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  Dave Jenks, she saw in that moment, was a man who had grown accustomed to hiding his feelings; he had done it so often that he was almost good at it. She saw the barest flicker of surprise in his eyes, but nothing more. He didn't answer right away, but neither did he avoid her eyes, or change his expression.

  Finally he said, "I'm not sure. I guess the main thing I want from you is something you can't give me."

  "What's that?"

  He finished off his coffee and walked to the sink. "I don't know. Maybe . . . just a chance to even up the score."

  Cathy knew there was a story behind that statement and she knew it was important. She wanted to ask what he meant, but didn't feel she had the right. As battered and misused as she was, she was still ashamed for mistrusting Dave.

  She said instead, "What do we do now?"

  Dave washed the cup and turned it upside down on the counter to drain. Cathy suspected that his delay in answering was because he wasn't sure what the answer was.

  Then he turned, drying his hands on a paper towel, and almost managed a smile. "Right now," he said, "let's go get something to eat."

  ***********************

  Chapter Thirteen

  The truth was that Dave didn't know what they were going to do now. He had bought them a few hours safety here in the mountains, maybe more, but Cathy wouldn't stay here forever and he didn't blame her.

  If life were fair and right, morning would have brought the intervention of the replacement FBI team, and with it a new strategy. Kreiger would have been apprehended; Dave and Cathy would be safe. But if life were fair Cathy Hamilton never would have ended up in this mess in the first place, and Dave wouldn't have had to risk his badge to get her out of it. So he wasn't counting on anything, and he was preparing for the worst.

  While Cathy was sleeping he had hidden the car as best he could in the woods in back of the cabin. By now the car would have been reported stolen, and to try to use it would be suicidal, but he hadn't been able to force himself to push it into the lake, as he probably should have done.

  Desperate measures were not second nature to him, as they might have been to others in his profession — Kreiger for instance—and he liked to think there was always a chance things wouldn't get as bad as they looked. They might need the car. They might find out the manhunt was off, Kreiger was in custody; and it was not in Dave's character to overreact.

  But neither had he stayed in law enforcement as long as he had by playing the fool. He knew things could get a lot worse before they got better, and he had to be prepared.

  They were taking a chance by going to the store, but in Dave's opinion it was minimal. He generally brought his own supplies when he visited the cabin and hardly ever came in here, so the proprietor didn't know him. If he were questioned later he might remember a man and a woman fitting their descriptions, but they weren't the only tourists on the lake, or even in the store. The chances were slim that they would ever be traced this far, although if they were . . . well, it was a calculated risk.

  The unprepossessing little store was lined with narrow aisles containing an eclectic assortment of merchandise: dusty cans of foodstuffs, hiking boots, lantern wicks, paperback books with yellow, moisture-swollen pages. In the refrigerator case plastic containers of bait were stacked between cartons of milk and cans of biscuits; everything smelled like old wood and dampness.

  It was the busy season at the lake. Dave counted seven other people in the store besides

  himself and Cathy: a family of three, two middle-aged men talking loudly and loading up on beer, and a young couple who looked like they might have posed for the cover of an L.L. Bean catalog and who, judging by the private smiles and secret touches they shared, were either on their honeymoon or not married at all. Cathy moved through the aisles with nervous distraction, and she kept glancing back at the telephone she had seen on the front porch. Dave stayed close to her, trying to cover her anxious behavior by acting normal.

  But even he couldn't make himself linger, examining the oddities and grimacing over the prices the way the other shoppers were doing. He filled a hand-held basket with single-serving cans of stew, and tuna and fruit, boxes of cookies, crackers, and toaster pastries. When he came upon a display of dehydrated campers' meals, he tossed in a handful. Even Cathy began to look questioningly at his choices and the quantity, but it wasn't until Dave reached the register counter that he admitted even to himself what his plan was. In front of the register was a display of tackle, cheap cotton hats, maps, and compasses. Behind the counter hung a selection of nylon backpacks and canteens. Dave added a compass and a selection of maps to his basket, and asked for a backpack and two canteens. When the total was rung up he was glad he had cashed his paycheck the day before.

  "What are you going to do with all that stuff?" Cathy asked as they left the store.

  "Maybe nothing. I hope nothing." They were out of the parking lot and well along the pine-needle laden trail that led back toward the lake when he handed her his cell phone. “We should be clear enough to get a signal. Make your call, but keep it short. I don’t want to keep the phone turned on long."

  She didn’t ask why. She didn’t care why. She snatched the phone from him and dialed the number from memory.

  "Mercy Hospital."

  The sound of that voice—proof positive that a world existed outside the endless jumble of impossible terrors that Cathy's world had become— seemed in that moment to be the sweetest thing Cathy had ever heard. She went weak with the sound of it, she closed her eyes and let it flow through her, and for a moment she couldn't even speak.

  The voice repeated, "Hello, Mercy Hospital. May I help you?"

  And there was another moment when Cathy didn't want to speak, when she was afraid of what she had to say and what the answer might be. But then she felt Dave’s gaze on her and she felt the seconds ticking off while she struggled for her voice. Afraid of losing the connection, she blurted, "I —I'm calling about the condition of a patient. He was brought in last night. Jack Hamilton."

  "One moment please."

  Her hand tightened on the telephone. She waited. And she thought—she couldn't help thinking—about how it had all begun, with her hand gripping another receiver in a telephone booth, waiting. And how time seemed to have slowed down and started to slip backward, and maybe this nightmare really would never end . . .

  Then the voice was back, broken and spiked with static. "Mr. Hamilton is listed in satisfactory condition in the critical care unit."

  The relief that went through her literally tingled in her fingertips and caused dots of light to dance before her eyes. Jack was alive. He was alive.

  She knew then that the person on the other end was about to disconnect and she stammered hoarsely, "Wait —no. I need to—transfer me to someone on that floor. Please."

  "One moment please."

  She waited.

  "ICU."

  "This is Cathy Hamilton," she said quickly, acutely aware of how rapidly her three minutes were passing. "Jack Hamilton's sister. He was in an accident last night, and . . ."

  "Yes." There seemed to be a note of accusation in the young woman's voice. "We've been trying to reach the family."

  "There've been some problems. The children—"

  "Just a minute, Miss Hamilton, I'm going to have to transfer you to social services.” The voice was fading and she pressed the phone closer to her ear. “We really don't have any information—"

  "No! Don’t transfer me. My brother—can you tell me how he's doing, what — "

  "He passed the night without incident. That's really all I can tell you over the phone. If you'd like to talk to Dr. Jamison — "

  "Yes! Please."

  "I'll have to take your number and let him return your call."

  "But isn’t there someone there who—“

  “I’m sorry, you’ll really have to talk to the doctor, and he’s not in the hospital. I can give you his office number, but all they can do is take a
message and have him call you back.”

  " He can’t call me back,” Cathy said tightly. She turned, trying to get a better signal. “I don’t know where I’ll be. I—hello?” She did not know how long she had been talking to dead air, but when she stared at the display she saw nothing.

  Dave held out his hand for the phone, but she turned away from him defensively. “Wait. I’ve got bars now. Let me try Ellen.”

  He looked as though he might object, but then changed his mind. Cathy was already dialing her home number.

  She waited, and waited, and she thought she had lost the signal again. The phone began to ring. Twice, three times. Come on, Ellen . . .

  There was a click and her own voice answered, absurdly cheerful. "Hello! We're so sorry to have missed your call — "

  Damn it, Ellen, you promised!

  The beep on the answering machine sounded and Cathy said, "Ellen, it's me. I'm okay. I'm at--"

  She realized she didn’t know where she was at the same time Dave snatched the phone out of her hand and pushed the disconnect button.

  With an inarticulate cry of outrage, Cathy whirled on him, and then she met his eyes and understood. She understood, and it struck her like a blow to the stomach. They had fled through the night to this safe haven and she had been about to give away their location, to leave a message on an answering machine that anyone could play .

  She swallowed hard. "Ellen should have been there. She promised she would stay there."

  "Doesn't she have to work?"

  "No. She's a teacher, like me. School recessed, last week. She wouldn't have gone home, knowing I was in trouble . . . she would have waited by the phone, she's that kind of person."

  "Maybe she was in the shower."

  "Maybe." She clasped her elbows against a sudden chill, and though she didn't want to say it, she had to. "You don't think —he has my purse, my house keys, he could have gone back there . . ."

  Dave said, "I don't think he'd want to lose the time."

  But there was a lack of conviction in his tone, an uneasiness in his eyes.

  Cathy made herself go on, hugging her elbows tighter. "He knew there was someone at my house, didn't he? You knew it, you talked to Ellen, so he must have known. He could have gone back there, thinking she might know where I was, and when she didn't . . ."

  Dave said shortly, "I've told you before, he's not a super criminal. Stop borrowing trouble."

  But Cathy could tell by the troubled expression on his face that he did not think the scenario was as farfetched as he pretended, and she said tightly, "We can't go on not knowing. How can you stand not knowing? He could be anywhere, or nowhere. We've got to find out what's happening. We can't stay here forever!"

  Though every cautious instinct he possessed rebelled against what he had to do, Dave knew Cathy was right, and he had known it since sunrise this morning. They couldn't go on stumbling around in the dark. While they hid out, waiting for something to happen and hoping they were safe, their margin of safety might be diminishing by the minute. He tried to rationalize that there was no security risk in letting Cathy phone the hospital; it was a perfectly natural thing for her to do, and she had said nothing that could lead anyone to her location. But if Dave made a phone call as well . . .

  He had no choice. He had to know what was going on. Their survival might well depend on the accuracy of that information.

  He handed Cathy the sack he carried and punched out another set of numbers.

  When he heard Hayforth's voice, he turned his back on Cathy in an automatic shielding gesture that was habitual for him while talking on the phone, and he murmured, "Hey, man. What's going on?"

  There was a brief, startled silence. If he hadn't known better, Dave might have thought the chief didn't recognize his voice. But then the voice returned, dry and tense. "Maybe you could tell me."

  Dave drew a soft breath. He had been afraid of that. "I guess you heard about my troubles."

  "And I'll guess you've got more trouble than you know. A civilian was killed at that diner. You've got uniforms in two states looking for you, and you're a fool for calling here."

  It seemed a long time before Dave could release his breath, and when he did it was in a whispered, "Shit!"

  He pushed his hand across his jaw; he tried to think. He couldn't look at Cathy. "Look," he said, "I need some information."

  "The only information I've got for you is this," the chief replied, his voice low. "We're talking about a thirty-million dollar deal, two high-powered government agencies, a three-year investigation, and repercussions that you and I aren't even smart enough to imagine. These people don't do business like we do, and certain players in this game are expendable. I wish it were different." There was a click, and silence.

  Dave turned off the phone. He said again, softly, "Shit," and returned the phone to his pocket.

  He took the sack from Cathy. "Let's go."

  Cathy knew there was no point in asking him what he had learned, or even who he had called; from the look on his face she knew it wasn't good news, and he would tell her what he wanted to when he wanted to. She had her own priorities now, and they did not include waiting for Dave Jenks to take her into his confidence.

  When she had walked into the fishing shack with him that dawn it had been with every intention of leaving him as soon as possible—not because she thought he meant her any harm, but because she was almost sure his intentions were the opposite. He wanted to protect her, and the best way to do that would be to keep her here, safe and hidden away. But Cathy couldn't stay here.

  She had watched which pocket he put the car keys in, and had planned to slip them away from him as soon he was asleep. But exhaustion had claimed her first. That meant the plan had been delayed, but the urgency had only increased. Dave Jenks was not going to take her to Jack, and so she had to get away from him.

  The crunching of their footsteps on the dirt path that wound away from the store was the only break in the silence until Dave spoke. His voice, echoing the course of her thoughts, startled her. "How's Jack?"

  She shot a quick glance at him. His expression was taut and his eyes were preoccupied, but the interest and concern that backed the question were genuine. Cathy felt a stab of irrational guilt, as though she had been caught plotting a betrayal—which, she supposed, in a way she was doing.

  "When you say that," she answered slowly, still watching him, "it's like you know him. I felt the same way the first time I talked to you on the phone. Like you knew me."

  Dave lifted his shoulders a little in a gesture that looked a little embarrassed. "I guess I feel like I do know him —and you. I spent so much time studying you and trying to understand you last night—I had to, trying to stay one step ahead of you. And Jack is just a part of you."

  Just a part of you. Never had she heard the relationship between twins expressed so simply, so elegantly, so precisely . . . and yet with a subtle nuance that no one else might have noticed, though to Cathy it made all the difference in the world. All her life she had been referred to, and had thought of herself, in relationship to Jack; Jack's sister, Jack's twin, aunt to Jack's children. Jack's confidante, Jack's cheerleader, Jack's Number One Fan ... a part of Jack. No one had ever referred to Jack as just a part of Cathy before. How odd.

  She said, "He's still critical. They wouldn't tell me anything else and I couldn't talk to the doctor. I . . Her throat started to tighten, she had to squeeze the words out. "I thought he was dead. Since last night, I've thought . . . and it's still hard to believe, you know? That he's really alive."

  A small frown of perplexity replaced the deeper anxiety that had haunted Dave's eyes since he hung up the phone. "Why did you think that? Did someone tell you that?"

  She shook her head. The day that had begun so gray was clearing with afternoon, and patches of sunlight began to appear like yellow leaves in the tops of the trees, and in lacy patterns on the path. "It's hard to explain about twins. Sometimes we can just—sense things a
bout the other. And last night, while all that was happening, I just kept trying to think what Jack would do—God knows, I don't know anything about defensive driving or street fighting or thinking like a criminal, or even hiding from one—but Jack is always reading these action adventure books and spy novels. He's a virtual font of trivia about things like that. So I kept trying to think like he would, and sometimes it seemed I could actually hear him in my head, telling me what to do . . . for the things I remembered him saying over the years. And as long as I could still imagine what he would do, pretend I knew what he would say, it was as though I wasn’t alone, and I could make myself believe I’d get out of this okay. And then . . . after Kreiger, when I was so terrified, alone and lost in the dark, when I needed him most . . . Jack wasn't there anymore. That feeling, that connectedness, even the sound of his voice, was gone ... and I knew he was dead."

  The only sound was the crunch of their feet on the pine needles for a time. Dappled light filtered through the feathery branches of a spruce and patterned Dave’s face, erasing the lines for a moment, softening the harshness. He said thoughtfully, "Maybe you just didn’t need him anymore."

  She had spoken, putting her innermost thoughts into words, without ever meaning to tell him so much, and hardly aware, at the time, of doing it. Now she felt uncomfortable, and she shifted her eyes away.

  He went on, "After all, you're the one who eluded a highly trained federal agent, not once, but twice. You're the one who called for help and then had sense enough to realize—which God knows is more than I did at the time—that the very people you called might be at the root of your troubles. You're the one who was strong enough, and smart enough, to disable an armed man, and you're the one who had the compassion to call for an ambulance even though it endangered your escape. I’m guessing that by the time you fought off Kreiger and got away—something I would have given you one chance in a thousand of doing—even your subconscious must have finally realized you could take care of yourself. You didn't need Jack anymore." He glanced at her without altering his stride. “Maybe you never did.”