A Nice Simple Girl Who Cooks

by
Linda O.

Special thanks to Paige, for her time, care, encouragement, and excellent beta-reading. A lot to ask from someone who doesn't even like Scott ...

Rating PG-13; okay for prime time. Angst rating (0-10) 5.

At six o'clock Sunday evening, while he vomited for the fourth time in an hour, Robert McCall came to what should have been an obvious conclusion He was not going to meet his son for dinner at seven.

He'd felt well enough in the morning, but around lunch time he noticed that his apartment felt warm and he had a mild headache. By mid-afternoon his whole body ached, his fever was pronounced, and he generally felt like hell. He took some aspirin and drank some tea, hoping to head off this bout of flu or whatever it was.

Clearly, he had not succeeded.

He sat on the edge of the bathtub, blotting at his face with a cold washcloth, and took a deep breath. Scott was not going to be happy. This was not just another dinner. It was another meet-the-latest-girlfriend dinner. McCall had already postponed it once, having learned from experience that if such dinners were put off a week, the young lady sometimes disappeared. Of the half-dozen he'd met in the last year, every one of which was, according to Scott, 'the one', only one had struck him as even vaguely suitable -- and her suitability was deeply compromised when he saw the 'Legalize Pot' bumper stickers pasted all over her car. Robert could not imagine what Scott had seen in any of them. But he had wisely kept his opinions to himself, avoided setting off Scott's rebellious streak, and the young ladies -- a liberal use of the term -- each eventually went away.

So this latest one did not really interest him much. Certainly not enough to try to drag himself out when he felt this awful. And if Scott was upset, well then Scott could bloody well get over it.

He waited a moment more, to be sure he was done. Then he stood, rinsed his mouth out, and went to the phone.

At nine-thirty, McCall was dozing on his couch. He didn't really want to be; he'd just settled there for a little rest and inertia got the better of him. He knew he couldn't sleep the whole night there, that he'd have to move eventually. He also knew that his fever was climbing again, and that he needed to take some more medicine. Of course, that implied more vomiting, a notion he did not relish. His arms and legs felt like lead, and his head throbbed. As long as he remained perfectly still, he was something like comfortable. Later, he thought, a little later he would move.

There was a quiet knock on his door. Robert closed his eyes. Who in the hell would be at his door at this hour? He remained still, hoping they'd go away. The knock was repeated, still gently. When he still didn't answer, he heard the scrape of a key in the lock. Quickly he pushed himself up to a sitting position. He wasn't going to make it to his gun. The door opened, and Scott's blond hair proceeded him carefully into the apartment. "Dad?" he called softly.

Robert sat back. "Come in, Scott."

The boy was wearing his perpetual jeans and leather jacket, and carrying a grocery bag. His face was full of concern. "You look awful."

"I feel worse," Robert assured him. "I thought you had a date."

"I did. I do. But you sounded so bad on the phone, I wanted to check on you."

You wanted to be sure I was really sick, Robert translated unkindly. But the boy did look worried. "It's just the flu. I'll be fine in a day or two."

Scott nodded seriously. "Well, we brought you some things. Just Kleenex and aspirin and stuff. Oh, and Becky sent this." He reached into the bag and brought out a tall glass jar of murky liquid that vaguely resembled tea. It had chunks floating in it. "I'll warm some up for you."

"No, Scott," McCall protested quickly. His stomach was churning again at the very sight. "I really don't think . . . "

But the boy was already in the kitchen. Robert heard him in the cupboard, then pouring the liquid -- another sound that made his stomach flip -- then opening and closing the microwave. While the vile potion heated, Scott carried the other things into the bathroom. Then he came back to the room. "What else do you need?" he asked earnestly.

"To sleep," Robert answered honestly. "I appreciate your coming, Scott, I really do, but frankly, I prefer to be this miserable all by myself."

The microwave beeped, and Scott popped up. "Maybe some aspirin while you're up," Robert called after him.

"Sure. Do you have a strainer?"

"Second drawer on the right," McCall answered through his rising bile.

The boy came back with his hands full; a glass of water and the aspirin tablets in one hand, a cup of the tea-like substance in the other. Robert took the aspirin, but eyed the potion dubiously. "I really don't think . . . "

"It's sage," Scott told him, as if that explained everything. "It'll help settle your stomach." He shrugged. "That's what Becky says. Try it."

"Becky," Robert repeated dubiously.

"The . . . current," Scott reminded him, a little self-consciously. "She's, um, she's waiting in the car, I can't stay."

"Scott! You cannot be leaving young ladies in cars like that! She must think . . . "

"I wasn't sure I should bring her up here," Scott protested. "And the way you look, I'm glad I didn't. Look, I'm going, right now. Drink your sage, get some rest, and we'll check on you tomorrow."

McCall nodded weakly. "All right. All right. Thank you for coming."

Scott went to the door. "Drink it, Dad."

Scowling, Robert sipped the beverage. It was surprisingly sweet, heavily laced with honey, and it tasted completely unlike anything he'd ever considered to be tea. Maybe tea that had gone moldy, tea that had been brewed far too green, tea that had been left to ferment for several days. But amazingly, his stomach did not immediately try to heave the drink back up. He took another sip, checking his body's reaction.

Scott nodded in satisfaction. "There's more in your fridge," he said on his way out.

Robert took another sip of the surprising concoction. The taste was growing on him. He took a long drink. He wasn't imagining it; his tormented digestive system was actually relaxing, curling around this magic drink of Scott's.

Of Becky's, he amended mentally. So the current was some kind of new-age herbalist. Another hippie chick. Robert groaned.

But her potions at least worked. McCall finished his tea -- might as well call it that, he decided -- and then he gathered his strength and went to bed.

He slept fitfully, half-awake much of the time, desperate for rest but filled with old memories and strange visions, half-remembered dreams and conversations that never happened. The morning light annoyed him, and he turned away from his window and tried to sleep more. When he finally fully woke, his fever had spiked. He staggered out of his bed, feeling like death on toast, stumbled to the bathroom, and proceeded to vomit bile.

Well, that was unpleasant, he thought, when it finally stopped. He wandered bleakly to the kitchen. Becky's magic potion still waited in the refrigerator, looking like a jar of swamp water. But it had worked the night before, hadn't it? After some consideration, Robert took the top off the jar and put it in the microwave to warm. When it was done, he poured it through a strainer into a mug. The pieces of plant matter that remained in the strainer made him bilious again. He set it aside and drank the tea.

In a matter of five minutes or so, he could feel his stomach uncoil. Whoever she was, Robert decided, he was starting to like this Becky. He sat on the couch and rested for a few minutes, and then went to shower.

The simple effort of getting cleaned up exhausted him. He put on clean pajamas and his dressing gown, brought in the newspaper, and returned to the couch. A quick glance at the headlines a small girl was still missing. Robert sighed. He would read the paper in a while. Just now he needed to rest.

About the time he got settled down to his nap, there was a knock at the door.

Robert groaned. Scott again? Fine, he could let himself in. But after the second knock, there was no key sound. Grumbling, slowly, McCall got up and opened the door.

A quite unremarkable young woman stood on his doorstep, with a grocery bag on one hip. "Whatever you're selling," Robert snapped, "I don't want it." He started to shut the door.

"I'm Becky," she said quickly.

McCall paused, the door half-closed. "Becky?"

"B-Becky Baker. Scott's . . . girl."

Robert frowned. This was Scott's girl? She didn't look like one of Scott's girls. She wasn't some wild, exotic beauty. She wasn't unattractive, she was just -- ordinary. Early to mid-twenties. Brown hair, brown eyes, medium height and build, no excessive mark-up, clean, simple, sensible wool jacket over dark pants -- ordinary.

She didn't seem to want to look him in the eye.

"I, uh . . . " she started again, nervously. "I know you're not feeling well, I don't mean to bother you, I just . . . I just brought you some . . . um, soup, some soup, for lunch, if you're feeling better . . . is the sage helping? And there's some noodles to add for supper, if you want, and some pears, I thought pears would be easy to . . . to . . . "

She held the grocery bag out to him. Robert took it, bewildered.

"And there's more sage, just leaves, you just brew them like loose tea . . . and there's honey, and um, um, a couple rolls, dinner rolls, and some cinnamon rolls for breakfast . . . and Scott will call you later, if you need anything else."

With her hands empty, she was now quite unconsciously wringing them. "Won't you come in?" Robert asked, belatedly.

"I, uh, I can't. I have to get to work. I just wanted to . . . you know, to drop this off . . . I have to go . . . I hope you're feeling better."

She left.

Robert watched her go, then went back into his apartment. Bewildered still, he took the bag to the kitchen and unloaded it. There was an assortment of containers in it, all marked with the name of a restaurant, where Robert presumed the girl worked. One held chicken broth, another homemade egg noodles and vegetables, a third a pile of dried weeds that he assumed was sage. A small dish of diced pears, fresh. Three dinner rolls, very fresh. Two fat cinnamon rolls, also very fresh. Butter. Honey. Exactly as advertised.

McCall blinked. Of all the young women Scott had introduced him to, he could not recall one that had ever brought him food. And this one was so contrary to Scott's usual selection. So very -- conventional. And shy. So terribly shy. Scott was usually attracted to strong-willed women. This one was anything but.

Well, he reflected, perhaps that was unfair. Perhaps he was kind of intimidating today. He'd showered, but he hadn't shaved, and twenty-four hours with the flu probably hadn't improved his appearance any. Besides, she'd never even met Robert, how was she supposed to act?

He put the groceries away and went back to his nap.

He woke up hungry and warmed himself a bowl of the chicken broth. He expected it to be just that, broth, but it was amazingly flavorful, slow-cooked, lightly seasoned. Wonderful. His stomach seemed to accept it gratefully. He made a mental note to check out this restaurant she worked at when he was feeling better.

Later, while he was snacking on the pears -- just pears, as far as he could tell, but conveniently peeled and cut and ready to eat -- Scott called. "Feeling better?" the boy asked.

"Much," Robert answered. He was. "Becky was here. She brought me chicken soup."

"Yeah, she said she'd stop over. Good stuff, isn't it?"

"Very good. I'll have to pay her back for whatever the restaurant charges her."

"It's not from the restaurant," Scott answered offhandedly. "She makes it herself."

Robert's eyebrows rose. "She made it? Herself?"

"Yeah. She loves to cook. Anything you need?"

"Uh . . . no. I'm fine. Thank you." He was still being amazed that the girl could cook. Since when did Scott date anybody who could cook?

"Okay. I'll stop by tomorrow, then. And Becky'll bring you lunch again."

Dazed, Robert answered, "I'll look forward to it."

As he put down the phone, Robert mulled over the young woman again. She was very different from the last girl Scott introduced him to. The tattooed lady, Mickey had called her. This one -- well, maybe Scott was finally growing up.

And then again, Robert thought, maybe it was just a fluke.

By Tuesday morning, Robert McCall had decided he was going to survive. He was still tired and achy, but he managed to be showered and shaved and presentable by the time the young lady appeared at his door.

Becky was every bit as nervous and elusive as she had been the day before. She met his eyes only briefly at the door, then at his invitation went into the kitchen and began unloading the bag she'd brought. "I was pretty sure you'd be tired of chicken by now, so I brought some beef vegetable soup for your lunch, and some bread and cheese, and some more fruit for afternoon, and then for supper I . . . "

Robert trailed her curiously to the kitchen. "I'm not an invalid, you know," he commented mildly.

The girl stopped in mid-word. "What?"

"I'm much better today," McCall continued. "I appreciate all of this, I truly do, but it's not necessary."

"I - I - I'm sorry," Becky stammered, turning red. "I didn't mean to be, to be p-pushy." She finished putting things in the refrigerator at a frantic pace.

Robert frowned. Had he yelled at the girl? Was there something in his demeanor that made her think he was angry? "You've never been pushy a day in your life," Robert guessed aloud. "I'm not angry with you, my dear. I'm simply not accustomed to being cared for as if I were elderly and feeble."

Her hand shot to her mouth. The blush deepened, and now tears filled her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered. She rushed past him, heading for the door, grabbed it, snapped it open, prepared to literally run away . . .

Robert had put the chain on. The door snapped open three inches and then snapped back. Becky sagged, resting her forehead against the door.

McCall followed her again, not fast, not making her feel like he was chasing her. "Oh, for heaven's sake, what are you going to do the day I bellow at you? I have been known to bellow on occasion, you know." She nodded, not turning toward him. "You have been exceptionally kind, and I feel as if I've been an ogre. Please don't run away. I will try to behave better."

Becky turned so that her shoulder was resting against the door. "It's not you," she answered very softly, only briefly meeting his eyes, then studying the floor. "I'm this way with everybody. I - I - I . . . " She stopped and took a deep breath, and Robert could almost feel how much she hated that stammer. "I'm not at all good with new people, and I, and I try too hard and I, and I . . . I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you think . . . that I thought . . . it's just . . . "

Robert wanted to take her in his arms, but he knew that would only deepen her panic. Instead, he reached up to unhook the chain.

As his hand approached her head, she flinched and took a full step back.

McCall continued more slowly, unhooked the chain and dropped his hand to his side. Her gesture, entirely involuntary, told him volumes about this young woman. Her shyness, her fear were suddenly illuminated for him -- and he felt worse than ever that he had upset her. Damn it, Scott, he thought, you might have told me. If Scott even knew . . .

But as if the flinch had pressed some button, as if this final fear response had triggered some calming effect, the girl recovered some of her composure. "I don't speak well, especially not to strangers," she explained. "But I cook very well. And I thought . . . I thought . . . "

"You thought," Robert interjected gently, "that if you could cook for me for a time before you had to speak with me, that it would go better, is that it?"

"Yes." She was much calmer now; she managed to meet his eyes, and even gave him a half-hearted smile.

"You might have said something," Robert chided gently. Then he realized the paradox and chuckled. "But I suppose you couldn't."

Becky shook her head.

Robert sighed. He wondered if he should suggest therapy to her. She obviously needed it. But today was probably not the day to bring it up.

"I'm sorry," the girl said. "I just . . . I just really wanted you to like me."

McCall felt an eyebrow rising. Because of Scott? Since when did Scott date girls who cared what his father thought of them? "You're definitely growing on me," he said kindly. "All right. Now that I know why you're doing what you're doing, I propose that we arrive at some agreement on the terms of this relationship. You may cook for me whenever you wish, with the understanding that you are never obliged to do so. And you may talk to me as little or as much as you wish. But. You may not run out of the apartment every time I raise my voice. I raise my voice quite often, and I will go mad if I have to start editing my speech for your benefit. I will frequently be cantankerous or difficult or distracted for reasons that have nothing to do with you, and you are not to take it personally. Is that clear?"

Her smile actually brightened a bit. "Clear."

"Good." Robert hesitated, wondering if he should even say what came next. "And one more thing. I will never, ever, raise a hand to you in anger. And I will cheerfully pound the stuffing out of anyone who does."

The girl looked at him straight on for the first time. She didn't bother to deny anything. After a moment, she nodded. "It was a long time ago."

Robert nodded back and left the discussion there. "I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

"Yes."

"Good." He watched her out, watched her walk -- walk, not run -- down the hall. He shook his head, remembering an axiom he had learned his first weeks with the Company. It's always the quiet ones you've got to watch out for.

McCall stared at the container in confusion. The soup looked and smelled wonderful -- but there was enough for three men. Well, maybe she intended him to have left-overs. And he was feeling a lot hungrier today. He poured the soup into a pan and put it over a low flame on the stove.

There was another knock at his door.

Robert rolled his eyes. In a normal week he might get one visitor, maybe two. This week, when he didn't want to see anyone, they were beating a bloody path to his door. He checked the fire under the soup, then went to answer. It was Kostmayer.

"Come in, come in," he said, going back to the kitchen.

"Smells good, McCall. What'cha cooking?"

"Just soup," Robert answered briefly. "Are you hungry? There's plenty." He considered the pan. Enough for three men, but only two if one of them was the perpetually hungry Michael Kostmayer.

Mickey shrugged. "I could eat. I really just came to check up on you. You sounded like hell the other night."

"I felt like hell. I'm better, thank you."

"Anything you need?"

Robert shook his head. He got out the rolls, and the little bag of cheese slices, and put them on a plate. "No, no. Scott brought me a few things, and Becky's seeing to it that I stay fed."

"Becky?" Mickey said evenly, carrying the plate to the breakfast bar. "She one of your hopeful little old ladies in the building?"

"She's Scott's latest girlfriend."

"Oh," Mickey answered in a practiced neutral tone.

"She stops by on her way to work and brings me meals. It's rather sweet, really."

"Scott has a girlfriend who has a job?"

Robert chuckled, stirring the soup. "Amazingly enough, he does. She works at that restaurant across the street from the theater."

"The expensive place."

"Yes." Robert spooned up a little soup and tasted it. It was more heavily seasoned than the chicken broth had been, tasted richly of beef. He sighed. "She cooks," he pronounced warmly.

Kostmayer looked skeptical. "She cooks?"

McCall got a clean spoon, filled it with soup, and offered it to his colleague. Mickey tried it. "She made this?"

"With her own tender little hands." He got bowls and a ladle and served them both. Mickey took the bowls over to the counter.

"Let me get this straight," Mickey said. "Scott has a girlfriend who cooks like this? And has a job? Does she howl at the moon or what?"

Robert considered as he sat down. "She's pretty enough, I suppose. Not a head-turner, but -- pretty. Clean, anyhow -- and no visible tatoos."

"The tatooed lady frightened me, McCall," Kostmayer admitted. He took a big bite of his soup. "So what is wrong with this one?"

"She's very . . . shy," Robert answered after some consideration. "She doesn't talk much, and when she does she gets nervous. She stutters. It's getting better, I think, as she gets to know me."

Mickey nodded thoughtfully. "So, she has a job, she cooks, she's okay looking, and she doesn't talk. I'm not seeing a down side here."

Robert chuckled. "Well, there is . . . there is more to this young woman than meets the eye, Mickey. Perhaps a great deal more. For one thing, she's head-shy."

"Somebody hit her?"

"In the past, she says. But she's not over it yet." Robert shrugged. "It's really none of my business, I suppose. If she can trust Scott. . . "

"Scott is about the last person I would expect to take a swing at a woman," Mickey offered.

"I know. And I think she knows it, too. It's hard to tell, I haven't seen them together." He shrugged again. "Well, we'll see. I doubt it will last. She's not really his type. But a father can hope."

"Yeah," Kostmayer answered. He'd gotten to the bottom of his bowl, and stood to help himself to another. "And play sick for a while longer, huh? This is great."

Scott showed up at dusk, carrying his father's dry cleaning and clean laundry from the shop down the block. He also brought a stack of magazines. "I thought you might want something to read."

Robert was genuinely impressed. "Thank you, Scott. That was very thoughtful."

The boy shrugged, embarrassed, pleased. "There's clean sheets in here. I can change your bed if you want, and take the rest of your laundry on my way home."

"No, don't worry about it. I'll do it later."

"I don't mind." Scott was already wandering off to the bedroom. Robert followed, bemused. This was so unlike his son. It wasn't that Scott wasn't good-hearted, he was, but he didn't think of practical applications for his affection. There was definitely a woman's touch behind all of this sudden helpfulness.

The bed really was a mess; Robert had spent the better part of three days in it, not counting meals and naps on the couch. He offered to help, but Scott insisted he could do it himself -- and did. Robert sat in the armchair and watched him. "I must say, the young lady is quite a good influence on you."

Scott flushed. "You think so?"

"You never would have thought of this on your own."

"I should, though." He smoothed out the bottom sheet. "Do you, um, do you like her? Becky?"

Say no, Robert's impulse said, and Scott will never let her go. But the boy was clearly serious, and troubled. "I like her very much. At least, as far as I know her. She's very elusive."

"Yeah," Scott agreed quietly.

"Something wrong?"

The young man shook his head. "I don't know. She's just, like you said, elusive. She's like you. I never know what's going on in her head." While Robert was trying to frame a response to this, his son had gone right on. "I mean I really like her, but I feel like I don't know anything about her. When I'm with her all we talk about is me. I mean, I talk, and she listens, she almost never says anything, even when I try to get her to talk. I'm not even sure she likes me."

"Well," Robert answered, "as a rule of thumb, if a young lady takes meals to your convalescent father, it usually means that she has at least some affection for you."

"She takes meals to the guy who lives in the cardboard box behind the restaurant, too."

"Oh." Suitably deflated, Robert watched while his son put remarkably sufficient military corners on the top sheet. He had been so sure of that argument. If the girl wouldn't talk to Scott, what made him think she was talking to his father? As far as Robert could tell, Becky Baker didn't talk to anybody. "I know it's not terribly helpful, Scott, but I think you need to give it some time."

"I suppose," the boy answered morosely.

He's not sleeping with her, Robert realized suddenly. He had nothing to base that on -- but he was certain he was right. Well, good. It was about time Scott got away from easy women and involved with a girl with some moral fiber . . .

. . . unless, of course, she was holding out for a wedding ring, with an eye on Robert's money . . .

Too many years on the job, he decided, too much time with the hardened cynics of the world. Becky didn't want his money. If she wasn't sleeping with Scott, it wasn't an act of manipulation, or probably even an expression of her moral standards. It was because she was just plain scared.

He remembered her snapping her head back again, and sighed. What had happened to her? How long ago? And why hadn't someone helped her put it behind her before now?

His son was fluffing the pillows viciously. "Scott," Robert said gently, "Scott, stop a minute. Listen to me." The boy plopped down on the edge of the freshly-made bed. "You're accustomed to dating woman who are . . . " simple, Robert realized, was not the right word to use in this situation, however accurate it might be. ". . . who are less complex than Becky is. Something's happened to her. I'm not sure what, but she's been hurt somehow . . . "

Scott was nodding. "I know. She told me. She didn't say what, but she said . . . I don't care about that, Dad, I'd wait forever, if I just thought, if I was just sure . . . that she's not going out with me because she's too polite to say no."

Robert chuckled. Scott bristled angrily. "It's not funny . . . "

"No, no, Scott, I'm not laughing at you. I promise, I'm truly not. It's just that you're usually so sure of yourself, so full-speed-ahead, whether you're right or wrong. She's getting to you."

Scott had to chuckle himself, reluctantly. "She is, isn't she? She's not . . . like anybody I've ever known. I don't want to mess this up."

"You won't, son." Robert stood and stood by the boy, his hand on his shoulder. "You are a wonderful young man, and I think she knows that. Just be patient with her. Let he do things at her own pace. It'll be fine."

The boy looked up at him, believing absolutely in his father's wisdom. "Thanks, Dad."

McCall smiled warmly down at his son, the picture of confidence -- hoping all the while that he wasn't dead wrong.

Wednesday, Kostmayer just coincidentally showed up around the time the girl usually arrived. "Go away," Robert snapped. "You'll frighten her, and I'll get no lunch."

"Who, me?" Mickey held both hands up, palms out, fingers spread. "You're the intimidating one."

"I won't have her feeling that she has to feed an entire army, Mickey!"

Kostmayer shook his head. "I just want to get a look at her."

"If you had a love life of your own, you wouldn't have to be so interested in Scott's."

"McCall, I'm crushed." Mickey put one hand over his heart, protesting his innocence. "I promise, I won't make a move on her -- until they break up."

"Kostmayer . . . "

The knock came. "Don't frighten her," Robert warned his friend sternly as he went to let her in.

"Yeah, yeah."

McCall let the girl in. She had two bags today, and he took one from her. She stopped dead when she saw Mickey; Robert almost ran over her. "This is Mickey Kostmayer," he told her briefly. "He's a colleague of mine. You don't have to feed him."

"Okay," she answered, her voice almost a whisper.

"Hi," Mickey said.

"Hello," she answered softly. She went around the bar into the kitchen.

Mickey shared a look with McCall. "Too intimidating?" he asked quietly.

"Shut up." Robert followed the girl.

"I figured you were getting tired of soup," she said quietly, "so I brought some salmon steaks and salad . . . there's lots, I thought you might be having company . . . "

"Oh, good, then you can stay," Robert invited.

She smiled prettily. "I can't. I have to get to class."

"You teach cooking?" Mickey had come up behind them, and was standing in the archway.

Becky threw him a startled glance, but she shook her head and answered without stuttering. "No, I'm taking business management. Accounting, this quarter. I, um, I want to have my own place . . . some time . . . and there's a lot more to it than cooking . . . "

Robert nodded encouragingly. "Good for you. You know Pete O'Phelan's place?"

"Scott took me there the other night."

"Pete and I are very good friends. If there's anything she can help you with, I'm sure she'd be delighted."

Becky was back to looking down, keeping her eyes on the food, but she nodded. "Thanks. I'll keep it in mind."

Another knock. "Oh, for God's sake," Robert grumbled. He started out, but Mickey was in his way -- and he wasn't about to leave him alone with the girl. "Mickey, go answer the door."

"Oh, sure." He went.

In a moment, Scott's voice also wafted through the apartment. "Hi, Mickey, hi, Dad." He followed Kostmayer back to the kitchen. "Hi, Becky -- aren't you late for class?"

"I will be, soon," she answered. Four people of any size in McCall's kitchen was three too many; she didn't say anything, but she gently shooed them back into the hallway. "Are you staying for lunch?"

Scott hesitated. "I'm not really very hungry."

The girl stared at him. "'C'mere."

Scott stayed where he was. "I don't want to be under foot."

"Come here," she insisted.

The young man took two steps forward, acutely aware that Robert and Mickey were watching as she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him quickly on the mouth.

"You've been to McDonald's," she said, more in sorrow than in anger, returning to her food.

"Scott, how could you?" Mickey said accusingly.

The boy was flustered, badly. "I didn't . . . I didn't know you'd be here, I just stopped on the way . . . I, uh . . . "

Watching his son, McCall had to chuckle. Oh, yes, she was getting to him indeed. And it didn't escape his notice that Becky, while she kept her head down, was actually laughing. That was something he hadn't seen before. Maybe his advice had been right after all. She obviously did like him, very much.

" . . . I'm sorry," Scott finished. "I didn't know."

Becky shrugged. "Doesn't matter," she said with elaborate resignation.

"Ah, Becky . . . " Scott finally caught on that she was kidding.

She slid two elegantly arranged plates onto the breakfast bar. "I've got to get to school." She actually patted Robert's arm. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"I wouldn't miss it."

"Are you, uh, are we still going out tonight?" Scott asked.

Becky considered, then nodded. "Okay, I guess. My place, six-ish?"

"Want him to bring a pizza?" Mickey suggested wickedly.

"Oh, sure," Becky answered gamely. "And see if you can score some Meneudo tickets while you're at it."

"No," Scott answered firmly. "Come on, I'll walk you out."

>From the length of time Scott was in the hall, McCall reckoned that Big Macs on the breath were not an insurmountable object. He and Mickey ate in blissful silence until the boy came back.

"McDonald's," Mickey said disdainfully, pretending Scott couldn't hear him. "See if you can get me her phone number, McCall."

McCall nodded, playing along. "Clearly he has no idea what he's got there."

"Hey," Scott protested, "I was hungry."

"Oh, yes, well," Robert answered, still teasing him, "I'm sure the young lady understands that."

"Oh, yeah," Mickey agreed. "Absolutely."

Scott sighed dramatically. "I'm not bringing my girlfriends home any more."

Robert looked up cheerfully. "Promise?"

Sometime after midnight, Scott McCall walked home from his date. Becky lived in an apartment only six blocks from his own, and it was easier to walk than to try to find places to park. They'd had a great time; they always did. She'd made him a pizza from scratch, with fresh tomatoes. Her crusts always came out perfectly, just chewy enough without being mushy. And watching her cook, her confidence, her grace, was like watching a great musician play, a diva sing . . .

She had a cheap old guitar that she'd never learned to play, and Scott strummed it while she cooked. She loved his music, she said. He wanted to believe her. At least, she was always asking him to play for her, so maybe she really did . . .

The movie stunk, and they left early, back to her apartment, talking for a while, then settling on the couch, making out. Scott was assured that his earlier side-trip to McDonald's had been forgiven.

Walking, though, he was overcome with the notion that his father somehow knew it never went any further than making out on her couch . . .

His father, annoyingly, always knew stuff like that.

But at least he seemed to like Becky. Actually like her, not just pretend.

The last year or so, Scott had noticed that his father never said a bad word about any of his girlfriends -- no matter how much Scott knew he didn't like them. He wasn't sure why, but he knew it was a fact He'd taken Shelby just to be sure. Robert had eyed her tatoos with barely concealed distaste, but when Scott got him alone, he'd said only, "She has interesting taste in body art." Interesting taste, huh? She had a spitting cobra with its head in the palm of her right hand and its tail in her left. She had the symbols of every branch of the US military across her shoulder blades, with hash marks keeping score beneath each. She had . . .

She had come and gone in a big hurry, after her meeting with Robert. Which was probably the whole point of Robert not objecting . . .

But Becky was different.

Scott sighed. He did not understand Becky. His father said be patient, and Scott knew he was right -- but he wasn't good at being patient. He didn't understand why she didn't talk more, why she never said a word about her family, or much about her past. As far as Scott knew, she had been born in New York City five years ago. Before that, her life was a complete blank to him.

He told her everything, from his highest goals to his deepest fears, details about his life with his father, with his mother, with his music, with the girls before her -- probably way more details than he should have. And she told him -- nothing.

Well, almost nothing. She had at least told him why they weren't sleeping together. But he knew that was only because she thought she had to . . .

Their first date had ended with a nervous, tender little kiss. Their second started with a little kiss and ended with a much longer one. But the third time, she was at his apartment, and they got to the making-out-on-the-couch portion of the evening, and he'd pushed it, obviously a little too far, because she sprang to her feet.

"I'm sorry," Scott said immediately, standing up with her. "I didn't mean to . . . "

She was trembling all over, way out of proportion to a boyfriend getting a little fresh. Scott took her arm. "Becky, hey, stop, it's okay, I didn't mean . . . " She tried to pull away, and he held her with both hands -- which, on reflection, was exactly the wrong thing to do --

Becky simply freaked out. She tore away from him and ran out of the apartment. She ran, in fact, all the way home. Scott ran after her, with some notion that he ought to make sure she got there safely, trying not to get too close because he knew that being chased even by him was scaring her worse, but cripes, all he'd done was touch . . .

When he got to her door, she was safely locked behind it. He knocked, loudly. "Becky? Becky?"

Just behind the door he heard a muffled sob. "Ah, Becky, open the door," he said, more quietly. "Come on, you know I'm not going to hurt you. I won't even try to kiss you, I promise, I just want to know that you're okay." He felt terrible that she was so scared, and personally responsible. "I'm not going home until you let me in."

Help came unexpectedly, as it often did in New York City, from an upstairs neighbor, who bellowed invisibly, "Let him in or I'm calling the cops!"

And while Scott stood there trying to figure out what to do next, her lock snapped and the door inched open.

She was standing just inside, her eyes wide and frightened and sad, her face covered with tears. She looked every bit as miserable as Scott felt. And he wanted to gather her up in his arms, but he wasn't sure he should. "Can I come in?" he asked very quietly.

"Yes," she whispered back. She shut the door behind him and they stood there in the tiny foyer.

Scott kept his hands in front of him, where she could see them -- something his dad had taught him, or maybe Mickey, about dealing with people who were really upset. And she was really upset. "I'm sorry," he said, with complete sincerity. "Whatever I did, I swear, it won't happen again, just tell me . . . "

"It's not you," she sobbed miserably. "It's not you at all!"

She had her chin on her chest, her shoulders all hunched forward, making herself smaller. Taking a chance, Scott reached out and touched one shoulder, very lightly. "Okay. Then what is it?"

Becky just shook her head.

He drew her closer, an inch at a time, until he could wrap his arms around her, which he did. He held her very tightly then, rocking lightly back and forth, murmuring nothing. It took a while, but she started to relax -- a little. "Come on," he said, "let's go sit down and talk about this."

She shook her head again, but she let him lead her to the couch. He got her a tissue, and she wiped her eyes and blew her nose. "I'm sorry, Scott, I really am. I didn't mean to, to, to . . . damn it, I hate it when I do that."

"Slow down," the young man advised. "I'm not going anywhere."

She took another minute or two to compose herself. "This really, really isn't about you, Scott. I swear. I really . . . I really like you, I wish . . . I wish . . . " She started to tear up again.

Scott rubbed her shoulder gently. "My dad says, if you're not close enough to somebody to talk about sex, you're probably not close enough to be having sex with them."

Becky blinked at him, confused. "He said that about us?"

"Well, no, he said that when I was twelve, and that was the last time we ever talked about it. But it's still true. So. What do I need to know?"

His matter-of-fact manner seemed to comfort her some. "I -- I got hurt. When I was a lot younger."

"Okay."

"And I . . . and I . . . "

"Don't want to be jumping into bed with me on the third date. You could have said that back at my place."

She put her face in her hands. "I know, I'm sorry, I always swear I'm not going to overreact, and then I . . . "

Scott pulled her hands away. "It's okay, Becky. I needed the exercise. And look, now I don't have to walk you home, right?"

Becky tried to smile, but it turned into tears again. "Oh, Scott. I really like you, I do, but . . . "

"Oh, please, not the but."

"But you need to find a girl who's not insane."

"Tried that," Scott answered. "Nobody who's not insane will date a musician. Becky, listen to me. I like being with you. I like going places with you, I like talking with you -- I love to watch you work. The sex thing is not that big a deal."

"Liar."

"It's not worth breaking up over. Look, if you don't want to be with me just because I -- I talk too much, or you don't like my hair, or whatever, that's one thing. But if you think you shouldn't stay with me because you're not ready to have sex with me, forget it. That's stupid. You need to take it slow, we'll take it slow. That's all. From now on, you tell me stop and we stop. That's it. Just don't make me run across the neighborhoods any more, okay? Just tell me."

Becky smiled uncertainly, and looked away, over his shoulder at the wall. "I just . . . I don't want to be a tease."

"Tease implies that it's some kind of game. It's not a game, is it?"

"No."

"Okay, then." He drew her across the couch, into his lap, into his arms, and they stayed that way for a very long time.

Letting himself into his apartment, Scott sighed. He'd done good, that night with Becky. He almost wished he could tell his father how well he'd handled it. But -- no. Didn't matter, anyhow. He and Becky were still seeing each other, as often as they could, and she was growing more and more comfortable with him, stuttering less, talking more. Maybe some day he'd get the whole story. He had a feeling that would be a long time in coming.

Still, they were over the biggest hurdle she'd gotten past his dad. The flu was a lucky break. Cooking helped her, a lot, getting to know people. Without it, it might have been months before she calmed down. And Robert did actually seem to like her . . .

Now, Scott thought, throwing his jacket on the nearest chair, what was he going to do about Mom?

Kostmayer strode down the street toward McCall's apartment building. As usual he'd had to park three blocks away, but he didn't mind. The weather was very pleasant for New York City in mid-October, and he liked the walk. He wondered what was for lunch today.

There was a black-and-white double parked directly in front of McCall's building. Mickey slowed, blending into the scenery, moved a little closer, then dropped against a building to watch. Two cops in the front, a passenger in the back. It looked like they were just talking. Finally the passenger got out. Sweet and innocent Becky Baker, with her shopping bags full of lunch. She stood beside the police car for another minute, bending awkwardly to talk through the passenger window. Then she turned and went to the sidewalk as the car pulled away.

Mickey moved, and was at her shoulder before she got the front door open. "Hey, Becky, what's up?" She jumped and squeaked, and only Kostmayer's quick hands saved lunch from hitting the stoop. He juggled both bags until she recovered enough to take one. "Sorry."

"I - I, uh, hi, Mr. . . . uh, Mr. . . . "

"Just Mickey," he prompted gently. "What's up with the cops?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing. They just offered to give you a ride over."

She looked down and away from him, her shoulders hunched, her body ready to run. Very, very scared.

Mickey frowned. What was up with this girl? What was she so scared of? "You in trouble?" he asked as gently as he could. He shifted his grocery bag, freeing one hand to grab her if she tried to bolt.

"No," she whispered.

"Cause whatever it is, McCall's about the best guy in the world for getting you out of it. Trust me on this one."

"I'm not in any trouble," she said, a little more clearly.

"Then what is it?" She shifted, and Mickey grabbed her elbow. "Don't run. I'm not going to hurt you. Just tell me what's going on."

The girl rocked back on her heels, but she didn't try to pull away. "I just . . . sometimes I know stuff."

Kostmayer's frown deepened. "You mean you're an informant?"

"N-no. Not like that. I just . . . sometimes I just . . . know. You know?"

"No, I don't know."

Becky tried to pull away, on the verge of panic. "I just know."

"What? You're like psychic or something?" Mickey guessed.

"No. Yes. Yes, I guess."

"Oh." Mickey made it clear, in one syllable, that she might as well have said she was Joan of Arc.

"It's no big deal," Becky protested frantically. "It doesn't always work -- it's not always right -- they only call me when they're really stuck -- this missing girl is driving them crazy . . . " She finally came up for air. "Please don't tell Mr. McCall," she said pleadingly. "He already thinks I'm weird."

"No, he doesn't."

"Yes, he does."

Kostmayer sighed, releasing her arm. "Okay, he does, a little, but compared to some of the girls Scott goes out with . . . " He trailed off, realizing that this was probably not the most helpful argument.

Unexpectedly, the girl smiled. "That's not saying much."

"Oh, you've met them?" Mickey grinned back, encouragingly. "But I do see your point. So just, hmm, give me the winning lotto number and I'll forget we ever had this conversation."

She started to coil again. "I told you, it doesn't work that way . . . "

"Easy, easy," he answered. "Okay, no lotto numbers, that's cool. Just read my palm then."

He stuck his hand out, trying to make it clear that it was a joke. She took it, relaxing again, still protesting. "I told you, it doesn't . . . "

When she stopped, Mickey looked up at her face. She was staring down at his palm, and her expression was a mix of surprise, fear, and something else, something he couldn't name but that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. By reflex, he tried to draw his hand back -- maybe, he thought too late, a man in his line of work didn't really want to know his future . . .

She kept his hand. The expression fell away and she smiled. "No, no. It's okay. It's okay. Do you . . . do you have a pen?"

"A . . . sure." Mickey fumbled around the groceries and got his pen out of his breast pocket. She took it and wrote on his palm, a series of five numbers. "What is that?"

"Your lotto number." She was as surprised as he was.

"What, we can't do the Super?"

Becky shook her head. "Attracts too much attention. Here's the deal -- you hit it, we split it, right?"

Kostmayer felt his mouth hanging open. "Uh . . . sure." And then, not entirely sure he should ask, "You see anything else in there?"

She frowned, concentrating. "Buy some Old Spice. Her daddy was a sailor."

"Her . . . oh." He was not, definitely not, blushing.

The girl frowned again. "There's something about . . . a hobby? Something red and gold. Something you find. It won't hurt you at first, but it will later."

Mickey's eyebrows came up. "Huh?"

"I don't know." Becky shook her head. "I'm sorry. That's all there is." She released his hand. "You're not going to tell Mr. McCall?"

"What, are you crazy? You think I'm gonna share my lotto numbers with him? He's got enough money."

He opened the door, and they went upstairs.

Mickey Kostmayer didn't believe in psychic powers, or Ouija boards, or anything else like that. Not really. But he was willing to credit some things to intuition, to hunches -- which were, in his mind, really just an unconscious summary of facts you didn't know you knew. And once in a while, things had happened that he just couldn't -- and didn't want to -- explain. The fact that the police came to Becky Baker for tips told him that she was more simply intuitive than most.

So it was with a self-effacing chuckle that he played her lotto numbers -- a dollar down, but supposedly going to the school system. Call it a donation and forget about it.

It wasn't until the woman he'd been seeing climbed into his lap and purred, "God, you smell so good," that he began to wonder what the lotto paid.

In the morning, whistling to himself, he stopped by the bait shop and got some nightcrawlers. He also picked up a newspaper and browsed it as he walked out. The little girl was still on the front page. She was five years old, and had been missing for ten days. Her family was frantic, pleading for her return, and there was a picture of the child, blond hair, blue eyes, laughing. Mickey shook his head. After ten days, odds were very, very good that they wouldn't find her alive . . .

Thinking about her took the edge off his joy in learning that his number had hit. "Hmmm," he said quietly. Interesting.

He was still looking at the paper when he stepped off the front step of the bait shop. Something rolled under his foot, and it shot out from under him, backwards. Only long practice let him duck his head as he fell, turning the collision with the ground into a fairly graceful shoulder roll. He sat where he landed, on his butt on the sidewalk, looking around. For a change, there weren't fifty people standing around gawking. He looked back to see what he'd stepped on, but there was nothing there. He tried to stand up, and realized there was something stuck to his boot. Sitting on the step, he brought the foot up for inspection.

It was red and gold, of course. A lure, a big one, oval-shaped and as long and fat as his thumb, with three treble hooks, one of which was firmly hooked into the sole of his boot. Gingerly, he pried it off and held it up to the light.

The store owner came to the door. "You okay?" he asked.

Mickey nodded. "Yeah. I stepped on this thing." He held it higher. "It yours?"

"Uh-uh. Don't sell nothing like that. What is it, for turtles or something?"

"Whales," Mickey answered. He held it a minute more, trying to remember exactly what the girl's words had been. It won't hurt you at first, but it will later . . . so, it had been stuck in his foot, but it hadn't hurt him because he had boots on and he knew how to fall . . . but later he could expect to stick it in his thumb?

He got back in his van, pausing long enough to put the lure in the top of his tackle box.

He snagged the damn thing on the first cast. Figures, he thought, leaning back with the rod. Now it'll come loose and fly back and hit me in the face . . . he wasn't even sure why he was using it. There was nothing in this river big enough to take a lure like this. But it was a fisherman's compulsion; he had a new lure, he wanted to get it wet. And now the damn thing had snagged.

He threw his weight against the rod again, and something gave. Slowly, whatever he had snagged on was coming toward him. A log, maybe, or a tire. He reeled in some, then leaned again. The object moved more freely, and Mickey knew he'd brought it off the bottom, that it was floating. Hell, maybe a suitcase full of money, why not? The way his luck was running this week . . . he was already formulating the story he'd tell Becky, about her magic lure . . .

He had most of his line in now, and whatever it was appeared below the murky surface of the river. It wasn't a tire, too long and skinny, maybe the bumper of a car, it looked white, no, too short . . . Kostmayer wound the reel with one hand, leaning forward for a better look . . .

And then he stopped, and sat back, and just stared. "Oh, man," he whispered softly. Every story he'd been planning vanished. It won't hurt you at first, she'd said, but it will later . . . he turned his head, trying not to vomit. "Oh, man."

On the surface, the body of the little girl floated softly, limply on the waves.

He went to McCall's, because that's what he did, because it was his natural response. He wanted desperately to see the girl, but it was late, she'd have been and gone, and in any case he didn't know what the hell he wanted to say to her, he just wanted to see her . . .

She was sitting on the front steps, and she was waiting for him.

"You heard," Mickey said wearily.

"On the radio. I'm so sorry."

"You tried to warn me."

Becky shook her head. "I didn't know -- what. That's the problem with this -- thing I have. It never tells me quite what I need to know."

Mickey nodded grimly. He felt wrung out. Waiting for the police, the ambulance -- why did they always send an ambulance? It was obvious she didn't need an ambulance any more. Giving his statement, three times. Avoiding the reporters who flocked to the scene like carrion-feeding gulls. It had started out as such a good morning, and now it was all gone to hell.

He didn't even want to think about it any more. And he knew the girl wouldn't have anything useful to say. "McCall upstairs?"

"Yeah." She stood up, ready to leave. "Mickey . . . this isn't over yet."

Kostmayer snorted. "The kid's been dead for ten days. It's over."

"For her. But not for you." She reached out and touched his hand. "You don't have to believe me. But tomorrow something else will happen. Something that -- that makes this a little easier to carry."

Mickey just shook his head. Nothing in the world was going to make this easier.

Sadly, the girl started off. "Hey," Mickey called after her. She turned. "Our number hit," he offered sadly.

Becky nodded. "Yeah. I know."

He went upstairs to see McCall.

Friday morning, Kostmayer was kicked back on McCall's couch with the morning paper when the knock on the door came. "McCall!" he called, "Meal on Wheels!"

Robert came from the other room. "You couldn't get up and let her in, Mickey?"

"I'm reading."

McCall sighed and threw the door open. "Good morning, love . . . "

"Hello, sweetheart," Control answered dryly. "I need your brain."

Robert frowned. If Mickey had scared the girl, what would she make of Control? But he could tell by his friend's expression that this wasn't a social call. "Come in. Let me get you some coffee."

"Can't stay," Control answered briefly. "We've got a situation developing with our old friend Raptor."

"Knopf," McCall spat. "What's he up to this time?"

Mickey had come to his feet, too. "I thought he was in prison somewhere."

"He was, in Bucharest. He escaped."

"Bought his way out, more likely," Robert offered.

"Yes. At any rate, he's issued a threat to the State Department. In retaliation for . . . business setbacks . . . caused by the Company, he's going to start blowing up U.S. government buildings."

"Where?"

"Well, Robert, it would be helpful if he had added that detail to his threats, but you know how uncooperative he can be. That's why I need your brain. You worked on him for nearly a year. Where would he start?"

McCall shook his head. "That was ten years ago, Control. He must have new contacts by now."

"Maybe. But he's been in three different prisons over those ten years. He hasn't had a lot of time to build social circles."

Robert walked slowly around the room, rubbing his eyes, thinking. "Well, from Bucharest . . . I would guess he'll head for somewhere elegant. Paris, perhaps. No, somewhere warmer. Rome, maybe. Athens."

Control sighed. "I was hoping you could narrow it down a bit."

"I know you were. All right, try this. If he has his choice of any American target, what would narrow it down for him?"

"Who's he want to get revenge on most?" Kostmayer asked.

"Dillon," the other two replied in unison.

"Who's Dillon?"

"He used to work for us," Control answered slowly. "And he was primarily responsible for landing our Raptor in Bucharest."

"Who does he work for now?" Robert asked delicately.

"State. He's the special attache to the Ambassador to the Court of Saint James."

"London," Robert pronounced softly.

"Best guess," Control answered. "Thank you. I have to go."

"Want me to tag along?" Kostmayer offered.

Control considered. "Can't hurt."

The expected, forgotten knock startled them all. "It's all right," McCall said quickly. "It's just Becky."

"See if I can get a doggy bag," Mickey asked as McCall opened the door.

"Make it quick," Control snapped. "I have to make some calls. The car's out front."

He started out. The girl flattened herself against the wall to get out of his way. Robert was glad, in a way; it would be easier to explain Control's departure than to introduce him, at this point. And the look on her face told him that Control's mere presence had terrified her.

She stayed against the wall even after he was gone. "It's all right," Robert said, taking her packages from her. "I know he's a bit intimidating, but . . . "

Kostmayer turned and looked at her. She was staring after Control, and she had that expression on her face -- the same one she got when she read his palm, only much more pronounced, much more frightened. His own intuition kicked in. "Becky, what did you see?"

She shook her head. "Nothing," she whispered.

"Kostmayer . . . " Robert began in surprise.

Mickey waved him off, moving very close to the girl. "Becky, this is no time for little girl games. A lot of people could die, a lot of people, if you don't tell him what you just saw."

She was cowering again, chin down, shoulders up. "I can't," she answered, so quietly that he could barely catch the words.

"Mickey, leave her alone!" McCall snapped.

"Becky, please. Come on, you still owe me for the fishing lure. Tell him!"

"He won't believe me."

"Believe what?" Robert demanded. He had his hands on Kostmayer now, prepared to shove him away from the cowering girl. What the hell had gotten into him?

"It's okay," Becky said, still softly, but clearly. "Mr. McCall, it's okay. I . . . " She turned to Mickey. "Tell him . . . tell him not to cross the ocean. Tell him what he's looking for is in Vienna."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"I can't help that, it's what I see. Tell him."

Slowly, Kostmayer nodded. "I'll tell him."

He ran out of the apartment.

Robert stared after him. "I'm very sorry," he said, reaching for Becky. "I don't know what's gotten into him . . . "

"You will," she said forlornly. "By tomorrow, you'll know everything." Tears running down her face, she walked out.

McCall leaned on the doorframe, looking the direction that everyone had gone, alone and completely bewildered.

"It doesn't make any sense," Control snapped.

"I know that," Mickey answered earnestly. He wasn't at all comfortable, here in the back of Control's limo as the car raced for the airport. He was even less comfortable trying to tell his boss what the psychic had said. "But I'm telling you, the girl has something. She knows stuff."

"Even if I believed in psychics, which I don't," Control answered firmly, "the message doesn't make any sense. If what I want is in Vienna, why shouldn't I cross the ocean? Have you looked at a map lately, Kostmayer? There is no other way to get to Vienna."

Mickey sighed. He felt like an idiot. But he was sure he was right. "I don't know. Just think about it. There must be something to it. The whole thing about the lure didn't make sense until I stepped on it."

"The . . . lure?" Control asked carefully.

"I told you, the lure I stepped on, it was red and gold, it was stuck in my shoe and then I went . . . "

He stopped, because Control was ignoring him and reading the paper. Not the local paper, but the Washington Post. "I know there's something to this, Control."

"When you figure it out," Control said without looking up, "you let me know." He flipped to the next section impatiently.

Kostmayer chewed his thumbnail and looked out the window, trying to figure it out. The lure was easy, in hindsight. It was figuring out the puzzle from the front that was the problem. Don't cross the ocean. It's in Vienna. Don't cross the ocean . . .

They took the airport exit. Control snapped to another section of the paper. And then, quietly, he said, "Kostmayer."

"What?"

Control turned the paper slowly, to show him the front of the first page of the Metro section. "Here."

Mickey shook his head. "What am I looking at?"

Control's slender index finger tapped a small title at the top of the right column. Mickey had to lean closer to read it. 'Housing Boom Continues in Vienna.'

Their eyes met over the paper. "She said Vienna," Control said slowly. "We heard Austria. It's Vienna, Virginia."

Mickey felt a chill creep over his whole body. "What if she's wrong?"

"What if she's not?" Control snapped up his phone. "Get me the DDI," he said sharply.

By eight, Mickey was home again. An hour to DC, an hour back, two hours on the raid, two and a half on the paperwork. By unspoken consent, he and Control left the name of their informant out of everything. No point in both of them looking like fools -- even if she had been right.

The couple was so ordinary-looking that even cautious Mickey barely noticed them, even though they were at the front door of his building. Only when he was very close did he realize that they were waiting for him.

The man was half a foot taller than Kostmayer, but he was stooped, beaten. "Please, are you Mr. Kostmayer?"

Mickey did a quick check all around him. "Yeah," he said, not encouragingly.

"We don't mean to bother you," the woman said. She was as much shorter than Mickey as the man was taller. "Really, we don't, we just . . . we just wanted to thank you." She'd been crying, and she started up again.

"Uh, why?"

The man put his arm around the woman and patted her. "The girl you found. She was . . . she was our daughter."

Mickey closed his eyes. Damn, damn, damn. "I'm really sorry . . . " he began.

"No, no, you don't understand." The woman stepped away from her husband and touched Mickey's arm. "She was gone for ten days, she was just gone, and we didn't know where she'd gone . . . "

" . . . we didn't know what had happened to her . . . "

" . . . and we were so afraid, that maybe someone had her, you know . . . "

Mickey was getting whiplash, looking up and down between them. He didn't try to interrupt. The man was starting to tear up now, too.

"Every time I closed my eyes," the woman was saying, "I kept imagining where she might be, what might be happening to her . . . "

" . . . horrible things, she was such a pretty little girl . . . "

" . . . and we were so afraid, that we would never know . . . "

" . . . what had happened to her, you see? And it must have been horrible for you, finding her like that, but we wanted you to know, even though we've lost out daughter, at least, at least . . . "

"At least we can take her home and bury her," the woman finished. "At least we know what happened to her, we know that she didn't suffer -- for more than a few minutes -- that no one has her, no one's hurting her . . . "

"You can't know what that means to us," the man finished. "You can't know how, how relieved we are. At least we can start to go on now."

"So," the woman patted his arm, "we just wanted to thank you. That's all."

"Um . . . " Mickey answered, completely speechless. "I . . . thanks for telling me. It helps . . . some. I'm very sorry about your little girl." God, that sounded lame.

The couple moved away, their arms around each other, their heads bent as they sobbed together. Mickey went up to his apartment and sat in the gathering darkness for a long, long time.

Attitude, Control reflected, was at least ninety percent of everything. Which was why, when he walked through the restaurant and into the kitchen like he owned the place, nobody tried to stop him. He paused at the end of a long stainless steel counter, looking around. It was crowded, noisy, and hot. No girl.

He'd seen her for perhaps ten seconds in McCall's apartment, and he'd been distracted at the time, but he was certain he'd recognize her. He moved to his left, into the next aisle, past hanging pots. She was there, half-way down the twenty-foot row, in a little station all of her own.

Control paused a moment, watching her. She seemed completely oblivious of the noise and confusion around her; she moved smoothly, quick but unhurried, one thing to the next, without pause, her hands working sometimes independently. She seemed -- content.

Which was quite remarkable, all things considered. The folded file in his pocket felt like it weighed a ton.

He walked toward her slowly, trying not to startle her. It didn't work; she didn't even notice him until he was at her elbow. She jumped, and the knife she'd just picked up flew out of her hand, straight up, a good ten feet over their heads. Control followed it with his eyes. Eight-inch blade, probably sharper than sight -- he put his hand up and caught it, neatly, by the handle.

Attitude was everything. He managed not to look surprised, or to let her see him counting his fingers. "Here," he said, giving it back to her.

She took it, her eyes studying him for a moment, then returning to the work before her. "Did you find it?"

Control nodded. "In Vienna, Virginia. Enough explosives to level three city blocks . . . "

She held up her nearest hand. "Just yes was enough."

"Yes. Thank you." Control studied her for a moment. Something had changed about this girl, since this morning in McCall's apartment. Something dramatic. Then she had been terrified of him. Now she just seemed -- resigned. "I want you to have something, " he began, reaching into his jacket for a card.

She flinched away from him, without looking up.

"It's just a phone number," he said quietly. "I'm not going to bite you."

Becky glanced at him, sidelong. "Yes, you are."

Control considered her for a long moment, watching her hands, wondering what else she saw with her alleged -- and probably real -- talent. Did she actually know what was in his pocket, and what he intended to do with it? Or was she guessing, bluffing him?

Back to the card. "I want you to have this," Control continued. Her hands were full; he slipped it onto the shelf in front of her. "It has a phone number on it. I don't always answer it, but I check my messages there."

"It doesn't work that way."

"Hmm?"

"I know what you're asking, but my . . . my head doesn't work that way. I can't summon things, I can't . . . and they're not always right, and they . . . don't always make any sense, and, and I-I-I . . . "

"Okay," Control murmured soothingly. "That's fine. But if you think you need to call me, call me."

She glanced at him again, sadly. "I may never need to call you."

"Maybe not. And if you don't, you've still saved, oh, maybe five thousand lives today. That's enough. That's more than enough."

Becky nodded, focused on the chopping in front in her. "Okay."

"Is there anything I can do to repay you?"

"No. Yes. No."

"Which is it?" he asked gently.

"Can you give me until morning?"

Attitude, Control reminded himself firmly. "Until morning for what?"

Her hands stopped. "To tell Scott. Before you tell his father."

Attitude, attitude, attitude. He did not blink. Oh, he was going to have to be careful with this one. "All right."

"Thank you."

"Keep the phone number."

Attitude was everything. He didn't even let his hands shake until he was back in his car.

Scott got her message shortly before midnight. He was playing in the orchestra of an off-Broadway musical that was, to everyone's surprise, still open after seven weeks. The stage manager gave him the note when he came out of the pit.

Curious, he walked across the street to the restaurant where she worked, and where they'd met. It was mostly empty. Some nights they drew a big after-theater crowd, but not tonight. He went back to the kitchen. Becky was at the first counter, cleaning. "Hey."

"Hey," she answered. She dried her hands and went to hug him. "Thanks for coming over."

"No problem. You okay?"

She hesitated. "I'm okay. We need to talk. I need to talk."

Scott guessed that meant trouble. "Are you dumping me?"

"No," she answered. "But I'm not so sure you won't want to dump me, once you've heard all this."

"It'll never happen. Come on, let's go talk."

McCall was already irritated that he had no nice fresh cinnamon rolls for his breakfast. He'd been badly spoiled by the girl, and he knew it. It didn't stop his resentment. So he was in a fine mood already when Control arrived.

"What have you done with the girl?" he demanded, before his old friend was even across the threshold. "She's not answering her phone."

Control threw his hands up. "I haven't got her. You might ask your son where she is."

Robert scowled fiercely at him. "I hear you caught Raptor again."

"Did you hear how?"

"Superior intelligence?"

"Psychic intervention."

"Oh, please."

"Becky Baker."

Robert simply stared at him. "You are joking."

Control produced the file. "Ask Kostmayer. Becky Baker used to be Rebecca Galen. Born outside Lansing, Michigan . . . "

"How dare you," Robert spluttered, snatching the file away from him. "How dare you!"

"She told me where to find a terrorist base in the continental United States. Of course I ran a background check."

Robert took the file, unopened, and sat down. "What's in here, Control, that I really need to know? Is she any threat to my son?"

Control shrugged. "I doubt that she's a threat to anyone but herself."

"So why are you bringing me this?"

"I thought you'd want it."

"I don't."

"She knows I'm bringing it to you."

"Becky does?"

"Yes."

"How?"

Another shrug. "The way she knows everything else."

McCall stared at him. "I don't believe you."

"Read the file, Robert. Believe whatever you want." Control left without another word.

When he was gone, Robert left the file and got himself another cup of tea. He wandered around the living room, looking at the window, at the wall, anywhere but at the file. Then, swearing, he sat down and opened it.

When he had read it cover to cover, McCall sat back and closed his eyes. So much was so obvious, once you knew. And Control was right, she was probably no threat to anyone but herself. Most of what Robert had surmised about her was true, but there was so much that he had never expected . . .

Rebecca Galen had been born into a large and deeply Fundamentalist family in rural Michigan. She had enjoyed a normal, if somewhat restrictive, childhood. When she was eleven years old, she fell through the ice on a frozen pond and drowned.

She had been revived after twenty-two minutes. When she woke, she could see the future.

This was marginally accepted by her family and her community; they considered that she spoke prophecy, as any number of persons in the Old Testament had done. But in the ensuing year, it was less accepted. She spoke more often, less clearly, and often of matters that the adults would have kept concealed. She was reprimanded by her local church, and then by the national church, for speaking out of turn. Women, Robert gathered, were not encouraged to speak in this particular denomination, and young women were all but forbidden. The report did not say, but Robert surmised, that at about this time the foresighted girl had begun to -- blossom.

A famous revivalist came through Lansing on the anniversary of her drowning. The Reverend Doctor Lawrence Masters met privately with the 'troubled' girl, and proclaimed to her family and to the church that she had been possessed by evil during her time in the pond. He also assured them that he could rid her of this evil. An ad hoc exorcism commenced the next day.

Details were sketchy, but Masters and the girl were left alone together for seven days, locked in a room with no windows, no food, only water, presumably fasting and praying. When they emerged, the reverend pronounced her saved. She was battered and bruised, terrified and completely silent.

She remained silent for eighteen months.

When she spoke, it was at a tent revival when Dr. Masters was speaking. They had led her to the altar, that he might lay his hands on her and cure her muteness. He did, evidently; her first words, screamed out for all the gathered congregation, were, "Please, God, don't let him rape me again!"

Masters denied everything, and by then there was no evidence except the testimony of a badly traumatized girl. Her family sided with Masters, saying that the evil that had possessed her had returned, bent on revenge. The girl fell into silence again, but she refused to go back to her home. At the insistence of the investigating sheriff, who did believe her, she was turned over to a psychiatric hospital in Lansing. She stayed there for nearly two years -- so much, Robert thought, for recommending therapy -- and before she was discharged, she and her social worker petitioned to have her named an emancipated minor. The family did not contest.

At sixteen, Rebecca Galen moved to New York City, got a job, and changed her name.

As a footnote to the file, Becky Baker had won various games in the New York Lotto sixteen times in her first two years in the city.

It wasn't really cold enough for a fire, but Robert built one anyhow, just so he had somewhere to throw the file.

"I think I lost her, Dad."

Robert glanced curiously at his son. "Becky?''

"Yes, Becky, who else?" The boy was pacing around the living room, rubbing his knuckles. "She came over last night, we had this big long talk -- she actually talked to me, Dad, she told me everything about her past, everything that happened to her -- she drowned when she was little, she was dead, clinically dead, and then she, um, she . . . "

"Became psychic," Robert provided.

"How did you know that?"

McCall shrugged. "I've . . . talked to people."

The boy seemed flustered. "Do you know about . . . about the preacher guy? That he molested her?"

Robert nodded. "Just since this morning. Although we had both suspected something of that sort, hadn't we? But Becky told you all of this? Of her own accord?"

"Yeah. Just out of the blue, she called me at work and had me meet her and said she had to talk -- and she talked."

Because she wanted Scott to hear it from her, and not from Control, Robert thought. He nodded. Not exactly an uncoerced confession -- but Scott didn't need to know that. "It sounds as if you're making great progress. What makes you think you're losing her?"

"She told me all this stuff, we talked half the night -- but then she said she needed to take some time off. She said she needed to be alone for a while, to think things through."

"Yes, I imagine she does."

"But, Dad, we were getting so close! And now she doesn't want to see me!"

"That's not what she said at all, Scott." The boy sagged onto the couch. Robert went and put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Scott, listen to me. You are very much an extrovert. Becky is just as much an introvert. You're tormenting yourself because you don't understand the way she thinks."

"I don't," his son agreed morosely. "I don't understand her."

Robert sat down next to him. "All right, son, listen. When you're upset, when you're angry or hurt, you express it -- immediately and loudly. You stomp, you rant, you . . . "

"I do not!"

"You do, Scott. You express your anger, and you do it very clearly. Becky is the exact opposite. When she's hurt or angry, she directs it all inside. She becomes quiet, distant. She needs to get away somewhere, to be alone with her anger until she can deal with it."

"Like you do sometimes."

Robert paused. "Yes, I suppose I do -- sometimes. Now the day may come when Becky will let you see her anger, her grief, when she'll let you comfort her. But that day is far, far down the road. And I think there will always be times when she will need to -- to retreat, if only for a little while. It's no reflection on you, or on your relationship. It's just the way she is."

Scott thought about this. "It's really hard, Dad. I mean, I just want to go over there and kick the door in and . . . "

"And that would be exactly the wrong thing to do. If she's to learn to trust you, it will be because you've respected her requests. She's told you, very clearly, how she needs to be treated right now. She needs this time to herself. If you want to keep her -- if you really care about her -- then give her this time."

"I know you're right," Scott admitted. "I just . . . I don't want to listen."

"But you are going to listen, right?"

"Yeah. I guess." The boy shook his head. "But for how long, Dad?"

"For as long as it takes. She'll let you know when she's ready to see you again. It may be a week, or a month . . . "

"I'll go insane! I can't wait that long, I have to know she's at least all right . . . "

Robert patted his shoulder again. "All right, Scott. Listen. This conversation was last night? Let's give it until, oh, Tuesday. If you haven't heard from her by then, you let me know and I'll take her some chicken soup."

"What?"

"Chicken soup. Trust me. This will let her know that we . . . that you care about her, that you're worried about her, but that you're willing to give her time. And I can check up on her."

"You'd do that for me?"

"Scott," Robert said sincerely, "I would do anything for you."

The boy smiled for the first time since he'd come in. "Thanks, Dad." And then, "But Dad? When you get quiet, like Becky does, when you're really angry . . . it always comes out somewhere, doesn't it?"

McCall took a long, slow breath. "Yes, Scott, it does. But Becky's not entirely like me, either. It'll be okay." His mind was racing with this new possibility, thinking about what Control had said she wasn't a danger to anyone but herself.

How badly had they cornered her?

He shook it off. No, she wouldn't bother telling everything to Scott if she intended suicide. She wouldn't have put herself through such a painful confession only to check out the next day. She had told him because she had to, to clear the way for their relationship to progress.

And too, having survived what she had, Robert doubted that even he and Mickey and Control combined could push her over the edge now.

Had he ever really thought that she was weak?

His son still looked worried. "All right, Scott, Robert said warmly. "It's quarter past one. Let me get my jacket and finish my tea, and then I will impart to you every morsel of wisdom about dealing with women that I have gathered in a lifetime of experience and observation. And then -- we should have plenty of time to make a two o'clock show. All right?"

Scott smiled again. "You don't have to entertain me, just because I don't have a date."

"I know I don't. But if I spend one more day in this apartment, I shall go completely mad. Come on."

Scott was not one to consider revenge -- but his father was. When he'd dropped the boy off at home and started some leftovers warming for his supper, he made a quick call to Jonah. "See what you can find out about this preacher," he requested, and gave him the name. "No hurry -- but if you can get his current location I'd appreciate it."

Not two minutes later, Jonah called back. "What is this, a pop quiz?" he demanded.

"What are you talking about?"

"Got the Sunday Times? Religion section, page four."

Robert found the paper, fumbled it open while balancing the phone on his shoulder. Page four was an announcement of a harvest revival at the Faith Evangelical Church. The featured speaker was the Reverend Doctor Lawrence Masters.

"Thank you, Jonah," McCall said vaguely. If his friend replied, he didn't know. He was already putting down the phone, and reaching for his coat.

The revival was today.

Oh, God, Scott had been right, Robert thought frantically. All that anger had to come out somewhere, for Becky as it did for Robert. And Control, who had said she was only a danger to herself, what if Control was wrong? And what if all this confessing was so that she could kill Masters -- and then probably herself -- without a lot of lingering questions for those she left behind? He got his gun and checked it, tucked it into its holster, adjusted his coat, snapped his front door open . . .

Becky squeaked, and narrowly avoided knocking on his chest.

Robert stared at her. He'd been so sure she was across town already, preparing to commit -- something awful. "Becky."

She didn't waste time with explanations. "Will you come with me?" she asked.

"I will."

The church didn't own enough land for a tent revival; the gathering was held in the fellowship hall, in the basement. The room was already packed when they arrived The folding chairs held women and children, smaller children on the laps of larger ones. The side aisles were full of men and younger women. Only the center aisle was empty, giving Robert a clear view to the stage as they came in. A gospel choir was singing there, loud and upbeat. There were chairs behind the podium, but they were empty.

He kept a tight grip on Becky's arm, anxious not to lose her as she pushed through the crowd toward the front. She had been silent on the drive; she seemed dazed, almost in a trance, and now her body swayed, ever so slightly, to the music that filled the hall. What am I doing here? Robert wondered desperately. What is it that she expects me to do?

The choir finished, and the first speaker, the pastor of this particular church, came out and spoke. Robert ignored him. So did Becky. She had pushed her way to the outside wall, and was now moving steadily though the gathering toward the stage. Robert followed as closely as he could, but in the crush she slipped out of his grasp. She didn't seem to notice.

The crowd became impassable while he was still fifteen feet behind her. She had made it nearly to the front, only two or three people between her and the podium.

Damn, Robert thought, why didn't I check her for weapons?

The pastor finished; the choir sang again. The crowd became increasingly excited, electrified, united. They were all standing now, singing, shouting. Robert used the shift to get closer to Becky Only two or three feet now, he could almost reach her . . .

Doctor Masters came out. The hall fell silent. Robert reached desperately once more -- and missed.

The girl was watching the podium, mesmerized, motionless as the evangelist began to speak. So was the rest of the crowd. McCall was simply, and very firmly, stuck.

Damn you all to hell, he thought viciously, though he didn't think in this particular circumstance it was likely to have any effect.

The sermon was, of course, on human weakness. The text was one that had always annoyed Robert, the one about taking the plank out of your own eye before you tried to remove the speck from your brother's. It had never struck him as quite so ironic as now. That this man, who had molested an innocent child entrusted to his care as a pastor, would dare to stand before so many people and preach on admitting one's sins -- it was all Robert could do not to denounce him from the floor.

He began to hope that that was what Becky had in mind. But she made no move. Not a sound. How long, he wondered, would she be mute after this? How was he ever going to explain it to Scott?

Damn, damn, damn.

Masters completed his message and made an altar call. "All of you, who would come to God, who would be redeemed, all of you come now, come to me!"

Becky moved, as Robert had known she would. He tried frantically to reach her, and the crowd gave a little -- no doubt thinking him desperate to be saved -- but it was too late then. She was already being helped onto the stage by Master's oh-so-gracious assistants. She was already walking towards him. Slowly, steadily, still in her trance, crossing the space between them, and Masters was still making his call, hadn't even seen her . . .

Knife, Robert realized. She's a cook, she has no gun, but she has knives, lots and lots to chose from, and she wants to be close to him, she wants to feel his blood on her hands as he dies before his screaming flock . . .

Masters turned. And recognized her.

She was nearly on him now, and Robert was helpless to stop her. Even if he called out, the choir had started again, no one would hear him . . .

But her hands, miraculously, remained empty at her sides.

Masters bowed his head, threw both hands up in supplication.

She took the last steps, raised her hands and folded them over his. Just holding them there, at shoulder level. She spoke. Masters raised his head, incredulous, and answered.

Just another redemption, as far as the crowd knew, just the great Doctor Masters ministering to a lost young woman . . .

Masters was shaking his head now, tears streaming unchecked down his face, words tumbling from his mouth. Becky was speaking too, more calmly, more slowly. Her hands still covered his.

Robert McCall would have sold his soul to know what they were saying to each other. And to know where the damn knife was . . .

Some change came over her. She was suddenly taller, straighter, as if some great weight had been lifted from her. Her right hand came free, and Robert coiled, preparing to spring. But she still did not reach for a weapon. Instead, she reached out and touched the preacher's head on that side, just behind his ear. She asked a question. He answered. She spoke one more thing, and released him.

Masters fell to his knees at her feet, wailing.

Becky Baker stepped around him and came to the edge of the stage. She let McCall lift her down, let him all but carry her through the oblivious crowd and out the emergency exit. And in the dark, cool parking lot, with the crowd still singing behind the steel door, she let him hold her for a very long time. She was shaken, trembling, crying a little.

She was free.

When he could trust his voice again, Robert asked softly against her hair, "What did you need me for?"

"I was afraid to come alone," Becky admitted at once, just as quietly, her face nestled against his collar. "I have no good father of my own. So I had to borrow you."

Robert drew her tighter still, not wanted her to see the tears that had sprung into his own eyes. I am the best father you could find? he wondered. Because Robert McCall considered himself many things, many things, but very rarely this a good father. "My poor, poor girl."

"No," she said firmly. "I know whereof I speak."

"I think you do not, little one," Robert insisted. "But if you will have it this way, I will not argue."

After a long time, he took her hand and they walked. "Isn't the car that way?" she asked.

"Yes. But I thought we'd stop for ice cream first."

"Ice cream?"

Robert chuckled. "There's a place just on the next block, where they make their own ice cream. An old fashioned soda fountain. I used to take Scott there, when he was very small, for celebrations. Small victories, jobs well done, that sort of thing."

Becky smiled. Actually, genuinely, and without reservation, smiled.

As they walked, Robert remembered suddenly, sharply, the last time he's been here with Scott. The boy was eight, tall, skinny, serious. And Robert brought him here and bought him a banana split and told him that he was moving out of their home, probably forever . . .

They'd never come back. Scott hadn't asked; Robert hadn't offered. It had been their favorite place, before then . . . No, he had not always been a good father. He had not.

But joy rolled off the young woman at his side like waves, impossible to ignore or resist. He had not always been a good father, but he had been one tonight. And in a week or two, maybe he would invite Scott for ice cream and see if he could undo a little of that damage as well. It wasn't much, but it was a place to start.

He drew the girl's hand through the crook of his elbow. "You're free of him, aren't you?"

"Yes. Finally, yes."

"Can I ask -- what you said?"

She considered for a moment. "I needed to know . . . if there were others. Because I was silent for so long, if others . . . "

"There weren't?"

"No."

They walked on a bit. The girl was practically skipping at his side, and Robert found himself full of light on her behalf. She was free.

"We could, you know, still seek some kind of prosecution . . . "

"No," she said, sobering. "There's no point. He has a tumor, here, in his brain." She pointed on her own head to the place she'd touched on the preacher. "He has only a few months to live."

"Did you know that before you came here?"

Becky hesitated. "Not that, no. But I knew . . . for a long time, now, I've known he was looking for me, that he wanted to see me. I was very frightened, at first, I thought . . . and then, even when I knew what he wanted, that he wanted to ask forgiveness before he died . . . I still didn't know . . . how I was going to come here alone . . . "

"You could have brought Scott with you."

"It would hurt Scott. He wouldn't understand, not like you do."

McCall chuckled. "Oh, you think I understand, do you? I don't think I clearly understand anything that's happened since I met you."

She patted his hand. "Does it matter, so long as it ended well?"

Gazing at her happy face, illuminated by the neon sign of an old ice cream parlor that he had all but forgotten, Robert decided that it truly did not.

Monday morning, not early, Scott had gotten as far as taking a shower and brushing his teeth and hair when someone knocked on his door. He left his towel around his neck, grabbed a pair of sweat pants off the couch, and jumped into them on his way to the door. Becky was there, looking nervous.

"Hi," he said, dragging her in and shutting the door behind her. "I'm so glad you're here. Are you okay?"

"I'm okay," she answered softly.

"You sure? I was worried about you."

"I'm sorry." She moved closer, took the two ends of the towel, and pulled his head down to kiss him. "I tried not to worry you."

"I know." Scott put his arms around her, then realized that holding her against his bare chest was probably over the comfort line. He took half a step back. "I was just making some coffee, do you want some?"

"No." She hadn't let go of the towel.

"Okay, um, let me put a shirt on and we'll go get some breakfast."

"No."

Talk about mixed signals, Scott thought. He shrugged. "What do you want to do then?"

Becky hesitated for a moment. Blinked, swallowed, bit her lip. And then smiled softly. Scott got the distinct feeling she was laughing at herself. "Becky?"

"Can we just . . . can we just go back to bed?"

Scott blinked. Swallowed. Bit his lip. Maybe the signals weren't that mixed after all. "You and me? Together?"

"Is that okay?" Now she seemed to be worried he'd turn her down.

"It's okay. It's great. If you're sure that's what you want to do."

She pulled the ends of the towel again, and kissed him deep and slow, her hands coming up to his shoulder, to the back of his neck. There was nothing at all uncertain in the kiss.

Scott McCall was much too well-mannered to make a lady ask twice for anything.

Robert listened to Mickey's story of the drowned girl's parents quietly, seriously. "Was she right?" he asked, when his friend had finished. "Does it make it easier to carry?"

Kostmayer shrugged. "I don't know. I guess so." He sighed. "She's a funny one, McCall."

"Becky? Yes. It's always the quiet ones." He stood and paced to the windows. It was a quiet day, turning cold outside again. "She took me with her yesterday, to confront her demon."

Mickey looked interested. "The one that hit her?"

"Among other things, yes."

"How'd that go?"

McCall's frown deepened. "She forgave him," he answered without expression.

"Oh," Mickey answered, just as flatly. Forgiveness wasn't his long suit; it wasn't McCall's, either. If it had been him . . . He stood up. "Anything for lunch?"

Robert nodded. "Soup. In the kitchen."

Mickey went and looked on the stove, and then in the refrigerator. Nothing. "Where?" he called.

"In the cupboard," Robert answered.

Mickey stepped back into the hall to look at him. "In cans? Did she break up with us?"

McCall laughed, startled out of his reverie. "No, Mickey, she's still our girl. She's just . . . found another hobby, I suspect."

"What could be better than cooking for us?"

Robert had a pretty good notion where the girl might be this morning -- he had a father's instinct for that sort of thing, after all -- but he didn't say anything. No point in disappointing Mickey any further today. "We could go to Pete's," he suggested.

"Yeah," the younger man agreed grudgingly. "Let's do that."

They went, the two men, bachelors again, out in search of a decent meal.

The End