::  The Lost Boys ::

Part 1

Disclaimers: JAG belongs to Bellasario Productions. The Equalizer, which aired between 1985 and 1989, belongs to CBS and James McAdams. Had I known about fanfic back then, I would have definitely written it.

Author’s Note: Much thanks to redwriter for a wonderful beta as always.

Clay Porter who, only a year ago had been known to anyone who mattered as Clayton Webb, shut down his computer, pulled the roll top canopy down and leaned back in his chair. "That ought to win me the… It was a Dark and Stormy Night Award. Dear God, treason and trash."

He stared out the window at the rolling hills in the distance. One small gap revealed the river making its way south. Red-gold light slashed through the clouds creating a surreal effect worthy of a Fredrick Edwin Church painting. "Treason, trash and Tennessee." He shuddered. He wanted a drink.

Mist was rising up from the valley directly below the bluff that ended his property. In the valley below, Saul Whitcomb’s prized thoroughbreds gamboled as they headed to the stable. One of these days, he’d finally go down and introduce himself formally and perhaps offer his assistance. Would a reclusive writer of unpublished novels suddenly show up one day and offer to clean out stalls?

But that wasn’t his real concern. He needed to keep his distance. If a sweeper team ever found him, they’d kill everyone in sight. Of course, considering his relationship with his neighbor just up the hill, he knew it was a little late for that; Emily Jackson was already entrenched in his life.

He thought, not for the first time, that Robert was out of his mind for suggesting that writing it all down would somehow help. Watts had probably prepared for this eventuality, anyway. After re-reading his first attempt, he didn’t think Watts had anything to worry about. "First draft or fifth, it’s awful."

Turning away from the view and the desk, he considered his safe house. It was a nice enough three-room cabin. He’d purchased it with part of his escape fund. Thank God he’d listened to one of the few men who’d escaped the CIA under his own terms.

He had no idea what to do now. It might’ve been okay if he could get rip-roaring drunk. But he’d only done that once and Emily’s look of quiet disgust and disdain had been surprisingly effective. Maybe he’d watch a movie on his 52-inch LCD monitor, another gift to himself. The only news he watched was the feel-good station out of Chattanooga, which seemed to focus on local pie-eating contests more than the state of the world outside. Why watch what you couldn’t do anything about? And, there was nothing he could do about Iraq, or even Washington. Watts had seen to that.

Clay stepped out onto his screened in porch to take in the blue-black darkness of night. The cicadas had been joined in their night music by the barn owl that nested in his outbuilding and bullfrogs that infested the pond next to the cabin. The fireflies had returned to wherever fireflies go after their nightly appearance, and the only light was the stars above and the harsh halogen safety light on the pole between his house and the Jackson place farther up, a football field’s length from his property. He stretched his muscles and found the bullet wound in his leg no longer ached. Settling into the comfortable Adirondack chair, he put his feet up and stared out at the cemetery of his life.

He wondered if he had the courage to send the book to Robert. God, it was bad. He could ride a horse, he could play the piano and the cello, he could speak seven languages. He sucked at writing. Forget fiction. He bored himself with his narrative, and he’d lived it and still suffered from the nightmares.

He should’ve been a hero. He’d saved the president’s life. However, when he voiced his desire to rise from the ashes, Watts had strongly suggested that returning to life was in no one’s interest. Unsure on how to proceed, unwilling to trust his own instincts, Clay went to the one man he could trust. Even Robert had been surprised at the duplicity that’d cost Webb so much.

After listening to Clay’s story, Robert had insisted that Clay couldn’t just up and announce to the world that he was alive. "George Watts is bloody diabolical. We need a plan. Let me work on it." At least Robert had broken the news to Porter that her son was alive. Clay was grateful that his mother had such a good friend and spared a brief moment of guilt over how hard he’d fought their relationship over the years.

Robert had brought her to the safe house in New York, and mother and son had had a brief reunion. Clay absently rubbed his cheek. He could still feel her stinging slap for keeping her in the dark for as long as he had. Her subsequent tears had washed away the pain and sealed the guilt in his soul forever.

When Watts had insisted upon a meeting – in a quiet spot out by the Hudson River - Clay had accepted the fact that he had to become a ghost if he was going to live. Had it not been for his mother, he would’ve fought it. But her heartfelt, ‘You can’t do this to me again,’ had sent him to Tennessee of all places. Robert had handled the details.

Clay leaned his head back against the pillow that Emily had so thoughtfully provided him on her second visit. He could really use a drink. But he no longer kept liquor in his house and Ogilvy was dry; the Dew Drop Inn on the other side of the county line was more effort than he was willing to expend.

He watched the evening clouds, the rustling of the trees, the bats leaving their cave below his property, anything to put off closing his eyes for as long as he could. But finally they fluttered shut and…

He saw her.

He’d tried so hard not to fall in love with Sarah. But six years ago, a blue dress had sealed his fate. Of course he’d always known that she loved Rabb. He’d watched for years as the top gun of JAG kept her dangling. Almost dying in Paraguay had pushed him into declaring his love. The vision of her calm accepting eyes at his funeral had killed whatever hope Clay had that she might’ve considered the possibility that his ‘death’ was a ruse.

He really needed to get up and go inside before he fell asleep. When he dreamed, his nightmares still centered on Paraguay. Only in his nightmares, when Sadik had plunged the knife into her, there was no pregnancy suit to protect her. Inside the private cocoon of his cabin no one could hear him scream. At least he hoped Emily couldn’t. He really didn’t want her questioning him about his dreams. She was as relentless as one of the Agency’s best interrogators. Struggling, he pulled himself out of the chair. As he returned to his living room, he wondered if, someday, she’d figure it out.

He’d taken bitter pride in furnishing the entire place without the help of his mother’s decorator or the Internet. Every piece here he’d found during his forays into small rural Tennessee and Kentucky antique shops. It was one of the few pleasures he had out here: Antiquing and spending as much time as he could with Emily Jackson.

"Maybe I’ll watch the news before I go to bed." He kicked off his shoes, pulled off his sweatshirt and unbuttoned his jeans, kicking them away once they settled at his feet. He really was becoming a slob. He’d never done this when he lived in Washington. But Ogilvy, Tennessee was far from Washington in more ways than just distance. He just hoped that the Agency thought so, too.

He settled onto the comfortable second-hand leather sofa, determined to keep the dreams away a bit longer.

****

"Clay? Are you dead?"

Clay opened one eye and looked for the source of the question. He knew immediately who’d asked it, he just didn’t know from where? "Emily?"

"Do dead people talk?"

Groaning, he struggled to sit up. It was a comfortable couch, but he’d slept in an odd position and it hurt to move. The dried sweat on his body made peeling himself off the leather an excruciating experience, too. "What time is it?"

"Sun’s up."

He groaned again and this time managed to sit up. Peering up at the antique ship’s clock, he bit his tongue to keep from swearing. Emily Jackson was a magpie and if she came home and started saying "shit," her grandmother would immediately know whom to blame. "It’s a little early for you to be calling on gentlemen, isn’t it, Miss Jackson?"

Her giggle was high-pitched, yet oddly soothing. "You’re not a gentleman! You said you were an unsa-unseal-un..."

"Never mind!" He stood and scratched his chest, then, realizing how undressed he was, quickly turned away from the window where she was stooped, peering in at him. "It isn’t polite to come into someone’s house without knocking."

"I’m not in your house! I’m on the porch!" She declared with all the logic a six-year old needed. Of course, he was pretty sure that the tiny despot of Mockingbird Lane was, in fact, the combined reincarnation of Eleanor Roosevelt and Audrey Hepburn. She might be one of his joys in an otherwise dismal existence, but she had pain-in-the-ass down to a science.

"Why are you here so early, Emily?"

"Grandmother had to go into town this morning. She left me cereal. I would prefer omelets, thank you."

Clay longed to go into his bedroom and collapse on his bed, but it’d do no good to suggest that the determined child return later, and he’d sooner cut out his tongue than yell at her. Gingerly trying to stretch out the kinks in his back, he made his way to his bedroom. "Come inside and find the eggs. Break four into the bowl like I showed you." She was already in his kitchen by the time he closed the door to his bedroom.

Clay couldn’t understand Lucille Jackson. A nice enough lady, she seemed to him to have all the maternal instincts of a sea turtle. While always washed, extremely well behaved and apparently well fed, Emily had the run of the lane. In the six months that Clay had lived below them, Lucille had spoken to him only in passing unless he was returning her granddaughter to her after a day of… whatever it was she did while Emily occupied herself. The thing that Clay couldn’t reconcile was how well adjusted Emily was. Well, except for her obsession with asking him if he was dead whenever she found him dozing in his chair on the porch, or as she had this morning. He’d asked Lucille about it once, but she’d looked at him like he had two heads.

He’d carefully asked around the small hamlet of Ogilvy. Most of the people were polite to him, but few had possessed any insight into Lucille and her ways, and fewer still had volunteered to share it with the standoffish Mr. Porter. All he’d learned was that Lucille had moved here with Emily after her son and his wife had died in a car wreck five years ago.

He was convinced that Lucille only acknowledged his presence because of his potential as another babysitter. She wasn’t the Welcome Wagon type. However, Emily had presented herself the first day as he and Robert were still unloading his newly acquired, nondescript three year old Dodge pickup – gone were the days of flashy little sport cars.

Emily’d sat in the corner of his porch, and offered a full commentary about the lane and its residents. Robert had cocked one eyebrow at the inquisitive child and quickly decamped.

Showered and shaved, he pulled on jeans and a cotton golf shirt. Slipping on his shoes, he paused to brush his hair before his dresser mirror. "Dear God, I’m surprised she didn’t go screaming down the lane to Helen Peterson." Red-rimmed eyes with bags that would do a basset hound proud stared back at him.

Returning to the living area, he found her sitting at his kitchen table carefully stirring the eggs. "How many shells to I have to watch out for?"

She didn’t look up from her careful stirring. "Not too many."

He hid his grimace and went to the stove to start the fire. She’d already pulled out the cream for the eggs. He went to the refrigerator. "Cheese?"

"Yes, please."

"Mushrooms?"

She wrinkled her nose in thought, then announced, "Not today."

He sighed. He really liked mushrooms. "Ham?"

"Only if it’s the sweet kind."

"Picky."

She graced him with her brightest smile and he felt considerably better.

She made toast as the omelet set up. His glance kept straying to the adorable six-year with chocolate brown eyes that slanted perfectly. Oh, he knew why the child had claimed his soul. Emily Jackson would’ve been the child that he and Sarah might’ve created together. Not only did she look like a miniature of Sarah MacKenzie, she had all the qualities that he loved in his Sarah.

His Sarah. His dream Sarah: who might have waited; who might have looked for him; who might have at least gone to the Agency and demanded to see the body. But she hadn’t. Two months after his funeral, she’d sub-let her apartment to move in with Rabb. That had wounded him more deeply than his beatings in Paraguay and the gunshots he had suffered at the hands of the double agent, Harrison Kershaw.

"What are we doing today, Clay?" Emily’s high-pitched demand pulled him back to the present.

"When is your grandmother returning from town?" A shrug was her only response. Sighing, Clay went to the table by the couch and picked up the cell phone that was registered to his new personae but still state of the art. Only this one was up-linked to a Navy communication satellite instead of a CIA unit. He no longer questioned how Robert, twenty years separated from the CIA, managed to do what he did.

He scrolled through the preset numbers – only ten now that he was a ghost – and waited for Lucille to answer. "What?" He could hear the wind in the background as she talked and sped down the highway to God knew where.

"Are you returning today?" he demanded.

"Of course! I just have to run into Chattanooga for a bit. If Emily gets to be too much trouble, just send her home. She has plenty of chores to do."

"Damn it, Lucille! Why didn’t you just tell me last night?" He walked out onto the porch.

"Oh, for goodness sakes. You act like she can’t take care of herself. She did just fine before you came to town. If you got something to do, send her to Helen Peterson."

"I’ll manage." He closed the phone and then struggled to get his emotions under control. He had a smile on is face when he turned to find Emily gazing at him with those eyes that seemed to see into his soul. "Well, kid. What about going to look at Saul Whitcomb’s horses today."

Her eyes grew huge. "You think it’d be okay?"

"Eat up. We’ll do that, then go get some lunch in town."

Even her smile reminded him of Sarah.

Saul Whitcomb was a surprise. He welcomed their intrusion, and Clay could tell that it was because of Emily. Saul even allowed Emily to sit on one of the horses. Clay walked her around the small corral and offered a few pointed suggestions.

"You know a bit about riding, don’t you?" Saul said as Clay helped wipe down the horse.

"A bit." Clay said noncommittally.

"You busy up there on the hill?"

"Not too busy." Clay held his breath and when Saul didn’t say anything further, he added. "You need any help down here?"

"Might."

"Call me if you do."

Emily, who had rapturously watched a litter of puppies nursing, finally took Clay’s hand and announced. "I’m hungry and I have to go to the library. Miss Hylton gave us summer reading."

Sighing dramatically, Clay looked down at her. He couldn’t believe that her grandmother was so laissez-faire about Emily’s whereabouts. Ogilvy might very well be the epitome of small-town America, but it was 2005! "Sure, kiddo. But only if you eat something healthy at the diner."

His answer was a wrinkled nose of disgust and he was certain she’d give him an argument once they arrived at the town’s only eatery.

Buildings over a hundred years old surrounded the courthouse in the square. There were some empty storefronts, but from what Clay had overheard, several businesses were thinking about coming in to cater to the tourists – as the city folks of nearby Nashville were called. He hoped that one of them might be a better restaurant. Maybe he’d look into opening one himself. He was a good cook. At his amused snort, Emily looked at him funny.

"Morning, Emily, Mr. Porter," one of the older residents called.

"Fine day, don’t you think?" Clay responded in kind.

He’d been shocked at the way the townspeople had accepted him. He looked down at the little girl who so solemnly held his hand. Everyone in Ogilvy treated Emily Jackson with bemused tolerance. However, he sensed something else just below the surface. Perhaps if he’d actually tried to cultivate closer friendships, he could find out more. But he hadn’t wanted to get attached to people. If he had to run… He looked down at Emily and his heart constricted. How the hell could he keep doing this to himself? How could he have allowed this tiny girl to enter his heart?

"Well, Miss Emily!" The owner of the diner greeted them. "Mr. Porter."

Emily looked up at Clay. "May we please sit at the counter?"

He would have preferred a table in back where he could keep an eye on the doorway. However, he gave in graciously. "Of course."

After much discussion – on Clay’s part – and pouting – on Emily’s part – they reached a compromise. They would both forgo milkshakes but hamburgers and fries were acceptable. Emily took one last shot. "I’m just a kid, Clay. I’m supposed to eat junk food."

"No you’re not," he insisted. He had to admit the hamburgers were excellent. Much better than the Beltway Burgers that Sarah liked.

"You’ve got that sad look again," Emily chirped.

"I’m sometimes sad, Em. That’s the way of the world."

"Well, not me. I’m going to be happy all the time!" she said. Then giving him a sidelong glance, added, "Or angry because I can’t be happy."

He laughed. "You’re a tyrant, you know that?" She nodded agreeably. "Now, what’s this about going to the library?" He paid the check and followed her outside. He walked with her towards the Carnegie Library that sat across the square. "What books do you have to read this summer?"

"Five. The first one I want to get is James and the Giant Peach."

"One of my favorites." He sat on the steps. "I’ll wait here for you." It was a beautiful day and he wanted to get his emotions under control. It wasn’t Emily’s fault that this was a sad time for him. It had been a year since his ‘death,’ a year since he’d lost everything that had mattered to him.

When she returned, they explored a few shops on the square. Each proprietor insisted on talking with them. Finally, he declared, "Let’s go see if your grandmother’s returned. She probably misses you."

She didn’t answer him until he had turned down Mockingbird Lane. "Grandma’s scared ‘bout something. I don’t think she likes me anymore. I think she hates me."

"Nonsense. What’s she afraid of?" Clay asked as casually as he could.

Emily just shrugged. "Could you be my guardian, Clay?"

For a moment he couldn’t breathe. Stopping next to the late model Cadillac in front of Lucille’s small cottage, he finally turned to her. "I’m honored, honey, but I don’t think so. I’m not a blood relative. Besides, who’s going to look out for your grandmother?"

"I suppose." She wouldn’t look at him, though.

"Hey. I’m just down the hill. You want me to talk to her? Find out why she’s scared?"

Emily shook her head. "It’ll be okay." She opened her door and ran across the yard. Stopping at the screen door, she turned and waved.

Clay waited a moment to see if Lucille would come out, but finally, he drove down the rutted lane that separated their properties and served as his driveway. Why would Lucille be scared? He had no idea what she did in Chattanooga. Did she spend all her time at the gambling boat? Were mobsters going to show up on her doorstep and threaten Emily? He’d been out of the game too long. He needed answers, but he couldn’t use his old contacts.

Why the hell couldn’t he just rest in peace? But, of course, he knew why. A six-year old had gotten under his skin. That had NEVER happened in Washington or anywhere else. He’d been the Tin Man. At least he had been until he made the mistake of using Sarah to get to her uncle. That’d opened him up to the wonderfully straight-arrow, oh so black-and-white morality of the world of JAG. In his most bitter moods, he railed against them all: from Bud Roberts and his ‘how do you sleep at night,’ to Harm’s ‘those families deserve to know what happened to their loved ones,’ and finally to Sarah and her inability to believe that he would’ve returned to her. He knew that they weren’t to blame. But still it hurt.

Inside his haven and prison, he checked for messages on the computer. He tried to focus on his mother’s daily missive, telling him about the repairman who was fixing several items around the house.

PLW93038: Don’t worry dear, Robert found him. He isn’t a plant from He- who-will-not-be-named.

She seldom mentioned the Washington social scene. She never mentioned Sarah. His mother and Sarah had never really hit it off. The few times the three of them had dined together, both women had been determinedly polite. Sarah had been intimidated by Porter’s bearing; Porter had never told him why she didn’t like his choice in Sarah.

As she often did in her closing, she asked him about property near by his town.

PLC93038: I’m thinking of a summer home in a more temperate climate. You know how much I love the mountains.

CNW41962: It rains all the time here and you like the shore, not the mountains. Don’t even about think it.

Shutting down the computer, not wanting to see her ‘Yes Dear’ reply, he fell into his couch and once again contemplated what was bothering Emily about Lucille. He fell asleep determined to have a talk with the old woman.

****

For three weeks he’d attempted to talk with Lucille. However, she’d been spending even more time away from her home. When he’d managed to bring up the subject, she’d pooh-poohed his concern. "Mr. Porter, everything is just fine. I just need to see my friends in Chattanooga. It’s hard raising a child again. I just go to have fun." However, he’d thought he heard something in her voice. Some hesitation.

"I just want what’s best for Emily, Lucille. I’m here to help if you need me." He’d tried to reassure her.

"I know that. You look after her real good. She talks about you all the time. She likes you, Mr. Porter."

"Well, I try to be there for her." If Lucille had heard the not very subtle rebuke she’d ignored it.

Yesterday, Emily had politely asked him to take her into town to the library. "Grandma went to Chattanooga today. Said she wanted to see the…the…oh, I forget. You don’t mind do you, Clay?"

"Of course not." He usually sat on the steps waiting for her. But yesterday, Tom Willis, the county sheriff, had invited Clay to have coffee with him at the diner. They’d sat at the table right in front, where Clay had had a clear view of the library.

"You writing much, Mr. Porter?"

"A little, sheriff. Things keeping you busy around here?" Clay had asked, hoping the sheriff might confide something.

"Ogilvy? Nothing ever happens in Ogilvy. You getting bored with us?"

"Not really," he’d answered. "Although I admit to understanding why people get mixed up in each other’s lives."

"Yep. Not much else to do in a small town."

Clay had gotten the distinct impression that something was troubling the sheriff. However, he hadn’t known how to bring it up. "Well, there’s Emily. I better get her home."

Willis had walked him out to his truck. "You let me know if there’re any strangers lurking around Lucille’s, ya hear?"

"Are you expecting someone to be lurking around?" Clay, mindful that Emily was nearby, had kept his voice calm.

Willis had studied him long and hard, but then had just shaken his head.

Before Clay could question Willis further, Emily had climbed into the passenger seat. "Please, may we see the horses at Mr. Whitcomb’s before going home?" Clay had planned to talk to Willis again as soon as possible.

Lucille hadn’t been home, so Clay had fixed Emily dinner and she’d fallen asleep watching Shrek on HBO. Finally he’d seen Lucille’s Cadillac pull into the driveway. He’d carried Emily up to the house where Lucille, already in her robe, had met him at the door. She looked exhausted and plainly worried. "You should’ve just let her sleep on your couch. But you’re here now, go put her down."

Once Clay had tucked Emily in and kissed her forehead, he’d confronted Lucille. "What the hell is going on, Lucille. Who are you afraid of?"

"Please, Mr. Porter, not now."

"Just tell me. I can help you. I can protect you."

She’d sighed and nodded. "Come tomorrow night. I’ll tell you then. I’ve got a favor to ask you."

He hadn’t slept much last night. He’d tossed and turned, then had kept looking out the bedroom window that faced the rutted drive which led up to the Jackson house. When he’d risen, he’d waited for Emily to show up, but neither she nor Lucille had left the house. He’d caught of glimpse of her staring out her bedroom window. He’d waved and she’d waved back. He’d started up to the house, but remembered that Lucille had said dinner. He didn’t want to push her over the edge and have her up and cancel on him. He’d thought about driving into town and demanding Willis explain his remark of yesterday. However, he also hadn’t wanted to leave, in case a ‘stranger started lurking.’ Instead he’d called the office, only to hear of the accident with fatalities outside of town. He’d left a message for Willis to call him back.

He’d tried to make the time pass by cleaning, checking the email, even trying to edit the dreck that detailed his life in the CIA. He must’ve walked around his cabin ten times, blatantly keeping watch.

Finally, by four, he’d had enough. Willis still hadn’t returned his call. He threw up his hands and went in to shower and change for dinner.

Thunder rumbled angrily, and he stepped out onto his porch to check the sky, trying to determine if he should drive up to Lucille’s. The wind was kicking up; the trees slapped at the approaching clouds. The drive had a tendency to get muddy after a hard rain. He didn’t relish sliding his way down in the pickup. He finally noticed the unfamiliar car at the top of the rise. "God damn it!"

The alarms in his head were deafening. Not stopping to think, he jumped off the porch and began to run up the hill. He was close enough to see a large shadow inside the kitchen when he heard Lucille scream, "NO!" The shotgun blast shattered a window.

"EMILY!"

**********

Sarah MacKenzie stood at her apartment window staring out at the storm. It was four in the afternoon and it looked like midnight. She tried to tell herself that it was the electricity generated by the storm that was making her nervous and vaguely disconcerted. But she knew better. She’d been feeling this way off and on for over a year now, although more so lately. In the past three weeks, it had been a constant companion. It almost felt like she was waiting for something to happen. But what? What the hell else could God throw at her? What else could he take from her?

From the first assignment Clay had accepted after his recovery, she’d prepared herself for his death. She’d never trusted the CIA to take care of him. As prepared as she’d tried to make herself, it’d still been a body blow when he and five other men had died. She still couldn’t understand why he would’ve agreed to enter the water during gale force conditions.

Everything about being with Clay had upset her: his unexplained disappearances, his drinking, the fights. So, why the hell had it hurt so much when all those negatives had been resolved? She rubbed her side. Even a year later, she became emotional about her ultimate loss. For two months she’d been pregnant — with Clay’s child — and hadn’t even known it. Ecoptic, the doctor had no recourse but to abort it. Aborted —just like her relationship with Clay, and with Harm.

She had such conflicted feelings about Harm. It’d been her fault. She’d gone to him for comfort and he’d offered it in the only way he knew how - relentless logical reasons as to why she needed to just put Clay behind her and move on. When she’d explained why the baby deal maybe wasn’t such a good idea, he’d tried to give her time. However, he was a man of action. He didn’t wait well. He kept throwing the facts at her.

"Clay lied to you, Mac.

And he was right. Clay had lied to her. But, was it all a lie? Harm had told her to talk about her feelings, but every time she’d dared mention something good about Clay or how she missed Clay, Harm had shushed her quiet, offering platitudes when all she’d wanted was to talk, and for him to listen.

She should never have moved in with him. But he’d offered comfort when she’d needed it. She’d been so tired of fighting the fight on her own. He’d been her lifeline — then the weight of living up to his timetable for her recovery nearly drowned her.

His logic for her subleasing her apartment and moving into his much smaller place made no sense now. At the time, she’d so distrusted her own instincts that she’d allowed him his arguments of, "Just until we can find a place of our own." But there’d never been any time to look. She’d thrown herself into her work and Harm had shown no inclination to look if she didn’t bring it up. She’d put all her stuff into storage and sublet her spacious place because Harm had insisted that he couldn’t bear to watch her remembering Webb being there.

Harm had become obsessed with destroying any good memories she might’ve had with Clay, and she’d accepted it at the time. When the story had come out about Harrison Kershaw’s attempt to assassinate the newly elected president, Harm had crowed! "You see, Mac! That’s what Webb would’ve become. Trust me. I know. I worked for them. They eat your soul. I’m glad I got out when I did." She’d made the mistake of pointing out that he’d been fired. He’d sulked for a week, which, in an apartment as small as his, had been damned trying. She’d spent even more time at the office and volunteered for any TDY that came up.

As soon as the sublease was up, she’d moved back to her old apartment. Harm hadn’t fought her, even seemed relieved that she’d wanted some time. "It was too soon, jarhead. We’ll still be friends. We’ll work it out. I love you." And, as she had so often, she’d believed him. Some part of her needed to love Harm.

Even after she moved out, she’d made an effort with Harm. And she’d thought they were making progress. But as the anniversary of Clay’s death had approached, she’d felt the need for closure. Three weeks ago, she’d casually mentioned to Sturgis, "I’m going out to the grave tomorrow." She hadn’t realized that Harm had returned from court in time to overhear her.

"I’ll take you, Mac. You probably shouldn’t go there alone."

"It’s not necessary, Harm." Frankly, she hadn’t wanted him there.

"What? He was my friend, too." It’d been the first, perhaps only, time he’d admitted that fact. She’d allowed him to pick her up the morning of the anniversary. She should’ve known. All the way out there, and even while standing before the Webb family headstone, Harm had kept up a litany of every underhanded thing Clay had ever done. "Don’t you see, Mac? Let him go so we can get on with our lives!"

And amongst the serene quiet of the churchyard, she’d finally defended Clay to Harm. "What the hell is it with you? He’s dead! He’s no longer a threat to you — to us. You and your sanctimonious attitude are the biggest roadblocks to any relationship we’ll never have."

"Oh, yeah? What about your inability to just get over it! It’s been a year! He treated you awful!"

"And you? He treated you real bad, didn’t he, Harm? All those favors over the years. You used him and now you badmouth him!"

"This has nothing to do with Webb and me! You just don’t want to admit that he was no good for you!"

They would’ve continued in that vein, perhaps even coming to blows, but a dignified, vaguely familiar, gray-haired man had interrupted. "This hardly seems the place for such a discussion?" he said. The restrained disgust had been evident in his voice.

Harm had been so embarrassed that, against his summer whites, his skin became a brilliant red. The man had ignored Harm to stare at her with such quiet intensity that she’d been tempted to ask, "Do I know you?"

"Let’s get out of here, Mac." Harm had reached out to grip her arm. She’d struggled against him, mostly out of stubbornness. However, the man, who she’d judged to be nearing seventy, had abruptly reached out and gripped Harm’s wrist. Harm released her and stalked away. She’d run into the church where she’d asked the secretary in the office if she could use the phone to call for a cab. It was then that she’d realized she’d left her purse in Harm’s car. "Damn it."

"Do you need assistance?" The gray-haired man had followed her. But, with the secretary sitting right there, Sarah hadn’t been afraid.

"No. I’m fine. Thank you.

"Your... friend... left. May I offer you a ride somewhere?"

"No. No thank you."

Still he’d gazed at her, but finally had nodded his head and left her alone. While waiting for Sturgis to come for her, she’d noticed the Jaguar parked in the lot. She hadn’t look through the gate at Clay’s grave again. It’d been too painful.

Things had never been as tense as they were now at JAG Ops. Admiral Morris, the current JAG, had made it perfectly clear that he expected exemplary behavior from his entire staff. Gone were the days when AJ Chegwidden, even at his surly worst, had made the office seem like family. She missed that camaraderie.

The rain sleeting across the window seemed like an analogy of her life. It’d been raining the night Eddie died. Chloe had been lost during a thunderstorm. Harm would’ve drowned had she not found him in the violent sea storm.

Why hadn’t she known when Clay died? She didn’t understand it. Now, more than a year ago, when she’d tried to deny her feelings, she still couldn’t understand how she’d found Chloe, Harm, and even the body of that dead officer in Central Park, and the only emotion she’d felt about Clay was acceptance. She’d rationalized that it was because Clay hadn’t realized he was dying, had felt no pain or fear. It couldn’t have been because she didn’t have true feelings for Clay. But anger and distrust had colored, often masked, those feelings. And now? She wished he were here beside her.

Clay had been strong when she needed him to be after she’d killed Sadik. He’d insisted that she seek professional help. He’d listened to her rants – usually without scathing comments. He’d even given up drinking the horrid Caña for her.

She’d had the impression that he’d been making some kind of plans so that he wouldn’t have to leave her again. But, she’d been put off by his strange response to her declaration of love — until he’d turned up dead ten thousand miles from where he’d sworn he’d be on a safe assignment. And she knew he’d laid the groundwork to allow her to let him go - to hate him. Only she couldn’t. A year later, she accepted the fact that, regardless of her confusion, she’d loved him. "Damn you. I miss you so much."

She should go to bed. Why was she standing here watching it rain? What the hell was she waiting for?

When it hit her, she didn’t know whether to cover her ears or clutch her stomach. Everything went black.

"EMILY."

The cry of sheer terror echoed through her head. The vision came into focus and she held her breath, waiting for the scene to play out. Terror stricken-panic distorted the images. A man with a shotgun was running right at her. Jumbled pain, indistinguishable from the terror made her gasp.

"EMILY! Where are you? Are you okay? Oh, my God!"

A glimpse of a sprawled body; a streak of fleeing pink. "Emily! Stop!" Rain everywhere. A harsh artificial light lit a rain-splattered lawn. Trees. Lightning. Deafening thunder. More lightning. Another flash of pink. A piercing scream. Then: falling, sharp pain, blinding darkness.

The vision was gone and she could once again see her reflection in the window. "He’s alive." She spun around wildly. She had to save him. He was in danger and she had no idea where to go for help.

Who would help her? Not the CIA. Harm’s face flashed before her. Had it been anyone but Clay, she wouldn’t have hesitated. But it was Clay. She knew it. Harm would call her a fool or worse. "He’s DEAD, damn it! Get it through your head!"

Even as she was grabbing up her purse and keys, ignoring the fact that she wore running shorts and a tee shirt, she knew there was only one person to help her, only one person left who’d have any kind of vested interest in saving Clay’s life.

She was soaked by the time she reached her car. She had no choice but to put on the air; the humidity would fog her windows if she tried for warmth. All the way out to Great Falls she shivered in wet cold. She didn’t care that her hair hung in stringy coils on her face.

She’d only been to Porter Webb’s mansion a few times. While not actual disasters, the visits had been highly unsatisfactory. As she drove, fury cooled her panic. She was certain that Porter Webb had known Clay was alive and hadn’t told her. Damn them both. She’d save him and then do him serious bodily harm. She had to get Porter’s help.

She almost missed the turn. Skidding to a stop she had to throw the car into reverse before she could roar up the curving driveway. The windows on the lower floors cast a warm, inviting glow. As she climbed out of her car, she thought she saw the curtains move. Bounding up the steps, getting drenched again, she pounded once, twice and then nearly fell inside as the door was jerked open.

Strong hands gripped her shoulders and she found herself staring into steel blue eyes. His glasses did little to hide the cold calculation there. "You!" she gasped.

"Colonel MacKenzie. What are you doing here in this kind of weather?" the gray-haired man answered calmly. She hadn’t registered the clipped British accent when she’d met him in the graveyard.

"Who are you?"

"He’s a friend of mine, Colonel." Porter Webb stood regally in front of what Sarah remembered as the library door. "I invited him to my home." She didn’t bother to add she hadn’t invited Sarah.

Sarah pulled out of the gray-haired man’s grasp and ran her fingers through her tangled hair. She was a Marine; she went for broke. "You know, of course, that Clay’s alive."

Porter paled, and Sarah could feel the anger radiate off the man behind her. "What makes you say that, Colonel MacKenzie?" He demanded harshly, so close behind her that she could feel his hot breath on her freezing wet neck.

"I don’t have time to allow you to try and intimidate me. He’s alive and he’s in trouble."

"Indeed."

"Robert?" Porter was shaking now and Sarah felt some pity for her.

"Shall we step into the library?" His fingers bit into her arm.

"Not until you tell me who you are!"

"Colonel MacKenzie, Robert McCall," Porter snapped. "Now, tell me what you are doing here!" Porter turned and entered the library. Sarah had no choice but to follow; McCall propelled her forward.

The room was much as she remembered it. Rich leather sofa against one wall. A huge desk with matching inlay sat in front of a wall of windows, draped now against the rain outside. Books, oft-read, not just for show, shared the floor-to-ceiling shelves with dozens of family pictures and mementos. Two leather wingback chairs faced the cold fireplace. This had been her favorite room in the otherwise formal mansion.

"Porter," she began. But, before she could continue another vision seized her. She swayed and didn’t feel McCall grip her shoulders.

A small child was crying. "Clay! Clay! Please wake up. Please don’t be dead, Clay! I’m scared and my leg hurts!"

The vision passed and she found herself sitting in one of the chairs. McCall and Porter stood there staring at her in consternation and alarm.

"Porter, I think we could all use some tea," McCall said never taking his eyes off Sarah.

"But..."

"Now, Porter. Get Winston to make us some tea." Sarah was surprised that Porter did as she was told. When she’d left them, McCall’s expression subtly hardened. "Now, young lady, perhaps you’ll explain to me what game you’re playing at? Who sent you?"

"You think that someone sent me? You think that..."

"Frankly, I’m not sure what to think. You barge in here and insult Mrs. Webb with your accusation and you expect us to welcome you."

"He’s unconscious. There’s a little girl with him. He’s in danger," she said.

"Robert?" Porter gasped from the doorway.

"Now, now." His manner instantly softened and he went to her side. "We’ll get to the bottom of this."

Sarah struggled out of the chair. "You don’t understand. This isn’t the first time this has happened to me. I found...other people who were in danger. Please, Porter." Sarah reached out to the stately woman. "I know you hate me, but…"

"Hate you?" Porter’s eyebrow arched regally. "Why would I hate you?" Sarcasm dripped from each word. "You and Commander Rabb browbeat Clayton into giving you classified information. Because of that he was exiled to South America." Her voice rose and even McCall’s presence couldn’t keep her from spitting out the rest. "He came back to me broken, tortured! Do you know how long his hand shook?"

"Yes. I was there – when he’d let me."

"Why? Was it pity?"

"Never! Never pity. For a long time, I wasn’t sure what it was. But I didn’t pity him. We both had so much to work through. I loved him, but he lied to me. He left me. He set up his own death then…" Only McCall kept Porter from attacking her.

"Sit. Down! Both of you!" He led Porter to one of the chairs and glared at Sarah until she too complied. "Now let’s just set the record straight here. Clayton Webb did NOT set up his own death."

"But he’s alive and he told his mother, but not me," Sarah spat out bitterly. "How long have you known, Porter?"

"Not until after he saved the president’s life and then had to go into hiding to keep that bastard Watts from silencing him." Sarah could see the anguish and the truth on Porter’s face.

"That was six months ago. Why didn’t he tell me then?" But she knew. "He found out about Harm and me. Did you tell him, Porter?" She wanted to hate Clay’s mother, but she couldn’t. "I understand. You... I understand."

"Do you? He loved you so much. He tried so hard to tell you about his last mission – that it was going to be his LAST mission. He’d picked out all those silly gifts and arranged to have them sent from Germany. He wanted to protect you from what he thought was a vital mission in Indochina. Only Robert found out that it was all a ruse."

Sarah gave McCall her full attention. "You’re a knowledgeable man. I once told Clay that there was no such thing as an ex-CIA agent."

"Oh, but there are, Colonel MacKenzie," he said gravely, "There are."

Winston chose that moment to bring in the tea service. McCall poured. Instead of holding the fine china by its delicate handle, Sarah wrapped her hands around the cup and let the warmth seep into her. The next thing she knew McCall had draped his suit coat around her damp shoulders.

"Thank you." She sipped the tea, collecting her thoughts. Clay obviously didn’t trust her. He’d found out about Harm. Had he been hurt? Or had he just made the decision that she wasn’t worth fighting for? She wondered if she should tell Porter about her pregnancy? No. That was too cruel. She didn’t want to hurt Porter further, but she had to help Clay.

She took a deep breath. "I want to explain something to you. I understand your bitterness. What I did... with Harm… I know how it looked."

"At the time, as far as BOTH of us knew, Clayton was dead in his grave two months before you blithely moved in with Commander Rabb!" Porter snapped.

"You’re right. I didn’t want to be alone. I was so...so...exhausted." She finally forced herself to meet Porter’s furious eyes. "Harm and ... I’m not going to explain, simply because I’ve never been able to satisfactorily explain it to myself. I loved Harm before I loved your son. I was surprised by Clay’s declaration to me in Paraguay, but touched. I think I finally saw behind Clay’s mask there. I certainly learned of his courage and mettle. When we returned I... I was determined to try.

She tried to see if she was getting through to Porter, but the thin line of anger was still there. McCall, while listening intently didn’t seem any more disposed to believe her. She took a long sip from her tea. Her hand was shaking so badly that the fine porcelain clattered as she carefully set it down on the table beside her. "It was so hard. Clay and I had so many issues to resolve. But Porter, I swear, I loved him. When I found out that…" She closed her eyes and the tears began to fall. "No. That’s not important now. What’s important is that he’s alive but in danger. I can feel his pain and his fear. Not fear for his own safety. There’s a little girl, he called her Emily."

"Bloody hell!" McCall gasped. "How..." Porter reached out and grasped his hand.

Sarah turned her full attention to McCall. There was obvious affection between him and Porter. "You recognize her name. There’s only one way I could know that name. I can’t explain my so-called gift. I only know that I have it. Please. Help me save him."

"So you want me to tell you where he’s hiding?" McCall shook his head in wonder at her presumption of his stupidity.

Before she could beg, she was once again overcome. The bond was so strong she actually felt his aches.

"Sarah?" he groaned her name.

"No!" the child cried. "Clay! Please! Wake up. It’s Emily.

"Where?" Clay gasped out weakly.

"We fell down a hole. I’m sorry I ran away. But the bad man hurt Grandma and he said he was going to steal me.

"Where?" Clay groggily repeated.

"Clayton Porter! We live in Ogilvy, Tennessee in the United States of America. Please..." The little girl, Emily, began to weep and the vision faded.

Sarah leaned back in her chair panting softly. "Hang on Clay. Help’s on the way." She was exhausted but exhilarated too. She glanced briefly at Porter then settled her steady gaze on Robert McCall. He was, perhaps 30 years older than she, but she had no doubt that he could still stop her. He was the man she’d have to trust to help her. "I know. I know his cover name." Her eyes shifted to Porter. "Not very original, but just common enough. I know the town and the state. If Watts is behind all this, tell me if that phone on the desk is bugged. May I also assume that we are being watched?"

"I’m not sure about you." McCall admitted. "I’m not completely certain that Porter is under constant surveillance. I wouldn’t trust the phones in this house, though. I’m sure that her credit cards and passports are on a targeted list. Fortunately, a long time ago, I convinced Clay that certain…precautions… might come in handy one day."

"Do you think my cell phone..." she looked around for her purse and groaned. "I left it in the car."

"I wouldn’t trust your cell phone - now."

"I have to notify..." She groaned. She was suddenly aware that each word might endanger Clay. "What about long-range listening devices? Have they heard every word we’ve said?"

For the first since meeting him, Sarah saw a flicker of respect in his eyes. "Smart girl."

He went to the desk and picked up a small device. There was a green light shining on it. "After a year’s time, I don’t think they keep Porter under constant surveillance. I’ve been out of the game so long that I’m considered to be a bit of a toothless dinosaur."

"Robert!" Porter was clearly upset by his description of himself. "I couldn’t have made it through this past year without you."

"And," Sarah added, "I think that you can be quite dangerous if you put your mind to it." She looked again at the flashing green light. "I have to call someone. I don’t think there’s time to get to him myself."

McCall reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone and handed it to her "Make your phone call, Colonel."

It took one minute, thirty-six seconds before she heard, "This is Sheriff Willis."

"I can’t tell you how I know," she said breathlessly, "but there’s a man named Clayton Porter and a little girl named Emily in trouble. They’re being chased by..."

"Where are they!"

She was taken aback by his vehemence, but managed, "In a hole. It’s deep and one side slopes. She ran out of a house. Someone is lying in a pool of blood."

"I’m on it." The line went dead. But she’d heard the desperate acceptance in his voice.

"Wow. That’s never happened before. It was almost like he was expecting something."

"He was," Robert said.

"I see. We need to have a long talk, Mr. McCall. But on the move, please."

"Clay! Please. Clay. Wake up!"

Clay opened his eyes. Everything was blurry, and the image of Emily was multiplied to a sickening number. "Emily?"

She touched his cheek. "You’re not dead. I really thought..." Hot moisture fell on his lips.

"Hey." He groaned. "Don’t cry." Keeping his eyes shut, he tried to sit up, carefully taking stock. He wiggled his toes, flexed his legs and braced them against the...the what. "Where are we?"

"We fell. We’re in a hole. I was so scared. I’m sorry I ran away from you."

His thoughts were jumbled. He remembered charging the huge man who was aiming the shotgun right at his midsection. He’d managed somehow to wrestle the gun from him and he’d thought he’d bashed the man’s head in. However the big guy had managed to land a couple of hard punches to Clay’s head. Falling down the hole hadn’t helped. How he’d reached the hole was still a mystery. He remembered stumbling inside the house, calling for Emily. But, she’d been in such a panic that she blindly ran from the bloody scene.

Forcing his eyes open again, he was relieved that there was now only one Emily, although this one was dim and fuzzy. "There’s nothing to be sorry for. Tell me what happened?’

"A man came to the house. Grandma started yelling at him to go away. She told him that he was going back to the riverbank."

"Back to Riverbend?" Clay supplied the name of the State Penitentiary.

"Yes. That’s what she said."

"What did he do when she said that?"

"He said awful things, Clay. He said he killed my mommy and daddy."

Clay didn’t make the mistake of nodding. He suspected he had a concussion. Looking around, he tried to get his bearings.

"He said that he came to get me and if she stood in his way, he’d kill her, too. He shot her!"

"Why did he want you?" Clay shifted and winced from bruises all over his body. He didn’t think anything was broken, except for his head. Gingerly, he reached up and searched for the bumps. "Damn. When am I going to stop doing this to myself?"

"Clay?"

"Sorry, sweetheart. What did he say?"

"Clay." Her voice dropped to a hushed fearful whisper. "He said he was my real daddy.

Clay I don’t want him to be my daddy. Please Clay, can’t you be my daddy?" She began to sob.

He reached out and tried to pull her into his arms, but she cried out in pain. "Ow. It hurts. My leg hurts so bad. I tried so hard to be a big girl, but it hurts."

"It’s okay. Let me feel where it hurts." It only took a moment of gentle probing. "Darn it. It’s probably broken. Try not to move." He stood and looked up. The rain on his face felt good. He could feel the mud tracking across his skin. After scrubbing the rest of it off, he looked around him. It was a small, deep hole, perhaps twenty feet deep, one side sloping down from the top. That slope had probably saved both their lives. There were a few rocks, but all he could make out was dirt and tree roots. If he was a hundred percent, he could probably climb out easily. But just the exertion of standing and stretching had drained what little strength he had left.

He settled back down onto the muddy bottom. "After I rest a bit, I’ll climb out and go get help."

"Clay! Please don’t leave me." She fell against him, crying louder than before. Resting her good hip against his body, being careful to not jar the injured leg, he managed to lift her off the dirt onto his lap. "There, there. It’ll be okay. Tomorrow morning, the sun will come and everything’ll be okay."

His hand smoothed the torn pink cotton dress. She was shivering, even though it was the dead of summer. She was going into shock and there was nothing he could do. He wondered if Lucille was still alive. Had he killed his attacker? Damn it. He should’ve followed his first instinct and contacted Robert to track down Lucille’s particulars.

As he fell asleep holding Emily, he thought he heard a whisper. "Hold on, Clay. Help’s on its way."

"Sarah?" he sighed, already asleep.

*****

"Emilllleee."

Clay came instantly awake, the throbbing in his head reaching crescendo proportions. But even in his dazed condition, Clay could hear the insanity in the voice.

"Where are you, Emillleee? Come to Daddy."

Emily, still asleep, whimpered and snuggled closer. The light was the dull gray mist of dawn.

"Emily! You come out now."

"Clay?" He looked down and saw her terror. Ignoring the pain, he bent his head to kiss her forehead. Then he brought his finger to his lips, signaling her to be quiet.

"Gol’ damn it! A blind man could follow this path. I’m comin’ for you, Emily. You best tell me where you are, girl, or I’ll give you a good whoopin’ when I find you."

Her arms were wrapped so tightly around Clay’s neck that it was difficult to breathe. He tried to loosen her hold, but it was like she was trying to hide inside his skin. There was no place for him to hide her.

"Well, now. Lookee here." Clay looked up and saw the lurking hulk grinning down at him. "Thought you killed me, didn’t ya, boy? But it’ll take more than a city slicker to take out old Cletus Beaudeaux."

"Look, Cletus. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m not going to let you hurt Emily."

"Hurt her? Now why’d I hurt my own flesh and blood?"

"You already have. She’s broken her leg."

"You’re lyin’. ‘Sides… if she hurt her leg, it’s your fault. You chased her away from me."

"You shot her grandmother."

"She shouldn’t have tried to keep Emily away from me. You hand her up and we’ll be on our way."

"Clay, please." She whispered in his ear. "Please don’t let him take me."

"Never gonna happen, sweetheart. But you have to get off me. See that rock over there? Can you crawl over and hide?"

"No. Hurts too much." She gripped him tighter.

"Look, Cletus, she’s hurt. She can’t climb up to you."

Even in the dim light, he could see the rage twist Cletus’ face. "You get up here right now, girl. I waited six years for this. You come to your Daddy."

Clay did the only thing he could do to protect her. Carefully, he began to roll them over.

"You stop that right now. I’ll kill you!" Cletus screamed.

Clay, now covering her with his body, prayed that someone would find her before she died. "It’s okay, Emily." He kissed her forehead, noted her fever, knew the only thing he could do for her was to take a bullet or two.

"That’s it. You think you can protect her from me? I’ll show you."

From somewhere far away, Clay heard a shout, followed by several shots. He braced himself ready to be crushed by the falling body.

When he felt nothing but her terrified breath against his neck, he rolled over to look up. The body was spread across the opening. Carefully, he pushed off of her, wobbling as he stood. After what seemed like an eternity, someone pulled the body away from the opening. "Clay? That you down there?" Tom Willis called. "Is Emily okay?"

*****

After Sarah had hung up with the sheriff of Ogilvy, she’d almost reached the front door before McCall stopped her. "We cannot assume that your wild flight here tonight went unnoticed."

"I have to see him. I have to make him understand why…what happened." Porter had stood there, her gaze steady and damning. Sarah saw that saving Clay hadn’t bought her that much goodwill with his mother.

"My dear Colonel MacKenzie, regardless of your personal need, if you go flying down there, half-cocked, you run the very real risk of getting him killed," McCall said.

"I don’t understand? Why would Watts do this to him?"

"Watts is the consummate politician. It was bad enough that Harrison Kershaw, a thirty-year Agency man, was a deep cover mole, a traitor twice over; but Watts hadn’t informed the Secret Service to be on the look out. Clay almost didn’t make it in time."

"Doesn’t the president know who really saved him? Why is Watts still the director?"

"A new president has a great many things to worry about, and a great many men that he needs to listen to. While the president may very well distrust Watts, there’s an old adage about keeping your enemies close. It’s easier to keep your eye on them," McCall said.

"And everyone is just going to let Clay hang there in wind. Why doesn’t he go to the press?"

"I’m working on that with him…Sarah. Believe me. George Watts will answer for what he did. But he has men – sweepers – looking for Clay."

Porter had cautiously approached her. "I ask you to wait... Sarah. I think I understand that you needed to reach out to Commander Rabb. That’s beside the point now. I beg you to trust Robert as I do. If you go down there — without preparation..." She shook her head sadly. "You must see Clay. There are things that you need to say — if for no other reason than so that you can both move on."

"Both?" Sarah whispered. "You mean he hasn’t moved on?"

Porter looked so sad. "We communicate by emails. He never mentions you. Never once has he denigrated you to me. He never asks me questions about you, although he did ask me how A.J. Chegwidden was handling retirement. His feelings for you just fester. Go down there… do what you need to do, say what has to be said. Then please move on with your life." She took a deep breath, obviously searching for the words to get through to Sarah without escalating their personal war. "Because you cannot be with him. You don’t have the stomach for living in anonymous exile any more than you could live with his job."

Sarah didn’t know how to respond to the simple plea that seemed to cut like a knife. She couldn’t blame Porter for her calm bitter words. "Perhaps you’re right. It would have been nice to been allowed the choice though." She turned away from Porter to face McCall. "Well?"

McCall looked like he wanted to say something to Porter, but instead addressed his remarks solely to Sarah. "First we must come up with a reasonable explanation for why you went flying headlong out into the storm and drove here, just in case Watts sends someone to talk to you."

"I’ll just tell them I got drunk," she snapped. "Everyone knows that alcoholics do stupid things."

"Clayton told me one of the reasons he stopped drinking was that, after everything that you’d gone through in Paraguay, you never went back to drinking," Porter said. "He was so proud of you."

"Clay told you that?"

"He was quite proud of your strength, Colonel." Porter looked away. Sarah thought she detected a definite thaw. Perhaps she had won some points after all.

McCall studied her for a moment. "People will believe that you…fell off the wagon?"

She thought of Harm. He wouldn’t even be surprised. "Yes."

"Do you have liquor at home?"

‘‘No. Not even an empty."

"Porter?"

"What was your drink of choice?" Porter went to the liquor cabinet.

"Whatever was handy," she gritted out. "Vodka," she admitted.

Next Robert made a phone call. Twenty minutes later, a Great Falls police car pulled up.

Winston showed the unformed officer into the library. Robert reached out a hand. "Officer Grady. It’s been a while."

Sarah saw that Grady was anxious, but took the offered hand. "Mr. McCall, uhm. . . is this police business?"

"After a fashion. This is what I want you to do." He pulled Grady off to the side and the two had a long, quiet conversation.

Finally, Grady nodded and went to Porter. "I’ll take that, Mrs. Webb." He took the half empty bottle of vodka. "Sorry the young lady disturbed you. I’ll drive her home and there shouldn’t be any publicity."

Porter, who had no more of a clue about what was going on than Sarah, gravely thanked him. "Yes. I do appreciate it — though if anyone asks, you must tell the whole story."

Grady gave them both a wide smile. "Any time, Mrs. Webb." He turned his attention to Sarah and gave her a broad wink. "Come along quietly, Colonel MacKenzie."

"A moment, Grady." McCall pulled Sarah aside. "I will contact a friend whom you can trust. His name is Mickey Kostmayer. He’s Clayton’s age, a bit thinner, a bit taller, sandy blond hair. He is, to say the least, laconic. Do not mistake that for rudeness. Also, he has a tendency to take great delight in his job. Do not mistake that for ineptitude. He’ll protect you and he’ll get you down to Clayton. Do what he says."

"Very well, Mr. McCall. What about you?"

"I will make my own way to Tennessee. I need to check on some things here."

Grady escorted her outside and held the back door open for her. "Just in case anyone is looking, ma’am." They drove into DC in complete silence. He escorted her upstairs, hiding the bottle under his jacket. Once inside the apartment he looked around. "Maybe knock over that lamp. But don’t get too out of hand. You have a glass?" He carefully emptied some of the vodka down the sink then spilled the rest on the rug, laying the bottle down on the table. "It shouldn’t smell for long. Get some sleep."

He started to go, but Sarah finally reached out and took his arm. "Why are you doing this?"

"I owe Mr. McCall. He saved my kid’s life…oh, ten years back. He doesn’t run the ads anymore. I guess he’s getting up there in years, though you couldn’t prove it by me. But, at the time, he wouldn’t take any money, just said that, someday, he’d ask me for a favor. He waited ten years, but," he shrugged, "this must be the favor. Not that I wouldn’t do anything for Mrs. Webb. She’s a nice lady." When Grady left, Sarah was left with more questions than answers. "Ads? What the heck is he talking about?" she muttered.

She knew she should lie down, but she also knew she wouldn’t sleep. She hadn’t slept well in a long time. Clay was alive. Now in the cold gray of dawn she could finally contemplate the reality of that. What was she doing going down there? He obviously didn’t want to see her. He’d made his decision. Whatever McCall said, whatever Porter thought, Clayton Webb didn’t love her enough to come to her and say, ‘What the hell are you doing living with Rabb?’ She wanted to cry, but she marshaled her anger. "Oh, we are going to have this out, buster." She went and showered, then changed into comfortable jeans and a tee shirt. By 0800 hours, she was calm enough to call into JAG Ops. "Coates, it’s Colonel MacKenzie. I’ve some vacation time coming. I’m taking off the rest of the week." She didn’t give Coates time to question her.

She forced herself to eat a little toast. She’d just taken a sip of coffee when she heard a knock at the door. Glancing at the clock, she was certain that it was too early for Kostmayer to arrive. She went to her closet and pulled down her service revolver. The doorknob rattled and the knocking grew bolder. "Who is it?"

"Mac!"

"Oh, no," she groaned. "Harm, go away. I’m not feeling very well."

He pounded on the door again. "Mac, open up or I’m using my key. Come on. I’m worried about you."

She put the gun down on the table next to the bottle. Stalking over to the door, she yanked it open. "If you’re so worried about me why don’t you... gee... come right on in," she said to his back as he pushed past her.

"Oh, God!" He reached down and picked up the gun. He put it in his pocket before glaring at her accusingly. "You can’t do this. Mac, damn it, you have to get help."

"Put my gun back. I wasn’t… I’ve never contemplated killing myself." But he’d already stooped again, this time picking up the liquor bottle. "Shit." She couldn’t explain it to him. If he found out what she’d learned, he’d browbeat her even worse than he was now.

"You’re hung over." He raked his eyes over her body. "At least you cleaned up."

"Yeah. Go home, Harm. Let me recover in peace and quiet."

"Why didn’t you call me? You promised you’d call me if you felt the need to take a drink."

She threw back her head and groaned. She had to get him out of here. If Kostmayer arrived early, Harm would demand an explanation, or worse, would insist upon coming with them. "You’re right. I was wrong. I knew I was wrong this morning." She touched her head as if she was suffering from a hangover instead of the nervous anxiety of waiting. "I promise. I’ll never do it again."

"Why? Why now? You didn’t get drunk after our fight at the cemetery."

She thought it was indicative that he’d made that day about him; it never occurred to him that she might drink because was still grieving over Clay. "You wouldn’t understand; you’d just be more upset. I can’t deal with that now. Please go."

"You want to go out for breakfast? We’ll talk. I really miss you, Mac. You want me to stay with you a couple of days?" He rattled off the offers frantically.

She couldn’t even get mad at him. She wished desperately that she could explain it to him. "No, I’m not hungry. No, I don’t need or want to talk. I miss your friendship, too. But, I want to be alone right now. I want you to go, Harm."

He walked up and took her by the shoulders forcing her to look into his eyes. She wondered what logical – to his own mind at least – explanation he’d come up with for her wild behavior. She knew she wasn’t acting like the Mac he’d come to expect over the past year. She felt invigorated and she knew why. Clay was alive. She had another chance.

"You weren’t drunk," he said, shocking her with his perception.

She tried very hard to remain calm. "Wasn’t I?"

"What’s going on, Mac? Tell me. I think I’ve earned the right to know."

She pulled away and nodded. "Yes, you have earned the right. No one deserves to know more than you. But, no." She somehow found the calm she needed; hadn’t felt for a year. "I need you to go now, Harm. I’m expecting someone."

"Someone?" He stood there, pursed his lips, and then nodded. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out the gun and put it back on the table. He then walked to the door and put his hand on the knob. "Are you going to shoot him, Mac?"

"Shoot who?" He couldn’t know. "What are you talking about?"

"Webb. You finally figured out it was a stunt, didn’t you? Or did he call you? Has he decided to crawl out from underneath that rock? He wants to come in from the cold?"

"What?" He caught her as she swayed. "What are you saying?"

"That I know."

"You know what? You bastard." She jerked away from him again and took a swing that he easily evaded. "You knew and you didn’t..." Were Watts’ men already listening to them?

"He’s no good for you, Mac."

"Please go home. Clayton Webb drowned over a year ago. I never want to discuss this with you again."

He looked down at her with a mixture of exasperation and disgust. "You never understood. I just wanted what was best for you."

"I’m a woman full-grown Harm. I get to make my own decisions and I have to live with my own mistakes. Please go home before one of us says something that we’re never going to be able to take back."

"Mac?"

"Go!" She dramatically pointed to the door. After it closed, she leaned against it trying to regain her composure. She wasn’t sure how long she stood there. Finally there was another knock on the door. This one was lighter and she knew that it wasn’t Harm. Grabbing her gun, she unlocked the door and stepped back into the room. "Come in."

The door opened and a man, thin, with sandy brown hair, leaned against the jamb. He looked from her to the gun and around the room. "You ready?" he asked nonchalantly.

"Yeah." She replied in kind. "There’s something you should know, though."

"I saw Commander Rabb leave. He’s in his car, watching your building. "We’ll handle it."

"We?"

"You don’t want to know."

"You’re not to hurt him."

Mickey shrugged. "If you say so. You got your passport’?"

"For Tennessee?"

He pointed his cell phone at her. "Camera phone. Hold still. I want to get your hair and everything." He then dialed a number and spoke. "Can you match it? Have fun." He closed the phone and gave Sarah a grin that said, ‘Let the games begin.’

"Why did you ask me about my passport?" she demanded even as she pulled it out of the drawer. "I don’t need it for Tennessee."

"No." If anything, the grin got bigger. "But Phil needs it to go to Paris."

Sarah just nodded weakly. She wasn’t sure she wanted to get caught up in McCall’s game.

*****

Clay paced back and forth in front of the closed door of the hospital room. The doctor had chased him out to run some more tests on Emily. Clay was really worried about her. By the time that help arrived at the hole nearly 24 hours ago, Emily had slipped into shock. When she wasn’t screaming for Clay, she was in a stupor refusing to respond to anyone, including Clay. He was at the end of his endurance, and little of the intervening day really registered with him. He was pretty sure he understood how Willis had found him, although it still didn’t make a lot of sense.

The door to the room opened. As soon as the doctor stepped out, Clay hammered him with questions. "How is she? Is her leg going to be okay? Should we send her to a specialist?"

The doctor waited until Clay ran down before walking down the hallway, leaving it up to Clay whether or not to follow him. Once they were away from the room and Emily’s sensitive hearing, he gently pushed Clay into a chair and stood over him, arms crossed. "It’s a compound fracture. I’ve downloaded her x-rays to a specialist in Nashville. If need be, we can medivac her up there. As for the other, she just needs to rest and perhaps see a child psychologist for some help in coping with her trauma."

"I don’t care what it costs. I have money. She doesn’t need to be a ward of the state."

"Well... with her grandmother dead, we’ll have to see who the court appoints as guardian," the doctor cautioned. "Right now, I’m worried about you."

"I’m fine. I just need a shower and a change of clothes."

He ran his hand over his head, wincing at the pain. He’d suffered a mild concussion, a cracked rib and innumerable abrasions and contusions. But Emily had taken the brunt of the fall. He was just glad that his previous life hadn’t caused Emily pain. He’d caused so much pain in his life; he didn’t think he could stand it if he hurt Emily.

"Mr. Porter." He jerked awake to find the doctor gently shaking him. "You need to rest."

"I said I was fine."

"Nonsense. I’ll have the nurse make up the bed next to Emily’s. That way when she wakes up you’ll be there for her."

Clay felt guilty for his loss of control. "Maybe you’re right."

"He is," Tom Willis said as he walked down the hallway. "Go on, Doc. I’ll sit here with Mr. Porter. He and I have some things to go over."

"Can’t it wait?" Clay glanced at the man behind Willis. "I want to get back inside to Emily."

"I think you need to hear this, Clay." Willis motioned for the man to come forward. "Clay Porter, this here is Bob Rosenberg from Chattanooga." He motioned for the man to join them. "Mr. Rosenberg was Lucille’s lawyer."

"I didn’t realize that Lucille had a lawyer?" Clay wearily shook Rosenberg’s hand. "What’s going on?"

Rosenberg sat on a chair next to Clay and rested his briefcase on his lap. "Mr. Porter, how much do you know about Linda Beaudeaux – AKA Lucille Johnson?"

"Evidently not much," Clay admitted.

"I was the only one who knew." Tom said. "She came to me on the recommendation of a friend five years ago, after Cletus was sent to Riverbend."

Something clicked. Clay had always wondered why Robert had suggested Ogilvy as a perfect spot to hide. Did Willis owe ‘The Equalizer’ a favor? But glancing at Rosenberg, he decided to shelve further questioning of the sheriff.

Rosenberg took the glance as his signal to continue. "Just to keep it simple, because I knew her by both names, we’ll call her Lucille instead of Linda."

"Whatever." Clay agreed. He really didn’t want to do this now.

"Cletus Beaudeaux was the adopted son of Linda Beaudeaux, although he never knew it. Linda tried hard with that boy. I don’t know the details. I only know he was a handful from the time he could walk. Now Jake, the oldest boy, was the complete opposite. Never gave his mother or the law a bit of trouble. Joined the Army at 18, spent most of his service in Texas. That’s where he met his wife, Mary. Mary was just as sweet and shy as she was beautiful. She was eight months pregnant when Jake brought her home to meet Cletus and his momma for the first time. Remember that. It’s real important to the story."

Clay shook his head to stay awake.

"Sorry, son. I’m making this as short as I can."

"What did he do to get sent to Riverbend?" Clay asked.

Rosenberg sighed. "Cletus took a real shine to Mary. She was the only one in Chattanooga who talked nice to him besides his mother. Well, Cletus took it the wrong way. One day, Jake came home and found Cletus trying to rape Mary. He pulled Cletus off her, but Cletus was a big boy; he beat Jake to death. Mary started screaming and Cletus backhanded her so hard that she flew across the room and broke her neck. Someone had already called Lucille at her shop. She came back in time to save the baby. Ran to neighbors with Emily."

Tom took up the story. "It was an open and shut case. Cletus was sixteen when he murdered his brother and Mary. They tried him as an adult. It was a particularly vicious murder. Still can’t understand why they let that boy out. ‘Specially after he started telling everyone in Riverbend that Emily was really his daughter."

"But you said that couldn’t be." Clay did remember what the lawyer told him to. "He had a sick fixation and they still let him out?"

"Convinced the parole board that it was all a misunderstanding and he was truly sorry for what he’d done. He got out and it only took him four weeks to track down his momma."

"She knew he was out?"

"Yeah, and she was moving heaven and earth to stay out of his way."

"But she should’ve stayed out of Chattanooga entirely!" Clay snapped.

Willis patted his shoulder. "After the murders, she wanted to protect Emily from the whispers and finger pointing. So she up and changed her name and moved a hundred miles away. She was determined that Emily not know about her crazy uncle. She had her a real nice dress shop in Chattanooga that she tried to run from Ogilvy. Until about six months before you arrived in Ogilvy, Lucile never let the little girl out of her sight. Save for Mrs. Peterson down the lane, she never left Emily with anyone. It wasn’t until you showed up that she felt that she could leave Emily alone during the day."

"Why the hell would she trust me?" Clay demanded. He was too tired to processes this information. He buried his head in his hands. "She didn’t know me at all. She barely spoke to me until these last three weeks, and then only because I forced the issue."

"Well," Rosenberg sighed, "I never understood it either. She never asked me to check you out when she changed her will. Last week she just showed up at my office, the paperwork already filled out and said, ‘add this.’"

Clay figured he had to be asleep. None of this made any sense. With trepidation, he forced himself to take the verbal bait that Rosenberg had dangled before him. "Add what?"

"The codicil to her will. She left everything to Emily. That’s why she was gone so often during these past weeks, she was finalizing the sale of her business. There’s an estate of about $300,000 in bonds and CDs."

Clay shuddered. "And?"

"And she named you executor of her will...as well as Emily’s guardian."

Clay didn’t see the floor rushing up to meet him or feel Tom lift him, or hear the nurses ordering both men to gently lay him on the bed next to his ward.

When he opened his eyes again he wasn’t even surprised to see Robert McCall standing by his bed, watching him carefully. "Bastard. You knew all along, didn’t you?"

"And good afternoon to you, too, Clayton," Robert answered in that droll voice that Clay had always hated, yet unconsciously imitated from time to time.

Clay turned his head and panicked when he saw that Emily wasn’t in her bed. "Where..." he struggled to sit up.

"They took her for another x-ray and, I believe, a counselor for an evaluation," Robert told him.

The questions were ricocheting around in his head. He needed so many answers, but he started with the most obvious and perhaps the most life threatening. "Why are you here? Has my cover been compromised?"

"Perhaps." Robert watched him carefully. "I’ve put out feelers within the Agency to determine if there is any unexpected movement in certain quarters.

Clay nodded, trying to let the wool clear from his head. "What the hell day is it?"

"Thursday. You slept for nearly 24-hours, I’m told."

"Dear God. What’s happening with Emily?"

"The doctor didn’t tell me much. She’s eaten a bit. She slips in and out of her stupor. I’m told she looked at you sleeping and got hysterical. Kept asking you if you were dead."

Clay sighed. "We’re going to have to talk about that."

"I believe that’s one of the reasons why she’s in with the therapist."

"You set this up didn’t you, you old devil?"

"I don’t know what you’re talking about." He looked affronted but Clay was familiar with most of Robert’s facial ploys.

"You were the one who suggested Ogilvy. ‘Who would look for Clayton Webb in the middle of Tennessee,’ you said. ‘You can relax!’ you said. ‘Nothing ever happens in this part of the country,’ you said." Clay struggled to sit up. "Is this the favor, Robert?"

"Favor?" Robert said. "It’s been years since I was in that game."

"Just playing at ‘Equalizing’ now. Sure the ‘odds were against me,’ but you could have…"

"My dear boy!" Robert looked outside to see if anyone could hear Clay’s increasingly agitated accusations. He turned back and started to say something else.

"Don’t." Clay interrupted. His face was twisted in disgust. "Just tell me the truth. Was Lucille one of us?"

"One of us?" Robert snorted in disdain, "You make "Us" sound like vampires."

"It’s a good enough analogy," Clay shot back.

"Very well, I admit I suggested this place because I thought Lucille might need help one day. Who better than a man with nothing but time on his hands? By the way, you really shouldn’t leave your computer up and running like that."

"I was rather preoccupied that night."

"Regardless. The bloody book was opened for anyone to read."

"Did you?" Clay snarled.

"We were there for other reasons," Robert snapped back. "However, I did glance at it."

"We?" Clay stood and tested his equilibrium. He was surprised at how good he felt. "I can’t believe that Watts keeps Kostmayer around."

"He has his uses," Robert said dryly. "Is it detailed enough to keep Watts off your back?"

"It’s awful. He might die laughing, but he’ll know that no one will ever read it. Enough of this; answer my questions."

"I told you that I placed you here because I thought you might be of some assistance to Lucille."

"Well, letting me know would’ve been nice."

Robert sighed. "Lucille was a stubborn woman. She didn’t want the help until it was apparent that the parole board was rubber-stamping the warden’s desire to clean house and make room for more inmates." He looked away for a moment but Clay had seen the pain in Robert’s eyes. "As with many of our ilk, she was a good operative, but not particularly lucky or good in maintaining a personal life."

"Did you know what she planned on doing?" Clay demanded. "You know that I can’t be Emily’s guardian!"

"I didn’t know what she planned. I had no idea that you could be so bloody charming to small children. However, why can’t you be her guardian? It’s not like you’ll be leaving the country on assignment any time soon."

"If Watts has an inkling of my little work of self-examination, he’ll double his efforts to find me. I may have to leave the country just to save the lives of the people around me."

Robert studied him for a moment, then causally pointed out, "Then, old son, you damned well better turn off that computer."

Clay sighed then started for the bathroom. "Are the police still swarming around’?"

"No. It was a clear-cut case. The papers..."

"You see! I have to get out of here. What am I going to do about Emily?"

"Calm down. The papers simply reported that a recently paroled murderer ran amuck at his mother’s home and chased his niece out into the woods. Sheriff Thomas Willis was given full and proper credit for saving the little girl. I suspect that the reporters are now snipping at the parole board and the warden, as well they should. Clayton Porter wasn’t mentioned. Now. More to the point, what do you want to do about Emily? Foster care? Who would you choose? Certainly not your mother. That would raise far too many questions." He shrugged as if he really didn’t care. "You could always just run away. Leave it for others to decide her fate. That shouldn’t be too damaging to her," he finished snidely.

"I’d make a lousy fath…guardian." Clay rubbed his hand over his cheek. "I need to clean up." He entered the bathroom, quickly showered, and then began to lather his face. "I don’t suppose anyone brought me clean clothes. Could you get me another pair of hospital scrubs?" He was halfway done shaving when the door opened. He didn’t bother to look up as he finished. He had the cloth over his face, wiping off the residue.

"You’ve looked worse," Sarah said conversationally, as if they were still friends. He froze, unable to move his hands from his face. "Look at me, Clay." Her voice was still soft, but he heard a hint of what was to come.

Slowly, he lowered the cloth. Their eyes met in the mirror. "What are you doing here?" he whispered.

"I never told you about my gift, did I?"

"Gift? I don’t understand."

"When someone I love is in danger and very afraid, I can feel it. I heard you cry out Emily’s name; several times, in fact. I heard her trying to wake you up. I found out where you were and called the sheriff. Before you worry about your former employer finding you because of that, you should know that I used Mr. McCall’s cell phone." She forced a smile to her face. "I believe he uses pixie dust to ward off the bad guys. That and a ‘lost boy’ named Kostmayer who takes great delight in getting on and off airplanes." She shook her head and he finally turned to face her. "I’m surrounded my men who refuse to grow up," she whispered, tears forming in her eyes. "Only Captain Hook and his pirates use C-4 and semi automatic..."

"Stop it." He reached out for her, but she slapped his hands away.

"Don’t. Damn you, Clay!" She turned and left him standing there naked, clutching the slacks she shoved into his hands. "Get dressed. I’ve got a hell of a lot to say to you and you’re going to listen to every word."

He took strength from the memory of her silhouette in Harm’s apartment window. "Do I get a chance this time? Or did you bring your boyfriend with you? I’m surprised that he didn’t..."

"Leave Harm out of this," she shouted back.

He pulled on the slacks she’d left for him. "Why should I? You sure as hell didn’t! How long did you wait? Two months?"

"Why not, you lying bastard? I thought you were dead! Do you know how I found out, Clay? From your SECRETARY! She sent me all those corny gifts from Germany! Lies! All goddamned lies."

"I picked out every one of those gifts!" he said, finally entering the room to find her hugging herself tightly.

"Screw the gifts! All I ever wanted from you was the truth!"

"Ha! Like Harm? Oh, yeah, he’s never lied to you."

"This isn’t about Harm. I needed someone. I…" She faced him. "I can admit it was a mistake. I knew it was a mistake even before I knew you were alive. I moved out four months ago, Clay. There were a lot of reasons why I…But Harm isn’t to blame." She looked hard into his face. "Unless…"

Clay met her angry gaze. It always came back to Harm. "Unless?"

"Did he know? Did you go to him for help with Kershaw?"

"What!" But he turned away. "He didn’t know…not then. I didn’t ask for his help. God, you really hate me, don’t you?"

"What do you mean, not then? When, damn you?"

Clay licked his lips. "How much do you know?"

She shook her head sadly. "I want your side of the story. I want to hear your reason why you didn’t trust me, love me, enough to come to me. I need to hear it from you so I can move on."

He nodded, although he felt physically ill. Of course they had to move on. He had to finally get her out of his system. He had too much to deal with. "Okay. But not here." He looked down the hall. "I have to check on Emily."

"I understand you’ve been named her guardian."

"Yeah. I’ve got to do something about that."

"Yeah. I can’t see you as the father type."

"I see you’ve decided to fight dirty." He wrapped some of his own anger around him like a shield. "Very well… Mac. Go wait at the house. I’ll be there as soon as I settle some things."

"Fine."

She stomped out of the room. She saw McCall, pushing a wheelchair down the hall. Sarah’s breath caught in her throat. The little girl was staring at nothing, obviously traumatized by her ordeal. Robert was gently speaking to her.

As Sarah approached them, she finally made out his words, "…the mountains are almost purple in the sun. There’re miles and miles of open…" he stopped abruptly as Sarah stopped before him. "Emily, this is Sarah." Emily didn’t look at her. "Emily, Sarah’s a friend of Clay’s?" Still nothing. Robert sighed and shook his head sadly. "Sarah, perhaps it would be best if you waited at the house."

"I’ll take one of the cars."

"Mickey will drive you. He’ll also…" Robert looked down at the top of Emily’s head. "Mickey will drive you and wait at the top of the hill. Do what he says, Sarah. You trust me on this?"

She, too, looked at Emily. Just because the little girl didn’t respond didn’t mean she couldn’t hear every word they spoke. "I’ll go with him. You’ll come later?"

"Someone will need to drive Clayton."

Without another word she walked out of the hospital. She didn’t pause or say anything to Mickey, who stood and followed her out to where the rental car waited.

After they were on the road, she turned to him and demanded. "What’s wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Damn it! Don’t lie to me. What the hell’s going on?"

"Just renewed activity. Someone – not Rabb – broke into your apartment."

"Who?"

"Sterno didn’t recognize them. But then, he’s been retired for ten years now. He said they looked like Company men."

She didn’t even bother to ask who Sterno was. "Why the hell do you all do that? Say it! Were they CIA?"

He winced then smiled ruefully. "I guess it’s like being an actor and never saying the word Macbeth."

She took out her frustration with Clay on the man who’d done everything in his power to help her. "You don’t strike me as the Shakespearean type."

"Hell, no." He sighed at some painful memory. "But you do what you gotta do."

"So, this activity?"

"We’re keeping an eye on it."

"That woman who impersonated me? What’s her name? Phil?"

"She’s fine. She boarded the flight to Paris and reported that two men followed her. So you see," he spared her a bright grin, "all that trouble was worth it."

"You really do see this as a game, don’t you? You’re all just a bunch of little boys playing with deadly toys! Well, Mr. Kostmayer! I’m a Marine and I know it’s not a game."

He glanced at her, but refused to rise to the bait. The rest of the drive was silent, until they reached the front of the cabin. She opened the car door to find the man who’d shown up last night and been introduced to her only as Jimmy step off the porch. Mickey leaned out the window. "Anything?"

"Sterno called. Said…" Jimmy looked nervously at Sarah before continuing, "Uhm… Cat reported in, she said Watts is going crazy. She said he broke protocol and went to see the JAG."

Sarah quickly reached into her purse and stared at the message screen on her cell phone. She’d turned the ringer off and hadn’t felt the vibrations. There’d only been two calls: one from Harm; one from Morris. "I have to call in."

"Use the phone that’s sitting on the desk," Mickey urged her.

"Yeah. Sure."

She glared at Jimmy, who edged around her to slump into the passenger seat. Mickey called across him, "We’ll keep watch from up there," he said. "Unless they climb up from the farms below, we’ll see anyone who approaches. If you yell, we’ll hear you."

She walked into the cabin. Staring at the computer, she chewed her lip. When they’d arrived last night, it’d been too late to go to the hospital. McCall had insisted that they come to the cabin first. The door had been wide open, the computer on. Sarah had wanted to just shut it down, but McCall had sat down and, muttering about security and what a damned fool Clay was, plowed through the manuscript that Clay was working on. "Dear Lord," he’d grumbled several times before sighing. "Well, I suppose one can’t be good at everything one does."

"What are you reading?" she’d demanded.

"His life story, at least as it relates to his career with the agency."

"Why? As therapy?" she’d asked.

"As bloody insurance." He’d stood and pointed. "Here, sit and read for yourself. I suspect, if you can wade through it, it’ll answer… some of your questions."

"I really don’t think that I should…"

"Sit! Read what George Watts did to him."

She’d taken his place in front of the monitor. She’d skimmed over the chapters until she came to the last one. It’d detailed everything that Watts had done to him, how he’d set Clay up for the mission to Germany. How he’d called Clay into a special meeting in Fairfax. How he’d drugged Clay and kept him that way for nearly a month, until long after his funeral. He’d given Clay no choice; he’d shown him the evidence that something terrible was brewing and how Clay, being ‘dead,’ had been in a unique situation to ferret out the traitor.

When she’d come to the part where Watts has showed Clay the false evidence that’d proven he and Kershaw had been in the assassination plot together, and that Clay had only escaped dying at the hands of the Secret Service because he’d murdered his co-conspirator, she’d been shaking with fury. But she’d realized the truth, too. "It’s hopeless."

"Well, I admit, he needs an editor," McCall had said.

"That’s not what I mean and you know it."

"Perhaps not. It may be that we can convince Watts to come to a compromise. We’ll worry about that later, shall we. Now, go and get some sleep. We’ll all need our wits about us. Mickey will keep watch in the car. I’ll sleep out here on the couch. It’s looks comfortable enough."

She’d almost refused, but she’d gone in and stared at where he’d slept for the past six months. The antique bedstead, the simple quilt, the washstand; everything was so different from his condo in Alexandria. She’d rigidly laid there, her cheek against his pillow, inhaling his scent. She hadn’t thought she’d sleep, but she’d awoke early this morning, the pillow soaked with her tears.

Now, it was nearly 1900 hours. She stared at the readout on her phone. What the hell did he want? Any other time, she’d have called immediately. However, she’d only been gone two days. There was nothing pressing at the office. It was Watts, pure and simple. Could she lie to her CO? She’d never lied to Chegwidden. What was she going to do? The image of Mickey Kostmayer came to mind. He’d gleefully led her down three different airline corridors onto a plane and then immediately off, using the security door to reach the tarmac. It’d bothered her how easily he could circumvent heightened security precautions, the wicked smile never leaving his face. She pulled open one of Clay’s drawers and dropped the cell phone inside. "Sorry, sir. I have no idea where I lost it." She stepped out onto the porch to wait for Clay and Robert to return.

What was she going to say to Clay? What good had it done to come out here? She wasn’t even sure now what she’d expected from their first encounter. Had she thought he would take her in his arms and beg for forgiveness? He never had after Paraguay. However, just as in Paraguay, they were both to blame for their predicament. Why had she just accepted the announcement of his death? She’d told Harm that she’d felt he was dead. But what loss had she really been feeling: Clay’s, or their baby’s death? Why hadn’t he returned to her immediately after Watts set him free?

The setting sun was blocked by clouds and sent streaks of orange, red and gold across the sky. Did he like it here? Had he been happy living a life of so little action? Shaking her head, she thought of the attack that’d brought her here, and of the child who was now Clay’s charge. She felt guilty for her snide attack in the hospital. He’d probably make a wonderful father. But just like Harm, danger seemed to seek him out. She spared a bitter laugh for how similar he and Harm were. Would Clay be able to run with Emily? Would Clay have to run? Had her very act of rescue loosed the hounds of hell?

So damned many questions. She walked around to the side of the porch and looked up the hill. The car was sitting there. She couldn’t make out the faces, but she knew Mickey and Jimmy would protect her. Turning away, she thought to take a walk but a light rain began to fall.

"Get here, would you!" She went back inside. She wasn’t hungry. She paced for a while. She looked at the computer, now dark, and wondered if she could boot it back up and read more of the book. But she didn’t think she could face any more of his truths. She knew she couldn’t bear to wade through Clay’s horrid writing.

She sat on the couch and stared at the television set, turning it on and then turning it off. She then began a more careful search of the antique shelves next to the fireplace. The book titles didn’t surprise her. He’d an eclectic taste. The latest Stephen King sat next to a biography of Thurgood Marshall. She ran her fingers over the large selection of DVDs. Casablanca didn’t surprise her, Caddy Shack did. One lone VHS tape sat there, no title on the spine. She noted that the player was a combination DVD/VHS model. Why one VHS tape? A premonition chilled her.

She picked it up and carefully pulled it from its sleeve. It was rewound, and there was no tag on the face of the tape to indicate that this was anything more than a tape he used to record programs he wanted to watch later. However, a TYVO sat there ready to record. Was the tape just a backup? She wasn’t sure why she had to know, but she was determined to face whatever the tape showed her.

The act of sliding the tape into the aperture set everything in motion. The machines whirred, the LCD screen blinked on. Stepping back to see more clearly, it only took her a second to understand what she was looking at; after all, she’d been there that day.

The sky was a vivid blue. The clouds were white and fluffy. The funeral procession wound its way behind the hearse. She hadn’t paid attention that day. She’d been lost in her own misery. Now she actually saw Clay’s funeral. Porter was supported by Robert McCall and another man, who was later introduced to her has Tim Fawkes. There she was, in full uniform, head held high, walking between Harm, wearing his Blues, and Chegwidden in a black suit. She hadn’t listened to AJ’s touching eulogy that day. Tim Fawkes also spoke of the man he’d known and respected. Harm had decline Porter’s offer to speak.

The cameraman, while obviously far away from the service, had been excellent. His equipment had been professional, picking up a dozen close ups. Chegwidden’s jaw was set; Harm looked almost bored, but she knew better; Porter, dry eyed, was still the picture of grief. Robert McCall looked furious. And she? Now she understood. "Oh, my God."

"You look relieved."

She spun around to find Clay standing in the doorway. "Where did you get this?" she demanded.

"Watts had it taken. He thought I’d enjoy seeing my own funeral." He stepped into the room and joined her in front of the television set. Taking the remote from her hand he pushed a button. "Damn it." Instead of turning it off, he’d hit pause and her face was frozen before them, a mute testimony to what he’d misunderstood.

"What did you mean, I looked relieved?"

"Come on, Sarah. It’d been bad with us before." He finally managed to darken the screen.

"Liar! We were just getting past all the bad things. I told you I loved you! You were the one who said he was relieved."

"I was." He shrugged and walked into the kitchen. "You want a cup of coffee?"

"Damn you! Get out here and talk to me."

He re-entered the living room. He was gripping a coffee mug, staring into the contents as if he could read their future there. Looking up, she saw his determination. "We’ve got trouble. You have to get back to DC. Morris put you on the UA list."

"What! I left him a message that I was taking vacation."

Again, Clay shrugged. "Doesn’t matter. I can’t stay here. I…it’s not safe."

"When?"

Another shrug. "I might have a couple of days. But you have to get back. Robert will arrange it. Maybe tomorrow morning."

"Then we have all night. I’m not leaving until we get this cleared up."

Clay carefully set the coffee mug on the counter between the kitchen and living area. He put his hands on his hips. "Fine. Get it out. Say what you have to say and then go. I can’t have you here. I’ve got enough to worry about with Emily."

"What are you going to do about her? Just up and leave her?"

He hung his head. "I don’t know," he whispered. "I just don’t know. If she had stayed the way she was, I could’ve perhaps left. Arranged to have her sent somewhere for treatment."

"What do you mean? What happened?"

"She snapped out of her state after Robert brought her back from her evaluation. Even though I held her in the harness as Willis pulled us to safety, even though I never left her side while they set her broken leg, even though the nurses assured her I was just sleeping, she’d gotten it into her head that I was dead, too. The kid’s got a weird fixation about sleeping. She was only three months old when her parents were murdered, so it can’t be that. But I can’t desert her." He ran his hands through his hair. "I don’t know, Sarah. But I do know that I have to run. I can’t ask you to run with me." He shook with bitter laughter. "Not that you would."

"How do you know that?"

"Because," he pointed at the television screen, "I saw what being with me did to you. I don’t know why you broke up with Harm, but go back to him. Work it out."

"We broke up because he couldn’t stand my obsessing about you and…"

"And?"

"Sit down, please." She joined him on the couch and took his hand in hers. "Do you remember that last time we were in bed together?"

"Every detail," he whispered. He caressed his thumb across her knuckles. "The sex was incredible. The conversation," he tried to release her hand, but she gripped it tightly. "Well, that was pretty indicative of what we had, wasn’t it. I wanted to give you a back rub and you…"

"I didn’t want you to because I knew it wouldn’t do any good, and would probably hurt. I was tender there, Clay. I knew something was wrong and I went to the doctor." She took a deep breath. "I was pregnant."

His eyes grew wide and his grasp on her hand was painful. "What…what happened?"

"It was ectopic – a tubal…"

"I know what it means. They had to…"

"Abort it." She finally gave into the tears and collapsed into his welcoming embrace. It was like their time in Sadik’s prison. They shared a pain that only they could understand. She finally had someone who truly understood her loss.

"I didn’t think… I mean, after the torture. Oh, God, Sarah. Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I…"

But she had to finish. Had to explain. "I went to Harm because I had no one else, Clay. He was kind and gentle and… and so… Harm. He wanted to fix it. He wanted to make my – our – pain go away." She leaned back against the couch and stared up at the ceiling not bothering to wipe her face. "It took every ounce of strength I could find to make it through your funeral. Porter wouldn’t talk to me, not that I blamed her. I understand. She’d lost you the same way she lost her husband." She turned her head to study him. He hadn’t bothered to wipe his face either. She traced her finger through the moisture. "I read your book – at least the last chapter. How much of it is padding?"

"None of it. Every word is true." He took a deep breath. "I never left the US until much later."

"He kept you drugged for all that time?"

"Yeah." Clay stood and began to pace. "It think he did that to make sure that you’d really hate me and distrust me, if I showed up after ‘dying.’ He told me if I was going to insist upon a desk job, then he wanted one more mission out of me. And, he showed me evidence about Kershaw that I couldn’t ignore. He was my friend, Sarah. If you’d seen what I’d seen originally, only it had been Harm? I don’t know what you would’ve done, but I wanted to see for myself. Then, of course, he gave me the tape. I saw it all on your face."

"Okay. But later, afterward you were the hero. I just don’t understand!" She stood also, but the couch kept them apart. Even though she wanted to comfort him, she wanted answers. "After all we went through, you couldn’t have come to me and explained? Couldn’t have said, ‘What the hell are you doing with Harm?’ Given me a GOD DAMNED chance?"

"I was going to try, but you read it. Watts didn’t want me to come back. He wanted me to stay dead and become his special assistant. I could dig up more blackmail for him or even become his private little assassin."

"That doesn’t explain why you didn’t come to me for help – or did you go to Harm? You said in the hospital that Harm found out."

He shrugged. "I was going to talk to Harm, see what was going on with you two. Watts had told me that you’d moved in together; that you were happy. But again, I wanted to see for myself. I went to Harm’s apartment… saw you in the window. You were kissing him. It nearly killed me. I…"

"So you walked away." She came around the sofa and stood before him. "When did Harm find out?"

"It was the day before I left DC, maybe a week after I went to Harm’s apartment. I was coming out of a bank in Kenmore where I had a safety deposit box with cash and documents that I’d need so I could run. I don’t know why Harm was there. But he was across the street coming out of an office building. We stood there, the street between us, and we just stared at each other. I finally turned away. He never followed me."

"I see." She understood why Harm hadn’t told her. He thought he was protecting her.

"Listen. Get some sleep. I’ll sit out here and keep watch."

She shook her head and stepped closer. "I need you to hold me, Clay."

"I don’t think I can just hold you."

"Okay." She held her breath, allowed her need to show in face.

"One last hurrah?" He offered. "Get it out of our system?"

"Perhaps." Her sad smile mirrored his own.

He placed his hands on her shoulders. "Sarah. It has to end. I see that look in your eye. It was there when we tried to rescue Galindez. What the hell are you planning?"

"You’re the one who makes decision without consulting people. You know, that’s the one thing I truly hate about both you and Harm. Damn you! Damn you both." She rallied her strength. "Answer one question."

"What?" he demanded tiredly. "Are you going to trust my answer?"

"Do you love me?"

"What difference…"

"Do you love me?" she repeated more softly than the first time.

She watched him try; felt his body shake with the effort. She knew he wanted to lie but his struggle assured her he’d tell the truth. "Damn you, yes," he finally hissed and dropped his hands. "But it still doesn’t change anything."

She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Then kiss me goodbye."

"Sarah, please."

"Kiss me goodbye."

Their lips met and it was like a year washed away. He wrapped her into his arms. They groaned into each other’s mouths and were soon frantically tugging at each other’s clothes. She trailed kisses over his face, tasting him, memorizing him, because she knew it’d be a long time before she saw him again. "Please, Clay," she looked back toward the bedroom.

"Sarah," he sighed in defeat and followed her. In his bedroom, they finished undressing, each on an opposite side of the bed, their eyes holding the other’s gaze. Once naked, they pulled the quilt to the foot of the bed then crawled to the center of the bed. Kneeling together, inches apart, Clay brought his hands to her face and just held her, looking deep into her eyes. "Lie back. Let me touch you," he whispered.

Once she was lying before him, her hair fanned across the pillow, she reached for him. "Come here and touch me."

He knelt there for a moment just watching her. "I’m going to wake up any moment."

"You best not fall asleep on me, Clay." She laughed softly trying to ease some of the tension. "That wouldn’t be good for my self-esteem."

He fell upon her, stopping his fall with his outstretched arms, but dipping down for a long kiss. Gripping his hips, she urged him to kneel between her legs.

"I love you, Sarah. I never stopped," he said before burying his lips in the valley between her breasts. He lavished each in turn as she stroked his hair, gently encouraging him.

"I loved you then. For a while, after I heard how you died, I tried to hate you. But you got under my skin. I swear it, Clay, I love you. Oh, God!" She arched up as he took a nipple into his mouth. "How I’ve missed you."

He reverently kissed her belly and they stilled for a moment to acknowledge their loss. "I’m sorry, Sarah."

"I am, too. Come here. I need you."

"But…" He’d always made sure that she came before he even considered taking his own pleasure. But her look was so serious. He covered her with his body. "I love the way we fit together. The way your breasts feel against my chest." He nuzzled his nose against that spot on her neck; he nipped it softly. Trailing kisses along her cheek, detouring to trace the whorls of her ear, he finally claimed another long kiss. His tongue caressed hers and she groaned in pleasure. She wrapped her legs around him, shifted her hips, and he sank deep inside her. Lifting his head, he watched her eyes as he began to thrust. "You’re so beautiful, inside and out. I’ll never love anyone like I love you."

"I’m so relieved," she whispered, quirking a smile, finally, truly, forgiving him.

"You are, huh?" Pushing his weight off her, kneeling between her thighs, he plunged back inside her. She locked her feet behind his thighs and he was free to touch her as he thrust. Pinching her nipples, pulling them until she was crying out for more. He moved one hand between them, found her bundle of nerves and rubbed against it until she was bucking wildly, crying out his name in utter joy.

Once she stilled a bit, he gripped her hips and took his own release. Pounding hard, reveling in sensations that he’d not felt in a year, he emptied his seed deep inside her before collapsing on his back next to her, panting harshly. "Oh, damn. Way out of practice."

"We did just fine, lover." Reaching out, she found his hand to hold. "Sleep now," she whispered. "Tomorrow we’ll pack."

He laid there, a myriad of new worries added to the coming reality. He prayed that he had the strength to make her leave him in the morning. He hoped that Morris and Harm could protect her from Watts’ inquisition. He prayed for her sake that she never found out that it’d been Harm who’d unknowingly set them on her track; Robert had given him that piece of news on their way out to the cabin. He should get up and begin making plans. But even with the sleep he’d had in the hospital, he was too emotionally drained to move.

She lay there, watching him sleep. A year’s worth of sorrow and anger couldn’t be released in one act of sex, as incredible as it’d been. They needed to talk. They loved each other. Was that enough? No one thought her capable of this kind of existence. Porter didn’t, Clay didn’t. Harm would never understand. Could she walk away from everyone who meant anything to her? Harriet? Harm? Could she do that? For Clay? He didn’t want her to.

She rolled over and rested her head on his shoulder and even in his sleep he wrapped his arm around her to hold her tightly against him. Just after the funeral, before she’d agreed to move in with Harm, she’d dreamed of a night like this, one last night to love each other. Was this the ultimate, ‘be careful for what you wish?’

She shifted slightly, trying to free her arm from between them. "Sarah," he murmured in his sleep.

"Hush. I’m right here."

She woke at the first chirp of dawn. She’d spent the entire night in his arms. Before, even when they’d spent the night together, she’d always rolled away from him to sleep. She was loath to wake him, however, she needed the facilities – now. Carefully, she sat up and he grumbled but rolled over and was content to clutch her pillow.

Only in the bathroom did his new house remind her of his old apartment. Everywhere was the familiar sent of his sandalwood soap and the Drakkar Nior cologne that he’d always preferred.

She stepped under the hot, pulsing shower. For the first time in over a year – since before Paraguay really, she’d slept well. But now the anxiety was returning. He’d send her away. She didn’t want that; she wanted to be with him. Running his scent over her body, between her legs, washing the evidence of him away, she tried to think of an argument that’d win him over. She could help with Emily. How could he argue with that? What else? She was a Marine, damn it. That had to count for…and it hit her. What she was contemplating would only complicate his flight. What was she going to do? Desert? Fake her own death? She had little doubt that Robert could arrange that quite neatly. But could she do to Harm and the rest of them what Watts had forced Clay to do to her? She stood there until the water turned cold, forcing her from the shower.

Part 2

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