Chapter 3

Calm, cool and collected. That was how Francine needed to appear, regardless of how she might actually be feeling.

She took a deep breath of the frigid February air before opening the door, flashed her badge, and stepped deeper into the CIA office at Langley. She kept her head up, her eyes forward, but she made sure to notice every detail. These people recruited Jonathan, even knowing he’d fallen for a false recruiter in the past. He hadn’t wanted to be involved in intelligence again, but somehow they got him to do it anyway. I want to know how. And why.

After a few terse words with a functionary, she was shown into an office. The person’s name and title, she knew, were meaningless. Nobody was ever who they said they were, not with the Company. All she cared about was whether she would get her answers.

“…I’m sorry, Agent Desmond, but that information is classified.”

“You can at least tell me when you last heard from him,” she pointed out.

“I believe that’s classified, too.”

“Then tell me,” she snapped, “what isn’t.”

“Nothing, actually. I’m surprised you even thought he was working for us, given his…history.”

She felt her composure slip a little. “Don’t. Even. Try. That. The Company handles overseas operations. Jonathan was in Paris. Enough said.”

“What exactly took him to Paris?”

“He told me he was going to oversee some shipments.”

The functionary leaned back. “Why don’t you believe he’s still there?”

“Because he never went a day without calling me.” Her breathing had begun to quicken. Inhale, she told herself. Hold one second. Exhale. Bad enough that she’d revealed that personal detail, but she could still salvage this conversation if she stayed calm.

“Are you sure that’s the only reason he went to Paris?”

“I’m sure it isn’t,” she snapped. “Not after the call Billy Melrose got.”

“What if I told you it wasn’t anything as complicated as all that?”

Francine gave him a sharp look. “I thought you said he wasn’t even working for you.”

The functionary shrugged. “Did I? Of course, he didn’t have to be working for us for us to track his movements.” He leaned forward. “Perhaps that call to Melrose wasn’t anything more than someone having seen something they shouldn’t.”

It took her a second to parse that sentence. “That was worth a call to the Agency’s Director of Field Operations?”

“Maybe what they saw would have been quite embarrassing, if you’d found out about it.”

Her eyes narrowed and her tone dropped. “What are you insinuating?”

“Don’t be naïve, Agent Desmond. You know exactly what I’m suggesting.”

She shook her head. “Maybe you should try again.” That had never been an issue between them, not even the first time. “He works with women all the time.”

“But does he meet them in Paris? Or greet them with a kiss?”

Do not lose your temper, she cautioned herself. That’s exactly what this toad wants. “If there’s a need. Why don’t you tell me what he was doing that got Langley’s attention.” It wasn’t a question. “Surely you don’t track every American you think may be…stretching moral rules a little. There had to be more to it.”

“What,” he asked, “makes you say that? Perhaps there’s something you’re not admitting to knowing, either.”

“Don’t,” she ground out, ignoring the tension headache that had begun hovering. “I’m not admitting or denying anything. I’m here to ask for information.” She met his eyes levelly. “Before I start demanding it.”

The man on the other side of the desk regarded her for a long, uncomfortable moment, his expression unreadable.

“You should think carefully about doing that,” he told her. While the tone was mild, it was also just a tad too silky. “When personal involvement intersects with Company attention, the scope of inquiry has a way of…widening. Often without warning.”

She folded her arms.

He rose, making a dismissive gesture. “You mustn’t forget that inquiries often don’t stop with principals. Anyone standing in the…shall we say, blast radius…could be affected. Even the Director of Field Operations.” His expression became haughty. “And especially someone who’s just a run-of-the-mill agent.”

Somehow, the insult steadied her. Francine’s chin came up. “That’s beneath even the Company’s standards.”

“You’re not in a position to be lecturing anyone about standards.” He opened the office door and made an unmistakable gesture. “Good day, Agent Desmond. I’ll alert the front desk that you’re on your way out.”

Without any real choice, she rose, but she kept her movements easy and loose all the way out to the front desk and into the street. That was when she let herself stop and take a real, honest, deep breath. That had been a threat — and not a mild one, either. Just how close had she gotten to the truth in there?

Francine shook her head. That was exactly what she wanted to find out.

---

There were some things, Lee thought, he would have been better off never finding out. Such as what “debridement” meant, or what the inside of his own foot looked like.

Unfortunately, he’d insisted on the mirror when he’d found out Dr. Sanchez hadn’t actually closed the wound in his foot. He’d expected to see something blood-red, and there certainly had been plenty of that. What he hadn’t expected was a patchwork of white, red, and even gray. The different-colored areas wavered around their edges, though he suspected he’d have seen clear delineations if his vision were normal. Whatever was in there was alive and real, right here. Right now. Not a picture or a medical illustration.

He hadn’t quite managed to ask that the mirror be removed, but he was doing his best not to look at it now.

Amanda had been visibly pale and sweating after his first debridement session, excusing herself too quickly once it was over. Now, she was able to stay and watch through the procedure, but he’d noticed she tended to avoid eating immediately before one was scheduled. As for him, they hadn’t even let him out of bed yet, so his best coping mechanism so far was trying to step outside himself and let it happen to someone else.

Metal scraped softly. Pressure shifted. Something tugged deep inside, causing a sensation he couldn’t quite describe. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and iron, and there was also a metal tray where debris collected. He absolutely was not looking at that. The ceiling tiles were quickly becoming his best friend.

It had seemed strange that they hadn’t stitched up the wound after the amputation. Sanchez had explained it: too much trauma, too much of a risk that something was still hidden — debris, infection, damaged tissue that hadn’t been detected yet. It was best to leave it open for a week or so, to keep watching it and removing anything that didn’t belong. The explanation was sensible. Logical. He understood it. He’d thought he was prepared.

The first time they’d done a debridement, he’d argued about the numbing agent. He hadn’t even lasted fifteen seconds.

There was a loud clatter of metal on metal, and then the snap of a plastic glove. “You’re really looking very well, Mr. Stetson,” said the nurse.

“Glad to hear it,” he muttered.

“In fact,” said Dr. Sanchez, “I think we’re about ready to close this up. Nadine, if you’ll schedule it for tomorrow or the next day, please. After that’s done, we can start talking about discharge planning.”

The phrase brought Lee out of the mild trance he’d managed to find his way into. “You mean I’m getting out of here?”

Amanda spoke up. “What kind of preparations will we need to make?”

Sanchez held up his hands. “Let’s schedule the closing surgery first, and make sure there are no complications from that. Also, Dr. Thomas is here with your glasses. You should make sure those are working properly.”

Lee grimaced. That was something else he would have preferred not to find out.

“Oh, come on,” said Amanda. “Lots of people wear glasses, Lee. Jamie wears them. It’s not that bad.”

He snorted. “Yeah, but most of them don’t spend their days in shady places. I can’t afford to lose focus.”

Sanchez started to say something, but Amanda shook her head. Her color had come back, and her lips twitched into something that was almost a smile. “You’ll adapt, sweetheart.”

His head fell back onto the pillow. “Yeah. I guess I have to, don’t I?”

“Just take it one step at a time,” suggested the doctor. “Healing and rehabilitation are processes, not events.”

Lee took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. One step at a time, even if the first few would be on crutches. He could push through that, just like he’d always pushed through everything else. This was nothing more than another test of that endurance. And he always won those. Always.

---

Nancy had had enough. She wasn’t going to win her way into Francine’s confidence by waiting patiently, so it was time for direct action. But it needs to be strategic, she warned herself. Remember that. Calm and professional. No blurting. No nervous laughter. And absolutely no filling silences just because you’re uncomfortable.

Her stomach fluttered anyway.

This was the third straight day that Francine had assigned her to busywork — or to shepherding Douglas Trent — instead of actually using her on whatever case had her attention. That wasn’t oversight, or distraction. That was intentional. Her senior partner was trying to keep her out of the loop, and she didn’t appreciate it. Yes, she was still relatively new to the Agency, but she wasn’t completely green.

“All right,” she whispered to herself as she strode into the bull pen. “You can do this.”

Francine was at her desk, reviewing files and seemingly cut off from the normal hustle and bustle of the bull pen. Yet she looked up immediately when Nancy appeared beside her. “You need something else to do, Zeta?”

“Yes,” said Nancy. “I need to know what research you need on this case. That’s supposed to be the junior partner’s job, not the senior’s.”

There was a loud whack as Francine closed whatever file she’d been working on. “I know how to manage a partnership. And right now I don’t need help. Go supervise Trent.”

“No.” She’d spoken the word quietly, and her stomach was now full of butterflies, but she forced herself to stay still. “Trent’s been placed on assignment with Beaman. Something about hardening the computers. I don’t quite understand it, but they do. All I understand is he doesn’t need an escort anymore.”

“Then go find something else to do. I’m sure Lee and Amanda would appreciate it if we tried to pick up anything outstanding from the Q-Bureau.”

“Scarecrow and Sunlight will be fine.” Mr. Melrose had already announced he would distribute their cases out. “I’m your partner, Francine. Let me do my job.”

“As my partner, your job is to observe. Learn. Assist. And to do as you’re told.”

“That’s right,” allowed Nancy. She took a breath, forcing her hands not to shake. “You’ve cut me so far out of this that I can’t do any of that. And it’s been too much and too long to pretend that it’s an accident.”

Francine’s jaw set. “You want to be careful what you say next, Zusterakos. Very careful.”

Nancy bit her lip, but stood her ground. “I am being careful. Look, I’ve followed your orders on every case we’ve worked since the HVA Irregulars. You’ve praised my research before. You’re obviously needing research help here, but every time I offer you send me somewhere else.” She paused. “Why the secrecy?”

“That’s none of your business,” Francine snapped, causing a couple of heads to turn their direction. But then her shoulders dropped. “It isn’t about you, Zeta. I just don’t want you anywhere near this.”

She dropped her voice. “Why not?”

Francine didn’t quite meet her eyes. “This…this one is going to get worse before it gets better. Careers could be on the line. Yours is too new to risk.”

“That’s my decision to make,” she said quietly. “Not yours. And I knew this job could be political before I took it.”

“You haven’t seen political yet,” replied Francine. “And you don’t want this to be the time you do. I don’t want you to end up tainted. Stay clear and stay clean.”

Nancy blinked, startled. She’d expected territoriality. She hadn’t expected concern.

But she wasn’t going to be dissuaded.

“No,” she repeated. “You picked me to be your partner, Francine. I know what that means. If something goes down, we’re supposed to go down together. You don’t get to push me aside just because you think there might be some inconvenience.”

“‘I don’t get’?” repeated Francine. “Since when do you decide what I do and don’t get to do?”

“I just told you.” The butterflies in her stomach had become stinging hornets.

Francine looked away for a long moment before shaking her head. “No. I — I’m sorry, Zeta. There aren’t going to be any heroic wins here. Just loss and disaster. You deserve better, even if I have to cram that down your throat.”

“What I deserve,” said Nancy, keeping her voice even, “is to be treated like an agent. Even if I am still a junior.” She paused. “Please. Don’t shut me out.”

For a second, neither one of them moved. Noise hummed around them, phones ringing, voices overlapping, computers calculating, the coffee machine gurgling. This was the way the bull pen always sounded, but Nancy knew Francine wasn’t hearing it. She wasn’t really, either.

“Nancy,” said Francine softly. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I know enough. I know that you wouldn’t go off the rails unless it was critical. And I know that whatever’s going on has you spooked. You. Francine Desmond. Of all people.” Her voice softened, letting some of the trepidation through. “You don’t have to do this alone. Let me help.”

There was another loaded moment, but then Francine shoved the file across the desk. “You need background, so start here. Then come see me when you’re ready for more.”

---

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

Lee squared his shoulders. “I’ve been ready. I hate hospitals. Especially now.”

Amanda sighed. “Sweetheart, we’ve been over this. I signed off on it because it was the —”

“I know,” he interrupted harshly. Then, more gently, he repeated, “I know.”

She turned the key in the lock and opened the front door of their townhouse. Lee wobbled slightly on his crutches as he went across the uneven threshold into the living room, but managed well enough until he stopped cold right in front of the entry. Amanda nearly stumbled as she tried not to crash into him.

“What —?” Then she looked past him, and her stomach dropped.

Jamie was bouncing around the chaotic living room excitedly. “Lee! Oh, man, am I glad to see you! It’s been crazy around here, what with us all trying to rearrange things and — are those crutches? That is so gnarly! We thought you were gonna be using a wheelchair or a walker or somethin’. Are you going to have one of those too?”

The bags with Lee’s belongings slipped out of her fingers and crashed half-in and half-out of the front door, spilling across the stoop.

“Jamie!” bellowed Joe from across the room. “Let them get through the door first.”

“You might also help your mother pick up those bags,” added Carrie from beside him.

Lee was the first to find his voice. “What the hell is going on here?”

Joe exchanged a glance with Carrie. “I thought we could — this is — Jamie said we should — we were just trying to help,” he stammered.

“By turning my house into a war zone?” Lee was vibrating so hard Amanda could see it.

“Jamie,” Amanda jumped in. “I don’t remember hearing you say anything about moving the furniture around.”

At that, Joe turned to their son. “You mean you forgot to ask?”

The child shrank a little. “No. I…I only thought of it after you left to go get him, Mom.”

Joe rolled his eyes while Carrie let out a long breath. “Jamie,” she said, “You should have told us that. Now put the bags down inside the doorway, please, and close the door. It’s cold outdoors.”

He did as he was told, and then turned to Lee and Amanda, shoulders drooping. “I’m sorry. Really. I just thought it might be a good idea.”

“Let’s just start moving the furniture back where it was,” Joe said. Then he looked at Lee. “We were trying to make the room a little more accessible for you. That’s all.”

“Everything was fine the way it was!” snapped Lee. “I don’t need special treat —” he cut himself off. “Just…put it back.”

Amanda slipped around to face him. “They will. It was a mistake, Lee. That’s all. Nobody meant —”

“A mistake? Trying to rearrange things like I’m some sort of invalid?”

“You are sort of an invalid,” mumbled Jamie.

“James Richard!” snapped Amanda and Joe together. Then she continued alone. “You aren’t helping!” Turning back to her husband, she asked, “Why don’t we go into the kitchen, and I’ll fix us something to eat while we wait for them to put the living room back together?”

He shook his head, his face white, his hands trembling. “I just want to go upstairs and lie down.”

“Lee,” she began. “You’re on crutches. You’re going to need some help —”

“I can handle it just fine!” he nearly snarled. “Just —” He made his way over to the steps, but then stared at them for a long moment. “Oh, damn it!”

The sudden silence spoke more than any words could have.

“It’s all right,” she began in her most soothing tone.

“No it isn’t!” Thrusting the crutches at her, he turned around, sat down, and began levering himself up the stairs on his backside.

Amanda picked up the bags inside the door but then leaned against it for a long moment, letting her breath out and closing her eyes. The bags were suddenly twice as heavy as they’d been when she’d taken them out of the car.

« Prev · Next »