Expose

by Saranne Dawson

  Kate sat there thinking for a moment. “You know, I just might look into the medical part of it. Maybe there is something to it. There’ve certainly been studies done showing how nutrition affects children’s ability to learn.”

  She got the name of the other camp from Tony and then returned to the administration building to wait for Sam. She was thinking about Tony’s description of the change in the kids as being “almost eerie.” That’s how she’d reacted after interviewing the three “graduates.” They’d all struck her as being far too controlled and self-contained, and at least two of the parents had expressed the same thoughts, though of course they were grateful for the transformations.

  The offices were empty and she realized that it was lunchtime. Hoping that Ted Snyder might have left the list of kids who hadn’t made it, Kate stepped into his office.

  She didn’t see any list, but there were three files on his desk. Her reporter’s nosiness got the better of her and she started to flip through them. But she hadn’t yet gotten through the first one when she heard someone come into the outer office. She hurriedly read on. At the end of the typed discharge form someone had written in red ink: “Classification One.”

  Curious, she quickly checked the last page in the other two files, but found no similar statement. Then she left the office and found Sam and Barbara coming down the hallway.

  “It looks like everyone’s gone to lunch,” she told them. “I was just checking to see if Ted left me the list he promised.”

  “Maybe it’s on his secretary’s desk,” Barbara suggested, then picked up an envelope with Kate’s name on it. “We’d be happy to have you join us for lunch.”

  The invitation presumably included her, as well, but Barbara was looking at Sam when she issued it. Sam thanked her and said that they were planning to stop at his cabin while they were in the area, and would just pick up something in town.

  As soon as they were in Sam’s car, Kate opened the envelope Ted Snyder had left for her. There were two names in it, complete with addresses and phone numbers and a note from Ted saying that the parents were willing to talk with her. She saw immediately that the boy whose file had been marked “Classification One” was not included. Before her memory could fail her, she wrote down his name and what she remembered of his address in Baltimore.

  While Sam talked about the camp, Kate wondered why that boy hadn’t been included. That red ink notation kept bothering her. It could just be that Snyder had been unable to reach the family, or perhaps he had reached them, but they didn’t want to talk to a reporter.

  “Sam, would you mind stopping at that gas station so I can make a call?”

  He pulled into the station and she hurried over to the pay phone, grateful that his car phone hadn’t been activated yet. She hadn’t minded Sam’s coming out here with her, but now that she began to smell a possible story, that had changed.

  Directory assistance yielded a Mary Scofield at the street address Kate had recalled. After two rings, a woman’s voice answered. Kate had intended only to see if the woman was home, but now that she was, she couldn’t resist taking it a bit further.

  She confirmed that she was speaking to Mrs. Scofield, then said she was Barbara, from New Leaf, hoping that the woman didn’t know Snyder’s assistant well enough to recognize her voice.

  “A reporter for the Washington Post is planning to do a story on the camp, Mrs. Scofield, and we were wondering if you’d be willing to talk to her.’’

  There was a long pause and Kate nearly hung up, certain that the woman knew she was lying. Then the woman suddenly spoke in a torrent of angry words.

  “I told you people I don’t want nothin’ to do with you anymore. And I’ve had my fill of reporters, too.” Then she slammed down the phone before Kate could get in another word.

  Kate stood there, frowning. It sounded as though Ted Snyder had in fact contacted her. But what was that business about having her “fill of reporters”? She glanced back at Sam and signalled that she had one more call to make, then dug out her address book. A friend from grad school worked for the Baltimore Sun.

  Unfortunately, she wasn’t in. Kate decided not to leave a message on her voice mail, since she wasn’t sure when she’d be home. Then she returned to the car, lost in thought.

  “What’s wrong?” Sam asked as he pulled out.

  “Nothing,” she said. Then, knowing that wouldn’t be enough, she spun a tale about another story she was working on and her inability to verify some facts. A part of her actually wanted Sam’s take on this, but a larger part was determined to keep him out of this story.

  KATE WANTED TO LEAVE the moment she saw the cabin nestled in the tall pines. She glanced over at Sam, then looked away quickly. She couldn’t really accuse him of having any ulterior motives because she knew how much he loved the place. But if there was one spot she didn’t want to be with him, this was it.

  Before going inside, he circled the new addition and pronounced himself well pleased with his brother’s work. Kate knew Rob would be happy to hear that. He was the classic younger brother who idolized his older sibling, even though he was a highly successful attorney himself.

  They entered the cabin and Sam commented on the changes as he walked around. Kate saw again that boyish pleasure she associated so strongly with him in this place, and for some reason, she found herself thinking about the other night when she’d crept down the stairs to find him in the living room with Reject.

  These were the memories of Sam that she’d tried so hard to suppress for three years—these times when he seemed almost vulnerable. It made her uneasy to be coming back with him now.

  SAM WANTED TO TELL HER how happy he was to be here with her again, but as they sat on the screened porch eating their sandwiches, he just couldn’t do it. He wasn’t certain how she’d take such a statement. Unfortunately, he wasn’t certain about much of anything these days—except that he had to find a way to win her back.

  Through all his travels as a war correspondent for the past three years, she’d always been with him. Sometimes her presence had been so strong that he’d found himself talking to her—even supplying her side of the conversation as well as his own.

  Now he was back home and he felt as though he were still in a battle zone with no one to guide him through treacherous minefields. It was just his luck to arrive at the worst possible time. She resented his involvement in her story. Yet he couldn’t help becoming involved because if someone was threatening her, he was threatening both of them.

  He slanted a glance at her, and a wave of desire so powerful that it was far more than sexual hunger swept over him. Kate was a part of him, his soul mate. Other women might have satisfied his physical cravings from time to time, but only she could make him feel whole.

  He thought about that first weekend they’d spent here, just after the cabin was completed. He thought they had an understanding, but the closer they came to their destination, the more uncertain he’d become. By the time they arrived, he was wondering how he was going to spend a weekend here without touching her.

  It was late and they were both tired. He built a fire, then decided that the champagne he’d brought had better wait. He’d kept it cold in an ice chest and had then put it in the refrigerator without mentioning it to her.

  Then, as he sat there in front of the fire, amazed that he could be feeling so tongue-tied and nervous, Kate had walked in, carrying the champagne.

  “You forgot the glasses and the caviar,” she’d said.

  “But you don’t even like caviar,” he’d protested.

  “I know, but there are some occasions that definitely call for it.”

  She’d stood there, clutching the bottle and smiling at him with her soft mouth and those big brown-green eyes.

  “This just won’t work, Sam. You see, I have this fantasy about being naked before a fire, drinking champagne and eating caviar.”

  They’d gotten naked in one big hurry, and afterward they’d drunk the cham
pagne right out of the bottle. She hadn’t missed the caviar at all.

  KATE TURNED TO SAM to say that she wanted to go for a walk before they returned to Washington, but the words died on her lips when she saw the expression on his face—a faint smile playing across his wide mouth and a faraway look in his blue eyes.

  She knew instantly what he was thinking—or rather, remembering. She knew because the same thoughts were crowding her mind, almost as though they had a tangible presence. Memories of love still haunted this place, stronger here than in the house they’d shared.

  Maybe it was because they’d never fought at the cabin. By unspoken agreement, they’d always left their battles back in Washington along with the pressures of their work.

  He blinked, suddenly aware that she was watching him, and she made her announcement, then got up and started off the porch. He followed her and they set out into the woods, climbing the hill behind the cabin to a spot that afforded a nearly unobstructed view of the valley.

  The final part of the climb was very steep and they reached the top somewhat out of breath, with Sam joking that maybe she’d been right about approaching middle age.

  Kate felt a strange pang of regret that she’d teased him about it. He was six years older than her, and now, for some reason she couldn’t fathom, the fact that he was nearly forty bothered her—as though she, too, were approaching some sort of watershed.

  They stood there side by side, staring down at the cabin and the valley. I-70, the road that led back to Washington, was just barely visible in the distance. Their hands brushed casually, and Sam curved his about hers warmly. His hand was harder, more callused than she remembered, and she thought again about the life he’d led these past few years. She wanted to ask him about it, but the subject seemed very dangerous, though she wasn’t sure why.

  He commented on the development that had taken place since they were last here and she turned to him. The breeze seemed to have snatched away his words—and her breath, as well. His eyes were searching her face with a fierce intensity, as though he were reading and interpreting the movements of all the thousand tiny muscles.

  And then she was in his arms and he was in hers, and neither of them could have said who made the first move. Time simply blinked. One moment, they were standing there uncertainly, and in the next, their bodies were curved about each other in welcome familiarity.

  She felt the wonderful warmth of his lips even before they touched hers. For a man who could often seem arrogant and hard-driving and all the other traits one associates with masculinity, Sam was amazingly gentle in his lovemak-ing—even when, as now, she could feel the force of his desire.

  A part of Kate responded with a surge of triumph. He still loved her; she was sure of that now. But another part of her still wanted that uncertainty because it meant she wouldn’t have to confront her own feelings.

  She arched to him, welcoming that powerfully erotic sensation of strangeness and familiarity—the strangeness arising from a three-year separation, the familiarity from knowing just how it would be.

  But then, to her astonishment, he backed off, not letting go of her completely, but putting a small space between them as he smiled crookedly at her.

  “This is a dangerous place.”

  She nodded. “We were always happy here,” she replied with a tiny catch in her voice.

  She waited for him to ask the obvious question—why hadn’t they been happy elsewhere? But he didn’t ask. Instead, he merely nodded and took her hand to lead her back down the hill.

  On the way back to Washington, her uncertainty returned. Had his kiss merely been a nostalgic trip back in time? Maybe she was wrong. Maybe he didn’t love her anymore. It was much better that way, but…

  “HIS NAME IS Charles Scofield.”

  “Oh!”

  “Do you recognize the name?” Kate asked, certain that Carlie did. She had waited until Sam went out to visit some friends and had reached her friend from the Sun at home.

  “Sure. The story probably made the Post, too.”

  “I hate to admit this, but I don’t always read it cover to cover. What happened?”

  “He went berserk at school about a month ago and attacked some students and a couple of teachers with a knife. That sort of thing is hardly news anymore, but what really made this a big story was that the kid had been a model student ever since he’d gotten back from one of those boot camps.”

  “New Leaf,” Kate said, her mind spinning.

  “Right. I couldn’t remember the name of the place. It’s in the western part of the state somewhere, and it’s supposed to have a really great reputation, from what I’ve heard.

  “Anyway, everyone was shocked. My friend who covered the story said that his teachers had been amazed at how much he’d changed, and there was apparently no indication beforehand that something had gone wrong. He was doing well in school and staying out of trouble. What’s your interest in him?”

  “I’m doing a story on boot camps—or rather, I’m following up on an earlier story. Someone told me about New Leaf and I’ve been out there a couple of times. Charles Scofield’s name came up, and I got the impression that he was one of their failures.”

  “You sure could say that,” Carlie responded dryly. “No one was killed, but one of the teachers suffered some permanent damage to his arm from the knife wound. A couple of teachers and a custodian managed to subdue him and hold him for the police. He was sent to a psychiatric facility and could still be there. Apparently, he was so uncontrollably violent that they couldn’t put him in the regular juvenile detention center.

  “We did a big story the day it happened and a follow-up in the Sunday edition. I’ll fax them both to you if you want, and you can talk to Jay Richards. He’s the one who wrote both stories.”

  Kate thanked her and gave her the Post’s fax number. Then they chatted for a time about other things. Kate told her that Sam was back and staying with her temporarily.

  “Sam the Hunk,” Carlie sighed. “You were crazy to let him go, girl. Every time I saw him on CNN, I wondered how you could be so crazy.”

  But after she’d hung up, Kate wasn’t thinking about her own craziness. Instead, she was thinking about Charles Scofield—an outstanding graduate of New Leaf who’d really gone crazy—and about that red notation on his file: “Classification One.”

  Suddenly, the New Leaf story was crowding everything else from her mind—even those anonymous threats.

  Chapter Four

  “What is that?” Kate asked, staring at the thing Sam dropped beside her computer.

  “It’s very interesting is what it is,” he replied.

  “To you, maybe.” She picked it up and handed it back to him. “I have a deadline. You remember them, don’t you?”

  “Fine. Then I’ll just take it to Damon.” He started out of her cubicle.

  “Wait a minute!” She knew that annoyingly reasonable tone of voice. Alarm bells began to go off in her head.

  “I’ll give you a hint,” he said, tossing the small object from one hand to the other. “Greg found it when he was checking out your car. He replaced the water pump, and it also needs a new clutch.”

  “I already knew that. He can replace it anytime—as long as it doesn’t cost more than fifty dollars.”

  “In your dreams, sweetheart. Of course, you could just bat those gorgeous eyes at him. He always did have a thing for you.”

  “And I always had a secret lech for balding, middle-aged men with grease under their fingernails. What is that thing, Sam—and why should Damon be interested in it?”

  “Because it’s not exactly standard equipment for a car. It’s a transmitter.”

  “A what? You mean a bug?” She stared at it in growing horror.

  “That’s right. A good one, too. I stopped to see a guy who knows about such things. He’s former Secret Service.”

  “The man in the garage,” Kate said as her feelings shifted abruptly to anger. He hadn’t been trying to b
reak into a car. Instead, he’d been bugging one—hers.

  “Give the lady a gold star. What the hell is going on here, Kate?”

  “I don’t know, but don’t tell Damon about it. I want this story, Sam—whatever it is.”

  “Right. Maybe you could give a whole new meaning to the term ‘ghostwriter.’ This is serious, Kate. Damon needs to know.”

  “He’ll take me off it.”

  Sam stared at her. “Okay, I won’t tell him—under one condition.”

  “What’s that?” she asked suspiciously.

  “That you stop treating me like a competitor and tell me everything you know.”

  She smacked her hand against the top of her desk. “You’re doing it again, Sam—taking over! Go find yourself a war somewhere—in Antarctica, maybe.”

  “That’s the condition,” he replied smugly.

  “Then I’ll just take my chances with Damon.”

  “No, you won’t because it won’t do you any good. If you persuade him to let you stay with the story, I’ll persuade him to let me continue, too. The Post really wants my column.”

  “I think just maybe that I could learn to really hate you.”

  “As opposed to what?” he asked, arching a brow.

  They stared at each other in silence—a silence filled with the memory of that earlier kiss. And too many other memories as well—memories of arguments followed by sweet, fierce lovemaking. Sometimes it seemed to Kate that their whole marriage had been composed of noisy arguments that hadn’t quite burned themselves out before the two of them landed in bed together. Except that they often hadn’t even made it to bed.

  It’s the excitement that I miss, she told herself—and that’s sick. Marriage isn’t supposed to be that way. Couples aren’t supposed to spend half their time fighting and the other half making up.