every minute that passed seemed like an hour. "Tell me about your family. Do you have brothers?"
"No." He drew his arm away, because it would have been entirely too easy to leave it around her. "Sisters."
"How many?"
"Three."
"That must have made life interesting."
"They were okay." His lips curved as he lit a cigarette. "Chantel was the brat."
"Every family has one," she began. Then it hit her, and she sat up straight. "Chantel O'Hurley? Chantel O'Hurley's your sister? I've seen her movies. She's wonderful."
The pride came, more intense than he'd expected. "She's okay. Always leaned toward the dramatic."
"She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
"And knows it."
"Then Maddy O'Hurley's your sister, too." More than a little stunned, Gillian shook her head. "I saw her on Broadway a few months ago. She's very talented. The stage just lights up when she's on it."
It always did, Trace thought. "She's nominated for a Tony."
"She deserves it. Why, the audience nearly brought down the roof when she went into the number at the end of the first act. You should have seen…" Her words trailed off when she realized that he should indeed have seen, but, for reasons yet unknown to her, hadn't. "Your third sister?" she asked, wanting to give him both time and room.
"Abby raises horses in Virginia." He crushed out his cigarette and wondered how he'd ever gotten started on his family.
"Yes, I think I read something about her. She married Dylan Crosby, the writer, recently. There was a write-up in the Times. Oh, of course, triplets. Your sisters are triplets."
"I thought scientists would be too busy causing and solving the ills of the world to read gossip columns."
She lifted a brow and decided against taking offense. At least until she'd learned everything she wanted to know. "I don't keep my head buried in a test tube. The article mentioned that they grew up in show business, traveling around the country. Your parents still do. I don't remember leading anything about you."
"I've been gone a long time, remember?"
"But didn't you travel with them?" Intrigued by the idea, she smiled and shifted in her chair. "Did you sing and dance and live out of a trunk?"
"You know, for a doctor, you tend to glamorize the mundane." He felt the slight dip that meant they were starting their descent. "It's like going to the circus and seeing only the spangles and the red lights. Backstage there are elephant paddies up to your ankles."
"So you did travel with them." Gillian continued to smile. "Did you have a specialty?"
"God save me from plane rides with nosy women. I've been out of it for twelve years." He jerked his seat belt on. "I prefer thinking about today."
Gillian clicked her own belt into place. "I wanted to be a singer when I was a little girl. I always pictured myself in the spotlight." With a little sigh, she slipped the magazine back into the pocket of the seat. "Before I knew it, I was my father's lab assistant. Strange, isn't it, how our parents seem to map out our routes even before we're born?"
Charlie's house was behind a five-foot stone wall and was equipped with an elaborate security system. He left behind, as far as Trace knew, only an older sister who lived in Palm Beach and a nephew who ran a brokerage from somewhere in the Midwest.
Gillian sat in the rented car while Trace pressed a series of buttons on the panel outside the gates. They opened soundlessly. He hadn't spoken since the airport, not once during all the cruising and backtracking, looking for signs of surveillance or a tail. She was holding back her questions now. It was grief that silenced him here, and she knew he'd have to deal with it in his own way.
The trees were fading as winter closed in, but they still held a stubborn touch of color. Wind tore at the leaves and moaned through the branches. The elms would shade the drive in the summer, she thought, giving the old brick house a stately, sturdy feel. It was something she'd barely noticed on her first trip here, and it was something that she tried to concentrate on now.
The house didn't look deserted, but as if it were simply waiting to be occupied again. She thought of the man who had listened to her, who had given her brandy and a sliver of hope.
"He was crazy about this place," Trace murmured. He shut off the engine but sat looking a
t the two stories of worn brick and white trim. "Whenever he was away, he'd always talk about coming back. I guess he'd have wanted to die here." He sat a moment longer, then pushed open his door. "Let's go."
He had keys. Charlie had given them to him once.
"Use them sometime," he'd said. "Everybody has to have a home."
But he hadn't used them, not until now. The key slipped into the lock and turned with a quiet click.
The hallway was dim, but he didn't switch on the lights. He remembered the way well enough, and in truth he didn't yet have the heart to look at anything of Charlie's too closely.
He took her into a library that smelled of lemon and leather. The heat had been turned down because there was no one left to need the warmth. "You can wait here."
"Where are you going?"
"I told you I was coming here to find out where they took your brother. I'm going to find out, and you're going to wait here."
"And I told you that I'm involved with anything that has to do with Flynn. Besides, I might be able to help."
"If I need a physicist, I'll let you know. Read a book."
"I'm not staying here."
She was two steps behind him when he reached the doorway. "Look, Doc, there's such a thing as national security. I'm already bending the rules because Charlie seemed to think it was worth it."
"Then bend them a little more." She took his arm. "I'm not interested in state secrets and international affairs. All I want is to know where my brother is. I've worked on sensitive projects, Trace. I have clearance."
"You keep interfering with me, it's going to take a lot longer."
"I don't think so."
"Have it your way. But keep your mouth shut for once." He went up the stairs, trying to convince himself he wasn't making a mistake.
The carpet was new since Trace had been there, but the wallpaper was the same. So was the room three doors from the top of the stairs that Charlie had used for an office.
Without hesitating, Trace went to the desk and pushed a button under the second drawer. A four-foot span of paneling swung out.
"Another tunnel?" Gillian asked. Her courage was fading fast.
"Workroom," Trace said as he stepped through. He threw a switch and discovered that Charlie had updated his equipment.
Along the top of the far wall were clocks, still running, that gave the time in every zone around the globe. The computer system spread beneath them, then continued in an L along the next wall. With the radio equipment opposite it, he could have contacted anyone from the local deejay to the Kremlin. "Pull up a stool, Doc. This could take a while."
Gillian jolted only a bit when the panel slid shut behind them. "What are you trying to do?"
"You want to bypass some paperwork, so I'm going to patch into the ISS computer."
"Do you think they know where Flynn was taken?"
"Maybe, maybe not." He switched on the terminal and sat. "But they should have a pretty good idea where Hammer's new headquarters are. Charlie had to go and get state-of-the-art on me." He punched a series of buttons. When the machine requested his code, he gave Charlie's. "Okay, that's a start. Let's see what this baby can do."
He worked in silence, but for the tapping of his fingers and the beeping of the machine, as Gillian looked on. He inched past one security block to ram into the next.
Patience, Gillian noted, more than a little surprised to find he had the quality, as he broke one code and slowly drew out more data. She began to find a rhythm to the numbers and symbols that appeared on the screen, then blinked out again, at Trace's command. As he worked, she began arranging and rearranging the system in her head.
"So damn close," Trace muttered as he tried another series. "The problem is there are enough variables to keep me at it for a week."