call again,” Clarence said. “They warned me about slow response time on account of the weather. And there was a pileup accident on I-25. When I told the dispatcher she wasn’t bleeding and didn’t appear to have broken bones, he suggested I drive her myself if it was possible.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Spence said.
“Wait!” Angelica waved both hands to interrupt the plans that were being made for her. She was wide-awake, sitting right here, and she didn’t like having other people take control of her life. “I don’t need a hospital. I didn’t hit my head.”
Spence hunkered down in front of her. He captured her fluttering hands and held them. “Would you remember if you had?”
“Did you find any bumps on my head?” she demanded. “No, you did not. And my skull doesn’t feel concussed. There are plenty of other places on my body that are painful, but not my head.”
“Where does it hurt?” he asked.
“My lips are chapped and were bleeding.” She yanked her hands from his grasp. “My feet are stiff and sore. My throat is scratchy.”
“She has bruises,” Trudy said. “I noticed them when she was changing clothes.”
Shrinking back in the chair, Angelica wrapped her arms protectively around her midsection. She knew very well that she had injuries. Both her knees were scraped. A massive contusion spread from her rib cage to her lower pelvis on her right side. Though she couldn’t see her back, she felt an occasional throb of pain.
The physical damage might have come from a hard fall or a car wreck. She might have been beaten but didn’t remember, didn’t want to remember. She’d been doing her best to ignore these aches and get back to the business at hand—whatever that was.
She glared at Spence. “No way do I have a concussion.”
“There are other ways to lose your memory.” He placed his hand on her knee, reestablishing contact. “You could have been drugged.”
She glanced down. Her eyelids closed. For an instant, she caught a glimpse of what had happened. A brief sliver of memory revealed itself, and she saw things as they had occurred instead of as they were now.
Her wrists were fastened to the arms of a chair with duct tape. She wasn’t uncomfortable but firmly secured, immobile. Behind her back, disembodied voices talked about dosage. They mentioned a drug.
She repeated their words, “A derivative mixture of benzodiazepine and propranolol.”
When she looked up, she saw Spence nod. “Those are drugs that could be used to induce memory loss.”
“I knew that.” Oddly enough, that was her first outright lie. She knew zip about drugs and memory loss, but she wanted desperately to speak with some kind of authority.
“If you were drugged,” Spence said, “we need to take you to the hospital for tests. Be reasonable, Angelica. I want you to be checked out. I feel responsible.”
“Please don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Feel responsible.”
She bolted to her feet. Even though she couldn’t exactly identify her career at the moment, she was dead certain that she was well respected in her field. She’d always been an achiever, proud when her slacker sister teased her for being “daddy’s little darling.” Ever since Angelica hit her first home run in T-ball, she’d been a winner. Valedictorian and senior prom queen in high school, magna cum laude from college, and she’d received dozens of grants in computer cryptography, science and hacking.
The past was becoming clear to her. She worked at the Cyber Security division of NSA and focused on cryptography and hacking. Her long-term memory was reassembling itself. The short-term still eluded her.
In any case, she didn’t want to be tucked away in a hospital. Though she didn’t know why, being here—in the field—was an opportunity for her. Going into the hospital meant admitting defeat. She needed to convince Spence that she was okay, and they should get back to work. “I’m fine.”
“Do you remember dinner?” he asked.
“Of course, I do.”
“Prove it.”
Dinner at the home of General and Mrs. Thorne with one outside guest followed a certain ritual. Angelica, along with her brothers and sister, had attended hundreds of Lana’s simple but elegant dinners. This one wouldn’t be much different.
“The centerpiece on the table was made of pinecones painted orange and blue...” It was football season, and her father was a season ticket holder. “In a salute to the Denver Broncos.”
“What did we talk about?”
She knew this one: the primary topic for every true Bronco fan. “We discussed the quarterback. Elway was mentioned.”
Spence nodded, and she brightened. I’m going to get away with this. She continued, “Mom served Cornish game hens and cheesy potatoes. The pie was pecan.”
She could tell by his expression that she’d nailed the menu of her mom’s favorite dishes. “Is that accurate?”
He gave another terse nod. “Do you remember why we’re here?”
She took a leap of logic. He was FBI; she was NSA. He had come looking for her. “We’re on assignment together.”
“I still want you checked out,” he muttered. Then he looked toward Pastor Clarence. “Can you give me a ride to my car?”
“Sure, but I need to dig out the driveway to the garage. And that might take half an hour or forty-five minutes.”
“I’ll hike,” Spence said as he started loading his weapons back into their holsters. After he slipped into his parka, he picked up the extra-large backpack and dropped it at her feet. “I brought your clothes, boots and a jacket. While I’m finding the car, you can get dressed.”
“I’m not going to the hospital,” she said firmly. “I’ll call my dad. He can pick me up.”
“Not a chance.” Spence forced his words through a tight-lipped grin. “I want General Thorne to like me. That’s sure as hell not going to happen if I tell him how I slacked off on the job and let his daughter get kidnapped. And then, even worse, I have to call him for help.”
Though Angelica didn’t want to turn to Daddy for help, she considered having Spence rescue her to be equally frustrating. She hefted the pack by one strap and slung it over her shoulder causing a pain that crawled up and down her spine. She held her breath and willed the hurt to stop. She didn’t have time to be injured. She refused to be taken out of the game.
Spence said she was kidnapped. Kidnapped? That must be why those thugs had her in the van and why he’d been searching for her. “Did they demand a ransom?”
“No.”
Well, of course not. Kidnappers wouldn’t ask the FBI for money. “What about my father? Did they contact him?”
“This isn’t about money,” Spence said. “At least, it’s not about the piddling amount that a kidnapper could demand.”
She didn’t understand. If her kidnappers hadn’t been after money, why did they take her? “Is it because—”
He stepped up close, interrupting before she said too much. He gave a quick glance over his shoulder at Clarence and spoke to her softly. “We’ll talk about this later.”
“But I—”
“Later.” He took the backpack from her grasp, asked directions from Trudy for someplace private and carried her pack up the staircase and into a guest bedroom. Pillows were stacked at the head of a queen-size bed, and the brightly patterned duvet was neatly made. With the door partially