His familiar voice, terse but cheerful, said, “Leave a message,” then came the disconnect. The mailbox had been full for months, and he never answered her calls. But she never gave up hope that one day he would pick up. And sometimes she called just to hear his voice. Three cryptic words that helped her believe he was safe and all right, somewhere.
She sank onto the edge of the bed and stared at the still life of a bowl of fruit on the opposite wall, the colors blurring as she kept her unblinking eyes fixed on it. If only she could dull her emotions as easily. At first she’d been annoyed—and yes, a little intrigued—that the good-looking guy in the suit was following her. She was sure she’d never seen him before, but, unlike Agent Renfro, she didn’t have a good memory for faces. When he’d flashed his FBI credentials, she’d been afraid she might faint right there.
She’d been terrified he’d approached her because of Scott. He was in some kind of trouble—big trouble, if the feds were involved. She’d almost said as much but had swallowed the words. Why give the agent a name if he didn’t have it? Worse, why put Scott on his radar if she was mistaken and he was looking for someone else?
She’d let herself be a little flattered when Luke Renfro told her he remembered her and was interested in knowing her better. Clean shaven, with thick dark hair cut short and deep blue eyes, he was the kind of man who would make any woman look twice. Relief had filled her at the thought of innocent flirtation. The FBI agent was good-looking, and when she allowed herself to relax and feel it, she could admit to a certain sizzle in the air between them.
He was interesting, too, with his unusual talent for remembering people. It was like knowing someone who could do complicated math in his head, or someone who remembered the phone numbers of everyone he knew.
Except Luke’s talent had a more sinister side. His talk of the bombings hadn’t made her feel any easier. When he’d all but admitted he was looking for the bomber, she’d wondered again why he’d approached her. Maybe the line about wanting to meet her was just an excuse. Maybe he’d only been pretending not to know her name in order to see what she’d say. He could have stopped her because he knew about her connection to Scott and he wanted to see if she knew anything more.
As much as she told herself Scott would never do something so horrible, how could she really know? The man she loved wasn’t the man he had been lately. He might be capable of anything, even something as terrible as this.
“Scott, where are you?” she whispered. “What have you gotten yourself into?”
* * *
LUKE RETURNED TO his surveillance of the mall, alert for any sign of Morgan, as well as his suspects. Was she mixed up in the bombings somehow, or was she just an unneeded distraction from the more important work he had to do?
Dusk descended like a gray curtain as he made his way to his hotel, down the mall from the one where Morgan was staying. Once in his room, he shed his jacket and tie, and telephoned his supervisor to give his report. “No sign of any of our suspects,” he said. “But a lot of familiar racers, support people and fans are converging on the city. Maybe I’ll have better luck at the kickoff banquet tomorrow night.”
“Steadman thinks he saw one of our guys at the airport yesterday afternoon, but he lost him in the crowd.” Special Agent in Charge Ted Blessing had the smooth bass voice of a television preacher, and the no-nonsense demeanor of a man who was comfortable with wielding authority. “If Steadman is right, we’ve got to stop this guy before he makes his move.”
“If Travis says he saw the guy, he saw him,” Luke said. Though he had no doubt Blessing would go to the mat to support his team, the Special Agent in Charge had never bothered to hide his skepticism about the whole super-recognizer phenomena. “And if he’s here, we’ll find him.”
“Unless he gets past us again. He’s avoided detection so far. Which is one reason our analysts think he can’t be acting alone.”
“I thought they’d decided that he was a lone wolf. Has some group claimed responsibility for the other attacks?”
“No. But other intelligence has come in that points to a terrorist cell with links to each of the bombing locations. We’ve got people trying to track down a connection to Colorado right now. Plus, we finally have results from the tests on the explosives he used in the London bombing. Scotland Yard believes the bomber used military-grade C-4. Not impossible for a civilian to obtain, but not something you’d pick up at the local hardware store, either.”
“Maybe some of the other suspects on our list are involved.”
“Maybe. Anything else of interest I should know about?”
The image of Morgan’s frightened face flashed into his mind, but he pushed it away. “Nothing yet,” he said. He wasn’t ready to offer her up for the Bureau’s scrutiny. Not until he’d had time to try to discover her secret himself.
They said goodbye and ended the call and he retrieved his tablet from the room safe and booted it up. Time to do a little research into Morgan Westfield.
The knot in his stomach loosened a little as he read through the search engine results on her name. She’d been telling the truth about being a writer. Every hit featured one of her articles, mostly about cycling. He read through her recap of the Tour of Britain, caught up in her depiction of the excitement and tension of a sport he hadn’t thought much about before being assigned to his case. The Bureau had briefed him and his fellow agents on the basics—how races are organized into stages, which could combine circuit races, cross-country treks and individual time trials. He understood the concept of racing teams that worked together to support one or more favorite riders, and had read about the dedication of the men for whom professional racing was their life.
But those facts hadn’t breathed life into the events the way Morgan did in her article. Reading her words, he felt the struggle of the racers to meet the demands of the challenging course, the devotion of the fans who followed the peloton from stage to stage and the resources that went into putting on an event that was popular around the world.
He hesitated over the keys, then typed in another name, one he tried to refrain from searching but always came back to, month after month: Mark Renfro. The familiar links scrolled down the screen: an article Mark had written about the destructive potential of so-called dirty bombs, a piece for a scholarly journal on nuclear fission, a profile of him when he won a prestigious award from the University of Colorado, where he taught and conducted his research.
Farther down the page were articles about his disappearance almost a year before: Top Nuclear Physicist Missing. Professor Mark Renfro Missing, Feared Dead.
Luke read through that article, though he’d long ago memorized the text.
Mark Renfro, professor of nuclear physics at the University of Colorado in Boulder, has been reported missing after failing to return from a hiking trip in Colorado’s remote Weminuche Wilderness area. Professor Renfro set out alone to hike to the top of Wilson Peak on Monday, and has not been seen since a pair of hikers reported passing him on the trail at about noon that day. Renfro was an experienced hiker who had reportedly been struggling with depression since the death of his wife in a car accident six months earlier. One colleague at the university, who wished to remain anonymous, stated he feared Renfro had arranged the hike with the intention of committing suicide.
Luke exited the screen, familiar anger rising up inside him. Mark had not committed suicide. Yes, he’d been devastated by Christy’s death in the accident, but he would never have left their four-year-old daughter, Mindy, alone. Something had happened to keep him from coming back to the girl. Luke was certain his brother was still alive, and he would give anything to bring him back.
He’d driven Mark to the trailhead that day and arranged to meet him back there in two days. Luke’s work schedule had prevented him from accompanying his brother on the hike, but Mark had taken these solo treks before. “I get some of my best ideas out there with no one else around,” he’d said. Far from being depressed, he’d been in good spirits that morning. In the early hours, the sky showing the first faint hint of light,