Rowe toyed with the bandage on her hand. The cut she’d incurred in the kitchen was painful this evening, the flesh tugging where it was trying to heal. She turned to the photocopies she’d made of some of Mrs. O’Halloran’s letters to the editor of the
Camden Herald
. Becky’s mother was convinced that if Becky had been planning to run off, she would have said good-bye the last time they spoke, which was December 7. They were close.
Many of her letters to the editor referred to Mr. Baker as a “gentleman with secrets to hide” or “a gentleman unfitting of that title,” and Mrs. Baker as “his unhappy invalid wife.” Mrs. O’Halloran seemed convinced that Baker knew something about her daughter’s disappearance. Rowe was struck by a sentence in one of the last letters.
Out of my great respect for another, I have not revealed facts in my possession. But almighty God knows all, and Mr. Baker will one day be judged for his sins.
Mary O’Halloran had been Verity Adams’s housekeeper for many years. If her mistress had been pregnant to Baker, she must have known about this “sin.” Others probably suspected the truth, but in those days an elaborate social conspiracy existed whereby a community could choose to turn a blind eye to problematic facts—birth dates that called a child’s paternity into question, for example. Appearances had to be preserved.
Rowe dragged out a telephone directory and flipped through the listings. Even if Mrs. O’Halloran had not disclosed Baker’s “secrets” in the local newspaper, she must have told someone. The old lady had died in her eighties in 1952. Any other children she’d had were probably dead or senile, so Rowe was looking for grandchildren. She picked up the phone and dialed the first O’Halloran she found. Giving some story about research for the Historical Society, she asked the man who picked up if his grandmother was Mary O’Halloran.
He said no, but he knew which O’Hallorans she was after. They were all related. Mary had twelve children. Rowe phoned the woman he identified as Mary’s oldest granddaughter, hoping she might know of a deathbed disclosure about Thomas Baker.
The granddaughter, now sixty-five, said Baker was a villain who had wronged her family, but no one could prove it. The deed had happened a long time ago, but the O’Hallorans never forgot an ill turn. She said her grandmother had prayed regularly to St. Jude and lit candles for several other holy martyrs, hoping for news of her lost daughter.
“The rumor was he did something to Becky,” she told Rowe. “He made threats, too.”
“What kind of threats?”
“He said Becky stole valuable Baker family jewelry and if he ever found my grandmother had it, he’d make her wish she was never born.”
“Any idea what was stolen?”
“Grandma wouldn’t say.”
“I wonder why not,” Rowe thought out loud.
“No one crossed Thomas Baker. That’s what Granny always said. He was not a nice man.”
*
“So I’d be living at Quantico during the week and going home on weekends.” Phoebe stared down at the written offer. A salary of $150,000 plus a car. She was flabbergasted.
“The Bureau would provide a house or condo for you in the town—whatever you want. Free of charge.” Vernell looked at Cara as if he expected her to make the decision.
“It’s a very good offer.” Cara touched Phoebe’s arm. “What do you think?”
“I don’t want to live here. I don’t know anyone.”
“You’d be part of our community,” Vernell said. “The Bureau is a big family. You’d make friends.”
“I’m not an agent. What would I say about my job?”
“You’d be an Intelligence staffer. No one will expect you to disclose specifics about your work. People will assume you’re something to do with Homeland Security. Everyone is confused these days about who’s doing what.”
“That’s encouraging,” Cara said sarcastically.
“I need to think about it.” Phoebe put the contract back into its envelope. She would have some time to herself at home over the next few days while Cara was in L.A. This was not a decision she could make until her head was clear.
Vernell looked on edge. “Is there something you want that we’re not offering?”
Phoebe shook her head. “No. It’s a fantastic offer. The thing is, I’m not sure about living away from home. Why can’t I just come down here and stay for a few days whenever you need me for a special case?”
“It isn’t that simple. If you’re on site, we have immediate access and we can take rapid action. That’s what the big salary increase is about. We know it will be tough, so we’re willing to compensate you fairly.”
“It’s very generous.” Phoebe felt like a fool. How many people would think twice about an offer like this? She had never earned more than $30K in her admin job.
“You saw what happened with the June Feldstein case,” Vernell said. “The clock was ticking. If you’d been in Maine, Dr. K would not have been able to hypnotize you and we wouldn’t have gotten to her in time. There’s a bunch of high-priority cases the director wants you working on right away.”
Phoebe felt bad. She could see his point. All the resources were here at Quantico. But she knew if she were living on site, she would be stuck in Dr. K’s office nonstop. He’d probably have her spending more time hypnotized than awake. She thought about Harriet’s warning. The Bureau would own her. Was that what she wanted for herself?
“Maybe we could reach a compromise,” she said, catching a look from Cara that seemed almost startled. Apparently her sister didn’t think she was capable of sticking up for herself.
“We can be flexible,” Vernell said cautiously.
“I want to work from home. You can pay me less, and I’ll spend one week each month here. The rest of the time we could use one of those computer hookups. You know, so we can see each other while we talk. Maybe Dr. K will be able to hypnotize me over the screen. Or you could send him to Maine.”
“Let me see what I can do.” Vernell stood and took a poster tube from the bookshelf behind him. Handing it to Phoebe, he said, “Colby left this for you, by the way.”
Expecting to find memento copies of the mug shot and the other sketches, Phoebe popped off the cap and withdrew a single rolled leaf of heavy paper.
“Oh, my God.” Cara stared at the image unfurled on the table. It was a pastel drawing of Phoebe holding a puppy. “That’s sensational.”
“When he’s not working for us, he’s a professional portrait artist,” Vernell said. “Mostly for wealthy clients.”
“I’ve heard of him.” Cara sounded amazed. “He turned down a couple of rappers last year. Says he doesn’t paint misogynists.”
As she and Vernell chatted about Colby’s talent and how he didn’t need the lousy money the FBI paid but had a conscience, Phoebe read the note that had fluttered from the tube.
You said you wanted a puppy. Maybe this little guy will do in the meantime.
How sweet of him.
“God, we’d have to pay a fortune for this.” Cara held the picture up. “We’ll get it framed right away. I can’t believe we’ll have a Colby Boone portrait in the living room.” She glanced at Vernell. “Did you guys arrange this?”
“No. I guess Mr. Boone just took a liking to your sister.”
“Well, any artist in his right mind would want to paint her.” Cara returned the picture to the tube and handed it to Phoebe.
Touched by Colby’s gesture, Phoebe followed Cara and Vernell through the building to the car waiting outside. She could tell from the sketch that he had seen right through her cover story about being a witness, and she was unnerved. Had she accidentally revealed something? Had she sounded implausible? How was she ever going to convince anyone she was an Intelligence agent?
She wondered if anyone else saw what she saw in the picture, the sorrow that haunted her eyes. Embarrassed that she had failed to hide her true feelings from the artist, she slid the tube along the backseat of the car and stood at the door while Vernell exchanged a few words with the driver, then shook hands with Cara.
“Agent Young will wait,” he said. “He can drive you to the airport whenever you’re ready.”
“I could get used to a car service like this.” Cara grinned and got into the passenger seat.
Vernell closed her door courteously, then faced Phoebe. “Once I’ve spoken with the director, I’ll give you a call. I can’t guarantee he’ll go for it.”
“That’s fine.” Phoebe shook his hand. “Thank you for not pushing me.”
Vernell acknowledged her with a faint smile. “You can thank my wife. She says you get more bees with honey.”
*
Into the hush of winter, Rowe hurled a tennis ball and watched Jessie and Zoe churn a hail of snow as they ran across the meadow after it. Staring down at her feet, she tramped slowly after them. The light was fading. They had maybe a half hour left before the purple trees turned black and the moon began to glow like a fog light through the heavy cloud cover. There was more snow on the way. By tomorrow she and the dogs would be housebound, sheltering from the freezing peril just outside their door.
She had never felt this way in Manhattan, so keenly aware of her vulnerability to the elements, her isolation. The feeling was energizing yet at the same time strangely claustrophobic. This was how she imagined she might feel stranded on a desert island, hoping for a boat to appear on the horizon yet dreading that, when it finally did, she would be forced to return to the real world.
The crack of a branch pierced the heavy silence like a gunshot, and Rowe jerked her head up. A familiar figure emerged from the naked birches a few yards ahead. Rowe’s heart leapt and an irrational joy seized her.
“Hey!” Phoebe closed the gap between them with several long strides. “Guess what? I’m home.”
“I thought you weren’t coming back till next week.”
“We got finished early. I was coming over to see if you want to have dinner with me.” She brushed snow from her coat. A dusting of white powdered her coal black hair. One of the trees must have showered her as she walked through the woods. “It won’t be exciting. Just soup.”
Rowe kept her immediate thought to herself—that a dry crust and stagnant water would be exciting if her neighbors were sitting around the table.
“Come over now if you want. Bring the dogs.” Phoebe stooped to pat the two canines prostrated at her feet. “We could watch a DVD or something. I’d like the company. Cara’s gone back to L.A.”
“Sounds great.”
Cara was away. Rowe waited for a pang of disappointment that didn’t eventuate. She fell into step beside Phoebe, and they labored through the trees. Every wooden limb seemed to have been dipped in an icy glaze. There was almost no smell, and the only sound she could hear was that of breathing. Her own, loud and hollow in her ears. Phoebe’s, a soft rush next to her. The panting staccato of her dogs.
“You could break a leg in this…step on something.” She ducked beneath a low branch. “You have to be an idiot to go outside once winter really sets in up here. I can see that.”
Phoebe looked at her sideways, perhaps reading these pronouncements as relocation remorse. “That’s why a lot of people keep their homes here, but only come in the summer.”
“Yes, well.” Rowe hoped her tone made it clear she had no plans to join that confederacy of the fainthearted.
“How’s your book coming along?” Phoebe asked as they reached the house.
“I burned it in effigy.” Rowe kicked her snow boots against the back steps. “Printed the file and stuck it on the fire.”
“Did that feel good?” Phoebe hung their coats. Her eyes swept Rowe from top to toe in a guarded foray.
Perfect, Rowe thought. She’d walked out the door in jeans that needed to go in the laundry yesterday and a heavy shapeless cable sweater over a checked shirt. The bottoms of her jeans were now soaked and she figured she probably didn’t smell that great, either. She hadn’t showered that morning. Her bathroom was too damned cold.
“I felt completely at peace for several minutes,” she answered Phoebe’s question, following her neighbor’s slender figure through the kitchen to the den.
The twins’ old-fashioned wood stove radiated heat throughout the room, and the balsam aroma of firewood made Rowe draw a deep, contented breath. The dogs caught on immediately and threw themselves down onto the nearest rug to bask.
“Let’s get warmed up,” Phoebe invited. “Want to take off your boots?”
Trying not to notice that her neighbor was casually stripping off an outer layer of damp clothes, Rowe unlaced her boots and stuck her hands out toward the heater. “I need one of these wood burners,” she said. “The cottage is an icebox.”
“They heat the whole house.” Phoebe stretched out a hand. “Give me your jeans. I’ll put them in the dryer.”
“It’s okay. They’ll dry off pretty fast if I pull up a chair.”
Phoebe regarded Rowe with a delicately contained smile. “I wasn’t planning to have you sitting around in your boxer shorts. I’ll go get a robe.”
As soon as she left the room, Rowe pulled off the soggy jeans and joined the dogs on the rug close to the heater. She was oddly pleased that Phoebe had made the correct assumption about her underwear. Her mind instantly changed gear, generating an image of Phoebe in matching bra and panties. Oyster colored. Lacy. Sexy, but also a little modest. Phoebe wasn’t the type to wear a hot pink thong and see-through bra. Not that there was anything wrong with showgirl lingerie if that’s what got your motor running. But Rowe preferred her lovers in something classier.