It was not New York City's worst neighborhood, but it certainly was not the best, either. Narrow alleys made shadowy canyons between the squat apartment buildings. Forgotten laundry drifted in the sullen night breeze. Shouting voices barked from behind open but barred windows. The boy was only eleven years old, but he made his way alone up the street with a fearless swagger that belied his surrounding. Tommy didn't mind the night. This was his neighborhood.

On the next block, he saw a bunch of boys gathered around a stoop. Most of them were bigger than Tommy, but he could make out a bright blond head in the group his best friend, Sean. Grinning, he trotted down to join them. "Hey, Sean."

Sean practically snarled at him. "Get away from me."

The boy took a step back, bewildered, trying to think what he'd done to make his friend so angry. He couldn't remember anything. They'd been laughing like crazy yesterday. "What'd I do?"

The older boys chuckled nastily. "It's not what you did," Patrick said. He was Sean's older brother, and usually he was nice to Tommy. "It's what you are."

"But . . . I thought we were friends."

"That was before we knew about you," Sean growled.

"Knew what? I haven't done anything!"

Patrick stood up. "Let's go, guys."

As a group, the teens shuffled away. Tommy followed his friend. "Sean, come on. What're you mad at me for? Even since you been going to that camp . . . "

"Get it through your head, stupid, I don't want to be around your kind."

"Huh? What kind?"

"Your kind. Dirty Protestant." Sean spun away and trotted after the older boys.

"Sean, wait!" Tommy grabbed the other boy's arm. Sean flung around, his face wrinkled with rage, his fists catching the side of Tommy's head and then his mouth and then his stomach. Tommy tried to cover up, but he had no chance to fight back. "Sean, stop it! Stop it!"

Sean stepped back, His friend -- his former friend -- was bleeding around his mouth. His fury went away, and he was sorry and embarrassed. And it made him angry all over again. "See the little baby cry," he taunted. His own voice cracked. "You just stay away from me, Prot!"

He turned and ran after his brother. Tommy got up slowly, wiping his eyes impatiently on his shirt tails. The blood startled him, and he touched his mouth carefully, looked at his fingers in amazement. He swallowed hard, new tears welling up in spite of himself. He watched the boys fade into the distant dark. Then he turned and ran the other way.

Dennis Daly stood on the sidelines of the soccer field, watching the boys run up and down. He glanced up at the bright blue sky, the green grass, and mothers in lawn chair watching and chatting together, with the city skyline soaring in the background. The boys were relaxed, having fun. It was so very peaceful here. So unnervingly peaceful.

He heard movement behind him and turned. Nick Kostmayer was approaching. Daly shook his head. The young priest wore a clerical collar, all right, and a black shirt -- but it was short sleeved. Not like the priests back home. Proper priests, they were. Of course, they were all old and dying off, too. "Morning, Father Nick." The words rolled out in a proper Irish brogue that was deliberate deeper than it was naturally. "I see the lads are at it already."

Nick smiled. "They do love the game, don't they?"

"That they do."

"Something I can do for you?" Kostmayer asked in a friendly way. "Or are you just visiting?"

"Actually . . . ah, well, I should have talked with you about this before, but I wasn't sure it wouldn't fall through. I have a photographer friend who's just back in the city, and I asked her to come take some shots for us, of the Peace Camp. You don't mind, do you?"

"Of course not. As long as the boys don't object."

"Oh, I don't see why they would. She's really quite talented. She has a book coming out, on the Troubles. So I wasn't sure but she'd be too busy, but she said she'd come." He gestured to the parking lot, where a red sports car was pulling in. "That'll be her now."

A young woman got out of the car and went around to open the trunk as the men approached. "Good morning, darlin'," Daly called.

"Hey, Denny," she answered. "Come help me haul this stuff, will you?"

"Certainly, but here, come meet our priest. Annie Keller, I'd like you to meet Father Kostmayer . . . "

His introduction died there, because the young woman had turned around and was staring at the priest with a look of complete amazement. And worse, the priest was staring back in a way that should have gotten him defrocked.

"Oh. My. God."

" ... who I take it you already know," Daly finished lamely as the two came together in a deep, friendly embrace.

The two stepped apart, a little embarrassed. "I don't believe it," Anne said, grinning. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, fine, " Nick answered. "And you? How long have you been in New York?"

"Since I got out of high school. Well, except I've been in Ireland most of these last two years. You?"

"Almost four years. I wish I'd known, we could have gotten together."

Daly shook his head. No, not like the priests back home. Not at all.

The girl kept smiling, but her voice grew serious. "How's Mickey?" she asked carefully.

Nick grinned encouragingly. "He's well. He lives here, now, too. I'll give you his number."

The soccer game had slowed as the boys checked out the young woman. Noticing, Daly shook his head again. "Listen, Father Nick, do you have any influence with this girl? I've been trying to get her to go to the police for weeks . . . "

"Shut up, Denny." As he'd hoped, she broke away from the priest and began hauling equipment out of her trunk.

Nick was all ears. "The police? Why?"

"She's been getting these letters, anonymous letters . . . "

"It's nothing," Anne insisted.

" . . . threatening to kill her if her book is published. The book, I told you, it's about the Troubles, it's going to be very important, very influential . . . "

"Denny, shut up," she said again.

Nick picked up the heaviest of the cases. "I'd like to hear more about these letters."

"There is no more about these letters," Anne said firmly. "It's just some stupid prank . . . "

" . . . some stupid prank," Nick repeated to McCall, "but how would she know? These people aren't predictable, are they? These terrorists?"

McCall looked at Mickey, who was standing with one shoulder against the wall, his arms folded tightly over his chest. "Well, I don't know," Robert answered slowly. "If it's a pro-Catholic book, I don't see why the IRA would object."

"But there are other groups, aren't there?" Nick persisted. "Radical Protestant groups?"

McCall shook his head. "The Protestants already have power. It seems unlikely that they'd pursue her this far because of some pictures."

"Not just some pictures," Nick corrected. "She's redoing Jamie Sullivan's book. 'Ireland at War'. Have you ever seen it?"

"I own a copy," Robert answered slowly. "She's redoing Sullivan?" This struck him as extremely unlikely project, and ill-advised, given what had happened to Sullivan as a result. Perhaps there was more to this than had first appeared.

Mickey straightened. A second ago, McCall had just been humoring his brother. Now he was deadly serious. Mickey could feel the hair on the back of his neck start to rise. What if she really was in trouble?

The priest nodded. "She says they're using his old pictures, facing her new pictures. This one's 'Ireland at Peace'. Only it's not, really."

Robert frowned. "And Sullivan's agreed to this?" He stood and went to his bookshelf.

"He's the one that picked her to do it."

"Why didn't he do it himself?" Mickey asked drily.

"Because the IRA shot his kneecaps off ten years ago," McCall answered sharply. He took a large, slender book of photographs down, and flipped through it almost reverently.

"Look," Nick explained earnestly, "I'm no expert, maybe she really isn't in any danger. Maybe it is just a stupid prank. All I'm asking is that you see her, read these letters. You'll know." When McCall didn't answer, he turned to his brother. "Don't you owe her at least that much?"

Mickey never moved. "What makes you think she'd even want my help?"

"You still don't care about anyone but yourself, do you?"

Robert glanced up from his book. Mickey was staring at the far corner of the room, very pointedly not answering his brother. And something about his posture, about the very air in the room . . . "All right," McCall said heartily. "I've nothing pressing to do this afternoon. Perhaps I will drive out and see her."

Kostmayer maintained his posture against the wall, even after his brother left. "All right, Mickey," Robert said warmly. "Let's have it. What don't I know about this woman?"

"Nothing," Mickey answered. He finally stood up straight and moved away from the wall. He straightened his jacket -- despite the warm weather, he wore a cloth jacket that concealed his weapon -- and ran his fingers through his hair. "Let's just go."

"You're coming with me?" McCall answered in surprise. "You don't have to. I can talk to her, determine if there's any actual risk. I don't think there is, to be honest -- but I'd like to see her work."

"Yeah, me, too."

"Mickey . . . "

"Let's just go," Kostmayer insisted.

McCall backed down. "All right. Give me just a moment, I need to get something." He went into his bedroom.

Mickey stayed where he was, alone in the middle of the living room, with his hands clasped loosely in front of him, his feet apart, his weight balanced. Like he was ready for a fight, he realized. Appropriate. He felt like he'd been sucker-punched.

Annie Keller, again, after all this time.

When Annie was eight years old, she caught one of her older brothers making out with his girlfriend. Always a curious child, she found Mickey, who was ten, the most approachable older man she knew, and told him what she'd seen. They slipped off together behind Mr. Cotton's garage and tried it, this kissing with tongues. The first time was weird. The second time didn't get any better. They wiped their mouths on the back of their hands and went back to riding their bikes.

When Annie turned sixteen, she suddenly blossomed like a tiger lily in a field of clover. Boys came from ten miles in every direction to sit on her porch and chat her up that summer. But she stayed safely on the porch -- until the fall, when Mickey punched a guy twice his size in her defense and became the first to lure her off the porch and down to the river. By then he was a little better at the kissing thing.

Mickey closed his eyes. Because what had followed . . .

They were apart, afterward, completely separate for nearly eight years. And then in Leavenworth he got her letter her youngest sister had been killed in a car crash, and while she was home for the funeral she heard about Mickey. She had a good job and a little savings, she could get more money, she knew some people, so what could she do to help? Mickey had torn the letter into tiny shreds, furious and deeply embarrassed that she knew he was in prison, that she would still try to help him after all he'd put her through. He finally wrote back, very briefly, as kind as he could manage to be, telling her not to write to him any more. She hadn't.

And now this. Another eight years had passed, and here she was. Possibly in mortal danger, possibly needing his help, his protection. He'd known she was in the city. Known for years that he could drive half an hour and see her. But what the hell was he going to say to her, after all this time? Sorry I almost ruined your life, want to get some dinner? Would she have anything at all to say to him?

This whole situation had huge potential to turn ugly. If he had any sense, he'd take McCall up on his offer and wait somewhere else.

All his memories of Annie Keller lived in a safe, dark corner of his mind, where he ignored them as much as he possibly could. It was too hard to think about Annie Keller, so he didn't. And that had been just fine, until now.

She might need him. And Nick was right, he owed her that much. Besides, Mickey knew his brother would never get off his back until he'd seen her. And at least he had an excuse to take McCall along for back-up . . .

Robert came back, tucking an envelope unto his breast pocket. "Shall we?"

Mickey gestured to the door with one hand. "Into the fire, McCall."

Robert tried valiantly to keep his questions to himself on the drive. Mickey had been unusually quiet, even for Mickey, and from his brief comments, Robert knew he didn't want to talk. Obviously it was something about the woman. Robert guessed that Anne Keller was an old lover of one of them, probably Mickey, but what else? Something had happened involving this woman -- and both brothers. Something bloody awful, by the look of it. Because even now, years later, Mickey still seemed ashamed.

Ah, that was it, Robert realized. He had seen a lot of emotions in Kostmayer, many of them unpleasant, but he'd never seen this one; he'd never seen shame before. It made Robert ache to say something to take it away. And maybe he had that something, right in his breast pocket. But Mickey didn't want to talk, and in any case Robert had sworn to keep a secret years ago. He kept his peace. In due time, he knew, in Mickey's time, he would find out all about it.

Finally, he ventured, "Are you all right, Kostmayer?" This got no answer, does not even a glance. "You haven't said a word since we got in the car."

"Turn left at the light," Mickey answered laconically.

"Well, that's something, I suppose." Robert turned the corner. "Are you sure you don't want me to drop you somewhere and pick you up after I've seen her?"

"No. Whatever the lady wants to throw at me, I got it coming."

"How long has it been since you last saw her?"

"Sixteen years," Mickey answered without hesitation.

Robert did some quick math. "You must have been very young."

"Too young. Park there."

McCall did. "And Miss Keller was . . . a girlfriend?"

"She was my wife," Kostmayer answered flatly.

A whole lyric of startled questions rose in McCall's mind. It started with, Mickey had a wife? And ended, all unasked, when Kostmayer climbed out of the car. His whole posture insisted that he didn't want any further discussion. Robert longed to take his young friend by the collar and shake the story out of him. But that never worked with Mickey, did it? For the moment, at least, Robert waited.

The neighborhood was lived-in and fairly poor. Laundry hung on haphazard lines, tricycles and children's toys cluttered the stoops, windows had bars and doors were made of steel. And yet it had the feel of a neighborhood about it. Two women chatted while walking their little grocery carts up the block. A pack of toddlers giggled and ran in a tiny yard while a teenager read her schoolbook on the steps nearby. Further up, a group of teenage boys lounged about in a bored way. The driver of a passing truck honked his horn and waved, and they all waved back.

"Interesting neighborhood," McCall observed. "Will you know her if you see her?"

Mickey simply pointed.

The fire hydrant at the middle of the block leaked, apparently continuously, leaving a small puddle in the gutter between it and the storm sewer. A small girl, maybe four, was splashing joyously in the puddle, and a woman knelt before her with a camera, alternately shooting pictures and playing with the child. Both of them were laughing.

The child's mother, who had been plucking weeds from her handkerchief-sized lawn, realized what they were doing. She snatched up the child, scolding her and the photographer too, and swept the girl away. The remaining woman stood, covered her lens, and started across the street -- coming right at them.

McCall felt his mouth come open. Anne Keller was the very picture of the perfect Irish-American girl warm red-brown hair, creamy skin, eyes that he suspected even at a distance were green. Her tiny little waist flared into fulls hips and breasts, her whole body promising a dozen happy Irish babies. She was the quintessential stereotype, the most Irish-looking girl McCall had ever met.

Most Irish people, in his experience, did not look like that.

Kostmayer wasn't even breathing.

She saw Robert and smiled politely, in a most un-New York manner. Then she saw Mickey and simply stopped.

McCall prepared to duck.

Ten heartbeats. She moved again, came to a stop two paces in front of Kostmayer. He still hadn't moved, and Robert had not heard him breathe.

"Hello, Anne," Mickey said, very quietly.

"Hello, Mickey."

Ten heartbeats. She reached out, took another step, wrapped her arms around him slowly, carefully, so as not to startle him. Mickey seemed to melt, hugging her back slowly, then more tightly, then tighter still. Ten more heartbeats, and she began to laugh again, and Mickey with her this time. When they broke, her eyes -- which were indeed green -- were damp; Kostmayer wouldn't look at McCall for a moment.

And then they just stood there, uncertain.

"Hello, I'm Robert McCall," McCall offered as a distraction. "I'm a friend of Mickey's."

The woman came back to herself. "Nice to meet you," she said, shaking his hand. A little start of recognition came to her eyes, and went away just that quickly. To Mickey, "I am so glad to see you, I am, but what are you doing here?"

"The letters," Mickey answered. "Nick."

"The . . . oh, my God. He's still a nag."

"Yeah. Only now he's got a license for it."

She laughed, shaking her head. "I'm sorry, these letters . . . there's nothing to them. It's just some crank."

"Perhaps," Robert answered. She had the most intriguing accent he'd heard for some time. Irish influences, but softer, drawling. He couldn't place it. "But threatening letters from the IRA do bear some looking in to."

"They're not from the IRA."

"And you know that because . . . ?"

"I called them up and asked."

"You . . . " McCall glanced at Kostmayer. Mickey glanced back, one eyebrow raised. Oh, really? "I see."

"I'm sorry to waste your time, but you made the drive, come on up and have some coffee." She headed for a short building, probably originally a warehouse, now with three apartments on the ground floor and one on the second floor. She started up the steps, then paused and yelled to the boys on the next stoop. "Frankie, watch the car, huh?"

The boy smirked. "What'll you give me?"

"I won't tell your mother where you were last night."

The whole gang cracked up. "Annie! How do you always know?"

The woman grinned and continued up the steps.

"That sounds familiar, somehow," Mickey mused.

"Uh-huh. Only it used to be the grownups blackmailing us."

Texas, Robert realized as they went inside. Her accent was from Texas, heavily diluted with New York, and now sparkling with Ireland.

The apartment was huge. It was surprisingly well-furnished, given the neighborhood, with an emphasis on comfort rather than any particular style. One whole wall of the main room was covered with photographs. Dead center was a three foot square photo of a young boy's face. He was seven or eight, looking somberly at the camera with eyes a thousand years old.

"Have a seat," Anne called over her shoulder as she went to the kitchen. The men ignored her; they both went to the photo wall. McCall looked at each of the prints. Mickey never took his eyes off the boy.

"Did you take this?" he called after her.

"If it's on the wall, I took it," she called back. She came back into the room, trailing the scent of freshly brewing coffee, carrying the letters. "You like?"

"They're amazing," Robert answered. "You have a gift for faces, don't you?"

"I love faces."

"This kid," Mickey said slowly. "He's dead, isn't he?"

Anne stared at him. "He was shot by a sniper five minutes after I took that. How'd you know?"

"His eyes," Mickey answered briefly. He stared at the photo a moment more, then turned. "Those the letters?"

They sat down, Robert on the couch, Mickey next to him, reading the three letters over his shoulder. Anne sat across a coffee table from them. On the table, Robert noticed, was a well-thumbed copy of Sullivan's book. After a moment she went and got the coffee. When she was settled again, Robert was tucking the letters back into their envelopes. Frowning.

"There's nothing there," Anne said quietly.

"No. I don't think so." Robert hesitated, then put down the letters and picked up the book. "You spent a good deal of time in Ireland, I take it."

"Most of the last two years. I've been back here since spring."

"And how was Sullivan involved?" He flipped through the book absently, trying not to notice that his companions were playing eye tag she'd look at Mickey intently, until Mickey looked up, then she'd look away and Mickey would stare at her. Then she'd look up . . . Mickey's wife?

"He's on the City Arts Council. A couple years back they had this photography competition, and he was one of the judges."

"And you won."

"No. But a couple days later he called me. He wanted to do an update of his book, he wanted me to do the new photos."

McCall nodded slowly. "He is a great lover of faces, also."

"Maybe," Anne conceded, "and maybe it's just that I look like a nice Irish girl."

Mickey smiled. "If he only knew," he muttered.

"What makes you think he doesn't?" she shot back. "So, he got me a big cash advance from the publisher and shipped me off to Ireland with all these copies of his pictures and maps and notes and letters of introduction to everybody. Everywhere I go, they're expecting me, they're glad to see me, they fall all over themselves helping me. It was great. Even the Provos let me shoot anything I wanted . . . well, mostly."

"Aren't they the ones that took his kneecaps off?" Kostmayer asked.

"Well . . . yes. But that was a splinter group, reactionaries, and the rest of them feel really bad about it."

"Bloody lot of good that does Sullivan," McCall muttered.

"Agreed," the woman answered quickly. "Anyhow, I called Jamie every two or three days and he told me where to go and who to see. I sent all my film back, he processed it and told me what I had to re-shoot. By the time I got back here, he had the book nearly together. The publisher loves it, and it comes out next week."

"And these letters began, what, six weeks ago?"

She nodded. "For what it's worth, right after the review copies went out."

Robert frowned deeply. This didn't make sense, any of it. "Is the book . . . is it in any way inflammatory?"

"Of course it is. But not any more so than the original. I've got a copy of the galleys, if you want to see them." Robert nodded, and she went to a drawer and brought back an unwieldy stack of papers. "My advance copies are supposed to be here, but they haven't come yet."

Almost reverently, Robert began to turn the pages. It was as Nick had described it, with Sullivan's original photo on the left, Keller's new photo on the right. In many cases, they were of exactly the same site. Sullivan's were photographs of destruction, despair, bloodshed. Keller's were peaceful, reconstructed scenes, smiling faces, uninjured children. In some of them, what had been destroyed remained ruins, but even these had life teeming around them. The contrast was breathtaking, powerful.

"You haven't contacted the police," Robert observed. "About the letters."

"I'd only be wasting their time. If it really was the IRA, they wouldn't bother with the letters, they'd just kill me. And if it's not, there's no way to trace them." She caught Mickey's look. "And if there had been anything else, anything out of the ordinary . . . " she explained further.

"No strangers about? No hang-up phone calls? Nothing like that?"

"Nothing. And this neighborhood is like a fish bowl. Everything sees everything. There's been nothing to see. I mean, the only thing is . . ." She stopped in mid-word. "Never mind."

Robert glanced up sharply. "You're not worried about these letters because you know who they're from."

"I don't know," she said firmly.

"You have a guess," Mickey countered.

Annie looked back and forth between them. "I'm kind of thinking it might be Dennis Daly."

"And he is?"

"He's this . . . peace activist, I guess you'd call him. Irish. He sets up these peace camps all over the place. Brings kids out of the Nine Counties, lets them live in nice neighborhoods for a couple weeks, so they can be kids. Gets them out of the war zone. He seems very dedicated, he works hard, raises money, the kids love him . . . "

"But," Mickey predicted.

"I don't know. There's just something about him. Something not right." Both McCall and Kostmayer were nodding. "But he's never done anything," Anne continued quickly. "Not a word, not a single thing that I could point to and say, see, there, that's what I mean. You know?"

"And you don't want to vilify him on the grounds of feminine intuition," Robert continued. His words paused as he reached the back third of the galleys. Here, there was a third picture in each set. Sullivan's destruction, Keller's peace, and then a new destruction piece. It was shocking, and heartbreaking after the first set of photos.

After the first few pages, Mickey stood and went back to the photos on the wall. Anne sat back and watched McCall's face as he finished the book in silence.

Closing the last page carefully, Robert took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Good heavens."

"Not easy to look at, is it?" she asked sympathetically.

"Not easy to be there, was it?" Mickey countered without turning.

McCall sighed. He'd been so engrossed in the photos that he'd forgotten about these two. Hard enough to see the destruction, yes, but for Mickey, to know that this woman had been there, close enough to get the photos while the smoke still rose off the rubble --

The door slammed open, and a boy trundled in with a big box in his arms. "Annie! Annie, look! Look at this big box you got!"

The woman moved toward it. Mickey and Robert moved faster. Mickey grabbed the box and lowered it carefully to the floor. McCall grabbed the boy and pulled him across the room, shielding him with his body. "Anne, come here."

It actually took her a minute to catch on. "Oh, come on," she said, exasperated. "You don't really think . . . "

"Annie, go,' Mickey snapped from where he crouched over the box.

She went and stood by McCall. "You don't really think it's a bomb, do you?"

"I don't know," Robert answered tersely.

Anne touched the boy's shoulder reassuringly. He looked up at her, then looked away. She took a second, hard look at him. "Damn, Tommy, who's been beating on you?"

"Nobody."

"Tommy . . . "

Reasonably satisfied with the package, Mickey took out his pocket knife and gingerly cut the tape. "Mickey?" Robert asked quietly.

The younger man looked inside and relaxed visibly. "It's from her publisher," he announced. He drew out a brand-new copy of 'Ireland at Peace'.

Robert sighed, relaxing as well. For the first time he took a good look at the boy. He did indeed have telltale bruises. "Now then, young man . . . "

"It's none of your damn business!" the boy shrieked. He broke away from McCall and ran.

Anne started after him, but Mickey stopped her. "I'll go. Looks like guy stuff."

When he was gone, Robert turned back to business. "I think you're quite right about these letters, Miss Keller. They don't seem to represent any actual threat. Perhaps Mr. Daly is trying to drum up publicity for you. Still, I want to promise you'll be careful. Be alert for anything out of the ordinary. If you feel immediately threatened, call the police. If you feel vaguely threatened, and you can't reach Mickey, call me." He drew out a business card and gave it to her. "Oh, and don't open any packages, all right?"

"All right," she agreed, though she was clearly humoring him.

McCall considered her for a long moment. "I have something of yours," he finally said.

She smiled prettily; she had remembered, after all. "Besides my undying gratitude?"

He drew the letter out of his pocket and gave it to her. It was old, a bit tattered, still in its official Leavenworth stationary envelope. Hand-addressed to her at a Houston address, in Mickey's scrawling handwriting.

She took it gingerly, like some sacred object, and held it without opening it. She already knew what it said, every word by heart, as did Robert. A terse little letter that said sorry about your sister, I didn't kill my partner, you can't get me out so don't waste your time trying, and please don't write to me any more.

And how this brief little letter had found its way from a bewildered but determined young photographer to an international espionage agent was largely a matter of sheer luck. Anne had an internship with a major news magazine in New York, and when her mother forwarded the letter to her, she marched into the national editor's office and insisted that they should do an investigative report on the Navy SEALS. He didn't agree, but he listened to her story. It made him late for his lunch appointment, which happened to be with the international editor, to whom he repeated the story. This editor also discounted the magazine article idea, but he happened to have a old school friend who worked at the Pentagon, and the friend knew someone at the Company, and that friend knew someone who might be able to help . . . and the rest was history.

The woman blinked back tears, holding her letter again. "Thank you," she said simply.

"It is I who should thank you," Robert answered. "Mickey has become an invaluable colleague to me -- and a dear friend. Thank you for helping me find him."

She threw her arms around him, and Robert embraced her for a moment. "However, if you did happen to feel that some small token of appreciation was necessary . . . " Anne dropped back, looking quizzically at him, " . . . I should very much like to have a copy of your book."

Anne grinned. "Of course. Of course." She fetched one from the box and handed it to him.

He handed it back. "Well, I was thinking, perhaps an autographed copy . . . "

The boy had made it as far as the top of the outside steps before he plopped down in despair. Mickey sat down next to him, saying nothing for a moment. Then, "You known Anne long?"

"She used to babysit me. Before she went away."

Mickey nodded. "There are things that women don't understand."

"Yeah."

"Like not telling on your friends, even when they beat you up."

"They aren't my friends any more," the boy answered sullenly. He sniffed. "How'd you know?"

"I was your age once. I remember."

"I hate them," Tommy said. "I hate their dumb camp, and I hate Annie's stupid book. She's gonna get killed because of it."

Mickey sat up straighter. "What makes you think that?"

"I heard my folks talking. They said I wasn't allowed to get her mail any more, because there might be a bomb or something."

"But you do anyhow."

"Yeah. I don't care. I like Annie. She's neat. I don't want her to die."

"Nobody's trying to kill her," Mickey assured him. "They're just trying to scare her a little."

"You sure?"

"Pretty sure. And as for your friends -- sorry, your ex friends -- you won't believe this right now, but in a few weeks it'll all blow over."

"I hate them," the boy repeated stubbornly.

"You all start back to school, there'll be other things to do besides fight," Mickey promised. "Like . . . chase girls."

"Yuck." Tommy thought about it. "Me and Sean been friends a long time."

"And you will be again."

"Yeah. Maybe." Abruptly the conversation was over; the boy stood and ran off down the steps.

McCall came out of the apartment and walked down a few steps, so that he was roughly at eye-level with Kostmayer. "Well, I think we can tell your brother that she's in no danger."

"Thought so."

"She is a lovely woman," McCall commented. "I wasn't aware that you'd ever been married."

Mickey seemed to flinch. "Kind of a long story, McCall."

"We have a long drive back," Robert countered.

Mickey shrugged. "I was, uh, I was thinking I'd stick around for a while."

Robert feigned surprise. "Were you, now? I had noticed she didn't throw anything."

"Not yet, anyhow."

"She won't," McCall assured him. "And you're off on a mission tomorrow, aren't you? Well then, I'll see you when you get back." He took two steps, then turned. "And you will tell me the whole story then, won't you, Mickey?"

Mickey hesitated. "I'll tell you what you need to know."

"What I . . . of all the . . . " McCall sputtered.

"See ya, " Mickey answered. And then as Robert started away, "Hey, McCall? Thanks."

Robert shrugged. "I haven't done anything, Mickey. Have a safe trip."

The door was shut, so Mickey knocked again. "Come on in," she called.

He went in. She was clearing away the coffee cups. "I thought we told you to keep the door locked."

She shrugged. "I knew it was you. Want to get some dinner?"

The boys, hungry, sweaty, and tired, were milling around beside the church, waiting for the van that would take them home. "Well, then, lads, how was your day?" Dennis Daly asked heartily. "Having a good time?"

"It was okay," one of the Irish boys answered. "Good soccer match."

"I think it's boring," Sean sulked.

"Shut up," his brother said quickly. "Don't listen to him, Mr. Daly. He's just a kid."

Daly studied the boy. "I hear you got in a little scuffle last night."

"Yeah. Sorta."

"It's important to stand up for what you believe in, lad."

"Yeah," Sean sulked. "But Tommy was my friend."

Daly nodded. "It may seem that way. But the truth is, we have only each other as friends. The rest of the world is against us, sooner or later."

"What do you mean?" Patrick asked. He'd heard about Daly, whispers from the Irish boys he looked up to.

The man shrugged. "I don't want to trouble you, lad. You're just a wee boy. You're supposed to be having fun here."

"No, tell us."

"Tell 'em about the Troubles, Denny."

"Well . . . maybe it's better that you understand," Daly agreed slowly. "There are Catholics here, lads, in this very city, who claim to be our supporters, but they really aren't. Even those who should be with us, they befriend us and they betray us. It's happened time and again in the homeland, and it's happening here now."

Patrick was wide-eyed. "You mean someone we know?"

"The enemies are everywhere. You only need to look."

"Tell us who!" the boys clamored. "Who is it?"

"Tell us," Patrick begged.

The van pulled up. Daly shook his head. "You're only a boy, Patrick. Enjoy your camp. Let the others take care of the traitors. Your time will come soon enough, I fear."

"But I'm not a kid," Patrick protested. "I want to help!"

The man considered for a very long moment. "There are dead soldiers at home younger than you. All right, Patrick. Let's talk. I'll drive you home."

"I want to come, too," Sean said quickly.

"No, baby," Patrick said. "You ride the bus with the rest of the children."

On his way back to his apartment, stuck in rush hour traffic, McCall mulled over the woman, her pictures, the letters, and Mickey. His mind kept coming back to the wife thing, until he finally laughed at loud at himself. It wasn't like him to obsess over details. The truth was, it wasn't the secret that bothered him, so much as the fact that Mickey had kept it a secret. And what else did the young man have hidden in his past?

Bored, he made a quick phone call to Jonah. "No hurry," he said, "but I'd like to run a background on someone." He gave him the Dennis Daly's name and what little information he had. Robert was not one to disregard feminine intuition; he'd seen in action too often.

"Got it," Jonah said. "Anything else?"

McCall thought a moment. "There is, Jonah. See what you can find out about Anne Keller."

"Sure."

He hung up, and left Robert alone again in the traffic.

They walked around the corner to a tiny Hungarian restaurant, where the food was so authentic that Grandma, cooking in the kitchen, spoke almost no English. "Beef today," her daughter told them, bringing them giant glasses of ice water.

"There is no menu," Anne supplied. "You get whatever Grandma's cooking."

"Oh. Okay." Mickey was, as always, omnivorous, and in any case it smelled wonderful. There was no wine, of course; they ordered Cokes, which also came in giant glasses.

The daughter went back to the kitchen, and after a moment Grandma herself came out. She marched over to their table, grabbed Anne's hand by the wrist, and held it up. "Too skinny," she announced. She dropped the hand and grabbed Mickey the same way. "Too skinny," she proclaimed again. Shaking her head in dismay, she trundled back to the kitchen.

Mickey blinked. "Do I want to know what that was all about?"

"You'll see," his companion assured him. "Welcome to my eccentric neighborhood."

"I like it," Mickey said. "How'd you ever end up here?"

"Well, I got a scholarship, and I was supposed to live in the dorms, but they were gross. So I got the school to give me the money instead -- they're always overbooked for dorm space -- and I found four roommates and we rented the apartment."

"Where you're living now? You had five people in that apartment?"

Anne nodded. "Sure. It was just like home."

Mickey had to laugh. He'd almost forgotten that Anne was one of eleven children. No, not forgotten, but blocked it out. As children, he and Nick had played day and night with the various members of the Keller gang. They stayed for dinner sometimes; Mickey always suspected that Mrs. Keller wasn't entirely sure which kids were hers anyhow.

"So," Anne continued, "once we got out of school and had some money, we all got our own places. But the people who rented after us, the wife went crazy and killed the husband with a shotgun in the middle of the living room. And after that they couldn't rent the place, so they called me. And since I was already having trouble with the cost of living in a more, hmm, fashionable neighborhood, I let them give me a break on the rent and moved back."

"You're not worried about ghosts?"

"Oh, please. I'm more worried about rats and roaches, same as everybody else in this city."

The daughter came back from the kitchen with their dinner; the plates were so large and so heavily laden that she had to bring them one at a time. The beef was in bite-size pieces in a heavy sauce red with paprikash, over a bed of the tiniest spaetzles Mickey had ever seen. Along the edge of the plates were a variety of side dishes applesauce, green beans, and such. It smelled spicy and wonderful. But even Mickey looked at the plate dubiously. "It would take me a week to eat this much."

"Grandma says you're too skinny," Anne answered.

"Oh. If I was too fat, I'd get a smaller plate."

"Uh-huh. If you're just right you get a regular plate, and if you're too fat you get a bread plate, and if you're really too fat she won't feed you at all."

"Can't argue with that." He dove in. The sauce was spicy, but also creamy; it didn't send him diving for his water glass. The beef fell apart in his mouth. The spaetzles were just exactly chewy enough. Mickey had had better food, he was sure, but he couldn't remember when.

They ate steadily for a time, without speaking. "Is she going to make us clean our plates?" Mickey wondered, starting to feel full before he was half done.

"No. She'll send it home for your lunch tomorrow."

He took another bite. It was too good to stop. "You'll have to keep mine. I'll be halfway around the world by lunchtime tomorrow." He paused, wiped his mouth. He hadn't meant to open that particular can of worms. Not yet, anyhow.

But Anne said, "Yeah, Nick said you work for the government these days."

Thanks a lot, Mickey thought, making a mental note to punch his brother in the mouth. If he'd wanted her to know -- still, maybe it was best to have the cards on the table. "He tell you what part of the government?"

"Well . . . yeah."

"And?"

"And what?"

"And what do you think about what I do?"

Ann shrugged. "I don't know. I don't know much about it. Except for watching James Bond, of course." She shrugged again. "I have a little trouble picturing you sipping martinis."

Mickey scowled. At least she was joking about it -- and not asking a lot of questions. He was still going to punch Nick in the mouth. "No martinis," he answered, "but I look damn good in a tuxedo."

She froze with her fork halfway to her mouth. "Oh, that's a visual I need to savor," she breathed. She took the bite. "Can I take your picture in a tux?"

"Sure, next time I rent one." Mickey was relieved that they had slid off the whole Company question so easily. Of course, Anne had been places where she'd probably met a few covert types. It made sense that she was less wound-up than the average civilian about it. "Or you can wait 'til we get married again."

Her fork hit the table, all expression draining from her face. Mickey cursed himself inwardly, every bad word in every language he knew. He hadn't meant to bring up the Company; he sure as hell hadn't meant to get started on this. Why couldn't he ever just make small talk? "I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I was just . . . I'm sorry. I . . . I should have come back, like I promised . . . "

Her eyes cleared a little. "Mickey . . . "

"I can't believe you don't hate my guts, Annie. I wouldn't blame you if you . . . if you tried to shoot me in your living room. I am so sorry."

She grabbed his hand across the table. "Mickey, stop it. We were kids. We made a stupid mistake, and we dealt with it the best we could. I knew when you left you weren't coming back, and so did you. And to be honest . . . I was tapped out, Mickey. I don't think I could have faced any more."

Mickey nodded. He had known that. He'd seen it, in her eyes, that last day. He remembered it like it was yesterday, down to the clean sick smell and the annoying beeps of machines. He'd gone from the airport to the funeral to the hospital, and the doctor had said something, "She tried to bleed out," and Mickey had nodded like he knew what he was talking about, and the doctor, seeing the uniform, assumed that he did, and so he let the young man go to the bedside completely unprepared. Unprepared to see his bouncy, vital girl sucking oxygen in desperate gulps, her feet elevated over her head to try to prevent brain damage while they pumped blood into both arms and IV's into both legs, to see her shivering under a pile of blankets in a sweltering hot room, her face the exact color as her pillowcase. And totally unprepared to see her eyes, glassy and dim, but for one moment aware of him, recognizing him, so apologetic, so lost -- so broken. To see her let her eyes drift s! hut in despair.

He'd known, all right, that she couldn't take any more. He'd also known that he couldn't take any more. So he'd signed the papers her father put in front of him, and he'd run like a coward.

And here he was, all these years later, eating dinner with his girl in a funny little restaurant halfway across the country. And she had not died, and she was not broken, and she did not hate him.

He realized suddenly that he needed to rethink everything that had happened, to see it again from where he was now and stop remembering it as he'd seen it when he was eighteen years old. Maybe, just maybe, he hadn't been quite as unforgivably wrong as he'd thought. Looking at the woman, feeling her soft little hand in his, he felt some small glimmer of hope. Maybe.

And then he remembered how it had started, in a very deliberate, very selfish act that Anne would never even know about, and he knew he'd never forgive himself completely.

"Here, let me get you a box for that."

Mickey about jumped out of his skin as the daughter came and took their plates away. Reluctantly, he released Anne's hand. "Can we, um, can we go for a walk or something?"

She smiled. "Sure."

They sent one of the endless supply of neighborhood boys to carry their leftovers back to Anne's door, and they walked, down streets that were completely unnoticeable by car, that only became neighborhoods on foot. Under windows where couples argued and children watched cartoons and families ate dinner. Past a hundred abandoned toys that would be discovered all over again in the morning. Past tiny businesses, closed and dark or glowing warmly in the twilight. Past people dragging themselves home from work; past people gleefully heading out into the night. They walked, and they held hands, and they talked. About where they'd been, what they'd done, who they'd met. They talked easily, swapping stories back and forth, listening, laughing. Getting used to each other's voices again. Getting comfortable.

They talked about everything except him.

Mickey wasn't sure if he should just leave it that way -- not to dredge up old bad memories -- or if he should say something -- so she didn't think he'd forgotten. Because he never had, not for very long.

As if in answer, a boy whizzed by them on his skateboard. A boy as tall as a man, all arms and legs, a boy just the right age. "Do you ever think about him?" Mickey asked quietly.

"About Gregg, who would learning to drive next year?" Anne answered quickly. "Never."

Mickey squeezed her hand. "Yeah. Me, too."

"It used to be worse. I used to watch for kids that were his age -- the age he would have been -- "

"I thought I was the only one that did that."

"Everybody does," she answered. "Everybody who ever lost a child, for the rest of their lives." She walked a little ways in silence. Then sadly, "I wish they'd let you see him."

"They did." She looked up, surprised. "At the grave site, Nick made them put the casket back in the hearse so I could see him before . . . " He stopped then, because tears were rolling down Anne's face, and because his throat felt as if someone were trying to strangle him. He'd forgotten about that, about his teenage brother in his dark suit calmly ordering the funeral director and everybody else around. "Don't cry, hon," he managed to say. "He was perfect, he was beautiful."

Which, of course, turned the tears into great heaving sobs. He put his arms around her and held her very tightly, against the wall of the building, out of the way. "Annie, Annie," he murmured in her ear. "It's all right, love. It's all right."

But it wasn't. Because their perfect, beautiful son had never drawn a single breath. Had never cried, not even once. Had been born dead at seven months, with no good explanation, just one of those things, teen mother and all, these things happen. Mickey had been in Basic Training; Anne had been in the hospital, still waiting to throw the hemorrhage that would nearly cost her life; Nick was fifteen, and he'd handled everything. From buying the little white coffin with his college money (which eventually he'd let Mickey replace) to finding the tiny doll suit the boy was buried in.

Grudgingly, and quite aside the fact, Mickey realized he wasn't going to be able to punch Nick in the mouth. This time. Maybe ever again.

Eventually, Anne quieted. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"It's okay," Mickey answered, smoothing her hair back from her face. "It feels like I needed to be here for that."

"Yeah. I guess we missed that part."

Mickey nodded. "Come on," he said, and they walked on, now with their arms around each other. Anne was quiet, still shaken from the crying jag, and he let it be for a time. They had missed it, mourning their son together. They'd missed a lot of things. "You ever wonder," he finally ventured, "if Gregg had survived, where we'd be now."

Anne nodded. "I'm guessing we'd be raising about eight kids in a two-bedroom double-wide down by the railroad tracks."

Mickey gave an exaggerated shudder. But honestly, he'd been in a lot of places where that kind of life sounded just fine. For him. Not for Anne.

"I don't think I could stand it," Anne was saying. "Watching you trudge off to work at Standard Products every day, doubles, swing shifts." She gave his ribs a little tickle, recovering her humor. "You are so much more the martini and tuxedo crowd."

Kostmayer shook his head. "I was just thinking, it would have been a damn shame if you'd got stuck there."

"Well, I'd be running register at the Speedway when I wasn't on maternity leave," she answered. "And of course I'd have my mother's hips . . . "

"I'd almost managed to forget your mother's hips," Mickey said, shuddering again. "How are your folks, anyhow?"

"Mama died of cancer three, four years back. And Daddy -- drinks."

There was nothing to say to that. He drew her closer and they walked.

McCall had just settled with his tea and his book, in his dressing gown, when the quiet knock sounded at his door. He frowned as he rose; perhaps it was Mickey, here to tell his story, but the knock had been too reserved. He wasn't expecting Jonah in person; Scott had a much more exuberant knock. It almost sounded like . . .

He snapped the door open. "Control. It's damn near the middle of the night."

"It's about Dennis Daly."

McCall let him in. "That didn't take long."

"Jonah's search sent up a flag," Control explained. He didn't bother to sit down. "What've you got on him?"

"What have you got on him?" Robert demanded.

"I have official files. And you want them. So you go first, old son."

Robert nearly growled. "I have . . . a very perceptive young woman who thinks there's something not right about him. And that's all I have."

"Anne Keller."

McCall rubbed his eyes. He might have known that Control would intercept the whole information request. "Yes. I suppose you have files on her, too."

"A few," Control confirmed graciously. "She is a little more familiar with certain terrorists than the intelligence community is entirely comfortable accepting, particularly the British intelligence community, but she's not considered dangerous, or even subversive. Merely -- watchable."

"I'm sure she'll be relieved to hear that."

"Kostmayer will be, anyhow."

"You knew they were married," Robert accused.

Control dropped his chin and stared at McCall a moment, trying to determine exactly what he was being accused of. Finally he shrugged once. "They were married for fourteen weeks, when they were both teenagers, and the marriage was legally waived immediately after the stillbirth of their son. Anything else you want to know?"

Robert opened his mouth, and closed it. There was a bloody lot else he wanted to know. But not from Control. They had had a son? Mickey had had a son? A stillborn child . . . he sat down heavily. Trying desperately to remember if -- how often -- he had made some ignorant remark to his young colleague, some 'if you had a son' or 'you can't understand until you've had a child of your own' -- or even 'until you've had a child die'. Oh, bloody hell. Why did no one ever tell him these things?

"Dennis Daly," Control reminded him. "There's nothing else about him?"

Dazed, McCall shook his head. "No. He's running a Peace Camp through St. Anne's, local boys with Irish ones. He's -- befriended -- Anne Keller, but she doesn't trust him. He may have written some threatening letters to her, claiming that he represents the IRA."

"He doesn't," Control snorted. "They disowned him five years ago. His methods were too barbaric."

These words cleared McCall's head, and he tuned in to the conversation. "Too barbaric for the IRA?"

Control nodded. "Remember the Schoolboy Incident?"

Sadly, McCall remembered too well. An American operative had uncovered a plot to have a band of Irish schoolboys make a suicide attack on the Prime Minister. The information had been turned over to the British government, who had attempted to arrest the boys. The boys staged an unexpected defense, and were ultimately killed. For good or evil, the whole incident had taken place at a retreat, far out of the public eye. As far as the public knew, the boys had been killed in a tragic, fiery bus accident on their way home. Only a few people knew the truth; Robert wished he wasn't one of them. He nodded. "I remember."

"We have no evidence that Daly was behind it. But he worked at the school the boys attended, and he was active in one of the more radical splinters. Right after the incident, his ties with the IRA were severed. He claims that he had an epiphany and began to work in earnest for peace."

"You don't believe him."

"No."

McCall stood, shaking his head. "All right, then. What is it you want from me?"

"Whatever I can get, old son. Sooner or later, if he's our man, his colors will show. If he moves on the girl and you need to neutralize him, no one -- and I do mean no one -- will ask any questions."

"So I have the proverbial license to kill, is that it?"

"If he's done what we think he's done," Control answered, "do you have any objection?"

"There are courts, you know. Trials, procedures . . . "

"There are peace talks in Ireland, Robert, that would be greatly disrupted if any of this comes out. If Daly were arrested, he could not be tried without the whole bloody story coming out -- and the cover-up . . . "

"And the Company's role in it."

Control sighed. "This is not about covering for the Company, Robert. This is about stopping this man before he gets any more children killed. And no, I am not very particular about how it's done."

McCall was silent until the other man left. Then he reached for the phone. Kostmayer wasn't home, which did not surprise him. Keller didn't answer her phone, which surprised him even less. He left a message, not very specific, trying not to be terse or alarming. Then he went to bed.

Mickey paused at the bottom the steps, still holding her hand. "So how," he asked smoothly, "do I get myself invited back upstairs without you thinking I'm trying to get you into bed?"

She smiled, a little shyly. "Just like that, I think. But just out of curiosity, are you going to try to get me into bed?"

Mickey hesitated. He knew she was teasing him -- mostly. "Well . . . maybe. But not tonight." And then, with great sincerity, he added, "Not like this, not like strangers. Not with you."

Anne gazed at him for a long moment. And then very slowly, she said, "You must get laid like crazy with that line."

Against his will, Mickey laughed. "Actually, I haven't tried it yet. But it's good, isn't it?"

"It's very good."

"Seriously, Annie, we need to think about this."

"That would be something new."

Mickey had to agree. The entire history of their relationship had been to act first and think later. But he was too old for that now. Too cautious. "I don't want you to get hurt again."

The same mischievous smile played over her mouth. "One more line like that, and I'll be all over you."

He'd forgotten how much she loved to give him a hard time. And how good she was at it. Anne Keller was one of the few people in the world who could consistently make Mickey Kostmayer blush. "I'm being serious here."

"I know you are," she finally relented. "All right. Come on up, I'll make some more coffee, and I'll keep my hands to myself."

She started up the stairs. Mickey hung back. "Promise?" he asked suspiciously.

"I promise."

They went upstairs.

The boy waited until he heard his father snoring before he sneaked into the kitchen. He got the bleach from the shelf by the back door, where all the laundry stuff was kept. Then he got his new giant pump-powered squirt gun and carried it to the sink.

He paused for a moment, frowning. He was pretty sure he wasn't going to be able to use the squirt gun any more after this. It wasn't the real one, anyhow, just a cheap one from the dollar store, but he really liked it and he'd had to beg for two weeks to get it. Still, summer was almost over anyhow. And for the Cause . . .

Holding it over the sink, he poured the bleach into the tank. When the bleach bottle was empty, the squirt gun was half-full. But his mom was going to notice if all her bleach was gone come wash day. Awkwardly, he poured half the bleach back into the bottle. It splashed all over the sink. That was okay. It splashed on his pajamas a little, too. He closed up the bleach and put it back on the shelf, then took off his top and rinsed it under the sink. It left a big white spot.

He filled the tank of the squirt gun the rest of the way with water, put the lid on, and shook it up. It sure smelled like bleach. He opened the back door as quietly as he could, and set the gun outside the door. Then he locked up, washed his hands, and rinsed out the sink.

Carrying his ruined pajama top, he went back to bed. But he couldn't sleep.

The coffee ran out and the sun came up at about the same time. "I gotta go," Mickey said regretfully. "I've got to go home and pack."

"Where you going?" Anne asked. Then she caught herself. "Oh, wait, I remember, it's Geneva for the early skiing, isn't it?"

"Something like that." He stood up and stretched. His throat hurt from talking so much. He reached down and helped Annie to her feet; she looked as stiff as he was. They were getting too old for this all-night stuff.

The thought made him grin unexpectedly. Too old for all night on the living room floor, maybe.

"What?" Anne demanded.

"Hmm?"

"I know that grin, Kostmayer. What were you thinking?"

He evaded the question. "I should be back in two or three weeks, but don't worry if it's longer than that. Can I call you?"

"From Geneva? Sure. Just don't reverse the charges."

"When I get back. You have Robert's number?"

"Yep." They drifted toward the door, neither quite sure how to end this evening that had become morning.

"Keep your door locked. Stay alert. And don't be alone with this Daly guy."

"Yeah, yeah."

He took her arm lightly. "Annie, I'm serious about this. I want you to be careful."

"You're flying off to God knows where, to do God knows what, and you want me to be careful?"

"Yes," Mickey said emphatically. "Because I want you here when I get back."

She softened. "I'll be careful. "You be careful -- out on the slopes."

"I will." Then they were right beside the door, and they still didn't know what to do. "Um, can I, um, can I kiss you good-bye?" Mickey asked.

Her quirky smile came back. "I don't see how. You haven't even kissed me hello yet."

"Oh." He kissed her very quickly, lightly, the barest brushing of lips. "Hello." And then before she could make some smart-ass comment, he swooped in, gathered her tightly in both arms, and kissed her soundly, slowly and deeply, dipping her back over his arm as he did. "And goodbye," he finished, sweeping her back to her feet.

Anne blinked and gulped. "Wow." And when she'd caught her breath, "When did you say you'd be back?"

"Couple weeks," he answered offhandedly. "Can you wait that long?"

"No." She took his face between her hands and kissed him again. "God, I'd forgotten how good that was."

So had Mickey, but his whole body was remembering by the next time they kissed. "Cut it out, or I'll have to call in sick."

"Can you do that?" she breathed.

"Uh . . . " Kostmayer actually gave it some thought. Control would be acutely pissed, but Mickey never backed out of a mission, so maybe just this once . . .

. . . which was, he realized, mostly just hormones talking. He needed to go away and think about whether he wanted to get back into this relationship. And he really needed to go away and let her think, what with his chosen profession and all. He knew that was the right thing to do, the cautious thing, and he'd had no doubt about it until he'd kissed her . . .

. . . but damn, it was tempting. She was right here and she smelled so good and she was so warm and familiar and new at the same time . . .

"No," he said firmly. "I have to go, Annie."

Nodding, she uncoiled herself. His body ached everywhere she had been and now wasn't. "Okay."

"I'll call you when I get back."

"Okay."

"You be careful, lock your door."

"You said that already."

"I know, I just wanted to make sure . . . "

"Mickey, if you don't go right now I'm gonna make you miss your plane."

And now Mickey nodded. It was so very tempting. "I'm going."

"Okay."

"One more kiss?"

"One."

It was as fleeting and light as the first one had been, but then they hugged for a long moment. And finally they broke and he slipped out the door. Into the cool morning air, trying to catch his breath. Walking, quickly, down to the corner where he knew he could catch a bus, if not a taxi. Not looking back.

Anne leaned against the door frame and watched him out of sight. As much as she'd wanted him to stay, she was in a way glad he had gone. Mickey was right, they needed to think about this. A lot, for a long time. Lots of history to deal with, if they were going to have any future. But watching him go, all she could think was, 'Damn, he still has a fine ass.'

Laughing at herself, she went back inside and, for once, locked the door. She glanced at the living room, the pile of cups and leftover cartons and such, then decided to leave them for later. She was halfway back to the bedroom, peeling her shirt off over her head, when there was a knock on the door.

She pulled her shirt back on and went to open the door. Well, they could always think later. She unlocked the door and threw it open. "Mickey, what took . . . "

The boy stood there all in black, wearing a Halloween mask and carrying one of those pump-powered squirt guns. "Little early for trick-or-treat, isn't it?"

"Traitors to the Cause must be punished," he said squeakily. He raised the squirt gun and sprayed her face.

Kostmayer was nearly three blocks away when he heard her start to scream.

McCall stopped at the information desk, then took the elevator to the third floor of the hospital. Mickey was standing in the waiting room across for the elevators, against the wall in exactly the same posture he'd adopted in the apartment. "How's Anne?"

"She'll be all right," Mickey answered. "They taped her eyes for a couple days, but it's mostly to keep her from rubbing them." He still hadn't stirred. "Bleach. Ordinary household bleach. Diluted, fortunately."

"I know," Robert answered. "I've been down to the police station. They're inclined to dismiss is as a very poor juvenile prank -- publicly. But they're going to put a twenty-four hour watch on her, just in case."

"She could have been blinded," Kostmayer answered tightly.

"It's fortunate you were there," Robert answered. "I take it your reunion went well."

Mickey moved just his eyes to glare at him. Then, finally, he straightened up. "They're going to keep her overnight. Will you drive her home tomorrow?"

"Why? Can't you do that?"

"I've got a plane to catch, McCall."

"You what?" Robert demanded. "You're not seriously thinking of leaving now, are you?"

The younger man held his hands up. "Anne understands . . . "

"But I do not. This woman was your wife. I presume you loved her at one time. Yet now, when she's in danger, when she needs your help most . . . "

"You help her," Kostmayer snapped. "You're better at it anyhow."

He started out. McCall grabbed him by the arm and spun him around. "You are not going to walk out of here like this. Not without an explanation."

Mickey yanked his sleeve away. "You want an explanation, McCall? I don't have one. All I know is, every time I get within a mile of that girl, she ends up hurt, she ends up in a place like this. I don't care if you understand, McCall, just get this She's a lot better off without me."

"That is absolutely the most . . . " McCall stopped there, because Kostmayer could no longer hear him through the elevator door.

Bewildered, and deeply indignant, McCall walked slowly down the hall.

Anne Keller was sitting up in bed, looking toward the window, though the heavy bandages that wound around her head certainly blocked out any light. Robert knocked gently on the open door, to alert her to his presence. "It's Robert."

She smiled, turning blindly toward him. "Come on in."

He went all the way to the edge of the bed and touched her hand. "Well, you've had quite a morning."

"I do my best work before lunch."

"We're going to find the person that did this, Anne. I promise you that."

She kept his hand, but turned her head back toward the window. "I don't think it'll happen again."

The response confirmed what Robert had already guessed from the police report. "You know it was, don't you?"

"Of course not."

"Anne."

"He was wearing a mask."

"Your neighborhood is a fish bowl, you said. You didn't recognize a neighbor, even in a mask?"

She bit her lip. "Maybe he wasn't from the neighborhood."

"It wasn't a man, was it? It was a child, a boy."

Her head snapped back around. "Who told you that?"

"I'm right, aren't I? And you know which boy."

Anne shook her head. "I don't know."

"You don't know, or you don't want to know?"

"I don't know," she repeated firmly.

"Anne, please . . . "

"I'm kind of tired," she announced.

McCall nodded grimly. "All right. We'll let it go, for now. But if you change your mind . . . "

"I didn't recognize him." And now her voice had a pleading tone to it. Despite her apparent good spirits, she had had one hell of a morning.

"All right," Robert repeated, squeezing her hand. "All right." His tone grew deliberately lighter. "Then tell me, what can I do for you? Can I bring you anything?"

"No, thanks. I'm fine."

"The police are putting a guard outside your door. And they have my number, if there's anything at all that you need . . . "

"Robert, I'm okay," she assured him. "I had a pretty rough morning, and this is no fun," she indicated the bandage, "but it's just a temporary inconvenience."

"And thank God that it is."

"I was scared, but I'm better now. Really. You don't need to fuss over me."

Robert smiled gently. "Well, as it happens, I do my best fussing before lunch. But you do sound as if you need to rest."

"Thanks."

He released her hand and was half way to the door before she spoke again. "Robert?"

"Yes?"

Very quietly, "Mickey's gone, isn't he?"

McCall closed his eyes, biting back his anger. Took a deep, slow breath. "I don't think he's gone very far. I can get him, if you like."

Anne shook her head. "No. Just . . . don't be angry with him. It's okay."

"It's not okay," Robert answered strenuously, moving back to her side. "He should be here with you. How he can . . . "

"He's afraid, Robert."

"You're the one who's been blinded. What has he got to be afraid of?" He tried vainly to keep his voice down. It wasn't Anne he wanted to be yelling at.

"Of . . . life," Anne answered simply. "Of us. Of everything ending up like it did last time. We haven't been back together for twelve hours and I'm in the hospital again. He's freaked, Robert. I would be, too, if I hadn't had a whopping big dose of tranquilizers. Don't be mad at him. Please?"

She stretched her hand out to him, and Robert had to take it, to at least pretend to relent. "I do not understand any of this," he admitted. "I don't understand him, I don't understand you." He sighed deeply. "I'm sorry. It's just that I thought I knew Mickey, that I knew all about him. And to suddenly learn that he had a wife, that he had a ch--." Damn it. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to . . . "

"Like it's been off my mind since he showed up," Anne said wryly. "Sit, Robert. Tell me what you want to know."

Tentatively, Robert sat on the edge of the bed. "You're tired . . . "

"The child?" she prompted.

"Y-yes."

She hesitated a long moment, licking her lips, deciding where to begin. "Our families lived right across the street from each other. There was this whole pack of kids that all ran around together, me and all my brothers and sisters, Mickey and Nick, a couple other families. There was always somebody to play with." She hesitated again. "And then we got older, we all saw each other, but we weren't so tight any more. When I was sixteen, the first day of school, this bully grabbed my butt in the cafeteria. Mickey saw him do it, and he about took the guy's head off."

McCall nodded, then remembered she couldn't see him. "That sounds like the Mickey I know."

"We all got suspended for fighting. I was scared to death my parents would find out, I'd never been in trouble before. But Mickey showed up the next morning to walk me to school . . . and we just kept right on walking. Every day. They never did find out. So we had those ten days to get to know each other . . . " She let that trail off. "We had this plan. We were going to get the hell out of Texas, either together or separately, we were going to get out." Her voice dropped a little. "And then I got pregnant."

"So you got married."

Anne nodded slowly. "Mickey had all the credits he needed to graduate anyhow, so he just . . . he joined the Navy, to support us -- the three of us. But while he was in Basic the baby died, he was stillborn, and then I almost died . . . it was just a mess. And we were so damn young ."

"So the marriage was annulled."

"Waived. Yeah. Everybody knew it was the best thing -- well, everybody but Nick. But Mickey and I figured . . . we figured if we tried to stay together, we were always going to be stuck there. I know we were right, and so does he. But it was hard then, and it's still hard now." She squeezed Robert's hand. "So cut him a little slack, will you?"

Against his will, McCall saw her point. To face a crisis of that size, when you were not yet twenty years old -- McCall knew all about that. All things considered, Mickey had handled it well. And if he wasn't handling the current situation as well, maybe it was just because of the cloud of ghosts around them. Anne had said it Mickey was 'freaked'. The fact that Robert had never seen Mickey freak before said more about his feeling for this woman than it did about his character.

And things were under control here, even without Mickey . . .

Anne forgave Kostmayer. Who was McCall not to?

"All right, my dear. All right." He stood up. "I'm going now, but I'll come back later. Get some rest."

He looked back from the door. She was staring blindly toward the window again.

McCall tried to focus on the real issue the identity of Anne's attacked, and his motivation. But his thoughts kept straying to her, the child, and Mickey. Small wonder, really, that Mickey never talked about it. For his tough exterior, Robert knew that Kostmayer had a tender heart, deeply loyal, unfailingly true. For him to have suffered such a loss, so early -- well, perhaps it explained a lot about that tough exterior.

Mulling this over, Robert nearly fell over one of the reporters that was crowded into the lobby. There were three networks there, with camera and crews, plus a number of others taking notes and photos. Hospital security and New York police surrounded the crowd loosely, containing them but helpless to disperse them. And in the center ring of this impromptu circus, standing on a folding chair that substituted for a soap box, was Dennis Daly.

" . . . is unfathomable," he was saying loudly, in a deep Irish brogue. "This young woman has received many many threats, because of her photographs of Ireland. Now she has been attacked in this brutal way and your police are saying it's just a prank. This is not a prank. Blinding a photographer who has seen too much is not a prank. This is a deliberate attack, a terrorist attack under the direction of the IRA. Now if your police don't want to admit that terrorists are operating in this city, if they don't want to admit that they're powerless to protect their own citizens, then I can't blame them -- but the people have a right to know the truth!"

Robert stood at the back of the group, frowning deeply. What the hell was Daly up to? It was obvious to McCall that this was the man who had instigated the attack. What did he hope to gain by blaming the IRA? If he was, as Control hinted, trying to get back in their good graces, what did he hope to gain by blaming them for this senseless -- and ultimately unsuccessful -- attack? Publicity for Keller's book? As Robert skirted around the edge of the crowd, Daly indeed raised a copy of the book over his head, to a rain of flashing bulbs. But how did that benefit him?

"I am an Irish Catholic," Daly announced. "I have lived my whole life under the oppressive rule of the British government in Northern Ireland, and I have opposed it. But terrorism is absolutely not the answer. When we attack those who are trying to help us, when we kill and maim in a futile attempt to get our point across, then we remove all possibility of reason, of negotiation, of compromise. We cannot expect the world to take us seriously when we behave like barbarians. That is why I have severed my ties with these terrorists, and worked for years to promote peace from the very earliest ages . . . "

He went on about his Peace Camps, about the boys he brought out of the war zones to the relative peace of America, about how these lads went back and taught their brothers and sisters how to get along with children of all religions . . .

He was beginning to sound like a fund raiser, but McCall didn't think that was really his goal, either. The longer he listened to Daly, the more confused he became. What in the world was this man up to?

When it became clear that Daly was not going to say anything useful, Robert slipped out the front doors into the street. He could not make what he knew about Daly and what the man was saying gel. He had to admit, he simply did not know enough about the whole Irish situation. Mostly because he had chosen to ignore it for many years. No, not just to ignore it, but to consciously exclude it from his knowledge base. Because there was no solution, and because it bothered him in ways he was not comfortable facing, and because, living in New York City, he could chose to ignore it.

But now -- he needed to know more.

And thanks to Daly's prop, he knew a good place to start.

Mickey had not gone to the airport. Mickey had gone fishing.

He sat on a large rock at the edge of the river, watching the point where his line entered the water. He could have used a bobber, but it wouldn't have made any difference he had no bait on the hook. He didn't plan to catch anything. He was just fishing.

McCall was pissed at him. He'd made that very clear. But Mickey didn't care. At least, he told himself he didn't care. McCall didn't understand. McCall hadn't been there, holding her head under the faucet, begging her to open her eyes while she was trying to scream without drowning. Hadn't been there when he was sure she was going to be blind forever, because of him . . .

Knowing now that she would be able to see helped, some. Not much. Because the other was still his fault, the last time, when he'd nearly killed her . . .

Annie Keller had been a bouncy, pretty girl, a yearbook and school paper photographer in high school, who even then showed a talent that would have opened the whole world to her. And Mickey had turned this pretty, innocent girl into a woman, a wife, and a mother-to-be in less than a year. He had done it all deliberately. But he hadn't expected it to end like it had, a tiny baby boy in a tiny white coffin, a woman bled white, too, nearly dead and absolutely broken . . .

He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, trying to make that vision go away. Trying to replace it with her face from last night, when she teased him at the bottom of her steps. Or in the restaurant. Or over that umpteenth cup of coffee, before he left.

It didn't work. Instead he remembered the waiting room. All hospital waiting rooms, for all time, looked and smelled and sounded just alike. This morning in New York, and sixteen years ago, in Houston -- just the same.

He'd come out of her room and found them waiting, Anne's father and Nick, grave and serious, in the middle of an argument.

"They are married," Nick was insisting. "Nothing that's happened changes that."

"She's sixteen years old," Keller answered, "and the Church wouldn't marry them, remember?"

"You consented to this marriage," Nick argued.

"Because I wouldn't have my grandson be a bastard ... " he saw Mickey then, and stopped. "Come in, son, sit down, we need to talk."

Mickey went and sat, silent.

"I've talked to the lawyer at the plant, the union guy," Keller began quietly, as gently as he could. "He says that, because of what's happened, he can get the marriage waived."

"Divorce?" Mickey asked softly.

"No, no, son. It's not even that formal. More like an annulment. Like it never happened."

Mickey closed his eyes. Anne mostly dead just down the hall, and her father thought it could all be waived?

"I know you've been through a hell of a lot today, Mickey," the older man said gently. "And I'm not saying this has to be forever. Down the road, once you've both grown up a bit, if you want to have a real marriage, start a family, I'm all for that. I've always liked you, son."

"Then why do you want this divorce?" Nick shrilled.

"I want my daughter to finish high school!" Keller flared back. "She made a mistake, you both did," he gestured to Mickey, "but right now you get another chance. You sign this paper, it all goes away. She can go back to school. She can take that scholarship, she can go anywhere . . . and so can you, Mickey. And like I said, down the road ... "

"They're married now," Nick insisted. "You can't just ... "

"What does Annie want?" Mickey asked softly.

The other two fell silent. Finally, Nick said, "She wants your child to be alive, Mickey. Nothing else really matters to her right now."

Mickey stood up and went back to her room without a word. Then he came back, sighed the damned papers even while Nick protested at his elbow, and walked out.

All hospital waiting rooms were the same. But everything else was different. Mickey watched the water, and then rubbed his eyes. He'd wanted to go away, to take some time, to think. But that time was gone. He could run, like he had before, and Anne would forgive him, she always did. The question was, could he forgive himself? Or would this be added to the box of memories that were just too hard to think about?

And what was up with Control? Mickey had called the office, hoping to just leave a message that he was taking a pass on this mission. Instead he got, "Hold, please," from the receptionist, and then Control himself, terse as always, but unexpectedly saying, "Yes, Kostmayer, fine, stay with the girl. Help McCall. Get this guy." What guy, Mickey tried to ask, but the phone was already dead in his hand.

What guy? What the hell did Control know about any of this? How did he know McCall was involved? What was going on?

He took another long, slow breath, and began to reel in the line. The only way to find out, obviously, was to go back. And let McCall yell at him a little more, maybe a lot more. And Annie -- Annie would understand. Annie always did.

"My girl's all right, then?" Sullivan demanded anxiously.

"She'll be fine," McCall repeated. "The bleach was diluted, there's no permanent damage. She's badly frightened, but she'll be fine."

"Well. Well." Sullivan poured the tea into the two cups on the tray. "Here, carry this," he said to Robert, and started off down the hall, his leg braces creaking faintly, his crutches silent on the carpet. McCall picked up the tray and followed him.

Jamie Sullivan's study was an amazing room, chaotically stuffed with books and photos, negatives, files, notes stuck everywhere. And yet Robert had the sense that the photographer could lay his hands on any individual item at any time. They settled into the two ancient leather chairs that faced the empty fireplace.

"You know about the letters?" Sullivan began before McCall could speak. "I told her they were nothing to worry about, but now . . . "

"I told her the same thing," Robert answered. "I do think the letters and the attack are related. And I think they all originate at the same source. A man named Dennis Daly. Do you know him?"

Sullivan shook his head. "I've never met him, but I've heard a good deal about him. Our Annie doesn't trust him, and her instincts are quite good. But I also hear of him from friends back home."

"In Ireland?"

"Yes. That surprises you, that I still have friends there? Ireland is my home."

"I had read that you said you would never set foot there again."

"And I won't." Sullivan shifted his damaged legs slightly. "Not because I hate them, but because I won't be used by them."

McCall didn't know exactly what to make of that. "Daly held an impromptu press conference at the hospital this morning. He blames the attack on the IRA."

"Of course he does."

"I cannot understand what he hopes to gain. I thought he was trying to gain acceptance by these people."

Sullivan shook his head. "You think of the IRA as one group. They're not. There are a dozen separate groups, sometimes more, always jockeying for position, for power, for respect -- think of them in terms of gangs, like in the city here. Each has its own turf, its own rules, its own leaders. Sometimes they work together, against a common enemy. But usually they have their own goals, and they consider each other enemies."

Robert nodded his understanding. "But what does this mean to Daly?"

"They all rejected Daly, after the Schoolboy Incident. Every single group. So he wants to destroy them all, to discredit their leadership . . . "

"And put himself in charge." McCall straightened. "How do you know about the Incident?"

Sullivan gazed at him steadily. "How do you know about it, Mr. McCall? I would guess that we have at times served the same masters."

Robert nodded slowly. "Well. That explains a great deal." He didn't know why he wasn't more surprised. "But why is Daly starting here, in New York? Surely these demonstrations would be more effective in Belfast . . . "

"He's cutting them off at the knees." Sullivan grinned a bit. "You should pardon the expression. But the IRA finds very little money in the Nine Counties any more. Their funds come from Irishmen who have done well elsewhere. If Daly can discredit them as barbarians and divert those funds to a more peaceful expression of freedom, like his Peace Camps -- you do see now, don't you?"

"So it's nothing about Anne Keller, really, or her photographs."

"No," Sullivan agreed. "Except that she's well-liked in Ireland, and just as identifiably Irish as an American girl can be. She is his tool, and he will make her his martyr if he can."

"He can't," Robert said firmly. "This stops now. I have -- from our 'masters' -- carte blanche to stop him."

"If you kill him, what becomes of the boys?"

"The boys? They'll be free of his influence, they can go back to being boys again."

Sullivan shook his heard. "Perhaps. But right now Daly is their hero. If they think that he died in the name of his Cause, he will become their martyr. God only knows what you may unleash."

McCall saw the sense of this immediately. "What do you recommend?"

"I don't know. I wish I did. Because there's this, too -- he might have been happy to blind her, to make her merely a cripple. But the bleach was diluted. If the burns are only temporary . . . "

"He'll need to make another attack. To do something more permanent."

"Yes."

Robert nodded grimly. "Yes." He stood up. "I'm going back to the hospital. Thank you for your help."

Sullivan rattled to his feet with agonizing slowness, though Robert tried to tell him he didn't have to. "I still have some friends, here and there. I'll see if I can learn anything else that will help you."

"I appreciate that. Unfortunately, the thing I most need to know only Anne Keller can tell me -- and she refuses."

"The identity of her attacker."

Robert nodded, impressed by Sullivan's grasp of things. He wished he'd know the man when he was an active agent, that he'd had a chance to work with him. They might have been great friends. Well, they might yet.

"Tell her everything," Sullivan suggested. "She's stubborn, but she's not stupid. Tell her about the schoolboys, tell her everything you know or suspect about Daly. Make her see that she's protecting the child by giving you his name. She'll tell you."

Taking this advice much to heart, Robert headed out.

She was asleep when Mickey got there, and slept for nearly an hour more, while he sat silent by her side. But finally she stirred, her hands coming up to touch the bandages as soon as she was fully awake. She hadn't remembered.

"Hey," Mickey said softly. She jumped about a foot. "Sorry."

She smiled, catching her breath. "You miss your plane or what?"

"Called in sick."

The smile broadened into a grin. "Well then, get over here, boy. We can't be wasting these sick days sleeping."

Chuckling, Mickey went to the side of the bed and gathered her in his arms. "There's no lock on the door," he said, chuckling while he kissed her.

"What's your point?"

"They'll kick us out."

She leaned back in his arms. "I been kicked out of better places than this."

"Yeah, me, too." He kissed her again, but not comfortably. "How you doing?"

"I'm okay."

"I'm sorry about before. I just . . . "

Anne waved him off. "Yeah, yeah, you, me, hospitals, I know. You freaked. I know."

"I want you to know, I don't freak for just anybody."

"Well, I should hope not. Are you okay?"

Mickey thought about it. "Yeah, I'm okay," he answered without conviction.

He moved his chair around to the far side of the bed, so his back wasn't to the door any more, and he took her hand. He wasn't okay, but he was doing a lot better than he had been.

Dennis Daly arrived at the camp just as the boys were finishing their lunches. Patrick ran over to his car, eager for his praise. Some of the other boys, including his little brother, followed. "I did it!" Patrick exclaimed. "I did it, didn't I?"

Daly sighed. The problem with using children, he reflected, was that you had to be so very specific in your instructions. "You diluted the bleach, Patrick."

"Well . . . yeah, I had to, if it was all gone, my mom would've skinned me." The boy's face fell. "Are you mad at me? I did a good job. She didn't even know it was me."

A dollar's worth of bleach, Daly thought. A single dollar's worth. But the boy was so eager, his face so pleading. "You did just fine, my lad. Just fine." He put an arm around the boy. "Listen, lad, there's a chance that some men may question you about the attack. They may say that they know it was you."

"I wore my mask, like you said," Patrick protested. "How can they know?"

"I told you!" Sean shouted. "I told you, and Dad's going to beat you silly!"

"Shut up, baby," Patrick snapped.

"They don't know," Daly assured him. "They're only guessing. They'll try to bully you into a confession. You must not tell them anything."

Patrick wasn't reassured. "You said no one would know . . . "

"Patrick, believe me, everything will be fine. But anything you tell them will be used against us, against our Cause. I need your help, Patrick. You must keep quiet. All of you must keep quiet. If any of you speak what you know, our Patrick here will suffer for it."

"We won't say nothing!" one of the boys yelled, and the other chimed in.

Daly nodded. "Good, good. At least the children are still loyal."

"Is Annie going to see again?" Sean asked.

"Do you still care about her?" Daly demanded. ""Knowing what you know, how she has betrayed us? Blindness will soon be the least of her worries. I've discovered that she's a far worse traitor that I believed her to be. There's a man -- a Brit, of course -- who's protecting her. Any why would he protect her, if she wasn't their spy?"

"You gonna kill her?" Patrick asked, excited and timid.

"I don't know," Daly said slowly. "It's beginning to look as if we'll have to." And then, slowly, "You're not to talk about this to anyone, understand. It is absolutely our secret." Secrets were good. They bound the boys together.

"I understand," Patrick said fervently.

"You're a good boy, Patrick. You give me hope." He patted the boy's shoulder again. "Right, then, off to your games. Don't be seen hanging about here. Go."

Patrick watched him walk away, an expression of absolute awe on his face. "He is so cool. A real hit!"

"What if somebody finds out?" his little brother fretted at his elbow. "And they could think maybe you did it. What if you go to jail?"

"Don't be such a punk," his brother scowled. "They can't put me in jail, I'm only a kid. Besides, Daly'll take care of me. He'll take care of everything. This is so cool!"

"Yeah," Sean muttered, unconvinced. "Cool."

Moving down the hospital corridor, McCall was sure he could hear Anne Keller weeping. But as he got close enough to draw her guard's attention, he realized that she was laughing instead. The guard recognized him, waved him past.

"Hey, McCall," Kostmayer called easily.

"Hello, Mickey. I'm glad you're here." Robert crossed the room and touched her free hand. "How are you feeling?"

"Better. I got some sleep."

"Good. You and I are going to have a very serious talk now. About your attacker."

She drew her hand back, reached for Kostmayer's. "Mickey . . . "

"McCall," Mickey began warningly.

"Listen," Robert insisted. "Both of you, listen. Please."

He told them everything. Everything he knew about Dennis Daly, everything Control had in his files, everything Sullivan had said. Everything. They listened in silence; Mickey growing increasingly agitated, but Anne still and unreadable behind her bandages. When he was done, he touched her hand again. "You must give me the name, Anne. It's the only way I can stop this man."

"McCall, why didn't you tell me any of this before?" Mickey demanded.

Robert ignored him. "Anne? The name."

She remained still and silent.

"Anne. He already has the blood of half a dozen boys on his hands. He will use this one again if we don't stop him. The name."

When she hesitated again, Robert looked to Mickey. The younger man shrugged. "Annie, tell him."

She turned her head toward him, as if she could see. "If I do, when these bandages come off there better not be a mark on the kid."

Kostmayer winced. "No visible marks. Fine."

"Mickey. I mean it."

"I won't let him harm the boy," Robert assured her.

A long, long pause. She exhaled heavily. "His name is Patrick Smith. He lives downstairs from me, first apartment on the left."

"Thank you," Robert told her, with all his heart.

They waited together in Anne's apartment, interrupted frequently by neighbors with flowers, cards, a finger-painted picture, and food from no less than twelve separate ethnic backgrounds. Robert snacked on a few dishes before putting them away; Mickey wouldn't touch any of it.

"All right, what is it?" McCall finally demanded.

"What's what?"

"What's wrong with you? You've seen the woman, she's forgiven your -- twice, apparently -- and yet you're still moping around like some scolded schoolboy. What is it?"

Mickey looked at him for a long minute. "Nothing," he finally said.

"Mickey." McCall moved to where Kostmayer was sitting by the window, watching the street below. "I know about the child. I'm very sorry. If I'd known . . . "

"It was a long time ago, McCall."

"It must have been very difficult," Robert offered, hoping he could persuade a little conversation about it. He suspected there was something more, something he still didn't know.

Mickey wasn't biting. "Yeah. Leave it alone."

McCall nodded. His suspicion was confirmed; there was more. But for now, he let it be.

A van pulled onto the street and stopped two doors up. "That's them," Mickey said, climbing to his feet.

"Patrick Smith? I'd like a word with you."

The boy froze. "Ain't got time. Maybe later."

Mickey's hand descended on the boy's shoulder from behind. "Maybe now."

Robert noticed that a loose pack of boys had gathered around them, watching. Their silence was unnerving. "Where were you very early this morning, Patrick?"

"At home, in bed. Where were you?"

"I don't think you were in bed. I think you were at Anne Keller's door. I think you are the one who sprayed her eyes with bleach."

The boy hesitated a bare second. "You can't prove that! I didn't do it! Let me go!" He tried to squirm away; Mickey added a second hand to his shoulders, effectively immobilizing him.

"Do you realize how serious the consequences might have been, Patrick? She might have been permanently blinded."

"I wish she had been," the boy shrieked. "Then she couldn't take any more of her damn pictures!"

"Look, you little brat . . . " Mickey began, shaking the child.

"Kostmayer!" McCall barked. He wasn't sure it would work, but it did. Mickey stopped shaking the boy and settled for simply holding him -- very firmly. "Who put you up to this?" Robert demanded of the boy.

Patrick squirmed. "You're hurting me," he complained loudly.

A smaller boy came out of the group and pulled on Mickey's arm. "Please, mister, let him go." He was clearly frightened.

Kostmayer glared at the smaller boy, but reluctantly he eased his grip on the older one. "I'm gonna tell," Patrick proclaimed. "I'm gonna call the cops!"

"No, I don't think you will," Robert answered. He gestured, and Mickey released the boy entirely. "You're in serious trouble, Patrick. I can help you, but only if you want to help yourself. Can't you see that Daly's only using you to do his dirty work? You're taking all the risks for him."

"It's for the Cause," the boy answered with chilling conviction.

"What cause?" McCall asked. "Do you even know?"

"I know."

"You're a puppet, boy, and Daly's pulling your strings. You could end up dead, if you're not careful. Other children have, for his 'cause'."

"You don't know nothing," Patrick sneered. He spun on his heels and sauntered away, with the gang of boys in an admiring throng around him. Only the smaller boy who had defended him lingered; he turned, about to speak, and then ran off in the other direction.

"That went well," Mickey observed dryly.

McCall sighed. "It went just as I expected it to go. Sullivan was right. Daly's their hero now."

"A hero we have Control's permission to cancel," Kostmayer reminded him.

"And make him a martyr?"

"Martyrs fade."

Robert shook his head sadly. "We will handle Mr. Daly, Mickey, I can promise you that. But we will do it in a way that doesn't add to his stature with these young men."

"You know I hate these little games of yours, McCall."

"Really? You've always seemed to enjoy them before."

"They didn't involve my girl before."

Robert chuckled, walking back toward the apartment. "Ah, so she's your girl again now, is she?" He caught the expression on his friend's face and wished he hadn't teased him. "For God's sake, Mickey, she's already told me everything."

"She doesn't know everything."

"You act as if you're the first teenager who accidently got a girl pregnant . . . "

"No."

" . . . you stood by her, you married her, and things ended badly. That wasn't your fault. What is it you blame yourself for?"

"It wasn't an accident."

Robert's stride paused. "What?" he asked, turning.

Kostmayer looked pointedly away from him. "It wasn't an accident. I got her pregnant on purpose."

Robert frowned. "You mean the two of you . . . "

"No, not the two of us. She didn't know anything about it, she thought . . . I told her . . . " Mickey paused, flustered, not wanting to get into the details. "I told her it would be okay. But I knew."

"Why?" McCall asked carefully. "You were eighteen years old. What in God's name . . . "

"She won this competition. Photography, state-wide. She got published in this little booklet, she was going to have a showing in the state house, in Austin . . . " Mickey stopped again, now deeply ashamed. "I was going to lose her, McCall. I didn't want to lose her."

He stopped then, staring at his feet. Waiting for the lambasting that he deserved. Waiting for the lecture, the disappointment in McCall's voice. He'd never told anybody, not even Nick. Well, especially not Nick. He didn't feel any better for having said it. He felt as ashamed as he had then.

There was a long, long silence. Finally Mickey looked up. McCall was gazing at him, with a critical and almost amused expression. "Is that all?" the older man asked gently.

"She almost died, McCall!"

"You didn't know that would happen."

"That's not the point."

"No, it's not." McCall sighed. "The point is, you did a very stupid and very selfish thing, in the name of keeping what you loved. And you hurt the woman that you loved very badly in the process." Mickey nodded miserably. "And that was nearly two decades ago, and the woman is alive and well -- well, mostly well -- and you are alive, and you have a chance to be together again, if only you can overcome this one thing in your past."

"I can't tell her, McCall."

"Mickey . . . "

"I can't."

"She'll forgive you, Mickey."

"I know she'll forgive me. Again. I don't deserve it, McCall. Aren't you getting this? I nearly killed her. And if the baby hadn't died, I would have trapped her in Texas."

"And made a home for her, and made a family with her."

"And left her with a bunch of little kids to raise while I rotted in Leavenworth," Mickey reminded him.

McCall chuckled warmly. "Funny you should bring that up." He turned and started up the stairs to Anne's apartment. "Come, Mickey. I have something to show you. Maybe it'll help you to feel better."

"I doubt it," Mickey groused as he followed.

Robert just nodded again. Maybe learning the story of his letter wouldn't help Kostmayer much. That was beside the point now. The truth, the truth that Mickey had so desperately needed to get out, was out. Once he'd said the words out loud, he could begin to deal with them, to resolve them. Perhaps, eventually, Mickey would tell Anne the truth. Or perhaps not. But the festering thorn that had remained in this old wound had finally been removed, and things could finally begin to really heal.

That much, McCall thought with satisfaction, that much at least he had accomplished. And now for Daly.

"Patrick, I'm scared."

Sean was tagging after his older brother through an alley. Patrick was carrying his big squirt gun, wrapped in a pillow case. "Don't be such a baby."

"They're really going to kill her."

"Yeah," Patrick answered with relish. "A real live assassin. All the way from Ireland. God, I can't wait." He stopped to peer into a dumpster, but it was completely empty. He kept the gun and went on.

"But Annie's always been nice to us," Sean protested. "When she used to babysit us . . . "

"She's a traitor, Sean."

"She is not," Sean protested. "She's just the same old Annie she always was. You only hate her 'cause Daly tells you to."

"Daly knows about this stuff, you baby. When you're older, he'll talk to you about it and you'll understand. You just don't get it because you're a baby. "

"Yeah, but . . . but what if he's not? What if it's like that other guy said?"

"The Brit guy? You're going to listen to him? What are you, some kind of traitor, too?"

"What?"

"You heard me. You're a sympathizer. You're on her side."

"I'm not. I'm just saying . . . "

Patrick found a dumpster that suited him and pitched the squirt gun and the pillow case in. "You better not tell anybody what you heard," he told his brother savagely. "You better not. Because you're my brother, and if you're a traitor, I have to kill you myself."

"Patrick . . . "

"I might love you all to hell, Sean, but if you're a traitor, I have to do it. That's what Daly says. And I would, too, I'd do it. So you better keep your trap shut."

"You'd kill me, Sean?"

"For the Cause, Sean. I'll do what I have to do."

The smaller boy burst into tears and ran off.

When he got to the street he stopped, wiping his eyes impatiently. He didn't want anyone to see him crying. But he didn't know what to do. Everything had changed so much since Daly came. Everything used to be simple, and now it was all so mixed up. He didn't even have his friend to talk to about it.

Sean sniffed. He thought about it. He was scared. But his feet were already moving that way. Down two blocks, around the corner, across the street. He looked up at the apartment over the dry cleaner's. He could hear cartoons through the open window. He picked up a small rock from the gutter and threw it against the top of the window. Nothing happened. He threw another. Still nothing. Sean looked up and down the street. Lots of people, but none of the boys. "Tommy!"

His friend pressed his nose against the screen. "Hey."

"Hey yourself. Get your butt down here."

"I thought we weren't friends any more."

"Just come down, will you?"

"You in trouble?"

"Yeah," Sean answered.

"I'll be right down."

Robert wasn't especially happy with the security arrangements at the hospital; Anne wasn't especially happy with the food; the hospital wasn't happy with having cops in the corridor. It didn't take much to persuade them to let Anne go home after dinner.

Robert went in first, glanced around at the apartment -- and scowled when he saw Control staring back at him from the couch. He had a copy of the new book in his hands, and he'd clearly been waiting a while. McCall moved aside and let Mickey guide Anne in.

She took a long, deep breath. "Rigatoni," she breathed. "Mrs. Alto's been here."

There was indeed another covered dish on the counter by the kitchen. "Everybody's been here," Mickey told her. "You won't need to cook for a month."

Anne made her way slowly but fairly confidently across the room to the couch. Control watched her with interest, not moving, silent. She sat down next to him. "Well?" she asked conversationally. "What do you think?"

Control raised one eyebrow. "Very impressive pictures. How did you know I was here?"

"The cigars. They're actual Cubans, aren't they?"

The man nodded. "Yes, they are. That's very good."

Anne shrugged. "Give me another day being blind, and I'll tell you why you always wear bow ties."

Control actually grinned -- and then glared at Mickey. Kostmayer shrugged innocently.

"What are we doing about Daly?" Control asked McCall.

"What are we doing?" Robert returned. "We're dealing with him, of course. In our own way."

"You're playing another one of your games."

"It is not a game," Robert protested. "This man had convinced these children that he has some great cause, that he's a hero and will make all of them heros -- when in fact he's nothing but a petty, ambitious manipulator. We need to discredit him in their eyes, before he can do any more damage."

Control did not quite roll his eyes, but he looked like he wanted to. "How?"

"I'm not entirely sure yet. This camp of his . . . "

Anne snapped her head to her left. "Did you hear that?"

"What?" Control asked.

Mickey moved the way her head was pointed. "What did you hear?"

"I don't know . . . maybe nothing. I'm sorry, Robert, go on."

There was another noise, from the kitchen, and this time they all heard it. McCall and Kostmayer drew weapons as one; Control stood, placing one hand on the woman's shoulder, ready to move. The other two went into the kitchen.

Two small faces were pressed against the kitchen screen. Two small boys, perched at the top of the fire escape ladder.

Mickey recognized one of them as the boy that had begged him to let go of the Smith kid and the other as the kid that brought Anne's mail. He put his gun away, pushed the screen open and hauled them inside. "What are you doing?"

"We got something to tell Annie."

"Come here, guys," she called from the living room.

Nervously, the two boys went, with Mickey and McCall close behind them. Control scared them even more, but he moved away, leaving room on the couch with Anne, and they huddled close to her. She stayed relaxed, playful, and it helped put the boys at ease. "What's up, guys? What's with the ladder?"

"We can't use the front door," Tommy explained. "They might be watching."

Robert and Control shared a look. Paranoia from the mouths of babes; eerie words coming from a child. There were places in the world, they both knew, where children this size carried weapons, fought wars -- but New York City was damn well not going to be one of those places. "Patrick?" Anne asked gently.

"And the others," Sean answered. "We're not supposed to be here."

"What did you come to tell me?"

The boys exchanged a long look. Tommy gestured; Sean shook his head. Tommy spoke. "Sean heard them talking. That Daly guy, and Patrick. Tell her."

"You can't tell anybody I told, 'cause then Patrick'll have to kill me."

"What did you hear?" Mickey asked quietly.

The boys were startled; they'd been focused only on Anne. But he sat down, at their eye level, and he wasn't very threatening either. Not like the guys in the suits. And Tommy remembered Mickey's advice, and that it had turned out to be true. "They're going to kill Annie."

"They hired a guy from Ireland," Sean added.

"When?" McCall snapped.

The boys crowded closer to Anne. "I don't know," Sean answered. "He didn't say. But pretty soon, I think. 'Cause the camp's over next week."

Robert nodded. "Yes, he'll want his audience, won't he?"

"Did you hear anything else?" Mickey asked soothingly.

"That's all," Sean answered. "I wasn't supposed to tell . . . "

"You did the right thing," Robert assured him. "Did anyone see you come up here?"

"Uh-uh," Tommy said. "We were real careful. The alley's too skinny for the big kids."

"If anyone did see you," Control suggested, "tell them you were listening at the window and got caught. Tell them we lectured you and threw you out."

Robert shook his head. "Just go out the way you came. Be careful, and don't be seen."

The boys got up. "You can stop this guy, right?" Tommy asked worriedly.

"We'll stop him," Mickey answered grimly.

The boys started out, but Sean turned back. "Annie . . . Patrick didn't mean to do anything bad. I mean, he did, but . . . he's not really like this. It's just that Daly tells him all this stuff . . . "

"I know, Sean. It's okay." She reached up and hugged him briefly. "It'll be okay. Now go. Be careful."

McCall took them back to the kitchen and latched the screen behind them. When he returned to the living room, Mickey was beside Anne on the couch, with an arm around her. She was leaning against him, and she was clearly scared, but still calm. Spend enough time with terrorists, McCall thought wryly, and nothing rattles you much.

"Your game just changed," Control observed.

"Not necessarily," Robert answered. He expected protest from Kostmayer, but got none. "We need the identity of this assassin Daly's hired."

Control nodded. "I'll see what I can find out. Miss Keller . . . "

The phone rang. Anne sat up and grabbed it before Mickey could reach it. "Hello?" She listened, then smiled. "Hi, Jamie. How . . . " The smiled dimmed. "Oh, fine, then, be that way." She held the receiver straight up. "Robert? He wants you."

Frowning, Robert took the phone. "Robert McCall here." He listened. "Yes, we did just become aware . . . " Another pause. "You're sure? Yes, thank you. Thank you so very much." He put the phone down. "Never mind," he told Control. "Daly's hired Vance Iverson."

Control nodded. "That was quick."

"Yes, well, Mr. Sullivan has maintained his old contacts," Robert said dryly. He sat down across from the couch. "Now we have enough information to make a plan."

Vance Iverson was a man of middle years, well-dressed and entirely unremarkable. He was having lunch in a nice restaurant, alone, and McCall arrived at the same time as Iverson's salad.

"Hello, Iverson," McCall said, sitting down. "Thank you for meeting me."

Vance nodded. "Can I get you something?"

"No, no. I won't stay long. I've come to ask for a . . . professional courtesy. You see, you and I are currently working at cross-purposes."

Iverson nodded noncommitally. He knew perfectly well that McCall knew his profession; they had worked together from time to time. But as to specifics, he was giving nothing away. Simply a professional caution.

"I am protecting Anne Keller," McCall announced.

"Ah. I didn't realize you were involved."

"I am. You've already collected half your fee. I would suggested that you take your money and go. You won't be seeing the other half."

Iverson considered. "You're that sure you can stop me?"

"I'm sure that one of three things will happen," McCall answered. "One, you will take my advice and drop this assignment. Two, you will attempt to kill the woman and you will fail, possibly being killed yourself in the process. Three, you will actually succeed and I will find you and kill you."

"Or four, I kill you first."

"In which case you'll have to deal with Mickey Kostmayer. Followed closely by the Company and the IRA."

Iverson blinked. "What is it about this girl? She's only a photographer."

"She's a photographer that I would very much like to live. You're a professional, Iverson. Surely it's obvious to you that this particular job is not worth the risks."

"Surely," Iverson agreed slowly. "All right. You've convinced me, McCall. Thank you for being so straightforward. I imagine you've saved all of us a great deal of time and effort."

McCall sat back, satisfied. He was damn glad it had been Iverson; he knew this man, and while he didn't entirely trust him, he had known he could rely on the man's business instincts. "I wonder, Vance," he said, "if you might be interested in another little . . . opportunity. Not your usual work, understand, but something equally shady."

Iverson considered. "Well, I do appear to have an opening on my schedule. What did you have in mind?"

The afternoon was bright and warm. She sat at the edge of the field, blind but enjoying the sun on her face, the soft breeze, the sound of the boys laughing and running. Or at least she appeared to be enjoying it.

"Daly's coming," Nick said nervously. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"It's okay, Nick," Anne murmured back. "It'll be fine."

Nick had been the most vocal opponent of this plan, but he'd finally been worn down by McCall's persistence. That, and the police presence, and the half-dozen carefully scattered Company men. And his confidence that Mickey would never let anything happen to this girl. But right now all he could see was her.

Daly joined them. "Annie, hello. I'm so glad to see you out and about."

Anne smiled, holding her hand out to him. "Hi, Denny. I just got so cabin crazy, Nick said I could come and hang out here."

"I am so sorry about all of this," Daly said warmly. "How the police can think that this was just a prank . . . "

Nick stood up. "We'd rather not get started on that right now."

"Of course, of course. I didn't mean to upset our girl." He patted her hand protectively. "We don't want that at all, do we?"

"I was just about to drive her home," Nick began.

"I'm getting kind of tired," Anne admitted.

Oh, I'll take her," Daly offered quickly. "You stay here with the boys, I'll take her home."

"Okay with you, Anne?"

Anne nodded. "Sure. Thanks for the outing, Nick. I'll see you tomorrow -- I'll really see you tomorrow."

"Okay."

Nick stood and watched them go, Anne's hand on Daly's arm. Cold fear gripped at his chest; he wanted to shout after them, to stop this. With effort, he kept his mouth shut.

The boys had stopped playing soccer, and were just standing now, watching.

Daly walked the girl to his car, carefully. "Here, wait right here," he said, casting a glance toward the roof of the church. "I've got to go unlock the other door."

She remained perfectly still as he moved away from her. And just on time, Iverson appeared on the church roof. He carried a rifle, with a scope, though it wasn't really that long a shot. Trying not to look up, Daly rattled his keys and waited.

"Denny?" the woman called. "What's taking so long?"

"I, uh . . . " What was taking so long? Iverson had a clear shot, the girl was standing still . . . "I can't get the lock. American cars, you know. Hold on a minute."

Iverson raised the weapon, sited it right at Daly. For a moment the man felt cold terror run through him. What was this? Then the assassin lowered the gun and disappeared from view.

"No!" Daly said quietly.

The boys gathered now at the near end of the soccer field, watching, fascinated.

"Denny?" Anne said quietly.

"Nothing, nothing," Daly answered, shaking the keys again. Maybe something gone wrong, the gun had jammed, there was some miscommunication . . .

"Has Iverson gone?" the woman asked calmly.

"What?" Daly shrieked.

"I bought him off. You can do that with hired guns."

"No. No!"

The boys were bunching together now, whispering. Daly saw them out of the corner of his eye, saw, what was happening, that he was about to lose face before them. He snapped the car door open, snagged his own handgun from under the seat, pointed it at the woman and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Anne flinched at the clicking sound, but that was all.

"No!" Daly shrieked. He pulled the trigger again -- and again -- and again. Nothing.

"Your bullets are gone," Anne told him. "So is your firing pin."

Daly threw the gun aside and charged around the car at her. He never got close' Mickey tackled him five feet short. He threw the man to the ground and hit him twice, once with each hand. Instead of fighting back, Daly curled into a ball, covering his face with his arms. Mickey hit him again anyhow. Then Nick was there, trying to pull his brother off. Mickey resisted, getting in still another good punch, wanting to kill this man with his bare hands --

"Mickey?" Anne's voice, quiet and a little frightened. "Mickey?"

Reluctantly, shrugging off his brother, Mickey left the cowering terrorist and went to hold her. The police came from around the church and hauled Daly to his feet.

The boys were silent again.

"There's your hero, boys," McCall said from the back of their little pack. "Take a good look at him."

They shuffled uneasily, looking between Daly and McCall. "Go on, look," Robert urged. Daly was in cuffs now, still not standing up straight, protesting and bleeding and crying all at once. "Think about what you saw him do. When his assassination plans fell apart, he drew a gun and tried to shoot an unarmed, blind woman with no defense. In cold blood. That s what terrorists do. But this man is not a terrorist. He has no cause but his own. His cause, which was to impress all of you, and to make you do what he told you."

A murmur went through them. They began to draw back from Patrick -- except for Sean, who stayed firmly at his brother's side.

"He doesn't look like such a hero now, does he?" Robert continued. "He doesn't look like anything but what he is. A small little man, and a coward. Look at him. Look at him, and remember. And don't be fooled again."

The pack started to drift. Patrick moved forward, toward the parking lot, toward the girl. Sean moved at his side.

Daly saw them and threw his head up in defiance. "You see? One is still loyal! One is still loyal to me!"

Patrick ignored him as the police dragged him away. He went and stood in front of Anne, tall and scared and determined, trying not to look at Mickey or Nick. Only at Anne. She had always had a smile for him, always been nice to him, but now her eyes were covered with bandages and he couldn't tell what she was thinking. "Annie? It's Patrick," he began humbly.

"I know."

"I just . . . " He swallowed hard. He was way too old to cry, in front of all these people. "I'm sorry. I'm really really sorry."

And then he didn't care how old he was, because the woman opened her arms and gathered him to her and held him while he cried, just like she had when he was a little kid.

They sat at her kitchen table, Robert and Anne, and Robert read aloud from the Times. "'A powerful and thought-provoking journey through the troubled counties of Northern Ireland. Photographs that cannot be forgotten, and a book not to be ignored.'" He put the paper down. "I rather think they like it."

"Sounds like it," Anne agreed. The bandages were gone; her eyes were laughing as she watched Mickey clamber around her, running the last wire along the baseboard. "Are you about done?"

"Just about." He went back into the living room.

"I don't think I'm going to like this," Anne ventured quietly.

Kostmayer heard her. "I don't care if you like it. You're not going to live in this city without an alarm system. Especially not if you're going to be famous."

"Six-thirty this morning," Anne reported to Robert, "I had a woman calling to ask if I would take portraits of her babies."

"That's lovely."

"Her babies are purebred Pomeranian pups."

"Ahh."

A claxton chimed from the living room and was silenced. "Okay," Mickey announced, returning to the kitchen. "I'm done."

McCall stood up. "We'd better go then, if you're going to make your plane."

"Ah, yes, Geneva awaits," Anne replied.

"What does that mean?" Robert asked, confused.

"I'll tell you on the way," Mickey promised. The three of them moved to the door.

"Congratulations on your book, Anne," Robert told her warmly. "I think it's going to be wonderfully successful."

"Thanks for all your help," she answered. She hugged him briefly. "Don't be a stranger, huh?"

"I'll be around." After a moment, McCall realized that Mickey was staring at him expectantly. "Well. I'll just . . . wait in the car, shall I? Don't be too long."

He went. Kostmayer joined him in the Jaguar five minutes later, looking quite pleased with himself. "She's really a lovely young woman," Robert observed as he pulled away from the curb.

"Uh-huh."

"I do hope you'll be seeing her again."

"Oh, I think I will."

Robert glanced across and realized that Mickey was installing a new key on his key ring. "Ah."

"Hey, McCall," Kostmayer said, putting his keys away, "thanks. Thanks for not letting me leave."

"You did leave," McCall reminded him. "But you came back all on your own."

"You helped, believe me. A favor, Robert?"

"Certainly."

"Keep an eye on her for me?"

McCall nodded. "Of course. Of course."